Synaptic Overload

by Brandy Dewinter and Tigger

Chapter 1 - Overlooking The Obvious

     "All right class, in summary.  The three laws of thermodynamics can 
be expressed as: First law - 'You can't get something for nothing.'  
Second law - 'You can't break even.'  Third law - 'You can't get out of
the game.'  Or, the amount of work out of a system is not greater than 
the amount of work you put in.  There will always be loss to heat through
friction.  And, the entropy of the total system always increases.  Are 
there any questions?"

     Jonathon Thorson, Ph.D. waited patiently for the question that never
came.  He used to sign his name with that Ph.D. when it was freshly 
won, but now he was just Jonny to his friends and Professor Thorson to
his students.  This year, as usual, the class was divided into three 
groups.  There were those who thought they understood the material, 
though the question that never came showed they really did not.  There
were those who took copious notes and would be prepared to repeat them
virtually verbatim on the tests, though they had even less understanding.
And there were those who simply had no clue.  Perhaps that group was a 
little smaller this year.  Or perhaps that was just wishful thinking on 
Thorson's part.  Teachers do a lot of that.  Why else would they stay in 
a job where remote bureaucrats made all the decisions and made all the 
money?

      But that was digressing, and a fine glaze was settling into the 
eyes of his students.

     "Okay, don't forget that the lab reports are due this Friday, and 
that there will be a quiz on Monday.  You'll need to understand the 
principles of the lab to do well on the quiz, so do a good job on your
lab reports."

     Before he could say anything more the buzzer sounded and the class
disappeared with an audible pop as air rushed in to fill the resulting
vacuum.

     Thorson was on his way nearly as quickly.  He had an appointment
with the head of his department, Henry Stansfield, to review his 
research plan.   It was an important meeting because unlike his 
students,  Thorson *had* asked the question that never came up in 
class.  And he had found an answer.  He had promised himself that he
would have a genius-level discovery by the time he was thirty, and he
had made it with three years to spare.  

     The question he always hoped a student would ask was, "If disorder
always increases, then where did *life* come from?"  

     Theological considerations aside (that was another department at
the University), life itself was demonstrably able to overcome the 
universe's tendency to disorder.  And the easy out that said at some 
higher level disorder was still increasing became not much different than 
a theology of its own.  In practical terms, entropy could be overcome by
life, and on a scale that encompassed everything on Earth.

     So, since life could overcome entropy, how do you direct that 
ability?  It was the answer to this question that formed the basis for
the research that Thorson wanted to pursue.  He already had the basic 
answer for that one, too.  The mind directed life.  What he needed to 
find out is how to bridge from control of all the myriad of internal
body functions to control of external material.  In short, "Mind over
matter."  His initial, small scale experiments had shown definite 
indications of the potential, though results were sometimes erratic.

     Stansfield's secretary nodded as the young professor reached the 
office.  She glanced at the clock before saying, "He's still talking
to someone.  I expect it will only be a few more minutes."  

     Thorson was too anxious to sit, so he paced around the outer office,
looking at the framed copies of Stansfield's many degrees and honors.  As
might be expected, there was a transition from personal honors to those 
bestowed on the department itself after Stansfield moved into the 
bureaucratic side of the University.  Was there a transition as well in 
the nature of the awards?  To Thorson, it seemed that the subjects had
changed from recognition of true innovations, to recognition of dutiful
service on government-funded data accumulation studies.  

     The door to the inner office opened and another of the department's
teaching staff came out, grinning broadly.

     "It would seem that you got your funding," Thorson observed.

     The other professor, Jeff Haynes, nodded happily.  "The grant came
through from the Department of Education.  Now I'll be able to add four
new materials to my superconducting experiments."

     "Any progress?" Thorson asked politely.

     Haynes said, "Oh, yes.  I've gotten the temperature for 
superconduction up almost half a degree already this year!"

     "Ah, yes, and at that rate, when do you reach room temperature?"

     That question was apparently not supposed to be asked.  Haynes gave
Thorson a dirty look and stalked from the room, his enthusiasm at having
his research funded dampened by plebian thoughts on practicality.  

     Stansfield's secretary told Thorson he could go in and in a moment
he was looking upside down at his own research application, watching 
Stansfield scowl as he reviewed it.

     "Is this a joke?" the department head asked.

     "What?"

     Stansfield repeated, "Is this a joke?  If so, it's in very poor 
taste."

     "I assure you, sir, this is no joke.  The potential for this research
is literally without limit!"

     "The potential for this research is without merit," Stansfield said.  
"Mind over matter indeed.  This is a respected University, not a circus 
side show."

     "But I have results!"

     "You have claims," Stansfield disagreed.  "In accordance with our
standard policy, no matter how much I thought it would be wasted in this
case, I had one of the graduate students repeat your experiments.  Thank
God your initial results don't require expensive apparatus.  What he found
was precisely nothing.  No results whatsoever."

     Thorson quickly grabbed his report and flipped to the relevant 
section.  He said, "But look here.  My results are clearly dependent on 
a high degree of concentration.  Skeptics would not be likely to sustain
the required intensity."

     "Rather convenient, isn't it?" Stansfield said sarcastically.

     Thorson felt things were slipping away from him even as he argued, 
"Convenience has nothing to do with it.  For all I know there's a special 
knack required, like the ability to play chess well.  That's why I need 
the funding to pursue my research, so I can start determining the true 
limits of the effect."

     "I already know the limits of the effect," claimed Stansfield, "but
I'll give you one last chance.  According to your report, you can make 
the water in a beaker cooler on one side than the other, despite no 
internal boundary to circulation.  I have a setup right here in my office
to test that claim.  It's comprised of standard issue components from our
own lab so I know there won't be any tricks with the apparatus."

     Stansfield pointed to a half-liter beaker with two thermometers 
suspended so that their sensing bulbs were immersed in what looked like
common tap water.  

     "You mean, right now?" Thorson asked in disbelief.

     "Yes, right now," Stansfield insisted.

     Thorson squared his shoulders and walked over to the simple 
apparatus.  He stared at it for a moment, as though memorizing every
detail, then closed his eyes.  At first, his faced appeared relaxed, but
in a few seconds furrows appeared on his brow and his eyes clenched
tighter.  

     For a long moment the room was a still as a painting.  But only for
a moment, perhaps as much as a minute.  Then Stansfield spoke, "I knew you
couldn't do it."

     "What, huh?" Thorson stammered, blinking in confusion.

     Stansfield pointed to the thermometers.  "The temperatures didn't 
budge."

     "Well, of course not," Thorson explained.  "I was just getting 
started."

     "I don't think so," said Stansfield.  Returning to his desk, he
picked up Thorson's report and application for funding.

     "This is a responsible University.  We do responsible research here,
over 75% of which is funded by the government.  We don't do mind tricks, 
parlor games, or magic.  You have until Monday to submit an application
for valid research, or you'll find that you have an opportunity to pursue
whatever research you choose.  Independently of this department, or of any
association with this University."

     With that, he dropped Thorson's report in the trash and pushed the 
button on his intercom.

     "Send in my next appointment please," he said.

     *He didn't even do me the courtesy of dismissing me,* Thorson 
though as he made his silent way out.  

     At least he didn't have any more classes for the day.  He went to
the faculty lounge, hoping to have a little quiet while he decided what
to do next.  He truly had found something, but it was as though he were
trying to explain electricity to someone who had only studied 
paleontology.  Knowledge and education were not enough, you had to have
an open-minded willingness to believe.

     Thorson was still analyzing, still trying to understand, *I'll bet I 
couldn't have done it with all the time in the world, with Stansfield so 
sure I couldn't.  The disorder of his thoughts in conflict with mine would 
have negated the effect anyway.*

     Right or wrong, he needed to find some sort of acceptable research 
topic.  He could always piggy-back on someone else's research.  Senior 
scientists were glad to have coolie labor, even post-Doc.  Or he could 
apply for one of the plug-and-chug grants like Haynes had received.  Data 
without meaning or application.  Pure research was fine, for some people, 
but Thorson wanted more.  

     His desire for quiet was no more satisfied in the faculty lounge than
any of his other desires that day.  One of the English Lit professors, 
Rick Terhune, had the lounge TV cranked up to listen to a report on yet
another stunning revelation.  Thorson could tell that's what it was, 
because the announcer told them four times in 30 seconds.  

    "We go now to our man on the scene, Bill Ivins," he finally said.

    "I'm Bill Ivins, coming to you from the campus of Southern Christian
University.  We have just found out that Charles Watkins, one of the 
professors here, is actually Wyvern, the superpowered crime fighter.  With 
me is Ann Compton.  Tell us, Ms. Compton, how do you know Wyvern?"

     "Um, well, I only know Professor Watkins.  He's such a nice man, 
always quiet and polite.  He works late, though, and I've seen him 
when I clean up at night.  He always says hello."

     Terhune interrupted the report with a snort, "Geez, why doesn't she
just say he's meek and mild-mannered?  Why do these superhero types all  
have to be all meek and mild-mannered when they're not fighting bad guys?"

     "I suppose they do it to create a distinction between their private
personalities and their superhero images," offered Thorson. 

     "Huh, why bother?  Why do all those guys need to have secret 
identities anyway?"

     "They have to eat," Thorson answered quietly.

     "Eat?  What's that got to do with anything?"

     "Well, unless they're rich or something they need some way to make
money.  Unless they switch over to be supercriminals instead of 
superheroes."

     Terhune seemed surprised for a second, then admitted, "I guess I 
hadn't thought of that."  

     Any further response from Terhune was interrupted by another 
report from the TV.  They were showing scenes of Wyvern fighting
criminals, using his great strength and super-speed to seem to dodge
bullets while tearing the doors off a getaway car.  

     Thorson's mind was running off on its own tangent.  *If I could 
use this new entropy control effect like a superhero, Stansfield would 
*have* to believe me.  With some good publicity, I could just announce 
my own identity and force the University to fund my research."

     His burgeoning idea was again interrupted by an exclamation from
Terhune, "Man, that Wyvern is one BIG dude."

     Indeed, the news reporter standing next to the superhero in the 
previously-taped interview looked to be a full head shorter, with not
half the width of shoulders.  Yet Thorson knew the report was an average-
sized man.  That seemed to be the point of this segment of the report,
in fact.

     The report switched to another live interview, this time with a
superheroine called Vixen.  He was asking her, "What do you think of
this latest revelation?"

     "This makes the fourth crimefighter unmasked this year," she answered,
"and the fourth man or woman who will no longer be able to help society."

     The reporter was not contrite at all, "Oh, come now.  Surely knowing 
who you people really are doesn't stop you from helping society.  Don't 
you have something more to hide?  All of you? For example, who are you 
behind your own mask?"

     Vixen declined to answer that question, returning to her point about 
the need for crimefighters to be able to move in ordinary society when not
actively engaged with criminals.  Her words were quickly covered over by
Terhune's sigh.

     "Oh, my, that is one bodacious superbabe," he said.  Vixen was 
perhaps a bit taller than an average woman, about 5'10", but size was
not what had impressed Terhune.  Or at least, not height.

     She was incredibly well built, though, for a woman.  Slender without
being thin, feminine hips matched by shoulders just a bit too wide for 
classic female proportions accented a waist just that same bit too trim.

     *I don't suppose it's her shoulders that were impressing Terhune, 
either,* Thorson thought.  *And it's obviously not her face.  She could be 
anyone behind that mask.  She certainly has other, um, attributes that
are noteworthy, though.*
 
     Vixen completed her plea for society to respect the privacy of those
who fight crime, so that they could in turn be more effective in helping
society.  As soon as there was a pause in her words, the station cut back
to the studio anchor.

     "This station, in affiliation with our parent World News Network, 
believes the people's right to know supersedes the right to privacy that
Vixen was claming.  They are public figures, and the public has a right 
to know those who have a disproportionate affect on society.  Accordingly,
the station repeats our offer of one million dollars for information 
leading to the unmasking of any of the following superheroes and super-
criminals."

     As the list scrolled up the screen by his head, he continued, "We 
have prepared a profile that you can use to determine if someone you know
may have a secret identity as a superhero.  For men, you should look for
greater than usual size, perhaps disguised by a habit of wearing loose-
fitting clothes.  The superheroes whose identities have been revealed are
typically polite and unassertive in their private lives, trying not to
draw attention to themselves.  They are, of course, never seen when their
alternate identity is present.  If you know a large, well-built man who
is generally quite polite, watch for unexplained absences that coincide
with the appearance of known superheroes."

     He next gave suggestions for finding female crime fighters.  "For 
superheroines, unusual height is not as strong an indicator.  They are,
however, like the men quite fit and trim.  The tight, stretchy costumes
necessary to allow the mobility required in exercising their powers leave
little doubt about the basic figure of candidate female superheroes.  
Those unmasked have often used disguises including wigs and padding in one
or the other of their identities.  One should not rely too much on typical
appearance features for women superheroes.  As a result, male crimefighters 
have been unmasked nearly 8 times as frequently as female crimefighters, 
though the proportion of men to women on our list of known superheroes and 
supercriminals is nearly balanced at 18 to 14."

     "Well, Jonny," Terhune laughed, "I guess we don't have to worry 
about you being one of those superdudes.  You're thin enough for the 
female ones, but not nearly tall enough for one of the male ones."

     "Thanks a lot," Thorson said, but without heat.  He had been the 
target of enough jibes about his height that he no longer allowed himself 
to get excited by them.  At 5'9", he was a bit above average height, but 
Terhune and the jocks he liked to hang out with were all over six feet, 
some of them considerably.  So were the superheroes, as reported.

     The announcer on the TV was concluding his list of probable super-
heroine characteristics, mostly with things not to assume.  "Your best 
indicators are a slender waist, unusual athletic ability, especially 
including martial arts, and unexplained absences."

     "Hey, Jonny," Terhune was laughing again, "you one of those super-
babes?  I hear you do some of that martial arts stuff, and like I said,
you're skinny enough that all you need is a bit of padding here and 
there.  Mostly there.  And there."

     Thorson dodged his pointing finger and left the lounge.  But his
thoughts were churning with the ideas planted by Terhune.  He was too
short to gain quick respect as a male superhero, but this was not going
to be a lifetime career anyway.  The powers inherent in the entropy 
control he had discovered were certainly independent of gender, and didn't
require a lot of muscle bulk to employ.  If he masqueraded as a woman, he
had little risk that anyone would find out who he really was until he was
ready to reveal himself anyway.  That would give him time to build up the
recognition of his powers that it would take to gain the respect he 
needed.

     The idea planted by Terhune took root and blossomed forth in just the
few minutes it took him to walk to his apartment.  It was clear that a wig 
and some padding could change anyone who was already slender into a very 
credible female figure, and Terhune had made it obvious that not many 
would be concerned with what her face looked like.  He made his decision
just as he unlocked his door.  He *would* masquerade as a female crime-
fighter.  After all, how hard could it be?