Salomon waited until his guest had half a glass down him and had sighed in relief. “Doctor, how did it go?”
“Eh? Smoothly. We had planned it, we rehearsed it, we did it. How else? That’s a good team you got for me.”
“I take it you are saying the operation was successful?”
“‘—but the patient died.’ That’s the rest of the old saw.”
Jacob Salomon felt a wave of sorrow and relief. He sighed and answered, “Well, I expected it. Thank you, Doctor. I know you tried.”
“Slow down! I don’t mean that this patient died; I merely completed the cliché. The operation went exactly as planned; the patient was in satisfactory shape when I relinquished control to the support team.”
“Then you expect him to live?”
“‘It,’ not ‘he,’ That thing back there is not a human being and may never be. It won’t die, it can’t—unless one of your courts gives permission to switch off the machinery. That body is young and healthy; with the support it is receiving it can stay alive—as protoplasm, not as a human being—for any length of time. Years. And the brain was alive when I left; it was continuing to show strong alpha-wave response. It should stay alive, too; it is receiving blood supply from that healthy body. But whether that brain and that body will ever marry into a living human being—what church do you attend?”
“I don’t.”
“Too bad, I was about to suggest that you ring up God and ask Him, as I do not know. Since I saved the retinas and the inner ears—first surgeon ever to do that, by the bye, even though they call me a quack—it might be able to see and hear. Possibly. If the spinal cord fuses, it might regain some motor control, even be able to dispense with some of the artificial support. But I tell you the stark truth, Counselor, the most likely outcome is that that brain will never again be in touch with the outside world in any fashion.”
“I hope your misgivings are unfounded,” Salomon said mildly. “Your contingent fee depended on your achieving sight, hearing, and speech, at a minimum.”
“In a pig’s arse.”
“I’m not authorized to pay it otherwise. Sorry.”
“Wrong. There was mention of a bonus, a ridiculously large sum—which I ignored. Look, cobber, you shysters are allowed to work on contingent fees; we butchers have other rules. My fee is for operating. I operated. Finis. I’m an ethical surgeon, no matter what the barstahds say about me.”
“Which reminds me—” Salomon took an envelope from his pocket. “Here’s your fee.”
The surgeon pocketed it. Salomon said, “Aren’t you going to check it?”
“Why should I? Either I was paid in full. Or I sue. Either way, I couldn’t care less. Not now.”
“More beer?” Salomon opened another bottle of Down-Under dynamite. “You are paid. In full, in gold, in Switzerland—that envelope contains a note advising you of your account number. Plus an acknowledgment that we pay your expenses, all fees of assisting teams, all computer time, all hospital charges, whatever. But I hope, later, to pay that ‘ridiculous’ bonus, as you called it.”
“Oh, I won’t turn down a gift; research is expensive—and I do want to go on; I would like to be a respectable paragraph in medical histories…instead of being sneered at as a charlatan.”
“No doubt. Not quite my own reason.”
Boyle took a swig of beer and blinked thoughtfully. “I suppose I’ve been a stinker again. Sorry—I always come out of surgery in a vile mood. I forgot he is your friend.”
Salomon again felt that bittersweet wave of relief and sorrow. He answered carefully, “No, Johann Smith is not my friend.”
“So? I had an impression that he was.”
“Mr. Smith has no friends. I am a lawyer in his hire. As such, he is entitled to my loyalty.”
“I see. I’m glad you aren’t emotionally involved, as the prognosis on a brain transplant is never good—as I know better than anyone.” Boyle added thoughtfully, “It might work this time. It was a good tissue match, surprisingly good in view of the wide difference between donor and recipient. And identical blood type, that helps. We might luck it. Even disparity in skulls turned out to be no problem once I could see that brain.”
“Then why are you gloomy?”
“Do you know how many millions of nerve connections are involved? Think I could do them all in eleven hours? Or eleven thousand hours? We don’t try; we just work on the nerves of the head, then butt the raw ends of two spinal cords together—and sit back and spin our prayer wheels. Maybe they fuse, maybe they don’t—and no one knows why.”
“So I understood. What I don’t understand is how those millions of connections can ever take place. Yet apparently you were successful with two chimpanzees.”
“Bloody! I was successful. Sorry. The human nervous system is infinitely inventive in defending itself. Instead of reconnecting old connections it finds new paths—if it can—and learns to use them. Do you know the psych lab experiment with inverting spectacles?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Some student has inverting lenses taped to his eyes. For a day or two he sees everything upside down, has to be led by the hand, fed, escorted to the jakes. Then rather suddenly he sees everything right side up again; the brain has switched a few hundred thousand connections and is now interpreting the new data successfully. At this point we remove the spectacles from the volunteer chump—and now his bare eyes see the world upside down. So he goes through it a second time—and again the brain finds new paths and eventually the images flip over again and he sees the world normally.
“Something somewhat analogous to that happened to my two prize chimps. Abélard and Héloïse. Nothing at first, thought I had still another failure. Then they started to twitch and we had to restrain them to keep them from hurting themselves—motor action but no control. Like a very young baby. But in time the brains learned to manage their new bodies. Don’t ask me how; I’m a surgeon and won’t guess—ask a psychologist, they love to guess. Or ask a priest; you’ll get as good an answer and maybe better. Say, isn’t your driver chap taking us around the barn? My hotel was only five minutes from the medical center.”
“I must now admit to having taken another liberty, Doctor. Your luggage was packed, your hotel bill has been paid, and all your things were moved to my guest room.”
“My word. Why?”
“Better security.”
“That hotel seemed secure to me. Armed guards on every door, more armed men operating the lifts—I could not get in or out without showing my I.D. at least thrice. Reminded me of the army. Hadn’t realized what an armed camp the States are. Isn’t it rather a nuisance?”
“Yes. But one grows used to it. Your hotel is safe enough, physically. But the press are onto us now and they can get inside. And so can the police.”
Boyle looked troubled but not panicky. “Legal complications? You assured me that all that sort of thing had been taken care of.”
“I did. It has. The donor was married, as I told you, and by great luck husband and wife had given pre-consent. We had a good many thousands of that blood type quietly signed up—and paid retainers—but we couldn’t predict that one would be accidentally killed in time; the statistical projection did not favor it. But one of them was indeed killed and there were no complications—no insuperable ones,” Salomon corrected, thinking of a bag of well-worn Federal Reserve notes, “and a court permitted it as ‘useful and necessary research.’ Nevertheless the press will stir up a storm and some other court may decide to look into it. Doctor, I can put you in Canada in an hour, anywhere on this planet in a day—even on the Moon without much delay. If you so choose.”
“Hmm. Wouldn’t mind going to the Moon, I’ve never been there. You say my clothes are in your guest room?”
“Yes. And you are most welcome.”
“Is there a tub of hot water nearby?”
“Oh, certainly.”
“Then I’ll ask for another beer and that hot tub and about
ten hours’ sleep. I’ve been arrested before. Doesn’t worry me.”
5
Johann Sebastian Bach Smith was somewhere else. Where, he did not know, nor care, nor wonder…did not know that he was himself, was not aware of himself nor of anything, was not aware that he was not aware.
Then slowly, over eons, he came up from the nothingness of total anesthesia, surfaced into dreaming. The dreams went on for unmeasured time, endlessly… Mrs. Schmidt, can Yonny come out and play… Wuxtra! Horrible atrocities in Belgium, read all about it!… Johann, don’t ever walk in like that without knocking, you bad, bad boy…under a cabbage leaf…more margin before the market opens tomorrow…like hell a cabbage leaf; it comes out of her belly button Yoho you don’t know nothing… Johnny you know it’s not nice to do that and what if my father came downstairs…a pretty girl is like a melody…hey get a load of that not a damn thing on her boobs…sergeant I volunteered once and that’s enough for a lifetime… Our Father Which art in Heaven hallowed be thy Name of the game is look out for yourself Smith old Buddy you co-signed the note and I have other fish to Friday at the latest and that’s a promise Johann darling I don’t know how you could even bring yourself to think such a thing of your own wife is a man’s responsibility Mr. Smith and I’m sure the court will agree that four thousand per monthlies is a very modest girl would never do such a thing Schmidt and if I ever catch you hanging around my daughter again I’ll shoot the whole works they’re not worth the paper they’re, printed on Johann I don’t know what your father will say when he gets home on the range where the deer and antelope play square with me and you’ll get a fair shake it, girlie, shake it, shake it twice is regulation shake it thrice pudding with creamed in her coffin my head off and her old man heard us and that queered it not queer Johann just curious you understand me old body boy I aint got no body and no body works very long for some body else if he expects to get ahead in the world o’ business girl has got just as much right to be treated like a lady as any body seen my girl’s best friend is her cherish as long as you both shall live right and work hard and pay your bills of lading son goes down and the stars come out of my room at once my husband would kill me and the neighbors are always snooping where did you leave your bicycle would pay for itself in no time Pop if I get this paper rout and in full retreat as we go to press me closer Johnny you’re so huge national debt will never be paid off and all our companies’ policies must be in inflation so borrow now and pay later than you think I’m that sort of a girl simply because I let you go on to college to be a teacher son but now I see by the dawn’s early warning system is useless gentlemen without second-strike capabilities of sustained growth when treated last time so it’s your treat this time you treat me nice and I treat you nice you-nice Eunice Eunice! where did that girl go I’ve lost Rome and I’ve lost Gaul but worst of all I’ve lost Eunice somebody find Eunice…coming Boss…where have you been right here all along Boss—
His dreams went on endlessly in full stereo—sound, sight, odor, touch—and always surrealistic, which he never noticed. They flowed through him, or he through them, with perfect logic. To him.
Meanwhile the world flowed on around him—and forgot him. The attempt at transplanting a living brain offered opportunity for much loose talk by video commentators, plus guest “experts” who were encouraged to add their own mixture of prejudice, speculation, and bias in the name of “science.” A judge in need of publicity issued a warrant for the arrest of “Dr. Lyndon Doyle” (sic) but Dr. Lindsay Boyle was outside of jurisdiction before the warrant was signed and long before the name was straightened out. A famous and very stylish evangelist prepared a sermon denouncing the transplant, using as a text “Vanity of Vanities.”
But on the third day a spectacular and unusually bloody political assassination crowded Johann Smith out of the news and the evangelist found that he could use the sermon by changing a few sentences—which he did, understanding instinctively the American lust for the blood of the mighty.
As usual, the unlicensed birth rate exceeded the licensed rate while the abortion rate exceeded both. Upjohn International declared an extra dividend. The backing and filling for the upcoming Presidential campaign speeded up with a joint announcement by the national committees of the two conservative parties, the SDS and the PLA, that they would hold their conventions together (while preserving mutual autonomy) for the (unannounced but understood) purpose of reelecting the incumbent. The chairman of the extreme left-wing Constitutional Liberation Rally denounced it as a typical crypto-fascist capitalistic plot, and predicted a November victory for Constitutional freedom. The splinter parties, Democratic, Socialist, and Republican, met quietly (few members and almost no delegates under sixty-five) and stole away without causing more than a ripple in the news.
In the Middle East an earthquake killed nine thousand people in three minutes and brought close the ever-present possibility of war through disturbing the balance of terror. The Sino-American Lunar Commission announced that the Lunar Colonies were now 87% self-sufficient in proteins and carbohydrates, and raised the subsidized out-migration quota but again refused to relax the literacy requirement.
Johann Sebastian Bach Smith dreamed on.
After an unmeasured time (how measure a dream?) Smith woke enough to be aware of himself—the reflexive self-awareness of waking as contrasted with the unquestioning and unexplicit self-experience of dreaming. He knew who he was, Johann Sebastian Bach Smith, a very old man—not a baby, not a boy, not any of his younger selves—and was aware of his sensory surroundings, which were zero: darkness, silence, absence of any physical sensation, not even pressure, touch, kinesthesia.
He wondered if the operation had started, and what it would feel like when he died. He did not worry about pain; he had been assured that the brain itself had no pain receptors and that he was being anesthetized solely to keep him quiet and unworried while the job was done—besides, pain had not worried Smith in years; it was his constant companion, almost an old friend.
Presently he went back to sleep and to more dreams, unaware that his brain-wave pattern was being monitored and had caused great excitement when change in rhythm and peak had shown that the patient was awake.
Again he was awake and this time gave thought to the possibility that this nothingness was death. He considered the idea without panic, having come to terms with death more than a half century earlier. If this was death, it was neither the Heaven he had been promised as a child nor the Hell he had long since ceased to believe in, nor even the total lack of self he had come to expect—it was just one damn big bore.
He slept again, unaware that the physician in charge of his life-support team had decided that the patient had been awake long enough and had slowed his breathing and made a slight change in his blood chemistry.
He woke again and tried to take stock of the situation. If he was dead—and there seemed no longer reason to doubt it—what did he have left and how could he cut his losses? Assets: none. Correction: one asset, memory. He had a recent memory-of-a-memory, vague and undefined, of confused and crazy dreams—probably from anesthesia and no use to him—plus other memories older but much sharper of being (or having been) Johann Smith. Well, Johann you old bastard, if you and me are going to have to spend all eternity locked in this limbo we had better get to work on total recall of everything we ever did.
Everything? Or concentrate on the good parts? No, a stew had to have salt or it was too bland. Try to remember all of it. If we have all eternity with nothing to play but this one rerun, we’re going to want to have all of it on tap…as even the best parts may get boring after a few thousand times.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to concentrate—just for practice—on some exceptionally pleasant memory. So what’ll it be, partner? There are only four top subjects, the rest are sideshows: money, sex, war, and death. So which do we choose? Right! You’re correct, Eunice; I’m a dirty old man and my only regret (and a sharp one!) is that I didn’t find you forty or fi
fty years back. When you were not yet a gleam in your father’s eye, more’s the pity. Tell me, girl, were those sea-shell doodads a brassière or just paint on your pretty skin? Euchered myself on that one—should have asked and let you sass me. So tell great-grandpappy. Give me a phone call and tell me. Sorry, I can’t tell you the wave length, dear; it’s unlisted.
Golly, you looked cute!
Let’s try another one—no chance that I’ll forget you, Eunice my dear, but I never laid a finger on you, damn it. Let’s go way, way back to one we did lay a finger on. Our very first piece? No, you mucked that up pretty badly, you clumsy lout. The second one? Ah, yes, she was the cat’s pajamas! Mrs. Wicklund. First name? Did I ever know her first name? Certainly I never called her by it, not then or later. Even though she let me come back for more. Let me? Encouraged me, set it up.
Let’s see, I was fourteen, fourteen and a half, and she must have been…thirty-five? I remember her mentioning that she had been married fifteen years. so call it thirty-five at a guess. No matter, it was the first time I ever encountered a female who wanted it, managed to let me know that she wanted it, then without any bobbles could take charge of a lanky, too-eager, almost-virgin boy, steady him, lead him through it, make him enjoy it, let him know she enjoyed it—make him feel good about it afterwards.
God bless your generous soul, Mrs. Wicklund! If you are lost somewhere in this darkness—for you must have died many years sooner than I did—I hope you remember me and are as happy in remembering me as I am in remembering you.
All the details now—Your flat was right under ours. Cold windy afternoon and you gave me a quarter (big money then, a dime was standard) for going to the grocery for you. For what? How good is your memory, you horny old goat? Correction: horny old ‘ghost.’ What have I got left to be horny with? Never mind, I am—it’s up here, Doc. Half a pound of sliced boiled ham, a sack of russet potatoes, a dozen ranch eggs (seven cents a dozen then—my God!), a ten-cent loaf of Holsum bread and—something else. Oh, yes, a spool of sixty white cotton thread at the notions shop next to Mr. Gilmore’s drugstore. Mrs. Baum’s shop—two sons, one killed in War One and the other made a name for himself in electronics. But let’s get back to you, Mrs. Wicklund.