So, he had stripped the modifications from the Blocker and checked that it was back to its original configuration…three times. Only then did he don it, seeking solace and insight in the far reaches of his mind.
Initially, the device had chastised him. It had castigated him for cutting corners, for his haste, even though it had produced no faults. There was no room for half-measures or anything less than full commitment in the pursuit of his calling.
Emerging now from the Blocker’s grip, the Experimenter rose and left the chamber. Closing the soundproof door behind him, he dropped into his chair and ran a hand through his hair. The Blocker’s rebuke was still echoing in his mind.
“I can spare no pain in the quest for perfection,” he said. Again, he said, “Spare no pain.” And again. He took up his notebook and wrote the Blocker’s dictum. He filled 20 sheets with his smallest print, ‘spare no pain.’ But when he looked away, he feared the maxim would flee his thoughts. He needed something. He needed a reminder in his everyday world of the preciousness of each step on his consciousness-shattering journey.
His eyes tracked around the room, soon falling on the perfect solution. He rose from his chair and walked to a set of gray counters along the laboratory’s wall. He carefully positioned his left hand, little finger extended, and then slammed the paper cutter home with his right.
A shriek of agony escaped his lips as pain filled his mind. His awareness receded from the vastness of his being to less than a square inch of his hand. He started toward a drawer at the far end of the counter, but stumbled, nearly losing his footing in the blood pooling on the floor. He paused and took several deep breaths, restoring some of the immediate surroundings to his vision. When he reached the drawer, he removed a tape dispenser and crudely bandaged his finger. It would do…for now.
He returned to his desk and his prized notebook, carefully holding his left hand over a wastebasket. He couldn’t chance losing anything he was about to record, because after berating him, the Blocker had made clear what needed to happen next.
The problem was the health of the homeless. Even the heartiest often had chronic illnesses that would not let them endure the rigors of his research. So, when in the grasp of the device, he had seen the solution, as clearly as he now saw the blood pooling in the bottom of the trashcan. He needed to tap into a new pool of potential subjects. He needed young, healthy males. They too would die, but they would endure longer and that was the crux. He needed more time, if he was to work out the details of his brain rewiring protocols.
The change in plans came with a cost. His new prey was in the mainstream. Their disappearance would be noticed. But since they should endure for weeks, rather than days, he would require fewer. And without bodies for the police to examine, no pattern would emerge. Each would be merely another lost soul, succumbing to the pressures of modern life, disappearing from society.
The choice was clear. Subject 4 would be from their number.
With that decision chronicled, the Experimenter put his notebook away and checked the nub that had been his little finger. The bleeding had stopped, but the pain now came in searing waves with his heartbeat. “Spare no pain,” he muttered through clenched teeth as he leaned back in his chair.
The Advanced Design Document sat on his desk and he caressed it with his right hand. When the modifications from its pages were complete, the Blocker would not suppress brain activity. It would not let a three-pound lump of gray matter decide how to overcome a deficit, but rather, it would direct a rebuild. It would induce a precise image, or a specific smell, or a given feeling, or a certain touch. It would implant exact thoughts and specific memories.
The pain returned in a rush, but the Experimenter didn’t cry out. Rather, he laughed. With the advanced capabilities of the Blocker, he would implant his thoughts, his aspirations, his memories in others. He would make copies of himself. He would be immortal. And today, he had bestowed on all those future generations a memory of a throbbing, searing pain from a severed finger. It was his special gift for his future selves.
The Experimenter laughed again at the thought.
Wednesday, August 19, 12:51 PM
Sue and I reached the third-floor landing of the WHT building about ten minutes before our meeting with Dr. Jon Huston. Laverne was seated at her desk. She looked up and ran a hand over her string of pearls, a smile coming to her face. “Sam, Sue. Welcome back.” She paused, then frowned. “Will Nicole be joining you?”
We walked to her desk. “We’re not sure, but we hope so.” Looking down at my hands, I said, “We were sorry to hear about Dr. Worthington.”
When I looked up, she smiled sadly, then nodded. “You’re very kind to say that. He’d become so unpredictable. He lost or pushed away about every friend he had. It’s terrible the pressure he put on himself.” She took a deep breath and tried to brighten her smile. “But life goes on.”
“You did some redecorating,” said Sue, looking around the landing. “The place looks great.” There were three new pictures on the walls and a couple of plants stood in the corners of the room, a third beside her desk.
“Dr. Worthington didn’t care for them,” Laverne said, then chuckled. “I’m sure Dr. Huston was glad to move them back out here. His office was looking a bit like a home-decorating showroom. Would either of you care for a cup of coffee? A bottle of water?”
“I think we’re fine,” replied Sue, after we exchanged looks. “We’ll let you get back to work.”
“Thanks,” Laverne said, then added with a tilt of her head toward Sue, “I guess.” Sue returned Laverne’s smile.
We took seats across from Huston’s door. Sue pulled out her phone. I sat watching the stairs. I had been expecting a call from Nicole all morning, and when none came, my concern that she wouldn’t be rejoining us had grown. After a minute or two, I heard footsteps and I listened carefully. But as the person came closer, I knew it wasn’t Nicole…unless she had gained about 150 pounds. After a moment, an individual appeared – an electrician by the look of the tools and supplies he carried.
Laverne got up from her desk, saying, “I’d like to put the coffee maker over there,” she said, pointing to an outlet on the wall to my left. They walked over, and soon the man was busy taking measurements and grumbling about ‘turn of the century wiring.’
“Are you trying to finish this project without me?”
I nearly jumped out of the chair when I heard Nicole’s voice. She was standing a few feet away, smiling at us.
“My boss was off yesterday and she just got caught up on her voicemail. When I learned we were meeting with Dr. Huston, I called Ken and came right over.”
“You’re right on time,” I said, as a man appeared at Huston’s door.
I glanced at Laverne, who nodded, indicating that this was indeed Dr. Jon Huston. He was tall and thin – a Stan Laurel to Worthington’s Oliver Hardy. But the differences didn’t stop there, as he apparently favored color in his wardrobe. He sported a tweed blazer, tan pants, a blue, oxford shirt, and brown loafers. It was all set off by a flowery tie in various shades of blue, brown, red, and green.
He walked across the landing as we stood to meet him. “I’m Jon Huston. Jon, if you please. You must be Dr. Sam Price,” he said, shaking my hand.
“I am, and please call me Sam,” I replied.
“Oh, I had heard it was Doc.”
I started in surprise. “Sam or Doc. Whichever you prefer,” I said, still wondering how he knew this detail.
“Doc it is,” he said grinning. He stepped over to Sue to continue the introductions, taking each of our hands in both of his as he did. By the end of two minutes, we were all on a first name basis.
“Shall we step into my office, get down to business?” he asked. We agreed and he led the way. Inside, it was as Laverne had implied – somewhat overcrowded with pictures, plants, and knickknacks, but not overwhelmingly so. I did wonder, however, how the pictures and plants that now graced the reception area had ever f
it.
He had a large desk, a chair, two wooden file cabinets, and a wooden bookcase at one end of his office. The other end held four, overstuffed chairs arranged in a circle around a dark, Persian-style rug. Interspersed among the chairs were two, small reading tables, each holding a lamp with a green, glass shade.
He gestured toward the chairs, saying, “Please have a seat.” He removed his jacket, hung it on the back of his desk chair, and joined us. He looked at each of us in turn, then said, “WHT won’t ever recover from the loss of someone as talented as Ned Worthington. It’s not possible. But trust me when I say, I’ll do everything in my power to make this project a success. I only ask for a little patience because frankly, Ned was the expert on the technology you will be studying.”
“I speak for all of us in saying how sorry we were to hear about the death of your partner.” I felt some relief too, as working with Worthington would have been difficult, perhaps dangerous. But that belief didn’t diminish the tragedy of his death.
Huston nodded. “Thanks, Doc,” he said softly. He glanced down at his hands a moment. When he looked up, he said, “I reviewed the material that Ned gave you and frankly, I can’t explain it. He got so protective of the Blocker in the last few months. Didn’t trust anyone.” He sighed, then added, “Including me, apparently.”
“Any idea why?” asked Sue.
“Lots of them,” said Huston. “Long hours. Mentally challenging work. Intense competition. We’re very much in the position of produce or find a new job. Losing control of a technology like the Blocker would be career ending.”
I noticed that he hadn’t listed Blocker use as one of the possible reasons for Worthington’s paranoia. It must have crossed his mind, but the lack of evidence probably stopped him. Self-experimentation wasn’t the kind of accusation a professional would make about a colleague without proof.
“I checked the contract,” said Huston, “and pulled the list of materials you’re to receive from us. Laverne….” Huston stopped and chuckled. “She wasn’t looking forward to it, because Ned was a bit of a pack rat. But she was going to start pulling those files as soon as this meeting got started. She’s probably doing it now.”
“That’s great,” I said, sinking back in the chair. Tension that I hadn’t noticed until now drained from my body.
“So, you’re about to be inundated with data,” said Huston. “But I’ve always found that a few key pieces of information at the start can really help. So, is there anything specific you’d like to discuss?”
The question we had planned for Worthington sprang to my mind. Nicole apparently had the same thought. “Can you tell us what technology the Blocker uses to stimulate the cortex?” she asked.
Huston drew back, his brows knitting. “How it stimulates the brain? Does that mean you haven’t seen it?”
“No, we didn’t get to that point in the discussion with Dr. Worthington,” replied Nicole. She clearly knew how to be diplomatic.
“Well, we’ll fix that. Perhaps tomorrow? I’m not sure about the state of his lab.”
“That would be great,” said Nicole.
“But to answer your question,” continued Huston, “it uses TMS. That’s, transcranial magnetic stimulation.”
Huston could have said that it used a technology left by an advanced race of aliens for all this phrase meant to me. I glanced at Nicole, who gave me an almost imperceptible nod. That was good enough for me; my question could wait.
“In simple terms,” said Huston, “the Neural Activity Blocker uses TMS to suppress on-going thought processes. So, if an individual was trying to remember numbers, as in the digit span task, beta and gamma waves would generally be produced. If the Blocker, however, was inducing something else, say an alpha wave, then the brain wouldn’t be able to process the information.”
I’d signed up for a biofeedback class once, which was designed to help people produce alpha waves. I remembered that these waves are associated with relaxed awareness, because people kept falling asleep. But the other brain waves and the types of thought that produced them? I’d need to find out later. But the basic idea of the Blocker – push task-relevant thoughts out of the mind in favor of daydreaming? That sounded familiar.
“Doc, you look like there’s something on your mind,” said Huston.
His comment made me realize I was frowning. “Just curious, really. You’re saying that you’re producing a drowsiness or a relaxed state in place of what the person was trying to do?”
“In the case of the Blocker inducing alpha waves, yes, that would be right.”
“So, aren’t you, in effect, producing something like an altered state of consciousness? The person is trying to remember a list of numbers, but ends up thinking about…I don’t know, how peaceful the blue wall looks.”
“Something like a drug interfering with a person’s thoughts?” Huston asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Exactly.” If I had pushed Worthington this hard, he would have thrown me out his third-floor, office window. Huston, on the other hand, was not only taking it in stride, but appeared to be enjoying a bit of a philosophical debate.
“Ned tended to see it the same way – like the Blocker was an electronic drug, and hopefully, one with none of the side effects of chemicals. In fact, he used the same protocols as pharmaceutical studies. Participants were informed that the device could produce altered states of consciousness, and that they might find the tasks we gave them difficult when under its influence.”
I nodded, considering the approach. “Seems appropriate,” I admitted.
“I noticed the VA asked you to review the safety analyses on the Blocker,” said Huston. He stood, walked over to the bookcase, and removed a document that must have been three inches thick. As he turned back towards us, he said, “Ned and I always crosschecked each other’s safety analyses, so I’m familiar with this part of the work. Later, I got busy with other projects, and Ned carried on alone. From a business perspective, being too busy is a good problem to have, but now I wish it had been different.”
There was an undercurrent of melancholy in his voice, and Huston paused a moment looking away. Turning back to us, he said, “This should answer most of your questions. TMS has been under development since the 1980s, and it has an excellent safety record. The Food and Drug Administration has recognized it for the treatment of migraines and severe depression. That fact, of course, didn’t relieve us of our responsibility. We conducted an analysis for our own specific use, and that’s what’s contained in this document.”
“Thanks. We’ll get this back to you when we’re done,” I said.
“It’s yours. I had a copy made.”
“Thanks,” I said again. “We’re to focus on the psychological side of the safety analyses. Did you witness any unusual behavioral effects?”
Huston chuckled. “Nothing more unusual than you’d see any time you isolate the hemispheres. I can describe a typical study, if you wish.”
“I’d be interested,” Nicole said.
“Sure. Let’s see, what would be a good example?” He paused a moment, his chin resting on a hand. “OK, in one session we blocked the left hemisphere and showed our participants a picture of a common object – either an egg, a pencil, or a cup. Then, we asked them what they saw. What do you think we got?”
“Well, if the Blocker works, then probably nothing from most people,” said Sue. “Or some word that’s similar, but not quite right. Language tends to be processed in the left hemisphere and you’re making it unavailable.”
“And that’s what we found,” said Huston. “Then, suppose we let them try to find the object inside a bag without looking using their left hand?”
Suddenly, I was back in graduate school with a professor who preferred the Socratic method. Even the encouraging nods and smiles from Huston felt right. The shift in mood from our dealings with Worthington was so extreme as to be disorienting.
“Since they had processed the image on the right side of the
brain,” continued Sue, “the left hand should be able to find it by feel. But not the right hand.”
Huston chuckled. “You’re obviously familiar with the split-brain studies.”
Sue nodded. “The research is pretty well known in psychology…well, in education and the popular press too, for that matter. Although it seems like it’s been overextended in some fads.”
“I would tend to agree,” said Huston. “We ran other tests, of course, and you can read about those in the volume I gave you.”
“During the safety analyses when you were blocking the left hemisphere, did you see any evidence of the participant’s gaining any language ability?” I asked.
“No, these trials were only 60 minutes. Since silent rehearsal is a common strategy for remembering lists, we looked closely at language. We also looked at the ability to control the right hand, but we found nothing in either area.”
“The right hand?” I asked, not sure why there would be change there.
“Yes, A.T. had to type his response with the right hand, and with the left hemisphere blocked…. Well, as you know, he’d have little control at first.” He paused, scratched his chin. “In fact, that part of the task might have been harder for A.T. to develop than language. Didn’t Ned mention that?”
“Not that I remember. Thanks.” Clearly, Huston didn’t realize how little, beyond disdain, Worthington had communicated to us.
Huston looked from face to face, then said, “I know we haven’t covered much today, but if it’s acceptable to you, I’d like to suggest we break until tomorrow. I have some phone calls I need to make. And tomorrow from 8:00 AM on, my calendar’s open.”
Seeing no hesitancy in the faces of my companions, I said, “Sure. How about we start at 9:00 AM.”
“Excellent,” said Huston. “I’ll give you some history on the Neural Activity Blocker.” He paused, as if considering his words carefully. “Frankly, not all of it is pleasant, but you should have the background. And in the meantime, you can do some light reading,” he said, tipping his head toward the safety analysis.
Of Half a Mind Page 12
