Analog SFF, November 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  After the third repetition of my circular trek I started to doubt that my lovely redhead would be glancing out her window in anticipation of the arriving pumps. What reason would she have? She probably thought that I, like 99 percent of the population over five years of age, had captured her address during our exchange, just as she had captured mine.

  But I hadn't. I was the idiot who decided to wear unpatched suitware and was now suffering for his sins. This wasn't going to work. There was no chance that I would find her among the hundreds who occupied the densely populated area. She would never get her shoes, miss her party tonight, and probably hate me forever. Even if I eventually ran into her somewhere else I'd still be the jerk who ruined her evening by wearing unpatched suitware.

  Finally, concluding that this wasn't going to work, and much to the relief of numerous nervous doormen, I headed for the kiosk to pick up my ice cream. Maybe that would console me for my loss.

  "I ordered chocolate chip,” I keyed to the machine.

  ERROR. YOUR ORDER WAS A PINT OF LOW-FAT CHOCOLATE CHUNK PISTACHIO, the ice cream kiosk disagreed with all the weigh of authority vested in it by its software.

  I checked my to-do and found that damned milk reminder I had missed earlier. Where was the ... There, I had it: one order for low-fat chocolate chunk pistachio, just as the machine claimed. Obviously the dietary conspiracy had changed my order. It wasn't the kiosk that screwed up, it was those damned appliances.

  "I'm changing the order. Give me a pint of chocolate-chip,” I keyed.

  YOU HAVE NOT BURNED SUFFICIENT CALORIES, my shoes said in rhythm to its aerobic background beat. There was a twitter of interchange from my briefs.

  CONFIRMING, the machine acknowledged as a pint clunked into the delivery chute. HAVE A NICE DAY.

  I looked at the container. It was a pint of low-fat chocolate chunk pistachio. I looked around but there was no one I could complain to. It seemed that all my software were now part of the conspiracy.

  * * * *

  Slowly I slouched away from the kiosk. Nothing, not a damn thing was going right today. I couldn't eat the food I wanted, couldn't find a freaking address I needed, and I'd never get to find out why the redhead had run away from me.

  Then the phone rang. “This is Viola, Jeff. Where are you? Did something happen?” It was a reprieve, a breath of fresh air, an awakening of possibility once again. Life was suddenly good.

  "I didn't get your address,” I blurted. “My suitware has a bug that—"

  "Never mind,” she replied before I could finish. “I'll bring your stuff over and take a cab. I'm late already."

  I beat her to my flat by three minutes, threw the pint on the table, and barely had time to grab the other package when she rang the bell.

  She was as breathless as I. She had a makeup case and two packages under her arms. “I got here as fast as I could,” she said and pointed at the larger package in my hands. “Is that my dress?” I nodded dumbly. “Now, where can I change?"

  "The bath's over there,” I pointed at the door. “The other door's my closet.” Stupid thing to say, I realized as she took her packages and disappeared into the bathroom. I prayed she didn't get too chummy with my toilet. As it had with previous women, and notably with my mother, it would lecture her on the dangers of unprotected sex, the evils of excess sugar, and the need to remain hydrated.

  I slipped off my running shoes. YOU DID NOT EXERCISE SUFFICIENTLY, the shoes said in their drill sergeant manner as soon as my fingers touched the straps. YOUR AEROBIC HEARTBEAT HAS NOT BEEN RAISED SUFFIENTLY FOR GOOD CARDIAC HEALTH.

  "Screw you,” I said as I threw them across the room. I opened the box with the new loafers. They looked as nice as I imagined they would. SEARCHING FOR DATA was all they murmured in a refined voice as I slipped them on. I was admiring the look and feel of the new jacket when the bathroom door opened and a vision in green stepped out.

  Viola had done something with her hair and makeup that took my breath away. Her eyes looked larger, her lips more full, and her figure in that green evening dress was breathtaking. I barely noticed the tips of her red shoes as she stepped daintily forward.

  The tweed's link was going insane from the downloads her dress was throwing at me. Music, images, lists of favorite topics, foods, colors, and a plethora of possible conversational gambits. I stood there, mouth agape, not knowing how to deal with this tsunami of information. I hadn't had time to set the filters on the defaults. The tweed was having fits trying to access the apartment's databanks, find my personal profiles, and respond in kind.

  Viola looked as confused as I and was fumbling at her waist. “Sorry,” she said. “I forgot to adjust the dress. The default's Cocktail Party."

  I was struggling to gain control of the tweed, which was merrily downloading my entire music library, to shut off the gushing flood of unwanted data. On top of running buggy suitware I now looked like someone who couldn't control their own clothes.

  "Think what a crowded room must be like with everyone's clothes throwing out that much information,” I laughed as I tried to access the tweed's menu.

  "It probably wouldn't matter in the general din at most of those affairs,” she replied as she continued to flail at her dress. “Why do they set the damn defaults like this?"

  I tore the jacket off and threw it down, breaking the circuit and hopefully silencing the stream of too much information.

  "I think it's stuck,” Viola cursed as she beat at her waistline. “Oh, crap.” She ran back into the bathroom as my briefs beeped for attention.

  YOU ARE UNDER STRESS, they said. LIE DOWN AND BREATHE SLOWLY. YOUR HEARTRATE IS EXCEEDING NORMAL LIMITS, my new loafers said. DID YOU GET THE MILK? asked the refrigerator.

  Viola emerged from the bathroom, a dripping dress in one hand. “I had to drown it to shut it off,” she said. “Your toilet is very upset with me."

  "I ought to shut everything down,” I said. “I don't think I can take it anymore.” When she gave me a perplexed look there was nothing else to do than explain how my day had gone: my issues with the kitchen; my choosing to wear buggy suitware; the screw-up in Dankers; the argument with the kiosk; not being able to find her apartment; and the desolation that I felt that I would never again see this attractive, intelligent, wonderful woman I'd met as a result. If I had less self-control I would have cried at that point. “I'm almost at the point where I want to just shut down my links and cut myself off from everything."

  "I sometimes feel the same way,” she admitted. “But I can't imagine what it would be like to be unlinked. Oh, did you know that your ice cream is melting?"

  I had forgotten the pint of fat-free I had absentmindedly set aside, a container that was now leaking a bilious green flow across my coffee table and spilling onto the rug. I turned, scooped up the container, and tossed it into the fridge.

  YOU SHOULD EAT NO MORE THAN AN EIGHTH OF A PINT, the fridge chided as I dropped it into the freezer slot.

  "I'll never eat any of that low-fat crap,” I remarked as I slammed the door on the fridge's dietary advice.

  "I guess I can forget going anywhere else this evening,” Viola said sadly. She was looking at the sodden dress.

  "Maybe I can make it up to you,” I suggested tentatively. “We could go somewhere we don't have to dress up.” There was no way I was going to risk wearing a suit this time.

  She glanced at the refrigerator. “That would be nice. I doubt I have anything to fear from someone named Susan who's never even gotten a traffic ticket."

  When I saw her inviting smile I felt as if I had won the lottery. “Do you like chocolate chip ice cream?” I ventured.

  "The only thing better is rocky road,” she replied with a wistful expression. “Or maybe tin roof.” Then her face fell. “But my dressware won't let me have it."

  We looked at each other for a moment, nodded, smiled, unlinked, and shut off the world to everything but each other.

  Copyright (c) 2007 Bud Sparhawk

  [B
ack to Table of Contents]

  PERMISSION TO SPEAK FREELY by DAVID WALTON

  What to do about those pesky details that always turn up in research? The real world tends to complicate the answer....

  I stood watching my friend through the glass, knowing that the thick cable hanging from the back of his head like a samurai's queue was delivering terrible pain to his nervous system. The technician next to me flipped a switch on her panel, causing a fresh signal to explode up the cable directly into his hypothalamus. He didn't even flinch.

  "Patient thirty-eight,” said the technician, her voice like clear water.

  "Patient thirty-eight,” said my friend, Dr. Whittaker Laplace, his immense girth seeming to spill over the sides of the metal chair. “Brain aneurysm, frontal lobe, left side.” His voice was clinical, as if the pain he described had not just stabbed through his body. The only sign of stress was a trickle of sweat running down one cheek.

  On the other side of the wall, visible to me but not to Whittaker, sat fifty patients in neat rows, the same cables running from the backs of their heads to tangle and twine on the floor. The cables converged at a switchbox and connected through a large machine before passing through the wall.

  "Patient thirty-nine,” said the technician.

  "Patient thirty-nine,” Whittaker echoed. “Osteoarthritis of the proximal interphalangeal joints, most prominently in the second and third digits of the right hand."

  The technician shook her head. “Guy's a machine.” Then, into the microphone: “Patient forty."

  It was amazing ... but I couldn't bury a sense of unease. Sympathology had gained a lot of momentum in the press, and I knew I would be under pressure from the university and its corporate backers. Not to mention from Whittaker himself.

  Whittaker had improved his skill since the first time I'd seen him in action—almost five years earlier in Two Goodfellas, a corner tavern on Philadelphia's Market Street with neon signs, loud music, and posters from gangster movies on the walls. A huge man even then, with a voice to match and a full black beard, Whittaker had waved an early sympathology rig around the room, daring patrons—mostly U. of Penn students—to hook up and feel his kidney stone. Unwilling to be outdone, I had joined the line, but when my turn came, I wished I hadn't. The pain was intense; if that was really what Whittaker was feeling, he didn't show it. I suspected a trick.

  But it wasn't a trick. It was a new technology that Whittaker had pioneered. At the time, I was in medical school, planning to go on for a doctorate in radioimmunology. As a result of my friendship with Whittaker, I switched to neuroscience instead.

  "Patient fifty: fractured collarbone,” said Whittaker. “And a splinter in the palm of his left hand."

  I heard scattered laughter from those viewing the test.

  "That concludes SMP05,” said the technician. “A great thank you to all our volunteers."

  On the patient side of the wall, technicians disconnected the volunteers from their cables. On the other side, Whittaker stood and stretched. His presence had caused something of a stir in the neuroscience lab. Not many remembered when he'd been a student at Penn; all they knew of him was the media coverage. Public interest in sympathology was hot: If your baby woke up screaming inconsolably in the middle of the night, Whittaker could tell you what was wrong. If your loved one had a stroke and couldn't communicate anymore, Whittaker could tell you if they were feeling any pain. He'd become something of a national celebrity.

  The technician ushered Whittaker into the test berth. “Dr. Laplace,” he said and pointed at me, “this is our test director, Peter Atterley."

  Whittaker laughed and gave me a crushing hug. “How have you been, Peter?"

  I felt all eyes on me. “Quite a performance you treated us to,” I said. “You always did have a high tolerance for pain."

  He shook a fleshy finger in my face. “Now, now—that's the critics talking. I feel pain to exactly the same degree as those patients do."

  It was our old argument, and I slipped into it easily. “You only know how you feel. You assume the sensation is the same for them, but there's a lot more to pain than a signal passing through the spinal gates."

  "I've had kidney stones—as you know. I've felt patients’ kidney stones. They feel the same."

  "Granted. But all it proves is that your brain reacts the same way to the same stimuli. Not that you have actually shared the patient's experience."

  He crossed his arms and loomed over me. “And pray, how will you test that, Dr. Peter Atterley?"

  I smiled. “The only way we can. You'll find out tomorrow."

  * * * *

  We agreed to meet for dinner, but before I could leave, I had to report on the day's testing to Connie Maclaine, chair of the department. I hoped it would be a short conversation; she and I often saw things differently, and I didn't relish a battle after a long day.

  I peeked into her office, a cloth-covered modular unit with walls that stopped three feet short of the drop ceiling. Connie was in her fifties, a dedicated runner with the athletic body to prove it, but with hair going visibly to gray.

  "Have a seat,” she said. I didn't want to stay long enough to have a seat, but I did anyway.

  "Quite a show, wasn't it?” she said.

  "Dr. Laplace, you mean? I didn't know you were watching."

  "Oh yes. There's a lot riding on this study; I'm very interested."

  "Riding on it?"

  She shrugged. “A favorable recommendation of the procedure from us would go a long way toward establishing sympathology as a viable discipline. Surely you know that."

  "Of course."

  "Synthiac has been on the phone twice, wanting our results. They're undergoing trials for a commercial version of the machine. They want to synergize our efforts. Benefit on both sides."

  I knew Connie's political mind, and I could smell a rat. “Benefit? Like funding?"

  She sighed theatrically. “Peter, you and I both know that science only continues as long as the grants do, and ours is coming to its end. Synthiac is the biggest medical equipment manufacturer in the country; a partnership with them would mean work for years to come."

  "Great,” I said. “So what's the catch?"

  "No catch. Just an interest from Synthiac in a swift and clear recommendation. And along those lines, I've been thinking and I want to cancel the final test."

  I felt my cheeks flush. I stood. “Synthiac wants to buy a rushed recommendation? You don't call that a catch?"

  "Listen, Peter, please. This is not Synthiac's suggestion; it's mine. We're short on funds; I already had to let two of our technicians go. We know the machine is safe; we've tested it nine different ways. And after what we saw Whittaker do today, can there be any doubt of the procedure? It was amazing! One hundred percent accuracy."

  "There are wider implications. That's why we designed tomorrow's test; our paper won't just cover the accuracy of diagnosis, but the degree to which pain can be viewed as a measurable quantity. It's a serious philosophical implication that we can't ignore."

  "This is a scientific lab, not a philosophy club. We report results."

  I worked hard not to roll my eyes. “That's naive,” I said. “Science can't be done in a vacuum. There are social ramifications. Corporate giants throwing money at us won't change that."

  She donned her martyr's face and said, “Peter,” in a hurt voice, but I couldn't handle any more. I walked out.

  * * * *

  I've wanted to be a scientist for as long as I can remember. Ever since my father hung a model of the solar system on my ceiling, I knew that when I grew up, I would design experiments to be performed on the International Space Station and would eventually—of course—win the Nobel Prize. But after earning my Ph.D., I discovered that to do science, you needed money, and to get money, you needed to publish. The political underworld of grant wrangling, peer reviews, and journal publication took me by surprise. Somehow, I had envisioned scientific exploration as a noble pyr
amid of minds throughout the ages, each building on the work of the last. Instead, there were turf wars, infighting, political pressure, and institutional mentality.

  When I met Whittaker Laplace, it was like a breath of fresh air. He cared about truth and nothing else. In the years since he left Philadelphia, he'd been in private practice in Boston, catapulting himself into the news by using his sympathology machine on his patients. What drew so much attention was not just the new technology, but the questions it raised about the meaning of pain. For years, the medical profession had taught that pain was what the patient said it was. A scale from one to ten was the standard formula, with one being no pain at all and ten being “the worst pain you have ever felt.” Doctors determined how much to medicate not by what they thought patients ought to be feeling, but by how the patients themselves professed to feel. Pain was not considered a measurable quantity, but a subjective brain reaction, different in different people.

  Whittaker was trying to change that view.

  "It happens all the time,” he said. “Some patients are in the emergency room twice a month, complaining of pain for which there are no clear symptoms. Are they hypochondriacs, or do they have real ailments? How can you tell?"

  We sat in the White Dog, a self-consciously political restaurant carved out of three adjacent Victorian brownstones on Sansom Street. They served only organic food, everything preservative free and from sustainable food sources. Whittaker was halfway through a salmon burger; I had a beef salad with avocado, pumpkin seeds, and a tasty sage dressing.

  I shook my head. “Does it matter? Certainly, if they have a treatable problem, you want to discover what it is. But if you hook up your machine and feel nothing, does that mean the patient is inventing his pain? Just looking for attention?"

  "You don't think so."

  "I don't think it's conclusive. There's too much about the brain we don't understand."