As noted, Larsson’s first literary love was science fiction, but in his early teens he also became fascinated by crime fiction. He favored the hard-boiled, grittier crime stories: Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, Ross Macdonald, and Peter O’Donnell were early favorite authors. And when he began publishing his fanzine stories at seventeen, he sometimes combined his two favorite genres, writing suspense or crime stories in a science fiction mode.
The story presented here initially appeared in the third issue of Sfären, a fanzine copublished by Larsson and his close friend Rune Forsgren. That issue—fewer than fifty mimeographed copies—appeared in April 1972. For all practical purposes, this is the first time the story is published.
“Brain Power” is an early work by the teenager who would turn into the man who wrote The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. But the story shows that even the very young Stieg Larsson had a talent for storytelling; it shows that at seventeen he was already concerned with issues such as the abuse of power and the abrogation of civil liberties by the elite, and it shows his interest in building both suspense and narrative through a series of disclosures, only gradually letting the reader in on what is actually happening.
What we get then is not only a very early glimpse of the storyteller who gave us Lisbeth Salander, but also of his love of both science fiction and crime fiction, of his joy in writing, and of his lifelong dedication to the causes of justice, compassion, and civil liberty.
Mr. Michael November Collins
Sector 41
Aldedo Street
8048 New York 18-A-34
Mr. Michael November Collins, that’s me, and the letter with my name and address on its envelope arrived in the morning, dropping from the mail tube to the breakfast table.
Judith, my wife, picked it out of the basket, read my name and handed it to me. Even before opening the letter I saw that it wasn’t an everyday one. There was no postage on it, just a stamp informing me that postage was paid by the government—or the taxpayers, whichever you prefer. My getting mail from the government was hardly a common thing. It had only happened a single time before, two years ago when I’d managed to run myself into a gold medal at the Olympics and the President had sent me his congratulations. That was in 2172. Now was 2174, but the world record I set then still held.
I slit the envelope open.
Michael November Collins 46-06-18
Mr. Collins is called upon to report for medical examination at the office of Dr. Mark Wester, Boston University, State Research Facility, on 74-08-24. This is a Governmental request.
That was the entire text of the letter, apart from an illegible signature above the single word “Assistant.”
I was still staring in confusion at the letter when Michael Junior and Tina came to say goodbye before rushing off to the school lift. While I was hugging the children, Judith came up, took the letter from me and told the kids to hurry.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Judith asked.
“No idea, honey. I guess I’ll just have to go there and find out.”
“But why would they want you to have a medical examination?”
I pulled her close, smiled and gave her a kiss.
“Maybe it’s something about my fitness. I do hold a few world records, you know.”
“But why at the government’s request?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” I shrugged. “But I guess in time they’ll tell me why.”
“Doctor Mark Wester,” I repeated.
I was standing by the information desk in the central rotunda of Boston University, speaking to the attendant.
“Where can I find him?” I asked impatiently.
“I’ll phone his secretary. It may take a while. As you perhaps don’t realize, Boston University is no ordinary university, but a state research center, and formalities usually do take a few minutes.”
“No, I didn’t know. Perhaps you can enlighten me by telling me why I’ve been asked to come here?”
“For a medical examination. It says so in your letter.”
She picked up her phone and tapped a number.
“Mary? Hi, it’s Information. You’re expecting a Mister Michael November Collins today. He’s here now.”
Silence.
“Oh, okay, I can send him right up.”
She gave me a smile and pointed to a uniformed man seated inside a glass booth. “Talk to the man in there. I’ll give him a call, and he’ll show you to Doctor Wester.” She lifted her phone again, and I began walking across the hall. I saw that she’d finished her phone call before I was even halfway across. The uniformed man rose, left his cage, came to meet me and shook my hand.
“I understand you’re here to see Mark Wester.”
“That’s right.”
“Fine. I’ll show you to him. Please follow me.”
While walking along in his footsteps, I began feeling a steadily growing apprehension. My imagination was telling me that something was wrong. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what made me feel that way, but that only added irritation to my unease. Twice along the way we had to stop when uniformed guards asked us for access permits, but both times my guide sent them away by pointing to me and saying, “He’s here to see Doctor Wester.”
I grew steadily more bewildered, and finally couldn’t refrain from asking him why I had been requested to see Wester. But the man knew nothing more than the girl at the information desk. Finally, we arrived.
An assistant, whom I assumed to be Mary, asked me to sit down on the couch and said that Doctor Wester would see me in just a minute or two. After three minutes, a man of around fifty came out of an inner office. He was fairly heftily built, and all of his visible skin was darkly tanned—a real tan, I mean, not the disgusting coloring you buy at the chemists. He looked to be in great shape.
“Thanks for coming in,” he said and held his hand out. I shook it.
“Perhaps you’d like to tell me why I’m here,” I asked.
“Didn’t they put that in the letter? You’re to have a medical examination.”
“That’s what they wrote. I just don’t understand why.”
“Oh, that. Well, you’ll understand why in a short while. All depending on the results, of course.”
“Oh. Really? Well, in fact I’m not sure if I have any great wish to be checked. I’m extremely fit. In my line of work, I have to be.”
“Certainly. I know you’re incredibly fit, but what I want to find out is how your innards are doing.”
He laughed, patted me on the back, and showed me into his office.
“I didn’t know Boston University is a state research center. Don’t you have any students at all any longer?”
“Yes, but we’re all about specialized education nowadays. Not much of what we do is known to the general public.”
“So what are you doing?”
“I really shouldn’t tell you, I suppose, but I suppose you could sum it all up by saying that we’re doing biological research.”
“And what’s that got to do with me? Where do I come into this?”
“Unfortunately, I’m afraid I can’t give you any details until we have finished testing you.”
“Really? Well, how about getting started at once, in that case? I’d really like to get this over and done with, so I can get back to Judith and the kids again.”
“Oh, that’s true, you’re married, of course,” Wester said, scratching his head.
“So I am. To the most wonderful woman in the world,” I said, smiling.
“Good for you. Personally I have neither wife nor children, and I suppose I’m getting too old to start thinking about those things. At any rate I’m happy that you agree to our examinations.”
“So when can we start?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? I had believed it could all be done today.”
“We’re talking of extremely thorough and complex examinations, and I’m afraid the procedure will take some time. Bu
t don’t worry. We have arranged a private room for you here at the university. And you can always phone your wife.”
“Exactly how many days are we talking about here?”
“It’s difficult to say. But it might be up to a week. It depends on if everything works out as it should.”
“A week! What kind of examinations are we talking about here? I want to know what this is all about. Why am I here? How are you going to test me? And why?”
“I’ve already said that I can’t tell you until we have the results.”
“In that case I’m not going to go along with any tests at all,” I said firmly.
Wester smiled.
“Please, there’s no reason to get all worked up about this. I assure you that the tests will be absolutely harmless.”
“That doesn’t change anything,” I said. “I still want to know the reason for them. That’s not negotiable. I won’t cooperate otherwise.”
“You’ve misunderstood, I’m afraid. It’s not a matter of cooperating or not. You will cooperate. That’s an order.”
“Whose order?”
“The government’s.”
“Damn the government,” I said and grew angry. “I’m not cooperating.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“I certainly do. I’ll simply stand up and walk out the same door I came in.” I stood up and walked away from him.
“Please take a look at this paper,” Wester said just as I was grasping the doorknob.
“Why should I?”
“Because it’s of great concern to you.”
“So long,” I said, opening the door.
“It’s an order signed by the president . . .”
I hesitated.
“It demands your absolute obedience. If you refuse, you will be arrested for obstructing the government.”
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“Hardly. You can be punished by up to twenty-five years in prison and fined twenty-thousand dollars.”
I stared at him, mouth open.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Read it yourself.”
Slowly, I closed the door. Slowly, Wester had adopted a threatening attitude.
“Well, how about it?”
“It doesn’t look as if I have much of a choice, does it?”
“No, not really.”
“Can I phone my wife?”
“Of course. You are free to do whatever you like.”
“As long as it doesn’t contradict what’s in your orders, you mean?”
“Exactly. Someone will escort you to your rooms.”
“Where I’ll be under guard?”
“Just to ensure your safety, of course.”
“Of course . . .”
Mark Wester certainly hadn’t exaggerated when he told me that the tests and examinations to be performed were complex. For four days I did nothing except be shuffled from one room to the next, in each of which different doctors did their best to discover any ailments. In vain I tried to explain to them that I was as fit as a fiddle—to use an old and tired cliché. Nothing helped. They examined me from top to toe, from the inside and out. The first day they put me to a number of physical tests and fitness tests. They checked, double-checked, triple-checked and then, just to be sure of not having overlooked even the slightest detail, did a final check.
The second day I was X-rayed; they tapped my spine and asked me to stick my tongue out and say, “Aaaah!”
That was all they did that day, and so I actually got a short breathing pause. They had given me a luxurious suite of rooms, and I was truly living just as comfortably as I normally spent my time wishing I could live. I phoned Judith every night and tried to explain to her that I had to stay put for a while. I never mentioned Wester’s threats about jail time and fines. She kissed me over the phone and wished for me to come back home.
From the first time I was taken to my suite of rooms and for my entire stay at the university, two hefty uniformed guys from the university security force had stuck to me like glue. Just to ensure my safety, of course.
If I’d been hoping for the rest of the examinations to be no harder than those during the second day, I was hugely mistaken. During the third, fourth, and fifth day they practically turned my entire body inside out, scrutinizing every nook and cranny. They checked me for everything from athlete’s foot to lung cancer.
On the sixth day it was finally all over, and Wester came to my rooms to tell me that I would be allowed to go home over the weekend, but that I had to return on Monday.
“Why?” I asked. It had become a routine question.
“We’ll take your appendix out.”
I turned in my hospital bed, discarding mt half-read comic book. I really didn’t like my situation. The operation had been performed twelve days ago, and since then the doctors had pumped me full of vaccines against every conceivable illness.
I was bored and mad as hell. Mad because they more or less forced me to do whatever they felt like. Mad because I no longer felt like a free citizen of the United States. Mad because they refused to tell me what it was all about.
I sighed and picked up my comic book again.
In the afternoon, Mark Wester entered the room and sat down on a chain by the bed. His face was serious, and I realized that something must have happened, something that meant that everything was no longer going according to his plans—whatever they might be.
“You’ll be discharged from this ward tomorrow.”
“Hooray,” I said, cheerful, for once.
He remained sitting, silent, hardly saying a word for perhaps five minutes.
“I guess you’d like to know what all this is about,” he said at last.
“Man, that was the smartest thing I’ve heard you manage since I came here.”
Wester took no offense.
“Have you ever heard of Hans Zägel?”
“Professor Hans Zägel, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Could anyone have failed to hear about him?”
Professor Hans Zägel was the foremost scientist of our time. He was born in Germany, but when the Russians occupied Germany in 1936, he escaped to England, later on to the United States. There could hardly be anybody not aware of Hans Zägler, and I felt slightly insulted that Wester had asked me if I had heard of him. Compared to Zägler, Einstein was a nobody.
“No, I suppose you can’t have failed to hear about him. Do you know how old he is?”
“Around eighty-five, I guess,” I said.
“He’s eighty-six. Do you know what kind of research he is doing?”
“This and that, if you are to believe the news. He seems to know most everything within all areas of natural science. I suppose physics is his field of specialty. After all, he did build the first photon spaceship.”
“True, physics is his main subject, but for the last ten years he has mainly concerned himself with biology.”
“Hold on. What does Zägel have to do with me?”
“I’ll tell you in a moment. Do you read any science fiction?”
I gestured towards the pile of magazines I had spent the last few days reading.
“Have you read anything about brain transplants lately?”
“I guess the idea pops up in some story now and then. Why?”
“What do you think about brain transplants in reality? Do you think they might be possible to perform?”
“No way,” I laughed. “That’s impossible.”
“You’re wrong. Hans Zägel has performed several successful brain transplants. The first one six years ago.”
“But, dear God, that’s impossible. There are just too many nerves that would have to be spliced together. It’s just not possible!”
“Professor Zägel has performed one hundred forty-five transplants, forty-six of them on humans. With the help of his computer, he has developed a risk-free method. A computer, incidentally, that he himself constructed.”
&nbs
p; “I find this very hard to believe.”
“I understand your doubts, but I assure you it’s all true.”
“How?” I asked, still doubting him.
“Professor Zägel makes the necessary incisions. Opens the cranium, and so on. After that, he performs the rest of the operation aided by his computer. It keeps track of all nerves that have to be spliced and makes sure that none of them are forgotten. The nerve splices are performed with a laser.”
I scratched my head.
“If he’s really managed all that, he’s even more amazing than I thought. But why haven’t you published anything about this?”
“That’s what Professor Zägel wants until his work is entirely done.”
“And when will it be done?”
“In nine or ten years’ time.”
“Now I’m not sure if you’re pulling my leg or telling the truth, but I certainly would like to see some kind of evidence. Would it be possible for me to meet Professor Zägel?”
“No, unfortunately not.”
“And why not?”
“He is dying. He is an old man. His heart is giving out.”
I lay back in bed without answering, feeling sorry for Zägel.
“And where am I supposed to enter this?” I asked at last.
Wester slowly stroked his beardless chin.
“I assume you’ll agree that Zägel’s brain is the most distinguished on earth, possibly the finest ever known?”
“Sure,” I nodded. “He’s brilliant.”
“And would you agree that when such a brain is put at the service of mankind, that brain becomes the most important one on earth?”
“Yes, of course. Too bad he’s going to die.”
“Now listen. To speak plainly, the world can’t afford to lose a brain like Professor Zägel’s.”
“Everyone has to die sometime.”
“Professor Zägel’s work is almost finished. He needs, perhaps, another ten years. That’s all the time he needs.”
“And where do I enter into all this?” I repeated patiently.
“Professor Zägel needs another ten years to finish the greatest work ever performed in the history of mankind.”
“And . . .”
“What we wish for is to find someone willing to give him the time he needs.”
A Darker Shade of Sweden Page 18
