Asimov's SF, April-May 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Every day he fulfilled his duty at the telescope. No military, no suits, a few slouches, a few students. No Rebecca. He noted it in Theodore's notebook.

  Then she appeared again. It was later than before, after four. He dashed from the condo, got on his bike and raced to the student union building. She was at an outside table with a smoothie before her, engrossed in the paleontology textbook.

  He walked his bike to the table and said, “Hi, again.”

  She looked up almost absently, keeping her finger on a line in the book. Her smile was more tentative than before. She nodded.

  “Have you moved back into the quad?” he asked.

  “Is it finished?” she asked eagerly. “All done?”

  “Don't you know?”

  She shook her head. “I thought that's what you were going to tell me, that it's ready.”

  “I waited for you,” he said, bewildered by her attitude, her distance, treating him like a complete stranger, one she was not interested in.

  Her face was very mobile, her expression changing rapidly to reflect whatever she was feeling. Her polite expression changed, registered even more distance and caution as she looked at him with a frown. “Why? When?”

  “Yesterday, the day before, the day before that.”

  She shook her head and closed the book with a snap. “Sorry, Mister. Wrong line.”

  “Rebecca! Don't you even remember me?”

  “I never saw you before in my life! If you don't leave, I'll yell for security and charge you with stalking. Get lost!”

  She jumped up and walked away swiftly, and he sat down hard at the little table.

  * * * *

  It didn't make any sense, he told himself that night, pacing angrily. She had enjoyed talking with him, he knew she had, just as much as he had enjoyed being with her. The way they had laughed at the same things, that hadn't been fake. Her easy laughter, that had been real. Instant rapport. Revealing things about themselves, something he had never done before, and her reserve had lessened as they talked. He hadn't even thought to give her his cell phone number, or to get hers. They were to meet again, no call necessary.

  That brush-off hadn't been fake either. He had to accept her rejection. She really had not recognized him, remembered him, or else she was one of the greatest actresses ever.

  And why wasn't she out sifting dirt looking for fossils instead of working in a psych lab? He stopped moving. A double major? She had not mentioned anything like that. Dreisser. She had mentioned Dr. Dreisser.

  He went to his laptop and looked up Dreissers, sorted through until he found Edith Dreisser at the university, then settled in to read about her. Brain research. Neurophysiology, psychiatry.

  What did that have to do with a paleontology major? As an undergraduate, with lots of science and math, plus the other required classes, there couldn't have been much time to spend in the psych lab. And with little or no training in research techniques in the field of psychology, what could she do? File clerk? Gofer? She had a key to the outer door, he remembered. They didn't hand out keys to flunkies. He shook his head, paced some more, then sat down hard again. Subject of an experiment? That made more sense than anything else he could come up with, and he considered it. Brainwashing? A new technique for brainwashing? Memory eradication? The image of the two men in suits came to mind, and he tried to push it out again. Theodore's conspiracy bug had infected him, he thought with a groan. Auditors, he reminded himself. Tax consultants. Trustees. Someone had expected them, admitted them to the building.

  No matter how much he tried to make sense of her turnaround, he kept coming back to the thought that no normal person could have forgotten spending two hours with someone else only a few days later. Not unless that person had been brainwashed or drugged, or was nuts. And she definitely was not crazy.

  It was very late when he finally went to bed, but he had a plan of action for the coming day or two. He knew how to dig, and dig he would. He intended to sift through whatever dirt was at hand and find the real Rebecca.

  * * * *

  Every morning Edith let herself in at Rebecca's apartment at seven and started coffee. Sometimes Rebecca was already up, sometimes not. Every day Edith told her the revised story, knowing it would have to be revised again, then again, but there was no help for that. She prepared breakfast and, as they ate it, she explained to Rebecca her role in the lab, how she was supposed to be catching up on her work, write one last paper, and then start the graduate program in the fall. Rebecca accepted the story day after day.

  The unexpected part was that Edith had become very fond of the girl, had come to agree that Rebecca could not be placed in an institution of any sort. Who would explain her situation to her day by day? Who would take her to a movie now and then, or out for dinner? Who would take her shopping? Treat her like a daughter? She bit her lip at that and rejected the idea.

  Although she recognized her own conflicts concerning Rebecca, she felt helpless to control them. The research was going so well that it was extraordinary. It would take years to analyze the data she was accumulating and for the first time, it would all be congruent, coherent. And Rebecca didn't get bored. That was the main advantage. She didn't remember the images, the scents or sounds from one day to the next, and reacted each time as if it were the first time. Layer by layer Edith would be able to track the firing neurons, the many branches, connections, interactions. It filled her with a sense of awe. And a sense of dread. She wanted Rebecca to be well, and she wanted to continue using her until the work was complete. Cal had said she might find the trigger, but would she be able to pull it if she knew it was within her reach? She didn't know, and rejected that question too when it occurred.

  After breakfast, when they entered the lab that morning, Edith introduced everyone. “Rebecca, this is Angela, one of my graduate assistants. And this is Rob, another one. We'll all be working together.”

  As always it was treated as a first meeting and they all made the proper responses. Early on, when she had caught Rob eyeing Rebecca with a speculative look, she had told him sharply to back off and stay backed off. He had done so, but she kept a watch on him when Rebecca was in the lab.

  “What we'll do,” Edith told Rebecca that morning, “is have you sit here and wear this helmet. No electricity or anything like that. It's connected to a terminal to record your responses that are fed into the computer as you watch images on the screen, or hear sounds, or even smell things. One hour and you're done for the session. Okay with that?” She showed her the helmet made of microfiber, an electrical insulating layer, and a fine wire mesh lining. It was lightweight and fit snugly, like a cloche. “To make sure there's good contact, I'll spray your hair with this wetting agent, mostly water. It washes right off, or even brushes off when you're done.”

  Rebecca looked at the helmet, then nodded. “Okay. Do I say anything, or do anything?”

  “Nope. Just make yourself comfortable and watch the screen.”

  And that was it. Images of familiar objects; brief action scenes of planes, or boats; animals; more violent scenes of fighting; car wrecks; a baby crying; a scene blatantly pornographic; a tiger snarling, as if prepared to attack.... Interspersed with the images were the sounds: squealing tires; a woman's laughter; crashing noises; music...

  Then it was over. It would be repeated day after day, the same tape, the same images, the same smells, and they all would be new to Rebecca, her reaction spontaneous without a trace of boredom or anticipation corrupting the data.

  Late in the afternoon they would have a second session with a different tape. Two hours of data day by day by day, six days a week. Edith would have made it seven days a week, but she knew Rob would balk, and she needed him too much to risk a rebellion. He was one of the best grads she had ever had. They would end up with years of work ahead, revolutionary work, and he would be indispensable. They would finally have a three dimensional neural map of a functioning human brain.

  * * * *

  I
t was Friday of Keith's fourth week at home. No suits. No Rebecca. He jotted the absence of suits in Theodore's notebook, then he called Dr. Dreisser's number at the psychology department. He got voice mail, and left a curt message: “Dr. Dreisser, my name is Keith Adams and I have to see you about Rebecca Hardesty.” He left his number and prepared to wait for her return call. The times he had seen Rebecca through the telescope, before actually meeting her, had usually been at or shortly after eleven. Whatever they were doing to her was over by then and she was free, apparently. He was prepared to wait no longer than twelve, when he would call again, and make clear that he knew illicit research was being conducted, and he would expose it unless Dreisser talked with him.

  Edith sat at her desk tapping her fingers on it, regarding the telephone with resignation. It was bound to happen, she thought. She had known that someone from Rebecca's past would show up eventually. During their long talks Rebecca had said there had been no real relationships in the past, just a few brief romances, nothing serious. That had been a tremendous relief. How had this Adams person traced Rebecca to Edith? That was the question. There was no point in asking Rebecca if she had run into him while out walking. But if she had, what had she told him? An old friend would know her story was false, of course.

  She shook her head and gave up speculating, then called the number Adams had left.

  Keith's hand was sweating when he snatched up his telephone. “Keith Adams,” he snapped.

  “Mr. Adams, I'm Edith Dreisser. You wish to consult with me?”

  “No, Dr. Dreisser. I want to know just what the hell you're doing to Rebecca Hardesty. Why are you messing with her mind? Feeding her a pack of lies? That's what I want to talk about.”

  “I see,” she said coolly. “What exactly is your relationship with Ms. Hardesty? Why do you think I would talk to you about her?”

  “Because if you don't, I intend to send an email I already composed to the president of the university, with copies to the provost, two reporters, and several bloggers, accusing you of conducting unethical research, possibly brainwashing a subject, or otherwise tampering with her memory.”

  “Mr. Adams, just answer one question. How long have you known her?”

  “What difference...? I met her a week ago, but I've looked into the things she told me, and it's nothing but a tissue of lies.”

  “Come on around, Mr. Adams. When you arrive call me and I'll open the door for you. You're right. We must talk.”

  He was surprised by her when she admitted him. He knew she was fifty-one, but she looked younger, with a compact body, dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt with colorful hummingbirds printed on it. Her hair was dark blond, long, held back with a rubber band. She nodded to him and motioned for him to come in.

  “We'll go to my office,” she said, turned and led the way through the deserted corridor flanked with closed doors. It was very quiet in the building.

  She was as surprised by him as he evidently was by her. Younger than she had expected, possibly even a student, tall and lanky, with wind-blown dark hair, a deep tan, and startlingly blue eyes. Also, he was carrying a laptop and he had a grim expression.

  In her office, cluttered almost past usefulness, she motioned toward a chair, and took her own chair behind her desk. It was covered with printouts, stacks of folders, notebooks...

  “Mr. Adams, I assume that you and Rebecca talked out on the campus—”

  He cut her off. “Look, let's not spar,” he said. “She thinks her mother's alive and well in Silverton, and that her brother's in Atlanta at work. And they're both dead. That's the starting place.”

  Edith shook her head. “Not really, Mr. Adams. She's suffering from a rare form of amnesia. That's the starting place.”

  “Did you induce it?” he demanded, leaning forward, both hands clenched. “Did you tell her there was a gas explosion? That her quad's being renovated? That she'll move back there in a day or two?”

  “I really don't see that any of this is any business of yours,” Edith said deliberately, coolly. “You're no more than a casual acquaintance. I'm a psychiatrist and she's my patient.”

  “I'm making it my business,” he said. “I met her, talked to her, and that's reason enough.”

  “I see,” Edith said, studying him. After a moment, she nodded. “I'll tell you about her,” she said. She had no doubt that he had the letter on his computer, that a click of a button would send it on its way, and he knew to whom to send it to ensure questions, an investigation, likely a halt to her work with Rebecca, even if only a temporary halt. His boyish looks were deceptive, she decided, and she told him the story Cal had told her months earlier.

  Keith felt sandbagged. She lived one day at a time. Period. One day at a time. No yesterday, just today.

  Edith, watching him, could see belief erase all traces of hostility. He knew it was true. They must have met more than once, and Rebecca had forgotten him. He knew it was true.

  “Can you cure her?” he asked after a prolonged silence. His voice had become husky.

  “I don't know. There has never been a cure. Spontaneous recovery is what usually happens, if there is any recovery. Often the condition is permanent. Her case is unique. There is nothing in the literature that describes it, and I sent a case history to colleagues to find out if any of them knew of another incident like this. No one else has ever seen amnesia manifest in this way.”

  Keith stood up and gazed about the office helplessly, sat down again. “Have you tried telling her about the real accident again?”

  “Twice,” Edith said. “Exactly the same outcome as before.”

  “Jesus,” he said. “Oh, Jesus.” He looked ready to weep.

  “Mr. Adams, Keith, I'm trying to find a cure, a neural pathway to whatever it is blocking her memory. A trigger, you might say. Meanwhile, for your own sake, put her out of mind. Live your own life.”

  The light had gone out of his eyes, she thought with pity, when he turned his gaze to her. “Tell me about your meeting,” she said. “Perhaps it will give me a clue.”

  He told her about both times, and she nodded. “It was the shared interest in fossils, her paleontology textbook. I think the second encounter is far more likely to be her usual response to a stranger's intrusion into her space.”

  “She doesn't have a life,” he said dully. “Start each day with a fairy tale, spend time in your lab, walk a little, read the same text day after day, go to bed, sleep, do it all again the next day and the next.”

  “Keith, in her mind she just spent a weekend with her family, and before that in her classes, with friends. A day off, that's all this is for her. She isn't lonely. Every day is new for her.”

  “What are you doing to treat her?” he asked then. “You're not drugging her, are you? What is the treatment?”

  Edith sighed, but there seemed little point now in keeping anything from him. She told him about mapping the neural pathways. “It's like peeling off one layer after another to see where the connections lead. Someone suggested like the layers of an onion, but that's too gross, too big. Like the thinnest possible tissue paper. The computer program will ignore each layer after it is recorded, and go on to the next. The secret may well be there, Keith, someplace where the connection fails to fire.”

  “You can't get those reactions without magnetic imaging or something like that,” he said. “Are you using X-rays on her every day? CT scans? I thought we already had pretty good models of the brain.”

  “Not really. Think of a globe where we know where the mountains are, the continents, the major rivers. I'm looking for the lesser rivers, the tributaries, for the myriad connections that exist. Why does a particular scent invoke a strong childhood memory? What interactions result in that? How many other interactions are ignored, are dead ends? You're right, though, in a sense. The brain electricity is too faint for any non-invasive techniques we used in the past to get beyond the major systems—the visual cortex, olfactory, cognitive, and so on. But fine copper wi
re coated with nanocopper is virtually without resistance. It can pick up the current far below those. That's what I'm using. With our methods in the past we found the continents, some mountain ranges, and now I'm finding finer details. In Rebecca's case, I hope to find the dam blocking the flow. And then find a way to remove it.”

  He rubbed his eyes, then said, “When she regains her memory, will she remember this, the time it was screwed up?”

  “I don't know,” Edith said. “I just don't know what to expect.”

  “I want to keep seeing her,” he said after a moment, speaking again in the firm, not-to-be-denied voice he had used on the phone, when he first made his demands. “She should have something to remember more than a daily grind. I want to keep seeing her. Take her to dinner, to a movie, dancing, to concerts. I won't hurt her,” he said more softly. “God knows, I won't hurt her.”

  Just as softly, Edith said, “Keith, she could break your heart.”

  He might not have heard. “It will be up to her, won't it? She isn't a prisoner.”

  “It's up to her,” Edith agreed. “But she has to be back in her apartment by nine-thirty.” He looked ready to erupt, and she said gently, “Keith, it's not my curfew. By nine-thirty she is exhausted. By ten she's asleep.”

  He nodded. “Curfew. Okay.”

  Then he lifted his laptop and opened it, turned the screen to let her see the letter he had written, and he deleted it. She had not doubted for a second that the letter existed, was ready to send. “Thank you,” she said.

  A short time later she led him to the lab. “I'll introduce you to my assistants, and Rebecca,” she said.

  Inside the lab there were several desks and computers, file cabinets, stacks of papers.... In the corner at a desk Rebecca was reading her paleontology text. Both Angela and Rob were at computers, concentrating on scrolling data that appeared to be composed of numbers and symbols. Two printers were turning out hard copies of something.