Текст книги "The Turing Option"

Автор книги: Harry Harrison

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

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February 12, 2023

Erin Snaresbook was tired when she entered the operating room the next day. Yet when she saw Brian she forgot the fatigue. So much had been done; so much was left to do. The wrecked brain tissue, mostly white matter, had been removed. “I am about to begin the implanting series,” she said, almost in a whisper to herself. This was for the record, not for the edification of the others working in the O.R. The sensitive microphones would pick up her words, no matter how softly or loudly she spoke, and record everything. “All of the dead tissue has now been removed. I am looking at a severed section of white tissue. This is the area where the axons of many neurons have been severed. The proximal end of each cut nerve will still be alive because the cell body will be located there. But the distal end, the other part of the axon that goes on to join the synapses of other cells, all these will be dead. Cut off from food and energy supplies. This necessitates two different techniques. I have made molds of the surfaces of the cleanly cut and transected areas of white matter. Flexible PNEP microfilm chips have been fabricated from these molds. The computer remembers each mold so will know where each matching chip is to go. Connective tissue cells will anchor the chips into place. First the proximal fibers will be freed up to make contact with the connection chips as I insert them. Each axon stump will be coated with growth-stimulating protein. The chip film is coated with chemical spots that when electrically released will attract each growing axon to extend and then attach itself to the nearest film-chip connection pad. That is what I will begin doing now.”

As she talked she activated the connecting machine and instructed it to move over the open skull, told it to descend. When she did this the tiny, branching fingers slowly widened, spread apart, moved slowly downward. The computing capacity of the machine’s computer was so great that every single one of the microscopically fine fingers was separately controlled. The fingertips themselves did not contain the lenses, which needed a larger number of wavelengths of light to form an image. So the lenses themselves were a few branches back. The image from the lens on each finger was relayed back to the computer, where it was compared with the other images to build an internal three-dimensional model of the severed brain. Down the tendrils went again, some moving slower man the others until they were close to the surface, spread out and obscuring the surgeon’s view of the area.

Snaresbrook turned to the monitor screen, spoke to it.

“Lower. Stop. Lower. Tilt back. Stop.”

Now she had the same view as the computer. A close-up image of the severed surfaces that she could zoom in on – or move back to get an overall view.

“Begin the spray,” she ordered.

One in ten of the tendrils was hollow; in reality they were tiny tubes with electronic valves at the tip. The spray – it had to be a microscopically fine spray so small were the orifices – began to coat the surface of the severed brain. It was an invisible electrofluorescent coating.

“Turn down the theater lights,” she ordered, and the overall illumination dimmed.

The connection machine was satisfied with its work and had stopped spraying. After selecting the lowest area of the wound, Snaresbrook sent the tiniest amount of ultraviolet light down the hair-thin fiber optics.

On the screen a pattern of glowing pinpoints speckled the brain’s surface.

“The electroluminescent coating has now been sprayed onto all the nerve endings. Under UV light it emits enough photons to be identified. Only those nerves that are still alive cause the reaction that is activated by the UV. Next I will put the implants into place.”

The implants, specially manufactured to conform to the contours of the raw surfaces of Brian’s brain, were now in a tray in which they were immersed in a neutral solution. The tray was placed on the table next to Brain’s head and the cover removed. With infinitely delicate touch the tendrils dropped down into it.

“These PNEP implants are custom-made. Each consists of layers of films, flexible organic-polymer semiconductor arrays. Flexible and stretchable because the severed tissues of the brain will have changed slightly since they were measured for the manufacture of these chips. That is what is going to happen next. The chips appear to look identical, but of course they are not. The computer measured and designed each of them to fit precisely to a selected area of the exposed brain. Now it is able to recognize and match each of them to the correct area. Each film has several optical-fiber connecting links that will be attached to adjoining chips multiplexing in-out cross-communication signals between parts of the brain. If attention is directed to the upper surface of the films it will be seen that there is also an I-O wire on each of them. The importance of this will be explained at the next operation. This particular session will be completed when all ten thousand of the implants are in place. The process will now begin.”

Although Snaresbrook was there to supervise, it was the computer that controlled the implants, the fingers moving so fast that they blurred into invisibility. In flashing procession the thin-film chips were guided one after the other into place, until the last one was secure. The fingers withdrew and Snaresbrook felt some of the tension drain away. She straightened and realized that the pain in her back was sharp as a knife point. She ignored it.

“The next stage, the connecting process, has now begun. The film surfaces are a modification of active matrix display technology. The object is for each semiconductor, when activated by the luminescence, to identify a live nerve. Then to make a physical connection with that nerve. The films are coated with the correct growth hormones to cause the incoming nerve fibers to form synapses with the input transistors. The importance of these connections will be made manifest at the next implant procedure. Each dead distal fiber must be replaced by a fetal cell that is genetically engineered to grow a new axon inside the sheath of the cell it is replacing – then grow new synapses to replace the old, dying distal ones. At the same time as the fetal cells, dendrites will grow to contact the output pad on the film chip.”

The operation took almost ten hours. Snaresbrook was present the entire time.

When the last connection had been made the fatigue hit like a locomotive. She stumbled and had to clutch the door frame as she left the room. Brian required constant monitoring and attention after the operation – but the nursing staff could handle this.

The procedures to mend Brian’s brain were exhausting – yet she still had other patients and scheduled operations that had to be done. She rescheduled them, sought out and received the best assistance from the top surgeons, took only the most urgent cases. Yet she was still working a full twenty-four hours, had been for days. Her voice trembled as she made verbal notes on the procedure just finished. Her desk computer would record and transcribe them. Dexedrine would see her through the day. Not a good idea but she had little choice.

Finished, she yawned and stretched.

“End of report. Intercom on. Madeline.” The desk computer accepted the new command and bleeped the secretary.

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Send in Mrs. Delaney now.”

She rubbed her hands together and straightened her back. “Switch on and record as file titled Dolly Delaney,” she said, then checked to see that the tiny red indicator in the base of the desk light came on. The door opened and she smiled at the woman who hesitantly entered. “It was very good of you to come,” Snaresbrook said, smiling, standing slowly and indicating the chair on the other side of the desk. “Please make yourself comfortable, Mrs. Delaney.”

“Dolly, if you please, Doctor. Can you tell me how he is?” Her voice had a tight edge to it as though she was working hard to keep it under control as she spoke. A thin, sharp-eyed woman clutching her large handbag in her lap with both hands; a barrier before her.

“Absolutely no change, Dolly, not since I talked to you yesterday. He is alive and we must be grateful for that. But he has been gravely injured and it is going to be weeks, possibly months, before we will know the outcome of the procedures. That is why I need your help.”

“I’m not a nurse, Doctor. I don’t see what I can possibly do.” She straightened the purse on her lap, keeping the barrier in place. She was a good-looking woman – would have looked better if the corners of her mouth hadn’t turned down sharply. She had the appearance of a person the world had not been kind to and who resented it. “You say you need help – yet I don’t have any idea at all what has happened to Brian. Whoever called me simply said that there had been an accident in the laboratory. I had hoped that you would be able to tell me more. When will I be able to see him?”

“Just as soon as possible. But you must realize that Brian has suffered extensive cranial damage. Severe trauma of the white matter of his brain. There is – memory impairment. But he can be helped if I find a way to evoke enough of his early memories. That is why I need more information about your son…”

“Stepson,” she said firmly. “Patrick and I adopted him.”

“I didn’t know, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, Doctor, there is certainly nothing to be sorry about. It is common knowledge. Brian is Patrick’s natural son. Before we met, before he left Ireland, he had this… liaison with a local girl. That was Brian’s mother.” Dolly took a lace hanky from her bag, touched it to her palms, pushed it back into the bag, which closed with a loud snap.

“I would like to know more about that, Mrs. Delaney.”

“Why? It’s past history, nobody’s business now. My husband is dead, has been for nine years. We had… separated by that time. Divorced, I have been living with my family in Minnesota. He and I did not communicate. I didn’t even know that Paddy was ill, no one ever told me anything. You can understand my being a little bitter. The first I knew that something was wrong with his health was when Brian called me about the funeral. So that is all in the past as you can see.”

“I am very sorry to hear about the separation. But, tragic as this is, it does not alter in any way the earlier details about Brian’s life. That is what you must tell me about. It is Brian’s developing years that I want to understand. Now that your husband is dead, you are the only person in the world who can supply this information. Brian’s brain has been severely injured, large areas have been destroyed. He needs your help in restoring his memories. I admit that much of what I am doing is experimental, never tried before. But it is the only chance he has. In order to succeed I must know where to look – and what to look for in his past.

“The problem is that in order to reconstruct Brian’s memories I will have to retrace his mind’s development from his infancy and childhood. The enormous structure of a human mind can be rebuilt only from the bottom up. The higher-level ideas and concepts cannot be activated until their earlier forms again become able to operate. We will have to reconstruct his mind – his mental societies of ideas – in much the way they were built in the first place, during Brian’s childhood. Only you can guide me at this point. Will you help me give him back his past in the hopes that he will men have a future?”

Dolly’s mouth was clamped tightly shut, her lips white with the strain. And she was shivering. Erin Snaresbrook waited in patient silence.

“It was a long time ago. Brian and I have grown apart since then. But I raised him, did my best, all that I could do. I haven’t seen him since the funeral…” She took her handkerchief out again and touched it to the corners of her eyes, put it away, straightened up.

“I know that this is very difficult for you. Dolly. But it is essential that I get these facts, absolutely vital. Can I ask you where you and your husband first met?”

Dolly sighed, then nodded reluctant agreement. “It was at the University of Kansas. Paddy came there from Ireland, as you know. He taught at the university. In the School of Education. So did I, family planning. As I am sure you know, there is finally the growing awareness that all of our environment problems are basically caused by overpopulation, so the subject is no longer banned in the schools. Paddy was a mathematician, a very good one, overqualified for our college, really. That was because he had been recruited for the new university in Texas and was teaching in Kansas until they opened. That was part of the arrangement. They wanted him under contract and tied up. For their own sake – not his. He was a very lonely man, without any friends. I know he missed Dublin something fierce. That was what he used to say when he talked about it, something fierce. Not that he talked about himself that much. He was teaching undergraduates who were there just for the credits and didn’t care at all about the subject. He really hated it. It was just about that time when we began going out together. He confided in me and I know that he found comfort in my companionship.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Perhaps because you are a doctor. I’ve kept it inside, never talked about it to anyone before. Looking back now, now that he is dead, I can finally say it out loud. I don’t… I don’t think he ever loved me. I was just comfortable to have around. There is a lot of mathematics in demography, so I could follow him a bit when he talked about his work. He lost me rather quickly but he didn’t seem to notice. I imagine that he saw me as a warming presence, to put it simply. This didn’t matter to me, not at first. When he asked me to marry him I jumped at the chance. I was thirty-two then and not getting any younger. You know that they say that if a girl is not married by thirty that’s the end of it. So I accepted his proposal. I tried to forget about all the schoolgirl ideas of romantic love. After all, people have made successes of arranged marriages. Thirty-two is a hard age for a single girl. As for him, if he loved anyone it was her. Dead, but that didn’t matter.”

“Then he did talk about this earlier relationship with the girl in Ireland?”

“Of course. Grown men aren’t expected to be virgins. Even in Kansas. He was a very honest and forthright man. I knew he had been very, very close to this girl but the affair was long over. At first he didn’t mention the boy. But before he proposed he told me what had happened in Ireland. Everything. I’m not saying I approved, but past is past and that’s all there was to it.”

“And how much did you know about Brian?”

“Just as much as Paddy did – which was precious little. Just his name, that he was living with his mother in some village in the country. She didn’t want to hear from Paddy, not at all, and I knew that made him very upset. His letters were returned unopened. When he tried to send money, for the boy’s sake, it was refused. He even sent money to the priest there, for the boy, but that didn’t work either. Paddy didn’t want it back, he donated it to the church. The priest remembered that, so when the girl died he wrote Paddy about it. He took it badly, though he tried not to show it. In the end he worked hard to put it all from his mind. That’s when he proposed to me. As I said, I knew a lot of his reasons for what he did. If I minded I kept it to myself. She was dead and we were married and that was that. We didn’t even talk about it anymore.

“That is why it was such a shock when that filthy letter came. He said he had to see what was happening and I didn’t argue. After he came back from that first trip to Ireland, I have never seen anyone so upset. It was the boy that mattered now, past was past. When Paddy told me about his plans for the adoption I agreed at once. We had no children of our own, could have none, there were fertility problems. And the thought of this motherless little boy growing up in some filthy place at the end of the world, you see there was really no choice.”

“You have been to Ireland?”

“I didn’t have to go. I knew. We had been in Acapulco for our honeymoon. Filthy. People ought to realize that there is nothing wrong with the United States – and it is a lot better than all those foreign places. And by this time the new position had come through and Paddy was teaching at the University of Free Enterprise, double the Kansas salary. A good thing too, the amount we had to pay to those Irish relatives. But it was worth it to save the child from that kind of a life. Paddy did it all – nor was it very easy. Three trips to Ireland before it was settled. I fixed up the boy’s room while Paddy went back that final time. He had a friend there, a Sean something he had been to school with. A lawyer now, a solicitor they call it over there. Paddy had to go to court, before a judge. Ours is a Catholic marriage, that was the first thing they wanted to know. No chance of adoption if we weren’t. Then paternity tests, humiliating. But worth it in the end. The plane was four hours late getting in but I never left the airport. It seemed they were the last ones off. I’ll never forget that moment. Paddy looked so tired – and the boy! Skin the color of paper, must have never been out in the sun for his entire life. Skinny, arms like matchsticks sticking out of that filthy jacket. I remember I looked around, almost ashamed to be seen with him dressed like that.”

Snaresbrook raised her hand to stop her, checked again that the recording light was on. “Do you remember that moment well, Dolly?”

“I could never forget it.”

“Then you must tell me about it, every detail. For Brian’s sake. His memory has been – shall we say injured. It is there but we have to remind him about it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Will you help me – even if you don’t understand?”

“If you want me to, Doctor. If you tell me that it is that important. I am used to taking things on faith. Paddy was the brains in the family. And Brian of course, I think they both looked down on me, not that they ever said. But a person can tell.”

“Dolly, I give you my word that you are the only person in the world who can help Brian now, at this moment in time. No one can look down on you now. You must restore those memories. You must describe everything, just as you remember it. Every single detail.”

“Well, if you say it is that important, that it will help, I will do my best.” She sat up straight, determined. “At that time, when he was young, the boy was very dear to me. Only when he was older did he grow so distant. But I think, I know, that he needed me then.”

They both looked so tired as they came toward her, Paddy holding the boy’s hand. Father and son – there was no mistaking that red hair with the gold highlights.

“I must get the bags,” Paddy said. His unshaven cheek rough when he kissed her. “Look after him.”

“How do you do, Brian? I’m Dolly.”

He lowered his head, turned away, was silent. So small too for an eight-year-old. You would have guessed his age at six at the most. Scrawny and none too clean. A bad diet for certain, worse habits. She would take care of that.

“I’ve fixed your room up – you’ll like it.”

Without thinking she reached out to take him by the shoulder, felt him shiver and pull away. It was not going to be easy; she forced a smile, tried not to show how uncomfortable she felt. Thank God, there was Paddy now with the bags.

When the car started the boy fell asleep almost at once in the backseat. Paddy yawned widely then apologized.

“No need. Was it an awful trip?”

“Just long and wearisome. And, you know” – he glanced over his shoulder at Brian – “not easy in many ways. I’ll tell you all about it tonight.”

“What was the problem about the passport you mentioned on the phone?”

“Red tape nonsense. Something about me being born Irish and a nationalized American and Brian still being Irish, though the adoption papers should have taken care of that. But not according to the American consul in Dublin. They found some forms to fill out and in the end it was easier to get Brian an Irish passport and sort the rest out at this end.”

“We’ll do that at once. He is an American boy now and has no need for a strange foreign passport. And wait until you see. I fixed up the spare room like we agreed. A bunk bed, a little desk, some nice pictures. He’s going to like it.”

Brian hated this strange place. He was too tired at first to think about it. Woke up when his father carried him into the house. He had some strange-tasting soup and must have fallen asleep at the table. When he woke in the morning he cried out in fear at the strangeness of everything. His bedroom, bigger than the parlor at home. His familiar world was gone – even his clothes. His shorts, shirt, vest, gone while he slept. New clothes in bright colors now replaced their grays and blacks. Long trousers. He shivered when the door opened, pulled up the covers. But it was his father; he smiled, ever so slightly.

“Did you have a good sleep?” He nodded. “Good. Take yourself a shower, right in there, it works just like the one in the Dublin hotel. And get dressed. After breakfast I’ll show you around your new home.”

The shower still took some getting used to and he still wasn’t sure that he liked it. Back home in Tara the big cast-iron bathtub had been good enough.

When they walked out he felt that it was all too strange, too different to take in at once. The sun was too hot, the air too damp. The houses were all the wrong shape, the motorcars were too big – and drove on the wrong side of the road. His new home was a strange place. The pavement was too smooth. And water all around, no hills or trees. Just the flat, muddy-looking ocean and all the black metal things in the water on all sides. Why did it have to be like that? Why weren’t they on land? When they had arrived at the big airport they had changed to another plane, had flown across the state of Texas – that is what his father had called it – to get here, an apparently endless and empty place. Driven from the airport and parked the car.

“I don’t like it here.” He said it without thinking, softly to himself, but Paddy heard.

“It takes some getting used to.”

“Middle of the ocean!”

“Not quite.” Paddy pointed to the thin brown line on the distant horizon; it shimmered in the heat. “That’s the coast, just over there.”

“There ain’t no trees,” Brian said, looking around at this strange new environment.

“There are trees right in front of the shopping center,” his father said.

Brian dismissed them. “Not real trees, not growing in barrels like that. It’s not right. Why isn’t this place properly on the land?”

They had walked the length of the metal campus and the adjoining housing area. Stopped now to rest on a shaded bench overlooking the sea. Paddy slowly filled his pipe and lit it before he spoke.

“It’s not simple to explain, not unless you know a lot about this country and how things work here. What it comes down to is that it is all a matter of politics. We have laws in the United States about research money, research projects at the universities, who can and cannot invest. A lot of our big corporations felt we were falling behind Japan, where government and industry cooperate, share money and research. They couldn’t change the laws – so they bent them a little bit. Here, outside the continental three-mile limit, we are theoretically exempt from state and federal law. This university, built on old oil rigs and dredged land, is ruthlessly product-orientated. They have spared no expense at headhunting teachers and students.”

“Headhunters live in New Guinea and kill people and cut off their heads and smoke them and shrink them. You got them here too?”

Paddy smiled at the boy’s worried look and reached out to ruffle his hair; Brian pulled away.

“Different kind of headhunters. That’s slang for offering someone a lot of money to leave their old job. Or giving big grants to get the best students.”

Brian digested this new information, squinting out at the glare of the sun upon the water. “Then if you was headhunted here, then you must be something special?”

Paddy smiled, liking the way Brian’s brain worked. “Well, yes, I suppose I must be if I am here.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a mathematician.”

“Twelve and seven is nineteen like in school?”

“You start there and then it gets more complicated and more interesting.”

“Like what f’rinstance?”

“Like after arithmetic there’s geometry. And after that comes algebra – and then calculus. There is also number theory, which is sort of out of the mainstream of mathematics.’’

“What’s number theory?”

Paddy smiled at the serious expression on the little boy’s face and started to dismiss the question. Then thought twice about it. Brian seemed to be always surprising him with odd bits of information. He appeared to be a bright lad who believed that everything could be understood if you asked the right questions. But how could he possibly begin to explain higher mathematics to an eight-year-old? Well, one step at a time.

“Do you know about multiplying?”

“Sure – it’s fun. Like 14 times 15 is 210 because so is 6 times 35 and 5 times 42.”

“Are you positive?”

“Ain’t no mistake. Because they’re both as 2 times 3 times 5 times 7. I like 210 because it’s made up of four. different chunky numbers.”

“Chunky numbers? Is that an Irish term?”

“Nope. Made it up myself,” the boy said proudly. “Chunkies are numbers with no parts. Like 5 and 7. And big ones like 821 and 823. Or 1721 and 1723. A lot of the big ones come in pairs like that.”

Chunky numbers was Brian’s term for prime numbers, Paddy realized. Should eight-year-olds know about primes? Were they taught at this age? – He couldn’t remember.

It was after eleven that night when Dolly turned off the television. She found Paddy in the kitchen. His pipe had gone out and he was staring, unseeing, out into the darkness.

“I’m going to bed,” she said.

“Do you now what Brian seems to have done? All by himself. At the age of eight. He has discovered prime numbers. Not only that – he seems to have worked out some pretty efficient ways to find primes.”

“He’s a very serious little boy. Never smiles.”

“You’re not listening. He’s very bright. More than that – he has a basic understanding of mathematics, something almost all of my students are lacking.”

“If you think so then have them do an I.Q. test in school. I’m tired. We can talk about it in the morning.”

“I.Q. tests are too culturally orientated. Later maybe, when he has been here a while. I’ll talk to his teachers about it when I take him to school.”

“Not the very first day you won’t! He has to get used to things first, settle in. And it’s about time you thought about your own classes, research. I’ll take him to school tomorrow. You’ll see, it’s going to work out fine.”

Brian hated the school. From the very first moment he arrived. Hated the big fat black headmaster. He was called a principal here. Everything was different. Strange. And they laughed at him, from the very beginning. It was the teacher who started it.

“That will be your class seat,” she said, pointing not too precisely at the row of desks.

“The terd one?”

“The third one, yes. But you must say it correctly. Third.” She waited, smiling insincerely at his silence. “Say third, Brian.”

“Terd.”

“Not turd, that is a different word. Third.”

That was when the children laughed, whispered “Turd!” at him as soon as the teacher’s back was turned. When the bell rang and the class ended he went into the hall with the others, but kept going right out of the school, away from them all.

“And that was the very first day in school,” Dolly said. “Ran away after his very first class. The principal phoned and I was worried sick. It was after dark before the police found him and brought him home.”

“Did he tell you why?” Snaresbrook asked.

“Never, not him. Either closemouthed or asking too many questions, nothing in between. Not sociable either. You might say that the only friend he had was his computer. You would think he would have had enough of that during school hours. All computerized now, you know. But no. As soon as he was home he would be right at it again. Not just games, but writing programs in LOGO, the language he had learned in school. Very good programs too, that’s what Paddy said. The boy was writing learning programs that wrote their own programs. There was always something special between Brian and computers.”