Last Night at the Brain Thieves Ball

by Scott Spencer

  I loved it. Though I was frightened and cold, it seemed jaunty and unusual and it gave me what they call in the trade a heightened sense of life. “Yippee,” I screamed against my better judgment. Marvelous, I thought. At that moment of exaltation I wanted to be very good friends with Mr. W. and visit him often.

  Too soon, the Krazy Kar glided to a stop. Tom was shivering stoically, staring into space. I jumped out of my compartment and rubbed my hands together. “Well, Tommy, what next?” This end of the tunnel was bright and warm and as I asked Tom the question I noticed Mr. Worthington’s obese secretary waddling toward us.

  “Coffee, gentlemen?” she offered uninvitingly as she whisked us into a small waiting room, separated from the tracks by a sliding glass door, which reminded me of the little rooms where you pay your fee in public garages. We sat on a crescent-shaped couch which encircled half the room. Very comfortable. Tom, sensing my pleasure, glared at me and began thumbing through Modern Photography. I, as I am wont, leaned back and considered my fate. It was, I remembered, May 20. In fifteen days I would be thirty-five. I was getting better and better at my work. Respect was coming to me. I had taken a ride on a rapid underground car. I had been recently punched. I was a brain thief.

  I looked through the glass wall and saw Mr. Worthington with his arm around Ira Robinson and they were both laughing wildly. He walked Ira to the yellow and black car and, as Ira entered the hollowed cube on the left, they shook hands. Simultaneously they touched their fingertips to their chests, where the heart is. In a moment Ira was gone. Mr. Worthington turned and saw us in the waiting room and waved enthusiastically, even going so far as to stand on tiptoe.

  Mr. W. disappeared as unexpectedly as he had appeared, and his secretary came into the room and asked that we follow her to Mr. Worthington’s office. We followed her down a short hallway lined with flashing lights and up to a very ordinary-looking door with frosted glass, much like the one in my office. She opened it for us and we walked in.

  I must admit that I was a trifle disappointed with his new office, especially after the incredible journey. Except for its immensity and the beautiful silver bowls holding assorted mints (Ceylonese mints, ginger mints, Junior Mints), it was a perfectly ordinary office without a view. There were pictures resting against the wall, waiting to be hung. The bookcases were half-filled and several cardboard boxes full of books were stacked near Mr. W.’s huge, black Formica desk. He did have a fur rug, however. Wall to wall. And there were eight video screens built into the wall behind his desk. The wall, by the way, was gray plastic—very smart. Also built into the wall were a bar and several lamps that looked like motorcycle headlights. On second thought, Mr. W.’s new office was pretty damn nice. I could feel the fur rug right through my rubber- soled Hush Puppies.

  “Thank you, Tom Simon, for braving the journey and bringing our friend to me,” began Mr. Worthington in an exceptionally good-natured voice. Then, looking at me: “Tom isn’t much on our new arrangements. Ha ha. But that’s the price you pay when your boss gets a big promotion.” He leaned back in the black leather chair behind his desk and popped a mint into his mouth. He was feeling great. “The car should be back now, Tom. Why don’t you take this time to attend to those matters we discussed last night.” They traded significant glances and Tom quietly disappeared.

  Mr. W. got up from behind his desk, stretched his old arms—the slowness of his movements sadly emphasized how far along in years he really was—came over to where I was uncomfortably standing, and pounded me heartily on the back. “Well,” he said, “what was it you wanted to see me about?”

  I colored quickly, feeling very vulnerable. “You sent for—me,” I finally managed to say.

  “Joke. I was just joking. Ha ha ha. I know I sent for you.” He looked at me as if I were crazy. Then changing moods with his usual nonchalance, he clasped his hands behind his back and said, “I feel marvelous. Simply one hundred per cent. I called you down here, first of all, so you’d know where I am if ever you need me or want to shoot the breeze. This door, my friend, is never closed to you. Don’t think this promotion business is going to make me forget any of you up there. I don’t care if all my new and important administrative duties have to wait until midnight for my attention, I think you boys in science are where the action is and my first responsibility is to you.” He put his old spotted hand on my shoulder. “And your first responsibility is, of course, to me.”

  Mr. W.’s secretary came in with two plates of scrambled eggs and Canadian bacon and two cups of coffee. There was a rectilinear Lucite table set unobtrusively to one side of the office, where we sat down and enjoyed our breakfast. He talked with his mouth full. “You know,” he said, demanding my attention with a wave of his fork, “I sometimes think there is precious little connection between the life I’m fortunate enough to lead with NESTER and the life that I led before coming here. In a way, my life has been a double feature.” He laughed and, momentarily embarrassed, washed the egg down with a lusty swig of coffee. “I’m more than sixty years old, did you know that? How old did you think I was? Come on. Be honest.”

  “Early fifties,” I lied.

  He looked disappointed. “Really? A lot of people figure me for forty-five, forty-six.” A pause. He looked troubled. “Anyhow. Don’t you think this is a great new office? And that underground track.” He described a speeding car with his hand through the air. “Zooooom. Do you know what I am now?”

  “A speeding car?”

  “No, no.” He looked at me again as if I were crazy, a slower, more searching stare. Then he burst into laughter, reaching across our breakfasts and patting me gruffly on the cheek. “You’re fantastic. I meant do you know what my title is. I’m a first vice-president now. Quite a jump from senior unit supervisor, don’t you think?”

  He went on like this for about fifteen minutes. How we were such pals. How lucky he was. How someday perhaps I’d be in his place. How there was no one presently in NESTER whose abilities he admired as much as mine. How good the eggs were. How he hoped his secretary—Miss Andrews—never lost an ounce. Really, he said virtually anything that came into his head. It was nice to see him so relaxed, though I couldn’t help but think that his mind was wandering. What was most annoying, however, was to realize he would be talking on and on like that no matter who was with him. He was just in the mood, that was all. He wasn’t really talking to me. I just happened to be a pair of available ears. That hurt.

  Perhaps Mr. W. sensed my restlessness, for, as he sopped up his eggs with a piece of whole-wheat bread, he said, “You know, Paul, I think you are very wonderful.”

  Again I colored. Mr. Worthington often reduces my responses to those of a teenybopper. “Me?” I said. “Wonderful?”

  “Yes, really,” he said, nodding sagely. “You have taken so splendidly to your work here. Your production has been superb—you were, I think, born for the work. And never a peep of complaint. This may be a little shocking to you, but we often have a messy time with our workers, especially during their first few months. But not you! You just got right down to work and you’ve been plugging away ever since.” He sighed. “I want to do something for you,” he said. “I want to show you you are appreciated.”

  “Perhaps I’ll be able to leave the compound,” I suggested.

  “You are not permitted your day in Boston?” he asked, concerned.

  “Oh, yes. But I was thinking that perhaps I’d be able to go in on my own. At night, maybe. Whenever I wanted.”

  Mr. W. smiled. He was a civic-minded old man playing Santa Claus at the orphanage Christmas party, listening to the poignant, impossible dreams of the abandoned children. He chuckled. “Now let’s not get into a hassle about that,” he advised, his voice hardening. “All right?”

  “All right,” I said.

  “But there is something we can do for you, friend,” he continued in a more relaxed tone. “How about if we gave you a few of our special subjects to work on? How does that sound?” He leaned
close to me. “How about a few of our X-rated subjects? Ordinarily, we require at least five years’ seniority before we give our people access to sexing experiments. But I am willing to look the other way if you’re interested. Some of it’s pretty strong stuff. And what you’ll be required to do is of a breathtakingly sophisticated nature.” He sopped up the last of the egg and poked the bread into his mouth. “You interested?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “What? Can’t hear you.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m interested.”

  Mr. Worthington jumped from his chair and exploded with laughter. “I thought you’d be.”

  Sensing my interview was over, I got up. Mr. W. held me tightly at my upper arm and led me to the door. “We’ll be sending you data—films, EKGs, and some tape recordings—presently,” he said.

  “Thank you,” I murmured. (Perhaps at that moment I should have smashed him in the face, destroyed his office, and produced a submachine gun to shoot my way out.)

  “You know,” he said, “there’s a little something I’d like you to do for me. I’ve been pretty free in letting you ‘do your own thing’ and I’d like you to do this for me. I want you to pay a visit to one of our guests here, a top employee and someone I want you to meet. There’ll be no punching, I promise you. When you speak with him, observe him and gather your impressions. I want you to drop me a memo or—if you’d like—come to speak to me about him. His name is Leon Anderson. Now, be careful. We have a Len Anderson here, but we’ve got him working in the cafeteria. I’m not awfully interested in your seeing him.” Mr. W. smiled gaily and gave my arm a squeeze. “But I think it’s important that you see Leon Anderson, who’s a real communications sharpie. First rate. All right? Can I count on you?”

  On the way back to my office, I heard a prolonged burst of maniacal laughter. I was standing not far from my office, in the bleak green corridor surrounded on either side by closed office doors with frosted glass windows that seemed to regard me like so many encrusted, dead eyes. I whirled around but couldn’t determine where the sounds were coming from. I waited for the doors to open, for curious, intelligent faces to peer into the hall, for modulated inquiries. But no door opened, no door cracked, and then the laughter stopped. I shrugged and continued toward my office, walking slightly more slowly.

  A shot rang out—a violent crunch of ragged black noise. I felt as if I’d been kicked in the center of my heart. My bones shook and hummed like railroad tracks over which a howling diesel had just passed. Overlapping the last reverberations of the gunshot was a deep, swooning groan. Then there was the sound of a body slumping over a (kidney-shaped?) desk, a gun escaping from a lifeless hand and falling to the floor, and finally a human form, now lifeless, rolling slowly through the stages that separate humankind from corpsedom and ending up on the floor.

  By now I was whirling in circles, my eyes flashing, my jaw working. I wasn’t certain from behind which door the fatal shot had cracked. None of the twenty or so doors opened so it could not be figured out by a process of elimination. Finally, after what seemed like several months, three Force Recruiters came padding down the hall in their thick-soled shoes. Following them was a scrawny young doctor in a white suit and white shoes. He looked terrified. They went to the office two to the left of mine and opened the door. The hulking heavies peered into the office, looked at one another, and nodded. The doctor tried to fight his way past them and finally he did. I was at this point pressed against the wall, hoping not to be noticed. There was, of course, no chance of this. I mean, I am wearing this suit and tie, my hair tends to be curly, and I am the only person in the long, sterile corridor, the only person at all, and of course they see me immediately. But they seemed not to care. The doctor fought his way out of the office and said, “Dead.” The Force Recruiters rushed into the office and picked up the corpse. Holding it by the feet and the head, they ran down the hall so fast that I couldn’t determine if the victim was someone I knew.

  I staggered back to my office and tried to immerse myself in my work with the same fond, foolish hopes a decrepit codger carries into the painful, sulphurous swirls of a mineral bath. Gingerly yet determinedly, piece by piece, deep into the streaming yellow water—someone, somewhere, said that it was good for you.

  First I sat down and tried to read an article in one of the more respected journals of physiological psychology that I authored while still an academician. It was called “Hippocampal Neuron Responses to Selective Activation of Recurrent Collaterals of Hippocampofugal Axons.” I stared at the title. As I remember it, I had called the article “The Hippocampal Neuron Responses…” but some jerk at the editorial desk had deleted my definite article. This filled me with quiet, aimless rage. I skimmed through my article. It was not remarkable. Much of it was filled with the results of other people’s experiments. There were four passing, rather snide references to colleagues which, upon consideration, I found humiliating. It was, I think, the first piece that had ever appeared in that journal to use the word “incredible.” Yet, for all this, there was something poignant and bitter-sweet about it. Its mediocrity had a brave and heart-breaking quality. It was not the work of one who was storming the frontiers of the unknown, but it was not the work of a goddamned brain thief either.

  I remembered writing the final draft. My adopted son had just convinced me to buy him a walkie-talkie and I had felt compelled, for purely financial reasons, to do my own typing. I remembered sitting in my minuscule study, pounding out the paragraphs, mapping out the charts, sipping Hiram Walker from a jelly glass, cursing the paucity of my destiny. Why couldn’t I have been contented with that tiny frame house, that stormy marriage, that adopted son? Surely there were people less significant than I. Academics and run-of-the-mill scientists, it suddenly occurred to me, have pleasant old ages. There are pensions, retirement plans, honorary positions. Does NESTER have a retirement plan? I had worked until dawn on that piece—thirty-one impeccably typed pages. Then I fell asleep in my chair—not because I was too exhausted to trudge up to my bed but because I had always wanted to be discovered at my desk, papers in front of me, my head thrown back, my mouth open. Maybe it was from a movie or from some other more private dream. I awoke the next morning about 10:00. The house was empty. My son was in school and my wife had gone ice skating in an indoor rink with her half- sister. My neck was stiff. Lydia! Why didn’t you awaken me with a glass of juice and the morning paper? Friends, family, why didn’t you peek into my study and let the sight of me melt your hearts?

  I threw the magazine onto the floor and lowered my head onto my arms. My desk wobbled as if in seizure. I looked up, my eyes red and blinking. I wondered if that chap’s suicide was going to be prominent in my dreams. This compound is a terrible place for nightmares. After a distressing dream it is crucial to have a warm body to press against, even if that body no longer loves you. After a nightmare it is helpful to get out of bed, go to the kitchen, and eat that last piece of broiled chicken. But in NESTER there is nothing to do after a horror dream except open your eyes and regard the walls which seem to be regarding you with unusual interest. From the darkness behind you, eternity seems to be breathing on your neck.

  I am no stranger to these dreams; they spring from my pontine fibers at will—their will. Often my experimental subjects stumble toward me in my dreams. They hulk my way, their skulls insectified by clumsy electrodes, their jaws working up and down, their fingers wiggling in my direction. You used me for room-deodorizer experiments, one chants. Another with sullen, empty eyes points to her swollen middle, mutely accusing me for my part in eating behavior experiments. Still another accuses me of disseminating addictive drugs. And one young man throws a specially designed easy chair in my direction—a prop in my gamma neuron studies.

  But who wants to hear about my dreams? Even the innocent have nightmares. Even the pure of heart wake up in a fright, clutching at the clammy sheets. What difference does it make if one faint-hearted brain thief finds his sleep patterns di
srupted by his compulsive, macabre visions? I can’t expect pity. I can scarcely expect patience. I know, I know. This is not news to me. I am not well-liked, nor will I be for some time to come.

  I’d like to change jobs. Unfortunately, for my peace of mind, this makes it necessary for me to blow the lid off the most blithely sinister organization in the Western world.

  I’d like to change jobs and it may cost me my life. I want my unemployment checks sent to northern Europe, to Denmark. My mistress will pick them up for me at the post office and then she’ll come back and we’ll make love and then have soup and then we will continue her English lessons. I am teaching her “weather words.” Cloud, rain, umbrella, lightning … Look how she gazes at me—the respect, the compassion. I am a hero. Perhaps we won’t make love. It doesn’t really matter. The nights are cold. I am having trouble sleeping, still. She is rocking me to sleep. Perfume rises from her breasts. Soon I must leave. A vast underground railway. Interviews in the avant-garde press. They are still on my trail. They want me dead. I told the world. Perhaps we won’t have soup. In the morning we look out the window and see there is blood in the snow. Someone has killed all of our goats.

  I’ve had it. I’ve really had it. I don’t want to work here any longer. I’m not on NESTER’s side. I am not loyal. I don’t want to live like this. I have bad dreams about my subjects—they come to me empty-eyed and groping. Accusing me. I told you that. I could have helped them, they say. I didn’t. I played along. I helped ruin the world. The world is ruined. That is hard to believe. Perhaps it is they, my victims, and not my captors who will catch up with me in Denmark and murder our goats. Oh, the future. The future makes me tense. This is no way to live. I’ve got to get out of this.

  6

  JUST FIFTEEN MINUTES AGO I staggered back from Leon Anderson’s room. The visit was a favor I was supposed to do for Mr. Worthington days ago, but I’ve been too busy. All my life I’ve wanted to be busy, to have pressing engagements, to be up to my neck in something crucial. For instance, when I was on the outside I always envied men who were too occupied to answer the telephone. Even a simple thing like calling my insurance agent and having his secretary tell me that he was “in conference” would fill me with sadness and envy. I was always the sort of man who would lunge for the phone on the first ring, hoping it was something major. Now I am a truly busy man, an involved man, and even a favor for Mr. W. must wait its turn.