2. Perchance To Dream
Absolute zero, or close to it anyway, that’s how cold the cryogenics people promised that my body would be kept. My so-called death was painless as promised; it was like going to sleep. I now await my second life. I’ll be revived in a future world where my cancer problems will disappear as easy as a finger-snap.
They didn’t say anything about dreaming though, if that’s what this is. Fortunately I drift in and out of it, or I’d go crazy. I still might, unless they wake me soon. Hang in there Johnny!
The wheels on the specially designed gurney that carried the body squealed in protest of the cold as Mark maneuvered it out of the deep freeze and into the lab, where Mary was already calibrating the neuron scanner. Mark was glad to be back in the lab, where the temperature was only slightly below freezing, and there was another live human being with him; that freezer full of bodies gave him the creeps. Mary gave him other feelings. “Clamp the head in a little further down, Mary. That’s better. Say, we’ve done this now hundreds of times, is something still bugging you?” Mark helped her adjust the scan focus.
“Just the same-old same-old. If there’s still brain activity, how do we know they’re really dead?”
“Because the court says so, that’s how. Cryogenics as recently practiced has been officially declared to be assisted suicide, which is illegal again, thanks to the fickleness of the law and public opinion. So somehow our genius research gurus got dibs on the freed-up frozen material, and here we are. End of story. Pass me the other leg strap. I don’t want this one thawing out and kicking me in the balls as I slice him up, like that one tried to do last week.”
“That was a reflex action,” she laughed. “Anyway he missed you by a mile. Probably not enough of a target. The room temperature control has been fixed though, so it won't happen again. This frozen stiff will stay that way all day. But don’t talk about the stiffs that way, Mark; they’re people, not simply material. Maybe you’re pissing them off.”
“They’re not people when we get through with them.”
“Thanks for that news flash. What I mean is, we don’t really know for sure that they’re not thinking, otherwise we wouldn’t be doing this research in the first place. Ready yet for the laser slicer?”
To sleep, perchance to dream? The rub is, my thought, though perhaps slowed, seems clearer than ever. Maybe it has to do with super-conductivity and less randomness at low temperatures. That hypothesis seems unlikely, but of course what does anybody really know about the frozen human mind? More brain research is needed.
Not by me though, I’m going to do something different, next time around after I’m thawed out and revived. Paula. That was her name. I’ll do research on a girl like Paula. I can remember her clearly. Boobs the size of melons. She was hitting on me, I know it, but somehow I let the opportunity slip right by me. I didn’t know how the hell to deal with women then; things will be different in my second life.
“Listen Mary, they aren’t thinking anything at all, not the way we do; there’s just a few random flashes of the neurons going on even in the frozen material that the researchers want to study. They don’t know exactly what the activity signifies, but believe me, it can’t be much. Speaking of activity, have you got any plans for tonight?”
“Is that all you think about? They warned me in school about doctors, but they skipped the chapter on horny lab-techs.”
“Well, I’d be happy to complete your education. But about these cryo-stiffs, Mary: you of think too much about this stuff. There’s a better chance that five hundred monkeys with typewriters would come up with Shakespeare than our researchers will find that these stiffs have any coherent thoughts whatsoever. Meanwhile I’ll keep slicing away their brains with this laser and you’ll just keep scanning for final synaptic activity, until the Ph.D. types upstairs say they’ve got it all figured out. Pass me the laser, and let’s get cooking.”
For in that sleep of death....
“Mark, what victim number was that, by the way?” Mary asked, as hours later she washed her hands. They weren’t bloody, even after dealing with thousands of sections of brain sliced thin enough for her to scan before they thawed. Not even her gloves had directly touched the frozen flesh; but she scrubbed her hands thoroughly several times anyway.
Mark glanced at the file. “Number H-33B, 55731, if it means anything to you. Ha! Well look at this, the dude’s name was Dr. John Rubin, MD! The guy was a frigging MD!”
“John Rubin? Didn’t he do brain research upstairs in this very building? Christ, that would be ironic, wouldn’t it? But no, not that number, Mark, I mean the one you keep for yourself.”
Mark pulled a little note pad out of his shirt pocket. “The Doc was number 500 for us, on the dot.”
“That’s what I thought,” she laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, I was just thinking about what you said earlier about five hundred monkeys with typewriters. Even with just random neuron activity, could this one have been thinking Shakespeare? Maybe the big brains upstairs will someday decipher my neuron measurements and find out that they do mean that he was thinking of a line from Shakespeare when you sliced him up. Maybe this guy’s brain represents monkey number five hundred, and my neural activity measurements represent the typewriter.”
“Not a chance Baby, I’ve been to the zoo, and I KNOW what those horny little monkey dudes are always thinking about! Not Shakespeare, that’s for damn sure. Let’s go to my apartment and I’ll show you what they really think about.”
“That IS all you can think about, isn’t it,” she said, laughing.
“To the very end and beyond, Baby.”
“Not tonight Mark, I have relatives visiting again. Another rain-check?” She gave him a quick consolation hug. Visit your apartment, Mark? Ha! Not in your lifetime.
“Sure Mary. I’ll see you in the morning.” Boobs big as melons, he thought, licking his lips. Maybe tomorrow night.
As she walked out the door smiling, she paused and looked back at him. “I’ll see you in the morning. You slice the monkey, and I‘ll work the typewriter. Baby.”
****
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