GENESIS (Projekt Saucer)

by W. A. Harbinson

  The car climbed the mountain road, bouncing over large stones, passing modern urbanizationes and archaic farmhouses, just occasionally passing a Spaniard on a donkey, field hands bent in labor. Wilson frequently glanced out, observing the white haze of the sky, a thin ribbon of grey cloud above the mountains, the dizzying sweep of the valleys. The past was crumbling beneath the present, the future advancing to devour both, and Wilson sat there, recalling his many years, the broad terrains he had traveled. Then the limousine slowed down, took the left fork in the road, heading away from Mijas, toward Alhaurin el Grande, as Wilson closed his eyes and opened them again and talked into the microphone.

  ‘Four. Telesurgery and telepsychiatry. Telediagnosis is now being utilized between Massachusetts General Hospital and Boston Logan International Airport, between numerous California hospitals, and between two hospitals in Edinburgh, Scotland. Also, a telesurgery linkup has been established between Massachusetts General Hospital and the Bedford Veteran’s Administration Hospital eighteen miles away. In all of these areas the computer becomes more predominant.

  ‘It is also to be noted that many bioengineers are now claiming that computer and human brain will soon be directly linked. Said R. M. Page of the US Naval Research Laboratory: “The information which a machine can obtain and store from a person in a few minutes will exceed the fruits of a lifetime of man-to-man communications.” As to method: “The coupling mechanisms to carry out the functions will be myriad, including in some cases electrical connections to the body and to the brain. Some connections may be wireless, with imperceptible transmitting elements implanted in the body.”

  ‘Further note: Geneticists Harold P. Klinger and Orlando J. Miller, speaking before an international symposium on fetology, suggested that what was needed in the United States was a national registry of hereditary abnormalities to help prevent the conception of defective children. This system would have to be implemented via all newborn children when their skin and blood samples would, as a matter of course, be fed into a computerized genetic scanner which would immediately establish the presence of any chromosomal abnormalities and print them out on data cards that would be kept on permanent file in Washington DC. Computer analysis of current ethical attitudes on this subject is required. Please action.’

  Wilson switched off the microphone and gazed through the window to see the mountain village of Coin. The car went through the village, barely noticed by the Spaniards, and traveled on down a steep, winding road, between shadowing rows of olive trees. Wilson leaned toward the console, pressed a button, ejected the cassette tape, dropped the tape into his shirt pocket and then sat back impatiently. The car eventually emerged to sunlight, to flat fields strewn with rubble, and moved uphill and then leveled out and headed straight for Wilson’s house. It was hidden between parched hills, well protected by a high-walled compound, the walls featureless, made of rectangular breeze-blocks that had never been painted. The walls were twenty feet high, their tops covered with barbed wire, the only entrance being a wooden door broad enough for the car. The whole compound was solid, completely hiding the house within, standing four-square between the surrounding hills like some stark, lunar fortress.

  The car stopped in front of the compound and Wilson remained in the rear seat while Fallaci walked up to the door. Wilson silently watched him, saw him pressing the buzzer, read his lips when he talked into the box and gave the code word for entrance. Fallaci then returned to the car, slipped inside, waited patiently; then the door moved up on metal grooves and Fallaci drove inside.

  ‘Here we are, sir,’ he said.

  Wilson sat on impatiently, drumming his fingers on the seat, and Fallaci flushed and hurried out of the car and opened the rear door. Wilson clambered out, stretched himself, looked around him, neither pleased nor disturbed to be back, simply checking the compound.

  The compound was empty, graveled earth between walls and house, no flowers, no trees, no outbuildings… just open space to be crossed. There were spy-cameras on all the walls, turning back and forth, high up, their lenses shaded from the sun, equipped with infrared beams for night-time viewing. The house was linear, functional, a rectangle of brick and glass, about a hundred feet long, about fifty feet wide, the roof flat, the structure two stories high, the two front doors made of solid steel. The numerous windows were broad and high, made of bullet-proof, one-way glass. Constantly moving above each of the windows were more scanning devices.

  Fallaci approached the front door, glanced at Wilson, pressed a button; the door opened and Wilson entered the building, and Fallaci then followed him. The latter closed the door behind him, pressed another button to reset the alarms, then stood there with his hands behind his back, his full attention on Wilson.

  ‘I’ll have a fruit and nut cereal,’ Wilson said. ‘And a glass of white wine. Very dry. Very cold.’

  Fallaci nodded and departed, disappearing through a nearby door, then Wilson walked along a corridor to his study. The walls were bland and impersonal, covered in spray-on felt fabric, no decoration, just digital control panels filled with flickering green numerals. Wilson studied them on the move, noting temperatures, power levels, then he turned into his study, into silence, subdued lighting, the fiber-glass Jacobean oak panels looking just like the real thing. He sat behind his desk, at a panel of tiered buttons, pressed a button and then sat back in his chair and studied the screens above him.

  There were six screens in all, banked in two rows of three, all set into the wall in front of the desk and wired to a scanner. There were scanners all over the building, outside and inside the compound walls, in the bedrooms, in the toilets, in the garage, and they were all wired for sound. Wilson surveyed the whole place from here, controlled its temperature and lighting; he could open and shut doors at wall, plunge the place into darkness.

  The screens flickered into life, the pictures monochrome but sharp, showing the kitchen, the servants’ quarters, the laboratory, each from a variety of different angles. The spy-cameras moved constantly, showing the whole of each room, and Wilson switched the different receivers on and off, surveying the whole house. For the most part it was empty, the rooms vague in subdued lighting, the walls covered in fibre-glass and spray-on felt, the furniture sparse and functional. The building was almost futuristic, oddly sterile and impersonal, an abode for transient guests, the silence heightening the strangeness.

  Wilson switched back to the kitchen, observed Fallaci and the crippled dwarf, both standing in front of a gleaming cooker unit, Fallaci mopping his sweaty brow. The dwarf was a disgusting sight, his spine bent, his legs twisted, his right hand a metal claw a metal claw that was strapped to his arm with wires running into a small pack at his waist. It was a primitive prosthetic and the dwarf was tired of it, forever begging Wilson to fit him with a new one, always being refused. Now Wilson smiled bleakly, reached down to press a button, saw Fallaci and the dwarf look up promptly at the camera above them.

  ‘Hello, Ruediger,’ Wilson said to the dwarf. ‘How are you feeling these days?’

  ‘Ah, ah,’ the dwarf stuttered, his metal claw opening and closing spasmodically, his eyes blinking above a queerly flattened nose and thick, dribbling lips. ‘Ah, ah… all right… You know, sir… all right… I think… I mean… sleepless.’

  ‘Sleepless? Wilson said. ’You mean nightmares?’

  The metal claw waved indecisively, hinges opening and closing, passing over the luminous, frightened eyes to scrape saliva from the dribbling lips.

  ‘Ah… nightmares… Ah, yes, sir… bad, ah… very bad… Every night, all nights, ah… nightmares… Can’t sleep at night.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound good,’ Wilson said, still smiling bleakly. ‘When did this start?’

  The metal claw waved more frantically, the dribbling lips opening and closing, the crippled dwarf in a positive anguish of speaking, trying to force the words out.

  ‘Ah, ah… start? When you left, sir… Always, sir… always then… When you leave… the
fear… dreadful nightmares… too frightened to leave here.’

  ‘You should have gone out,’ Wilson said. ‘I told you: you can leave anytime you wish. I’m sure the break would have helped you.’

  ‘Ah, ah… grateful, sir… Tried to go out… but couldn’t do it… Too frightened… very frightened… of what’s out there… Too many bad dreams.’ The claw opened and closed, steel fingers snapping at air, the dwarf’s head rolling helplessly on stooped shoulders, lips dribbling constantly. ‘So glad you’re back, sir… So relieved… Please, sir… want you… help me!’

  ‘Go to your room,’ Wilson said soothingly. ‘Close your eyes. Try to sleep.’

  ‘Please, sir… Please, no… The nightmares!’

  ‘No more nightmares,’ Wilson said soothingly. ‘I am back. No more bad dreams.’

  The dwarf trembled with emotion, waved his claw, muttered his gratitude, then turning away, glancing nervously at Fallaci, he shuffled out of the kitchen. Fallaci remained where he was, still looking up at the camera, a sharp image on the montor screen above Wilson’s blue eyes.

  ‘He’s been orderly?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘Yes, sir, he’s been fine. I tried to force him out once or twice, but he was too scared to go. It worked just like you said it would.’

  ‘Good,’ Wilson said. ‘I’ll have my meal in ten minutes. I’ll relax for half an hour after that. You can send the girl up then.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Fallaci said.

  Wilson pressed another button, putting the monitors on automatic, then he withdrew the cassette tape from his shirt pocket and slotted it into the console. When the recorder turned itself on, Wilson started to talk again.

  ‘Five. Brain research. Electrical stimulation of the brain, ESB, has recently become dangerously innovative. The suggestion that computer-controlled electrodes be implanted in the brains of babies a few months after birth, thus robotizing them for life, has already been made by Curtiss R. Schafer in a paper he presented to the National Electronics Conference in Chicago some time ago – and while such a suggestion may have been made half in jest, it is now clear that such devices have moved out of the realms of animal experimentation and into the human arena with volunteer subjects wired for electro-sleep, electro-prostheses, electro-vision, electro-analgesia, electro-anaesthesia and, increasingly, electro-sociology.

  ‘Dr Jose M. R. Delgado, professor of physiology at the Yale University School of Medicine, and Dr James Olds of McGill University in Canada, have both experimented with the so-called pleasure centers of the human brain, as has Dr Robert G. Heath of Tulane University. Meanwhile, Dr C. Norman Shealy, chief of neurosurgery at the Gundersen Clinic in La Crosse, Wisconsin, has perfected electro-analgesic techniques to the stage where they are now being applied to humans, mainly through the implanting of a pointeight to one-point-two stimulating electrode in the spine, rather than in the brain. Regarding electro-sociology, a team of doctors at Massachusetts General Hospital and Boston General Hospital have pacified violent human subjects by the implantation of electrodes into the rostral part of the caudate nucleus of the brain. It is requested that all these people be placed under immediate surveillance.’

  Wilson switched the recorder off and sat back looking thoughtful, then he stood up and crossed the room to place his hand over a control box. The opaque box glowed red and the paneled walls slid apart to reveal a linked audio-visual computer system, a mass of monitor screens and controls. Wilson pressed the MODE button, another button marked VISUAL/RECORD, and a monitor screen, six feet by six, crackled into life. Wilson then turned a directional knob and saw a door, a white wall; he kept turning until he saw the crippled dwarf stretched out on his bed. The dwarf was still fully clothed, a pair of blue denims, a checkered shirt, and he twisted and turned uncomfortably on the bed, moaning loudly and sweating. His eyes were luminous with fear, his metal claw opening and closing spasmodically, and when he glanced around the room he seemed to shrink from the blank, white-painted walls.

  ‘Stay still,’ Wilson said, speaking softly. ‘Relax. Just lie quietly.’

  The dwarf froze where he lay, his large eyes fixed on the camera, as Wilson turned another knob marked ZOOM to see the dwarf’s face in close-up. The dwarf’s eyes were now filled with hope, beads of sweat shone on his nose, and his tongue crept out tentatively from his lips to lick up the saliva. Wilson studied the screen and smiled, flicked a switch, turned a knob, and the dwarf’s head started jerking, the eyes widening, then closing, until his head seemed to sink into the pillow, the lips shaped in a crooked smile.

  Wilson studied the large screen, observed the dwarf in sleep, turned the sound up and heard even breathing, a heart beating now beating normally. He then looked at the ECG, noted the subdued, irregular flickering, and satisfied that the dwarf would sleep well, he turned the monitor off.

  Moving away from the console, Wilson crossed the study and went through a doorway, into an adjoining, L-shaped lounge. Covering one wall of this room was an enormous ITT television set, a Neal taperecorder, a Philips video-recorder, and a bank of expensive Revox hi-fi equipment. Facing this luxurious system, about fifteen feet from it, was a low settee with a bank of switches on one arm. Wilson sat down here, found a list of video programs, studied them and then pressed the switch that was wired to the kitchen. There was a soft humming sound and part of the paneled ceiling descended, dropping down until it covered Wilson’s legs and formed a small table. Resting on the table was a bowl of fruit and nut cereal, with a glass of white wine. Very dry. Very cold.

  Wilson pressed another switch marked VIDEO/PLAY/3, then he picked up his spoon and started eating as the TV screen brightened. He watched the program as he ate, his blue gaze intense, occasionally rubbing his unusually smooth, unlined forehead, concentrating ferociously. It was a pre-recorded tape, a compilation of various programs, a condensed survey of all the scientific and political events that he had missed during his absence. He finished his meal, but kept watching, his brain recording, calculating, and only when the program had ended did he appear to relax. He pressed another button, the table ascended into the ceiling, and then he stood up and languidly stretched himself and went into his bedroom.

  This room was like all the others, the lighting subdued, the temperature moderate, a few expressionist paintings on the walls, more control panels flickering. Wilson undressed himself, his body lean but tense with muscle, lengthy scars running across his back and chest, and stepped into the shower. Like all else in this building, the water’s temperature was preset; the water also contained an olive-based detergent that negated the need for soap. Wilson stood there for some time, his brain disseminating information, then he stepped out, dried himself with a warmed towel, and then stretched out on the bed.

  There were glass panels in the ceiling, hiding a Nordic solarium; when Wilson pressed another button, the glass panels slide apart and the solarium came on automatically, beaming down infrared rays. Wilson lay very still, his eyes covered by protective glasses, breathing deeply, holding his breath for long periods, letting it out only slowly. His tense muscles relaxed, his scarred body seemed to glow, and then, precisely thirty minutes later, the solarium switched itself off.

  The girl arrived shortly after, opening the door with some care, looking at him and seeing him nod and padding quietly toward him. She was in her bare feet, her body wrapped in a loose sarong, her jetblack hair trailing down her spine, shining under the soft lights. Wilson remained on the bed, completely naked, looking up at her, his azure gaze revealing no more than a cool curiosity. The girl was slim, very young, probably in her late teens, her brown eyes and copper-toned skin suggesting a half-caste Eurasian. She stood beside Wilson’s bed, her head bowed, her hands clasped, and Wilson remained there, studying her at length, quietly pleased by her beauty.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he finally said.

  ‘Rita,’ the girl whispered.

  ‘You know what I require?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good
. Please proceed.’

  The girl loosened her sarong, let it fall to the floor, and stood there, her naked body gleaming, covered lightly with oil. Her legs were long and slim, her waist tiny, her breasts full, the triangle of hair slightly shaved, quite smooth, almost velvety. Wilson looked her up and down, his gaze calm, analytical, then he nodded and the girl smiled with gratitude and sank to her knees.

  She leaned over the bed, her hair falling across his loins, then she held his flaccid penis in one hand and slid it into her mouth. He watched her, smiling thinly, feeling her lips, her rolling tongue, her teeth pinching gently, imperceptibly, her mouth wet, a warm glove. Wilson lay there and smiled, a remote smile, half regretful, then he reached out and touched the girl’s head, felt it move up and down. Her wet lips, her rolling tongue; he tried to feel her and respond, gazing down at her shining, outspread hair, trying to will himself into her. The girl was expert, well schooled, her mouth working its ways on him, but the distance he had traveled, all the years, again rendered him impotent. The girl eventually raised her head, his flaccid penis in her hand, her brown eyes enlarging, lit by fear, her face begging forgiveness.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Wilson said quietly. ‘It’s not your fault. Just use the machine.’

  The girl was visibly relieved, standing upright, smiling gratefully, then she went to the wall beside the bed and pressed an imbedded button. Two paneled doors slid apart, exposing a walk-in cupboard, and the naked girl entered and then emerged with a small, mobile console. Wilson closed his eyes again, heard her movements, felt her hands; she dabbed the paste on his forehead, on his cranium and temples, then she fixed the thin electrodes to his skull and switched on the machine.

  An imperceptible current. A flow of energy through his brain. He relaxed, gave himself to the machine and felt his body responding. Opening his eyes, he saw himself: his erect, engorged penis; the naked girl leaning over his penis, tying something around it. He closed his eyes and surrendered, the years falling away from him, voluptuous visions and perverse, buried fantasies rising up to envelop him. Fierce reality and heat; the sublime, unraveled flesh… he saw it and touched it and felt it and returned to his youth. The girl breathed in his face, her tongue slipping between his lips; she moved down him, down his body, her lips and tongue busily working at him, sliding over him, burning him. The visions filled him and released him, engorged his penis and drained it, and then he gasped and slowly opened his eyes and felt the inflowing peace.