by Isaac Asimov
“Then counter me by being a good teacher, and tell me of this Synapsifier of yours.”
Shekt started visibly and frowned. “What, you have heard of the instrument? You are then a physicist as well as an administrator?”
“All knowledge is my province. But seriously, Shekt, I would really like to know.”
The physicist peered closely at the other and seemed doubtful. He rose and his gnarled hand lifted to his lip, which it pinched thoughtfully. “I scarcely know where to begin.”
“Well, Stars above, if you are considering at which point in the mathematical theory you are to begin, I’ll simplify your problem. Abandon them all. I know nothing of your functions and tensors and what not.”
Shekt’s eyes twinkled. “Well, then, to stick to descriptive matter only, it is simply a device intended to increase the learning capacity of a human being.”
“Of a human being? Really! And does it work?”
“I wish we knew. Much more work is necessary. I’ll give you the essentials, Procurator, and you can judge for yourself. The nervous system in man—and in animals—is composed of neuroprotein material. Such material consists of huge molecules in very precarious electrical balance. The slightest stimulus will upset one, which will right itself by upsetting the next, which will repeat the process, until the brain is reached. The brain itself is an immense grouping of similar molecules which are connected among themselves in all possible ways. Since there are something like ten to the twentieth power—that is, a one with twenty zeros after it—such neuroproteins in the brain, the number of possible combinations are of the order of factorial ten to the twentieth power. This is a number so large that if all the electrons and protons in the universe were made universes themselves, and all the electrons and protons in all of these new universes again made universes, then all the electrons and protons in all the universes so created would still be nothing in comparison. . . . Do you follow me?”
“Not a word, thank the Stars. If I even attempted to, I should bark like a dog for sheer pain of the intellect.”
“Hmp. Well, in any case, what we call nerve impulses are merely the progressive electronic unbalance that proceeds along the nerves to the brain and then from the brain back along the nerves. Do you get that?”
“Yes.”
“Well, blessings on you for a genius, then. As long as this impulse continues along a nerve cell, it proceeds at a rapid rate, since the neuroproteins are practically in contact. However, nerve cells are limited in extent, and between each nerve cell and the next is a very thin partition of non-nervous tissue. In other words, two adjoining nerve cells do not actually connect with each other.”
“Ah,” said Ennius, “and the nervous impulse must jump the barrier.”
“Exactly! The partition drops the strength of the impulse and slows the speed of its transmission according to the square of the width thereof. This holds for the brain as well. But imagine, now, if some means could be found to lower the dialectric constant of this partition between the cells.”
“That what constant?”
“The insulating strength of the partition. That’s all I mean. If that were decreased, the impulse would jump the gap more easily. You would think faster and learn faster.”
“Well, then, I come back to my original question. Does it work?”
“I have tried the instrument on animals.”
“And with what result?”
“Why, that most die very quickly of denaturation of brain protein—coagulation, in other words, like hard-boiling an egg.”
Ennius winced. “There is something ineffably cruel about the cold-bloodedness of science. What about those that didn’t die?”
“Not conclusive, since they’re not human beings. The burden of the evidence seems to be favorable, for them. . . . But I need humans. You see, it is a matter of the natural electronic properties of the individual brain. Each brain gives rise to microcurrents of a certain type. None are exactly duplicates. They’re like fingerprints, or the blood-vessel patterns of the retina. If anything, they’re even more individual. The treatment, I believe, must take that into account, and, if I am right, there will be no more denaturation. . . . But I have no human beings on whom to experiment. I ask for volunteers, but—” He spread his hands.
“I certainly don’t blame them, old man,” said Ennius. “But seriously, should the instrument be perfected, what do you intend doing with it?”
The physicist shrugged. “That’s not for me to say. It would be up to the Grand Council, of course.”
“You would not consider making the invention available to the Empire?”
“I? I have no objections at all. But only the Grand Council has jurisdiction over—”
“Oh,” said Ennius with impatience, “the devil with your Grand Council. I have had dealings with them before. Would you be willing to talk to them at the proper time?”
“Why, what influence could I possible have?”
“You might tell them that if Earth could produce a Synapsifier that would be applicable to human beings in complete safety, and if the device were made available to the Galaxy, then some of the restrictions on emigration to other planets might be broken down.”
“What,” said Shekt sarcastically, “and risk epidemics and our differentness and our non-humanity?”
“You might,” said Ennius quietly, “even be removed en masse to another planet. Consider it.”
The door opened at this point and a young lady brushed her way in past the book-film cabinet. She destroyed the musty atmosphere of the cloistered study with an automatic breath of spring. At the sight of a stranger she reddened slightly and turned.
“Come in, Pola,” called Shekt hastily. “My Lord,” he said to Ennius, “I believe you have never met my daughter. Pola, this is Lord Ennius, Procurator of Earth.”
The Procurator was on his feet with an easy gallantry that negated her first wild attempt at a curtsy.
“My dear Miss Shekt,” he said, “you are an ornament I did not believe Earth capable of producing. You would, indeed, be an ornament on any world I can think of.”
He took Pola’s hand, which was quickly and somewhat bashfully extended to meet his gesture. For a moment Ennius made as if to kiss it, in the courtly fashion of the past generation, but the intention, if such it was, never came to fruition. Half lifted, the hand was released—a trace too quickly, perhaps.
Pola, with the slightest of frowns, said, “I’m overwhelmed at your kindness, my Lord, to a simple girl of Earth. You are brave and gallant to dare infection as you do.”
Shekt cleared his throat and interrupted. “My daughter, Procurator, is completing her studies at the University of Chica and is obtaining some needed field credits by spending two days a week in my laboratory as a technician. A competent girl, and though I say it with the pride of a father, she may someday sit in my place.”
“Father,” said Pola gently, “I have some important information for you.” She hesitated.
“Shall I leave?” said Ennius quietly.
“No, no,” said Shekt. “What is it, Pola?”
The girl said, “We have a volunteer, Father.”
Shekt stared, almost stupidly. “For the Synapsifier?”
“So he says.”
“Well,” said Ennius, “I bring you good fortune, I see.”
“So it would seem.” Shekt turned to his daughter. “Tell him to wait. Take him to Room C, and I’ll be with him soon.”
He turned to Ennius after Pola left. “Will you excuse me, Procurator?”
“Certainly. How long does the operation take?”
“It’s a matter of hours, I’m afraid. Do you wish to watch?”
“I can imagine nothing more gruesome, my dear Shekt. I’ll be in the State House till tomorrow. Will you tell me the result?”
Shekt seemed relieved. “Yes, certainly.”
“Good. . . . And think over what I said about your Synapsifier. Your new royal road to knowledge.�
�
Ennius left, less at ease than when he had arrived; his knowledge no greater, his fears much increased.
5
The Involuntary Volunteer
Once alone, Dr. Shekt, quietly and cautiously, touched the summoner, and a young technician entered hurriedly, white robe sparkling, long brown hair carefully bound back.
Dr. Shekt said, “Has Pola told you—”
“Yes, Dr. Shekt. I’ve observed him through the visiplate, and he must undoubtedly be a legitimate volunteer. He’s certainly not a subject sent in the usual manner.”
“Ought I refer to the Council, do you suppose?”
“I don’t know what to advise. The Council wouldn’t approve of any ordinary communication. Any beam can be tapped, you know.” Then, eagerly, “Suppose I get rid of him. I can tell him we need men under thirty. The subject is easily thirty-five.”
“No, no. I’d better see him.” Shekt’s mind was a cold whirl. So far things had been most judiciously handled. Just enough information to lend a spurious frankness, but no more. And now an actual volunteer—and immediately after Ennius’s visit. Was there a connection? Shekt himself had but the vaguest knowledge of the giant misty forces that were now beginning to wrestle back and forth across the blasted face of Earth. But, in a way, he knew enough. Enough to feel himself at the mercy of them, and certainly more than any of the Ancients suspected he knew.
Yet what could he do, since his life was doubly in danger?
Ten minutes later Dr. Shekt was peering helplessly at the gnarled farmer standing before him, cap in hand, head half averted, as though attempting to avoid a too-close scrutiny. His age, thought Shekt, was certainly under forty, but the hard life of the soil was no flatterer of men. The man’s cheeks were reddened beneath the leathery brown, and there were distinct traces of perspiration at the hairline and the temples, though the room was cool. The man’s hands were fumbling at each other.
“Now, my dear sir,” said Shekt kindly, “I understand you refuse to give your name.”
Arbin’s was a blind stubbornness. “I was told no questions would be asked if you had a volunteer.”
“Hmm. Well, is there anything at all you would like to say? Or do you just want to be treated immediately?”
“Me? Here, now?” in sudden panic. “It’s not myself that’s the volunteer. I didn’t say anything to give that impression.”
“No? You mean someone else is the volunteer?”
“Certainly. What would I want—”
“I understand. Is the subject, this other man, with you?”
“In a way,” said Arbin cautiously.
“All right. Now, look, just tell us whatever you wish. Everything you say will be held in strict confidence, and we’ll help you in whatever way we can. Agreed?”
The farmer ducked his head, as a sort of rudimentary gesture of respect. “Thank you. It’s like this, sir. We have a man about the farm, a distant—uh—relative. He helps, you understand—”
Arbin swallowed with difficulty, and Shekt nodded gravely.
Arbin continued. “He’s a very willing worker and a very good worker—we had a son, you see, but he died—and my good woman and myself, you see, need the help—she’s not well—we could not get along without him, scarcely.” He felt that somehow the story was a complete mess.
But the gaunt scientist nodded at him. “And this relative of yours is the one you wish treated?”
“Why, yes, I thought I had said that—but you’ll pardon me if this takes me some time. You see, the poor fellow is not—exactly—right in his head.” He hurried on, furiously. “He is not sick, you understand. He is not wrong so that he has to be put away. He’s just slow. He doesn’t talk, you see.”
“He can’t talk?” Shekt seemed startled.
“Oh—he can. It’s just that he doesn’t like to. He doesn’t talk well.”
The physicist looked dubious. “And you want the Synapsifier to improve his mentality, eh?”
Slowly, Arbin nodded. “If he knew a bit more, sir, why, he could do some of the work my wife can’t, you see.”
“He might die. Do you understand that?”
Arbin looked at him helplessly, and his fingers writhed furiously.
Shekt said, “I’d need his consent.”
The farmer shook his head slowly, stubbornly. “He won’t understand.” Then, urgently, almost beneath his breath, “Why, look, sir, I’m sure you’ll understand me. You don’t look like a man who doesn’t know what a hard life is. This man is getting old. It’s not a question of the Sixty, you see, but what if, in the next Census, they think he’s a half-wit and—and take him away? We don’t like to lose him, and that’s why we bring him here.
“The reason I’m trying to be secret-like is that maybe—maybe”—and Arbin’s eyes swiveled involuntarily at the walls, as if to penetrate them by sheer will and detect the listeners that might be behind—“well, maybe the Ancients won’t like what I’m doing. Maybe trying to save an afflicted man can be judged as against the Customs, but life is hard, sir. . . . And it would be useful to you. You have asked for volunteers.”
“I know. Where is your relative?”
Arbin took the chance. “Out in my biwheel, if no one’s found him. He wouldn’t be able to take care of himself if anyone has—”
“Well, we’ll hope he’s safe. You and I will go out right now and bring the car around to our basement garage. I’ll see to it that no one knows of his presence but ourselves and my helpers. And I assure you that you won’t be in trouble with the Brotherhood.”
His arm dropped in friendly fashion to Arbin’s shoulder, who grinned spasmodically. To the farmer it was like a rope loosening from about his neck.
Shekt looked down at the plump, balding figure upon the couch. The patient was unconscious, breathing deeply and regularly. He had spoken unintelligibly, had understood nothing. Yet there had been none of the physical stigmata of feeblemindedness. Reflexes had been in order, for an old man.
Old! Hmm.
He looked across at Arbin, who watched everything with a glance like a vise.
“Would you like us to take a bone analysis?”
“No,” cried Arbin. Then, more softly, “I don’t want anything that might be identification.”
“It might help us—be safer, you know—if we knew his age,” said Shekt.
“He’s fifty,” said Arbin shortly.
The physicist shrugged. It didn’t matter. Again he looked at the sleeper. When brought in, the subject had been, or certainly seemed, dejected, withdrawn, uncaring. Even the Hypno-pills had apparently aroused no suspicion. They had been offered him; there had been a quick, spasmodic smile in response, and he had swallowed them.
The technician was already rolling in the last of the rather clumsy units which together made up the Synapsifier. At the touch of a push button the polarized glass in the windows of the operating room underwent molecular rearrangement and became opaque. The only light was the white one that blazed its cold brilliance upon the patient suspended, as he was, in the multihundred-kilowatt diamagnetic field some two inches above the operating table to which he was transferred.
Arbin still sat in the dark there, understanding nothing, but determined in deadly fashion to prevent, somehow, by his presence, the harmful tricks he knew he had not the knowledge to prevent.
The physicists paid no attention to him. The electrodes were adjusted to the patient’s skull. It was a long job. First there was the careful study of the skull formation by the Ullster technique that revealed the winding, tight-knit fissures. Grimly, Shekt smiled to himself. Skull fissures weren’t an unalterable quantitative measure of age, but they were good enough in this case. The man was older than the claimed fifty.
And then, after a while, he did not smile. He frowned. There was something wrong with the fissures. They seemed odd—not quite . . .
For a moment he was ready to swear that the skull formation was a primitive one, a throwback, but then . . . We
ll, the man was subnormal in mentality. Why not?
And suddenly he exclaimed in shock, “Why, I hadn’t noticed! This man has hair on his face!” He turned to Arbin. “Has he always been bearded?”
“Bearded?”
“Hair on his face! Come here! Don’t you see it?”
“Yes, sir.” Arbin thought rapidly. He had noticed it that morning and then had forgotten. “He was born like that,” he said, and then weakened it by adding, “I think.”
“Well, let’s remove it. You don’t want him going around like a brute beast, do you?”
“No, sir.”
The hair came off smoothly at the application of a depilatory salve by the carefully gloved technician.
The technician said, “He has hair on his chest too, Dr. Shekt.”
“Great Galaxy,” said Shekt, “let me see! Why, the man is a rug! Well, let it be. It won’t show with a shirt, and I want to get on with the electrodes. Let’s have wires here and here, and here.” Tiny pricks and the insertion of the platinum hair-lets. “Here and here.”
A dozen connections, probing through skin to the fissures, through the tightness of which could be felt the delicate shadow echoes of the microcurrents that surged from cell to cell in the brain.
Carefully they watched the delicate ammeters stir and leap, as the connections were made and broken. The tiny needlepoint recorders traced their delicate spider webs across the graphed paper in irregular peaks and troughs.
Then the graphs were removed and placed on the illuminated opal glass. They bent low over it, whispering.
Arbin caught disjointed flashes: “. . . remarkably regular . . . look at the height of the quinternary peak . . . think it ought to be analyzed . . . clear enough to the eye . . .”
And then, for what seemed a long time, there was a tedious adjustment of the Synapsifier. Knobs were turned, eyes on vernier adjustments, then clamped and their readings recorded. Over and over again the various electrometers were checked and new adjustments were made necessary.