American Science Fiction

by Gary K. Wolfe

  “I’ve heard enough,” he snapped. “You’re drunk.”

  “Ah, no,” I assured him. “Because if I get drunk, you’ll see a different Charlie Gordon from the one you’ve come to know. Yes, the other Charlie who walked in the darkness is still here with us. Inside me.”

  “He’s gone out of his head,” said Mrs. Nemur. “He’s talking as if there were two Charlie Gordons. You’d better look after him, doctor.”

  Dr. Strauss shook his head. “No. I know what he means. It’s come up recently in therapy sessions. A peculiar dissociation has taken place in the past month or so. He’s had several experiences of perceiving himself as he was before the experiment—as a separate and distinct individual still functioning in his consciousness—as if the old Charlie were struggling for control of the body—”

  “No! I never said that! Not struggling for control. Charlie is there, all right, but not struggling with me. Just waiting. He has never tried to take over or tried to prevent me from doing anything I wanted to do.” Then, remembering about Alice, I modified it. “Well, almost never. The humble, self-effacing Charlie you were all talking about a while ago is just waiting patiently. I’ll admit I’m like him in a number of ways, but humility and self-effacement are not among them. I’ve learned how little they get a person in this world.”

  “You’ve become cynical,” said Nemur. “That’s all this opportunity has meant to you. Your genius has destroyed your faith in the world and in your fellow men.”

  “That’s not completely true,” I said softly. “But I’ve learned that intelligence alone doesn’t mean a damned thing. Here in your university, intelligence, education, knowledge, have all become great idols. But I know now there’s one thing you’ve all overlooked: intelligence and education that hasn’t been tempered by human affection isn’t worth a damn.”

  I helped myself to another martini from the nearby sideboard and continued my sermon.

  “Don’t misunderstand me,” I said. “Intelligence is one of the greatest human gifts. But all too often a search for knowledge drives out the search for love. This is something else I’ve discovered for myself very recently. I present it to you as a hypothesis: Intelligence without the ability to give and receive affection leads to mental and moral breakdown, to neurosis, and possibly even psychosis. And I say that the mind absorbed in and involved in itself as a self-centered end, to the exclusion of human relationships, can only lead to violence and pain.

  “When I was retarded I had lots of friends. Now I have no one. Oh, I know lots of people. Lots and lots of people. But I don’t have any real friends. Not like I used to have in the bakery. Not a friend in the world who means anything to me, and no one I mean anything to.” I discovered that my speech was becoming slurred, and there was a lightness in my head. “That can’t be right, can it?” I insisted. “I mean, what do you think? Do you think that’s . . . that’s right?”

  Strauss came over and took my arm.

  “Charlie, maybe you’d better lie down a while. You’ve had too much to drink.”

  “Why y’all looking at me like that? What did I say wrong? Did I say something wrong? I din’t mean to say anything that wasn’t right.”

  I heard the words thick in my mouth, as if my face had been shot full of novocaine. I was drunk—completely out of control. At that moment, almost with the flick of a switch, I was watching the scene from the dining room doorway, and I could see myself as the other Charlie—there near the sideboard, drink in hand, eyes wide and frightened.

  “I always try to do the right things. My mother always taught me to be nice to people because she said that way you won’t get into trouble and you’ll always have lots of friends.”

  I could see by the way he was twitching and writhing that he had to get to the bathroom. Oh, my God, not there in front of them. “Excuse me, please,” he said, “I got to go . . .” Somehow, in that drunken stupor, I managed to turn him away from them and head him toward the bathroom.

  He made it in time, and after a few seconds I was again in control. I rested my cheek against the wall, and then washed my face with cool water. Still groggy, but I knew I was going to be all right.

  That’s when I saw Charlie watching me from the mirror behind the washbasin. I don’t know how I knew it was Charlie and not me. Something about the dull, questioning look in his face. His eyes, wide and frightened, as if at one word from me he would turn and run deep into the dimension of the mirrored world. But he didn’t run. He just stared back at me, mouth open, jaw hanging loosely.

  “Hello,” I said, “so you’ve finally come face to face with me.”

  He frowned, just a bit, as if he didn’t understand what I meant, as if he wanted an explanation but didn’t know how to ask for it. Then, giving it up, he smiled wryly from the corner of his mouth.

  “Stay there right in front of me,” I shouted. “I’m sick and tired of your spying on me from doorways and dark places where I can’t catch up with you.”

  He stared.

  “Who are you, Charlie?”

  Nothing but the smile.

  I nodded and he nodded back.

  “Then what do you want?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

  “Oh, come now,” I said, “you must want something. You’ve been following me—”

  He looked down and I looked at my hands to see what he was looking at. “You want these back, don’t you? You want me out of here so you can come back and take over where you left off. I don’t blame you. It’s your body and your brain—and your life, even though you weren’t able to make much use of it. I don’t have the right to take it away from you. Nobody does. Who’s to say that my light is better than your darkness? Who’s to say death is better than your darkness? Who am I to say? . . .

  “But I’ll tell you something else, Charlie.” I stood up and backed away from the mirror. “I’m not your friend. I’m your enemy. I’m not going to give up my intelligence without a struggle. I can’t go back down into that cave. There’s no place for me to go now, Charlie. So you’ve got to stay away. Stay inside my unconscious where you belong, and stop following me around. I’m not going to give up—no matter what they all think. No matter how lonely it is. I’m going to keep what they’ve given me and do great things for the world and for other people like you.”

  As I turned toward the door, I had the impression he was reaching out his hand toward me. But the whole damned thing was foolish. I was just drunk and that was my own reflection in the mirror.

  When I came out, Strauss wanted to put me into a taxi, but I insisted I could get home all right. All I needed was a little fresh air, and I didn’t want anyone to come with me. I wanted to walk by myself.

  I was seeing myself as I really had become: Nemur had said it. I was an arrogant, self-centered bastard. Unlike Charlie, I was incapable of making friends or thinking about other people and their problems. I was interested in myself, and myself only. For one long moment in that mirror I had seen myself through Charlie’s eyes—looked down at myself and saw what I had really become. And I was ashamed.

  Hours later I found myself in front of the apartment house, and made my way upstairs and through the dimly lit hallway. Passing Fay’s room, I could see there was a light on, and I started toward her door. But just as I was about to knock I heard her giggling, and a man’s answering laugh.

  It was too late for that.

  I let myself into my apartment quietly and stood there for a while in the dark, not daring to move, not daring to turn on the light. Just stood there and felt the whirlpool in my eyes.

  What has happened to me? Why am I so alone in the world?

  4:30 A.M.—The solution came to me, just as I was dozing off. Illuminated! Everything fits together, and I see what I should have known from the beginning. No more sleep. I’ve got to get back to the lab and test this against the results from the computer. This,
finally, is the flaw in the experiment. I’ve found it.

  Now what becomes of me?

  August 26—LETTER TO PROFESSOR NEMUR (COPY)

  Dear Professor Nemur:

  Under separate cover I am sending you a copy of my report entitled: “The Algernon-Gordon Effect: A Study of Structure and Function of Increased Intelligence,” which may be published if you see fit.

  As you know, my experiments are completed. I have included in my report all of my formulae, as well as mathematical analyses of the data in the appendix. Of course, these should be verified.

  The results are clear. The more sensational aspects of my rapid climb cannot obscure the facts. The surgery-and-injection techniques developed by you and Dr. Strauss must be viewed as having little or no practical applicability, at the present time, to the increase of human intelligence.

  Reviewing the data on Algernon: although he is still in his physical youth, he has regressed mentally. Motor activity impaired; general reduction of glandular functioning; accelerated loss of coordination; and strong indications of progressive amnesia.

  As I show in my report, these and other physical and mental deterioration syndromes can be predicted with statistically significant results by the application of my new formula. Although the surgical stimulus to which we were both subjected resulted in an intensification and acceleration of all mental processes, the flaw, which I have taken the liberty of calling the “Algernon-Gordon Effect,” is the logical extension of the entire intelligence speed-up. The hypothesis here proved may be described most simply in the following terms:

  ARTIFICIALLY-INDUCED INTELLIGENCE DETERIORATES AT A RATE OF TIME DIRECTLY PROPORTIONAL TO THE QUANTITY OF THE INCREASE.

  As long as I am able to write, I will continue to put down my thoughts and ideas in these progress reports. It is one of my few solitary pleasures and is certainly necessary to the completion of this research. However, by all indications, my own mental deterioration will be quite rapid.

  I have checked and rechecked my data a dozen times in hope of finding an error, but I am sorry to say the results must stand. Yet, I am grateful for the little bit that I here add to the knowledge of the function of the human mind and of the laws governing the artificial increase of human intelligence.

  The other night Dr. Strauss was saying that an experimental failure, the disproving of a theory, was as important to the advancement of learning as a success would be. I know now that this is true. I am sorry, however, that my own contribution to the field must rest upon the ashes of the work of this staff, and especially those who have done so much for me.

  Yours truly,

  Charles Gordon

  encl: report

  copy: Dr. Strauss

    The Welberg Foundation

  September 1—I must not panic. Soon there will be signs of emotional instability and forgetfulness, the first symptoms of the burnout. Will I recognize these in myself? All I can do now is keep recording my mental state as objectively as possible, remembering that this psychological journal will be the first of its kind, and possibly the last.

  This morning Nemur had Burt take my report and the statistical data down to Hallston University to have some of the top men in the field verify my results and the application of my formulas. All last week they had Burt going over my experiments and methodological charts. I shouldn’t really be annoyed by their precautions. After all, I’m just a Charlie-come-lately, and it is difficult for Nemur to accept the fact that my work might be beyond him. He had come to believe in the myth of his own authority, and after all I am an outsider.

  I don’t really care any more what he thinks, or what any of them think for that matter. There isn’t time. The work is done, the data is in, and all that remains is to see whether I have accurately projected the curve on the Algernon figures as a prediction of what will happen to me.

  Alice cried when I told her the news. Then she ran out. I’ve got to impress on her that there is no reason for her to feel guilty about this.

  September 2—Nothing definite yet. I move in a silence of clear white light. Everything around me is waiting. I dream of being alone on the top of a mountain, surveying the land around me, greens and yellows—and the sun directly above, pressing my shadow into a tight ball around my legs. As the sun drops into the afternoon sky, the shadow undrapes itself and stretches out toward the horizon, long and thin, and far behind me. . . .

  I want to say here again what I’ve said already to Dr. Strauss. No one is in any way to blame for what has happened. This experiment was carefully prepared, extensively tested on animals, and statistically validated. When they decided to use me as the first human test, they were reasonably certain that there was no physical danger involved. There was no way to foresee the psychological pitfalls. I don’t want anyone to suffer because of what happens to me.

  The only question now is: How much can I hang on to?

  September 15—Nemur says my results have been confirmed. It means that the flaw is central and brings the entire hypothesis into question. Someday there might be a way to overcome this problem, but that time is not yet. I have recommended that no further tests be made on human beings until these things are clarified by additional research on animals.

  It is my own feeling that the most successful line of research will be that taken by the men studying enzyme imbalances. As with so many other things, time is the key factor—speed in discovering the deficiency, and speed in administering hormonal substitutes. I would like to help in that area of research, and in the search for radio-isotopes that may be used in local cortical control, but I know now that I won’t have the time.

  September 17—Becoming absent minded. Put things away on my desk or in the drawers of the lab tables, and when I can’t find them I lose my temper and flare up at everyone. First signs?

  Algernon died two days ago. I found him at four thirty in the morning when I came back to the lab after wandering around down at the waterfront—on his side, stretched out in the corner of his cage. As if he were running in his sleep.

  Dissection shows that my predictions were right. Compared to the normal brain, Algernon’s had decreased in weight and there was a general smoothing out of the cerebral convolutions as well as a deepening and broadening of brain fissures.

  It’s frightening to think that the same thing might be happening to me right now. Seeing it happen to Algernon makes it real. For the first time, I’m afraid of the future.

  I put Algernon’s body into a small metal container and took him home with me. I wasn’t going to let them dump him into the incinerator. It’s foolish and sentimental, but late last night I buried him in the back yard. I wept as I put a bunch of wild flowers on the grave.

  September 21—I’m going to Marks Street to visit my mother tomorrow. A dream last night triggered off a sequence of memories, lit up a whole slice of the past and the important thing is to get it down on paper quickly before I forget it because I seem to forget things sooner now. It has to do with my mother, and now—more than ever—I want to understand her, to know what she was like and why she acted the way she did. I mustn’t hate her.

  I’ve got to come to terms with her before I see her so that I won’t act harshly or foolishly.

  September 27—I should have written this down right away, because it’s important to make this record complete.

  I went to see Rose three days ago. Finally, I forced myself to borrow Burt’s car again. I was afraid, and yet I knew I had to go.

  At first when I got to Marks Street I thought I had made a mistake. It wasn’t the way I remembered it at all. It was a filthy street. Vacant lots where many of the houses had been torn down. On the sidewalk, a discarded refrigerator with its face ripped off, and on the curb an old mattress with wire intestines hanging out of its belly. Some houses had boarded up windows, and others looked more like patched-up shanties than homes. I park
ed the car a block away from the house and walked.

  There were no children playing on Marks Street—not at all like the mental picture I had brought with me of children everywhere, and Charlie watching them through the front window (strange that most of my memories of the street are framed by the window, with me always inside watching the children play). Now there were only old people standing in the shade of tired porches.

  As I approached the house, I had a second shock. My mother was on the front stoop, in an old brown sweater, washing the ground floor windows from the outside even though it was cold and windy. Always working to show the neighbors what a good wife and mother she was.

  The most important thing had always been what other people thought—appearances before herself or her family. And righteous about it. Time and again Matt had insisted that what others thought about you wasn’t the only thing in life. But it did no good. Norma had to dress well; the house had to have fine furniture; Charlie had to be kept inside so that other people wouldn’t know anything was wrong.

  At the gate, I paused to watch as she straightened up to catch her breath. Seeing her face made me tremble, but it was not the face I had struggled so hard to recall. Her hair had become white and streaked with iron, and the flesh of her thin cheeks was wrinkled. Perspiration made her forehead glisten. She caught sight of me and stared back.

  I wanted to look away, to turn back down the street, but I couldn’t—not after having come so far. I would just ask directions, pretending I was lost in a strange neighborhood. Seeing her had been enough. But all I did was stand there waiting for her to do something first. And all she did was stand there and look at me.