'Jumping all intermediate stages, he perfected a process for preserving fully-functioning human brains inside inert metal cases. The nerves of sight, hearing, and speech were tissue-metal grafted to appropriate inlets and outlets. Most other nerve connections were blocked off-Zukie believed this would increase the brain's potential store of ideational cells and in this he seems to have been brilliantly right. The isotope-powered heart he provided to circulate and purify the brain's blood and regenerate its oxygen was his sealed-motors masterpiece.
'Located inside a large fontanel, as he called the thick top of the metal brain-case, this heart-motor would require refueling only once a year. Daily replacing of a smaller fontanel would provide the brain with minor nutrients and get rid of the unavoidable residue of unregenerable waste products. As you may know, the brain requires a far more pure, simple and constant fluid environment than any other section of the human body, but by the same token Zukie showed it to be more susceptible to precise technologic control.
'A smaller pump-a triumph of subtlety-provided the brain with gentle rhythmic surges of hormones and randomized lower-body stimuli so the brain wouldn't just vegetate.
'The final achievement, a potentially immortal brain in an ovoid can, still seems nothing less than a miracle cubed, but oddly Zukie never looked on his achievement, as particularly difficult or stupendous. 'I had a lifetime in which to save a life,' he once said. 'How much more time could anyone have?' At any rate Zukie had achieved the means to his aim: immortality for the best human minds.'
Flaxman raised a finger. 'Now Zukie had his own ideas about the best human minds. Scientists he didn't give a hoot for, they were all his inferiors and as I've said he didn't rate himself too highly. Statesmen and such he only sneered at. Religion he'd been poisoned against in childhood. But mention the word artist and he would go all goosey inside and goosepimples out, for Zukie was a very literal-minded Joe, absolutely no imagination outside his specialties. Artistic creation, the merest tune-fingering, paint-smearing, or especially word-juggling, remained a miracle to him to his dying day. So it was clear who were going to have their minds pickled if Zukie had his way: creative artists-painters, sculptors, composers, but above all writers.
'Now this was a very sound idea in at least two ways: one, wordmills were just coming in and a lot of real writers were without employment; two, probably only writers would have been nutty enough to go along with what Zukie had in mind. He was a very shrewd man about some things, he knew there were going to be some highpower objections to what he was doing, so he went around very quietly making his contacts, getting his permissions, setting up his own private research hospital- for geriatrics studies he said-organizing the whole thing practically on a secret-society basis, and when the story finally did break he had thirty brains-all writers'-canned, and he folded his arms and flashed his eyes and teeth and dared the world to do its worse.
'It did. As you can imagine, there was an horrendous stink. Any organization you can name, from hidebound professional societies to screwball cults, found features to scream about. Most of 'em found six or seven. One church claimed he was denying salvation to mortals, while a branch of the anti-cruelty ladies kept demanding that the brains be instantly put out of their misery, as they sweetly expressed their death wishes.
'Overshadowing all the other complaints, of course, was the one felt by every two-legged Jack and Jill from here to Jupiter. Here was immortality on a platter, or in a can- limitations, sure, but immortality just the same, brain tissue being undying. Why wasn't it for everybody? It had better be, or else.
'Jurists say there never was a lego-sociologic issue to match the 'Eggheads Case' as some newsmen dubbed it, for sheer maddening complexity of injunctions, counter-injunctions, fifty-seven varieties of expert testimony, the full treatment. It was hard to get at Zukie, he'd protected himself pretty cleverly. He had superbly complete notarized permissions from all the subjects and every one of his brains backed him up when they were put on the witness stand. He'd also sunk the fortune he'd made from his inventions in a foundation he set up called the Braintrust to care for the brains in perpetuity.
'Then, just on the eve of what looked like the main trial, Zukie gummed the whole thing up forever. No, he didn't drop dead of heart failure in court-no tame finish like that for our Zukie.
'He had an assistant who was a whiz. This boy had performed the Psychosomatic Divorce-Zukie's name for the operation-three times with complete success; the last time the maestro had just watched, had not had to prompt once. So Zukie had the operation performed on himself! I guess he figured that once he was safe inside his shell there wasn't a thing the world could do to him and his thirty writers. He was really wound up in the socio-legal side of things by now-he was always a fighter I-and he probably thought that testifying from his metal container would be just the spectacular touch needed to tip the balance and win the big trial.
'And maybe he wanted his whack at immortality and mystical enlightenment too. Probably he liked the notion of living-floating's more like it, I guess-in a world of ideas for thousands of years, just resting and enjoying the insights of thirty comrade minds he revered, after having been so incredibly active in the body for fifty years or so. In any case he believed that he'd passed on his skill to at least one other person and so had a right to take what chances he wanted to with the rest of his own life.
'Zukie died on the table. His brilliant assistant destroyed all his notes and every scrap of special apparatus and killed himself.'
As Flaxman uttered those last words, slowly, for maximum effect, which he certainly achieved (he had himself as hypnotized as the others) the door to the office very slowly swung open with a soft long creak.
Flaxman jumped convulsively. The others jerked around. Standing in the doorway was a bent old man in a shiny serge uniform with a greasy-looking uniform cap that fit down snugly between shaggy white temples and high pale ear flaps that had a couple of long twisty hairs in each of them.
Gaspard recognized him at once. It was Joe the Guard, looking remarkably wakeful-his eyes were actually half open.
In his left hand he held his whisk broom and snap-lid dust pan. In his right was a bulbous black handgun with a wide pale stripe down the back of it.
'Clockin' in, Mr. Flaxman,' he said, touching the monstrous gun to his temple. 'All set to clean you up. See you need it. How do, everybody.'
'Are you prepared to repair or jury-rig an electrolock?' Cullingham inquired coolly.
'No, but 'twont be needful,' the old man said cheerfully. 'Come trouble I'll be standing guard with my trusty old skunk.pistol.'
'Skunk-pistol?' Nurse Bishop said with an incredulous giggle. 'Won't it shoot badgers too?'
'No'm. Fires soft pellets loaded with a smell intolerable to man or beast. Even seems to bother robots, somehow. Person hit strips and flees for water. Don't believe in deadly weapons, I don't. Can set it for riot-spray at a pinch.
'I believe you,' Flaxman said. 'But look, Joe, when you use it what happens to. . well, the players on our team?'
Joe the Guard smiled shrewdly. 'That's the beauty of it,' he said. 'That's what makes my trusty skunk-pistol the perfect weapon. Had my first cranial nerve severed in the last war. Ever since, I can't smell a thing.'
SIXTEEN
Joe the Guard had started thoughtfully to work on the fringes of the cellulose shambles after twice checking to reassure Flaxman that the safety catch on his skunk-pistol was firmly snicked down.
Miss Blushes was splicing an extension cord under the directions of Nurse Bishop, who was making flattering remarks about how nice it must be to have fingernails that could serve as powerful wire clippers.
Flaxman, resolutely turning his eyes away from the door with the useless electrolock, resumed his narrative.
'When Zukie died, the general pandemonium got worse, of course. The vision of immortality lost put too great a strain on society. The world headed for something that has never quite happened before or since, but which some of the socio-psychiatry boys have called the universal choke-up syndrome.
'Very luckily, the top people concerned with the case- lawyers, medics, government men-were smart, realistic, and devoted. They concocted the story, bolstered it every which way, and finally made it stick, that the PSD operation was no good, that every excised brain was reduced to tormented terminal idiocy after a brief period, that the eggheads were no more alive than the bits of chicken heart or Martian muscle the science boys keep pulsing in test tubes for decades, or the human sperm and ova in our Disaster Banks. Just brain tissue that wouldn't
