Brain Child

injured brain.

“This is, of course, an operating program, not a diagnostic one,” Torres had said smoothly. “What you’re seeing here was never really meant for human eyes. It’s a program designed to be read by a computer, and fed to a robot, and the graphics simply aren’t important. In fact, they’re incidental.”

“And they don’t mean a damned thing to me, Dr. Torres,” Marsh declared. “You told me you’d explain what’s happening to Alex, and so far, all you’ve done is dodge the issue. You now have a choice. Either get to the point, or I’m walking out of here—with my wife — and the next time you see us we’ll all be in court. Can I make it any clearer than that?”

Before Torres could make any reply, the telephone rang. “I said I wasn’t to be disturbed under any circumstances,” he said as soon as he’d put the phone to his ear. He listened for a moment, then frowned and held the receiver toward Marsh. “It’s for you, and I take it it’s some sort of emergency.”

“This is Dr. Lonsdale,” Marsh said, his voice almost as impatient as Torres’s had been. “What is it?”

And then he, too, listened in silence as the other person talked. When he hung up, his face was pale and his hands were trembling.

“Marsh …” Ellen breathed. “Marsh, what is it?”

“It’s Alex,” Marsh said, his voice suddenly dead. “That was Sergeant Finnerty. He says he wants to talk to Alex.”

“Again?” Ellen asked, her heart suddenly pounding. “Why?”

When he answered, Marsh kept his eyes on Raymond Torres!

“He says Cynthia and Carolyn Evans are both dead, and he says he has reason to think that Alex killed them.”

As Ellen gasped, Raymond Torres rose to his feet.

“If he said that, then he’s a fool,” Torres rasped, his normally cold eyes glittering angrily.

“But that is what he said,” Marsh whispered. Then, as Torres sank slowly back into his chair, Marsh spoke again. “Please, Dr. Torres, tell me what you’ve done to my son.”

“I saved him,” Torres replied, but for the first time, his icy demeanor had disappeared. He met Marsh’s eyes, and for a moment said nothing. Then he nodded almost imperceptibly.

“All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll tell you what I did. And when I’m done, you’ll see why Alex couldn’t have killed anyone.” He fell silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, Marsh was almost sure he was speaking more to himself than to either Marsh or Ellen. “No, it’s impossible. Alex couldn’t have killed anyone.”

Speaking slowly and carefully, he explained exactly what had been done to Alex Lonsdale.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Ellen tried to still her trembling hands as her eyes searched her husband’s face for whatever truth might be written there. But Marsh’s face remained stonily impassive, as it had been all through Raymond Torres’s long recitation. “But … but what does it all mean?” she finally asked. For the last hour, at least, she had no longer been able to follow the details of what Torres had been saying, nor was she sure the details mattered. What was frightening her was the implications of what she had heard.

“It doesn’t matter what it means,” Marsh said, “because it’s medically impossible.”

“Think what you like, Dr. Lonsdale,” Raymond Torres replied, “but what I’ve told you is the absolute truth. The fact that your son is still alive is the proof of it.” He offered Marsh a smile that was little more than a twisted grimace. “The morning after the operation, I believe you made reference to a miracle. You were, I assume, thinking of a medical miracle, and I chose not to correct you. What it was, though, was a technological miracle.”

“If what you’re saying is actually true,” Marsh said, “what you’ve done is no miracle at all. It’s an obscenity.”

Ellen’s eyes filled with tears, which she made no attempt to wipe away. “But he’s alive, Marsh,” she protested, and then shrank back in her chair as Marsh turned to face her.

“Is he? By what criteria? Let’s assume that what Torres says is true. That Alex’s brain was far too extensively damaged even to attempt repairs.” His eyes, flashing with anger, flicked to Torres. “That is what you said, isn’t it?”

Torres nodded. “There was no brain activity whatever, except on the most primitive level. His heart was beating, but that was all. Without the respirator, he couldn’t breathe, and as far as we could tell, he made no response to any sort of stimulation.”

“In other words, he was brain dead, with no hope of recovery?”

Again Torres nodded. “Not only was his brain dead, it was physically torn beyond repair. Which is the only reason I went ahead with the techniques I used.”

“Without our permission,” Marsh grated.

“With your permission,” Torres corrected. “The release clearly allowed me to use any methods I deemed necessary or fit, whether they were proven or unproven, traditional or experimental. And they worked.” He hesitated, then went on. “Perhaps I made a mistake,” he said. “Perhaps I should have declared Alex dead, and asked that his body be donated to science.”

“But isn’t that exactly what you did?” Marsh demanded, “Without, of course, the niceties of telling us what you were doing?”

Torres shook his head. “For the operation to be a complete success, I wanted there to be no question that Alex is still Alex. Had I declared him dead, what I have done would have led to certain questions I was not yet prepared to deal with.”

Suddenly Ellen rose to her feet. “Stop it! Just stop it!” Her eyes moved wildly from Marsh to Raymond Torres. “You’re talking about Alex as if he no longer exists!”

“In a way, Ellen,” Torres replied, “that’s exactly the truth. The Alex you knew doesn’t exist anymore. The only Alex that is real is the one I created.”

There was a sudden silence in the room, broken at last by Marsh’s voice, barely more than a whisper. “That you created with microprocessors? I still can’t believe it. It just isn’t possible.”

“But it is,” Torres said. “And it isn’t nearly as complicated as it sounds, except physically. It’s the connections that are the most difficult. Finding exactly the right neurons to connect to the leads of the microprocessors themselves. Fortunately, the brain itself is an aid there. Given an opportunity, it will build its own pathways and straighten out most of the human errors by itself.”

“But Alex is alive,” Ellen insisted. “He’s alive.”

“His body is alive,” Torres agreed. “And it’s kept alive by seventeen separate microprocessors, each of which is programmed to maintain and monitor the various physical systems of his body. Three of those microprocessors are concerned with nothing except the endocrine system, and four more handle the nervous system. Some of the systems are less complicated than those two, and could be lumped together in a single chip with a backup. Four of the chips are strictly memory. They were the easy ones.”

“Easy ones?” Ellen echoed, her voice weak.

Torres nodded. “This project has been under way for years, ever since I became interested in artificial intelligence — the concept of building a computer that can actually reason on its own, rather than simply make computations at an incredibly rapid speed. And the problem there is that despite all we know about the brain, we still have no real concept of how the process of original thought takes place. It very quickly became obvious to me that until we understood the process in the human brain, we couldn’t hope to duplicate it in a machine. And yet, we want machines that can think like people.”

“And you found the answer,” Marsh said, his voice tight.

Torres ignored his tone. “I found the answer. It seemed to me that since we couldn’t make a machine that could think like a man, perhaps we could create a man who could compute like a machine.

“A man with the memory capacity of a computer.

“The implication was obvious, and though the technology was not there ten years ago, it is today. The