He was obviously heavily sedated. Adam permitted himself a closer look. Alan’s head was swathed in bandages, and there was an IV dripping clear fluid into his right arm. Adam realized that the Fjord must have stopped in Puerto Rico the day before. No wonder they had kept Alan so heavily sedated.
They had scheduled him for involuntary surgery all along.
When Mitchell paused in his patient survey, Adam pointed to Alan and asked, “What was this man’s problem?”
Dr. Mitchell looked at Dr. Nachman, who nodded. Mitchell picked up the chart at the foot of Alan’s bed and read the summary out loud. “ ‘ Robert Iseman of Sandusky, Ohio; admitted for intractable temporal lobe epilepsy with criminally violent episodes; unresponsive to traditional treatment.’ Iseman had been committed to a psychiatric prison without hope of parole. He volunteered to participate in the Arolen treatment series.” Dr. Mitchell placed the chart back in its rack.
“Has he been here long?” asked Adam.
“A few days,” said Dr. Mitchell vaguely. “Why don’t we . .
.”
“Excuse me,” said Adam, interrupting, “but sometimes it’s easier to learn from a specific case than from generalities.
What kind of treatment has this man had? It would seem from his bandages that he’s had some form of brain surgery.”
“He has indeed,” said Mitchell after another quick glance at Dr. Nachman. “We know from his history that he was a particularly intractable case, and after a course of Conformin we implanted microelectrodes into the limbic system of his brain. That was his only hope for a lasting cure. You remember the classic experiments in which electrodes were imbedded in a bull’s head and used to stop it from charging?
Well, we’ve perfected the technique. We can do a lot more than merely stop a bull from charging.”
Adam nodded slowly, as if trying to understand, but his mind recoiled in horror.
“Keep in mind that Mr. Iseman’s treatment has just begun,”
Dr. Nachman said. “After he’s more fully recovered from the operation, he will undergo conditioning.”
“Absolutely,” echoed Dr. Mitchell. “In fact, treatment will begin tomorrow, and he can anticipate discharge in about four days. Why don’t we go down to the conditioning rooms so you can see exactly what we do.”
Adam took a final glance at Alan’s expressionless face and followed the doctors through the ward.
“Mr. Iseman will be given a combination of reinforced operant conditioning and adversive conditioning,” Dr.
Mitchell was saying. “A computer-guided program will be able to detect undesirable mental processes and reverse them before they manifest themselves in outward behavior.”
Adam’s mind whirled. He wondered what Mitchell meant by
“undesirable mental processes.” It probably ranged from refusing to prescribe Arolen products to belief in fee-for-service medicine.
“Here is one of our conditioning rooms,” said Mitchell, swinging open a door and allowing Adam to look inside. It was a miniature of the theater on the Fjord. There was a large projection screen on the far wall facing two chairs that were fully equipped with electrodes and straps. Adam turned away in horror, allowing the door to swing shut.
“Is there much effect on the personality?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Dr. Mitchell. “That is part of the program. We select only the most desirable personality traits.”
“What about intellect?” asked Adam.
“Very little adverse effect,” said Dr. Mitchell, leading the way back through the ward. “We’ve been able to document some minor decrease in creativity, but memory retention is normal. In fact, in some regards memory is enhanced, particularly for technical information.”
Adam looked at Alan as they passed. The man’s expression still hadn’t changed. He had been reduced to some kind of zombie.
“The research is progressing well,” said Dr. Nachman as he let them through the steel doors. “Of course, application is limited.”
“The fetology work certainly can be put to more general use,” said Dr. Glover.
“That’s a matter of opinion,” said Dr. Mitchell. “With the behavior-modification techniques we are perfecting, there will eventually be no locked wards either in hospitals or in prisons. In fact, both the National Institute of Mental Health and the Prisons Administration Board are funding our experiments.”
They emerged into the three-story lobby with the bubble skylights. Dr. Glover was not about to let Mitchell get in the last word. He began to enumerate the various government agencies that were funding fetology.
Adam was in a state of shock. MTIC planned the ultimate destruction of an independent medical profession. Doctors would no longer be free-thinking professionals. They would be employees of the MTIC-Arolen medical empire.
“Adam,” said Dr. Nachman, trying to get Adam’s attention.
“Are you still with us?”
“Yes, of course,” said Adam quickly. “I’m just overwhelmed.”
“Quite understandable,” said Dr. Nachman. “And I think that we should give you some time to enjoy our recreational facilities. A few hours at the beach will do you a world of good. Shall we meet for dinner at eight?”
“What about visiting the operating rooms for psychosurgery? If possible, I’d like to see them.”
“I’m afraid that is out of the question,” said Dr.
Nachman. “They’re getting ready for a case this evening.”
“Could I watch?” asked Adam.
Dr. Nachman shook his head. “We appreciate your interest, but unfortunately there is no viewing gallery. If you decide to take the job down here, though, I’m certain we can get you into the OR.”
As Adam went back to his room to change, he realized that he’d better figure out some way of smuggling tangible evidence out of the center. But what evidence? What could he bring back to New York that not only would convince Jennifer not to have an abortion, but would cause the medical profession to put MTIC out of business?
After several hours of lying in the sun, Adam thought he had an idea. It was wild, and probably impossible to execute, but if successful, Adam knew he would have no trouble convincing anyone to take his warnings seriously.
Cocktails and dinner were an ordeal for Adam. Dr. Nachman seemed to want to introduce him to as many people as possible, and it was almost eleven before he could escape to his room after pleading fatigue.
He had decided he could not start to put his plan into effect until midnight. Too restless to lie down in the meantime, he took off his suit and dressed in a dark blue shirt and jeans, then carefully opened his shoulder bag and checked the supplies he’d organized that afternoon.
At eleven fifty-five he could stand the suspense no longer. He left his room and took the stairway to the roof.
The moonlight was again almost as bright as day. He quickly crossed the bridge to the first inner building and then walked across to look down at the second. The skylights blazed, but Adam wasn’t certain that indicated any special activity inside.
Setting his bag on the roof, Adam opened it and pulled out the rope he’d stolen that afternoon from one of the sailboats. Then he searched for an appropriate ventilation pipe. After testing to see if it were securely fastened to the roof, he tied the rope to it and dropped the free end down three floors onto the bridge to the innermost building.
Unaccustomed to climbing and terrified of heights, Adam summoned all his fortitude to climb up on the four- foot wall and lower his legs over the side. After a short prayer, Adam grasped the rope and let go of the wall. Hanging on for dear life, he inched his way down until his feet touched the roof of the bridge. He dropped to his hands and knees and scrambled to the roof of the hospital building, where he made his way over to the large central skylight. A movement below made him hold up.
