“I don’t know, I haven’t tried. I mean, I haven’t given it the opportunity. If you must know, I was slapped several times. It embarrassed and angered me, being slapped, because I wasn’t guilty, yet at the same time I was pleased. But once a woman slapped me and the slap landed fully on the left cheek, and when that happened I didn’t feel the slightest pleasure. I thought this over and finally figured out the reason.”
“But of course!” cried the professor. “When the left-hemisphere Tichy was slapped on the cheek for the right-hemisphere Tichy, the right-hemisphere Tichy was pleased. But when the slap was wholly on the left, it didn’t like that at all.”
“Exactly. So there is some sort of communication in my unfortunate head, but it appears to be more emotional than rational. Emotions too are experience, though not conscious experience. But how can experience be unconscious? No, that Eccles with his automatic reflexes was all wet. To see an attractive girl in a crowd, and maneuver yourself close to her, and pinch her — that’s a whole premeditated plan of attack, not a bunch of mindless reflexes. But
“It can be explained,” said the professor, excited. “The light of a candle is visible in the dark but not in the sun. The right brain may have consciousness, but a consciousness as feeble as candlelight, extinguished by the dominant consciousness of the left brain. It’s entirely possible that —”
The professor ducked, avoiding a shoe in the head. My left foot had slipped it off, propped the heel against a chair leg, then kicked it so hard that the shoe flew like a missile and crashed into the wall, missing him by a hair.
“You may be right,” I remarked, “but the right hemisphere is damned touchy.”
“Perhaps it feels threatened by our conversation, not fully understanding it or misunderstanding it,” said the professor. “Perhaps we should address it directly.”
“You mean, the way I do it? That’s possible. But what do you want to say to it?”
“That will depend on its response. Yours, Mr. Tichy, is a unique situation. There’s never been a person completely sound of mind, and not an ordinary mind at that, who underwent a callotomy.”
“Let me make myself clear,” I answered, stroking the back of my left hand to calm it because it was starting to move, flexing the fingers, which worried me. “I am not interested in sacrificing myself for science. If you or someone else enters into communication with It — you know what I mean — that could turn out to be harmful to me, let alone damned unpleasant, if, say, it becomes more independent.”
“That’s quite impossible,” declared the professor, a little too confidently, I thought. He took off his glasses and wiped them with a piece of flannel. His eyes did not have that helpless expression of most people who can’t see without their glasses. He gave me a sharp look as if he didn’t need them at all, then immediately dropped his eyes.
“What happens is always quite impossible,” I said, weighing my words. “The whole history of mankind consists of impossibilities, and the history of science too. A certain young philosopher told me that my condition is an impossibility, contradicting all established thought, which says that consciousness is an indivisible thing. The so-called split personality is essentially a consciousness that alternates between different states joined imperfectly by memory and a sense of identity. It’s not a cake that can be cut into pieces!”
“I see you’ve been reading the literature,” observed the professor, putting on his glasses. He added something I didn’t hear. I was going to go on but stopped because my left hand was putting its fingers into my right palm, making signs. That had never happened before. McIntyre saw me looking at my hands and understood immediately.
“Is It speaking?” he whispered as if not wanting to be overheard.
“Yes.”
The message surprised me, but I relayed it:
“It wants a piece of cake.”
The joy on the professor’s face made my blood run cold. Assuring the left hand that if it was patient it would have cake, I said to the professor:
“From your scientific point of view it would be wonderful if It became more independent. I don’t hold that against you, I understand how fantastic it would be having two fully developed individuals in a single body, so much to learn, so many experiments to run, and all that. But I’m not thrilled by the thought of having a democracy established in my head. I want to be less plural, not more.”
“You are giving me a vote of no confidence? Well, I can understand that.” The professor smiled sympathetically. “First let me assure you that all this information will remain confidential. My professional oath of secrecy. Beyond that, I will suggest no therapy for you. You must do what you believe is best. I hope you’ll think it over carefully. Will you be in Melbourne long?”
“I don’t know yet. In any case, I’ll call you.”
Tarantoga, sitting in the waiting room, jumped up when he saw me.
“Well? Professor…? Ijon…?”
“No decisions have been made,” said McIntyre in an official tone. “Mr. Tichy has various things to consider. I am at his service.”
Being a man of my word, I asked the taxi driver to stop at a bakery on the way, and bought a piece of cake and had to eat it immediately in the car because It insisted, even though I wasn’t in the mood for anything sweet. But I had decided, for the present at least, not to torment myself with questions such as
Tarantoga and I had adjoining rooms, so I went to his and filled him in on what happened with McIntyre. My hand interrupted me several times because it was dissatisfied. The cake had been flavored with licorice, which I can’t stand. I ate it anyway, thinking I was doing it for It, but apparently It and I — or I and I — have the same taste. Which is understandable, in that the hand can’t eat by itself and It and I do have a mouth, palate, and tongue in common. I had the feeling I was in a dream, part nightmare, part comedy, and carrying not an infant exactly but a small, spoiled, precocious child. I remembered one psychologist’s theory that small children didn’t have a continuous consciousness because the fibers of the commissure were still undeveloped.
“A letter for you.” With these words Tarantoga brought me out of my reverie. I was surprised: no one knew where I was. The letter was postmarked Mexico City, airmail, no return address. In the envelope was a square of paper with the typed words: “He’s from the LA.”
Nothing more. I turned the paper over. It was blank. Tarantoga took it, looked at it, and then at me:
“What does this mean? Do you understand it?”
“No. Yes… the LA is the Lunar Agency. They were the ones who sent me.”
“To the moon?”
“Yes. On a reconnaissance mission. I was supposed to submit a report afterward.”
“And did you?”
“Yes. I wrote what I remembered. And gave it to the barber.”
“Barber?”
“That was the arrangement. Instead of going to them. But who is ‘he’? It must be McIntyre. I haven’t seen anyone else here.”
“Wait. I don’t understand. What was in the report?”
“I can’t tell that even to you. It’s top-secret. But there wasn’t much in it. I forgot a great deal.”
“After your accident?”
“Yes. What are you doing, professor?”
Tarantoga turned the torn envelope over. Someone had printed in pencil, inside: “Burn this. Don’t let the right sink the left.”
I didn’t understand it, yet there was some sense in it. Suddenly I looked at Tarantoga with widened eyes:
“I begin to see. Neither message, on the envelope or in the letter, has proper nouns. Did you notice?”
“So?”
“It understands nouns best. Whoever sent this wants to tell me something and not It…”
As I was saying this, I pointed to my right temple with my right hand. Tarantoga got up, paced the room, drummed his fingers on the table, and said:
