He said: “Here, you’ll notice, is your brain at the outset of the test.”
He pointed to the first image, which I drew closer to inspect. “Unchanged, for the most part, throughout the test, because you’re telling the truth.”
I heard: You must trust me. You must trust me.
Then he indicated a final set of images, which even I could tell were colored somewhat differently-yellow and magenta along the cerebral cortex rather than the normal rust and beige. He described with a finger the areas that manifested change.
“Here, you’re lying.” He smiled quickly and added with unnecessary politeness, “As I asked you to do.”
“I see.”
“I’m concerned about your headache.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
“I’m concerned that this machine might have caused it.”
“The noise,” I said. “The noise is probably what did it. I’ll be fine.”
Rossi, head still bent, nodded.
I heard: It will be so much easier if we trust each other. The voice seemed to fade out for a moment, and then came back:-to tell me.
He did not reply, and so I said, “If there’s nothing further…”
Behind you, the voice came, urgent and loud now. Coming up behind you. Loaded gun. You’ve become a threat. Pointed at your head.
He was not speaking. He was thinking.
I betrayed no response. I continued staring at him questioningly, yet as casually as I could.
Now, now, now. Hope to God he can’t hear the footsteps behind him.
He was testing me. I felt sure of it. Mustn’t respond, mustn’t show fear, that’s what he wants, he wants some little sign, some glimmering of fear in my face, wants me to whip around suddenly, flinch, show him I can hear it.
“Then I really should be getting along,” I said calmly.
I heard: Does he?
“Well,” Rossi said, “we can talk next time.”
I heard: Either he’s lying or-
I watched his face; saw that his mouth hadn’t moved. Once again I felt that creeping dread, a tingling on my skin, and my heart began to beat much too quickly.
Rossi looked at me, and I felt sure I saw resignation in his eyes. I had, for the time being at least, fooled him, I thought. But there was something about Charles Rossi that told me I would not fool him for long.
THIRTEEN
I sat, stunned, in the back of a taxicab making its way through the broad, clogged streets near Government Center toward my office. My head throbbed worse than ever, and I felt constantly on the edge of being sick to my stomach.
It is an understatement of the highest order to tell you that I was in the early stages of some sort of deep, wild panic. My world had been turned upside down. Nothing made sense anymore. I was deeply afraid that I was on the verge of losing touch with sanity altogether.
I was hearing voices now, voices unspoken. I was hearing, to put it plainly, the thoughts of others almost as clearly as if they had spoken them aloud.
And I was convinced I was losing my mind.
Even now I’m unable to put straight what I knew then and what I concluded much later. Had I really “heard” what I thought I’d heard? How was this possible? And, more directly to the point, what precisely did Rossi and his lab assistant mean by asking themselves, “Did it work?” It seemed to me there was only one possible explanation: they knew. Somehow, they-Rossi and his lab assistant-were not stunned that the MRI had done to me what it did. For there was no doubt in my mind that it was the MRI that had somehow altered my brain’s hardwiring.
But did Truslow know what had happened?
And yet a minute after thinking this whole thing through lucidly, I found myself wondering, in a panic, whether I had taken a left turn into lunacy.
As the taxi crawled through traffic, my thoughts grew increasingly suspicious. Was that “lie detector test” business merely a pretext, a way to compel me to undergo this procedure?
Had they, in short, known what would happen to me?
Again: had Truslow known?
And had I fooled Rossi? Or did he know that I had this strange and terrible new ability?
Rossi, I feared, knew. Normally, when someone says something that echoes in some way what we’ve been thinking-we’ve all had moments like that-we respond with surprise, often delight. It is no doubt pleasurable on some level to find another human being connecting with us in such a way.
But Rossi didn’t seem surprised. He seemed-how would I describe it?-alert, alarmed, suspicious. As if he’d been waiting for such a development.
I wondered, as I reflected on that scene with Rossi, whether I had really convinced him that there was nothing out of the ordinary in my response-that I merely seemed to be tuned in to his thoughts, that it was nothing more than coincidence.
As the cab pulled into the financial district, I leaned forward to give the driver directions. The driver, a middle-aged black man with a sparse beard, sat back in his seat distractedly as he drove, as if in a reverie. Separating us was a scuffed Plexiglas partition. I spoke into the speaker holes, and suddenly realized something startling: I wasn’t “hearing” the driver. Now I was totally confused. Had this talent subsided, or disappeared altogether? Was it the Plexiglas, or the distance, or something else? Again: had I imagined the occurrence altogether?
“Take a right here,” I said, “and it’ll be the large gray building on the left.”
Nothing. The sound of the radio, an all-talk station chattering along at low volume, and the occasional burst of static from his CB, but nothing else.
Had the MRI done something to my brain that had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared?
Totally confused now, I paid him and entered the building lobby, which was crowded with people returning from their early lunches, noisy with their babble. Along with a sizable crowd of lunchtime returnees, I pressed my way into the elevator, pushed the button for my floor, and-I will admit it-tried to “listen” or “read” or whatever you call it, but the various loud conversations made that impossible in any case.
My head throbbed. I felt claustrophobic, nauseated. Perspiration dripped down the back of my neck.
Then the elevator doors shut, and the crowd fell silent, as it so often does in elevators, and it happened.
I could hear, kaleidoscopically, snatches of words-or, as it seemed to me at that moment, smears of words and phrases, the way a record or tape sounds when you play it backward (or did in the days before digitally recorded sound, when the technology actually allowed you to do such tricks). The woman next to me-pressed up against me by the crush of people-was a serene-looking woman of around forty, plump and red-haired. Her expression was pleasant, a slight smile. But I could hear at the same time a voice-it had to be coming from her-that came in surges, distant and then distinct, fading in and out, like voices on a party line. Stand it can’t stand it, the voice went. Do it to me he can’t do it to me he can’t. Startled by the contrast between this woman’s pleasant demeanor and the thoughts that bordered on the hysterical, I turned my head toward the man on my left, who looked like a lawyer, in a lawyerly pinstripe suit and horn-rimmed glasses, early fifties, his expression one of vague boredom. And then it came, a distant shout in a male voice: minutes late they’ve started without me the bastard…
I was “tuning in,” without consciously doing it, the way you can listen for a familiar voice in a crowd, selecting for a certain timbre, a certain sound. In the silence of the elevator, it was simple.