The Neurolab was three levels down. Val and Walter watched the Neuroteck load the gray drum into his processor. The optic readout projected a 1,000 X magnification onto a large screen. Little flecks of granular debris came into focus. Jo Jo’s brain cells began to flow by.
“We got this one sampled promptly. There should be ample neurones in the specimen for our tests. Look at those red cells—the biconcave discs. They are about ten microns across. The dark things are just nuclear debris.”
A large triangular-shaped cell drifted into view. It had many dendritic buttons scattered over its cell membrane. At one point, it led into a thick axon fiber which trailed behind. The teck centered the optic on this larger cell, flooded the chamber with oxygen and nutrients and initiated the testing cycle.
“This looks like a promising neurone,” he said, pointing to the screen. “We can just sit back and wait. The antibody and enzyme reactions will tell us if the brain malfunctioned because of IA or MR.”
In its high-oxygen-glucose environment the cell’s respiratory quotient slowly rose—0.7—0.8—0.9.
“When the RQ reaches 1.0 the synapses can be checked for blocking agents. See those little buttons? They sit on dendrites and represent synapses coming in from other neurones. There are three neurochemicals in the brain, depending on the function of the synapse. There are many exceptions, of course, but most of the acetylcholine synapses are sensory/motor; the adrenalin synapses are mostly found in autonomic circuits; and the serotonin takes part in what we like to call mentation, or personality functions. The CNS Processor will check for acetylcholine integrity first.”
Walter adjusted his fat belly on his knees for more comfort. He sat while Val stood. The screen glowed irregularly.
“Cholinesterase, an enzyme, cleans off all the acetylcholine buttons. Isotope-labelled acetylcholine is flooded in. See how it is picked up by some of the buttons? Activity over 90 per cent. Normal,” explained the teck.
The view darkened as the chamber was flushed again. Then the same process was repeated. This time different buttons took up the glow when the labelled neurochemical was flooded in.
“These are the adrenalin synapses,” explained the teck. “Again the activity is within normal limits. Next is the critical test—serotonin. Both MR and IA strikes here. Molecular Reward has its effects by altering serotonin metabolism at the neurone. Creates molecular happiness—subjective mental heaven. In IA the sites are blocked by an antibody to ectodermal debris. Here it goes.”
The view darkened with the flush and then glowed with the isotope wash. A few buttons glowed. The processor’s readout gave the neurone a low grade—24 per cent of the synapses functioned.
“That is what we expect with a suicide—serotonin block. We will run more cells through to make it significant, but I’ll be very surprised if we come up with anything else.”
Walter glanced up at the colorful wall chart where a flow sheet of the results was taking shape. The next step was the IA/MR differential. Fluorescent labelled antibodies were used to see what was blocking the serotonin sites.
“Not IA,” said the teck when he saw a negative take-up for the labelled ectodermal-debris antibody.
The labelled anti-MR stuck to the inactive buttons, fluorescing brightly.
“That’s it,” said the teck. “Your friend must have thought he was a bird.”
“A bird?” said Val.
“Sure,” said the Neuroteck, filling out his preliminary report and handing a copy to the widdled Walter. “We get all kinds of MR—birds, mushrooms and flowers. They die happy.”
As he waddled out of neurolab, Walter stared at the flimsy report.
“Jo Jo—gone bird on MR,” he mumbled.
Val shrugged and went over to the railing. He glanced down and shuddered.
“Shaft base looks pretty frightening to me. My serotonin metabolism would have to be pretty scrambled to make flying-in-the-shaft desirable.”
Walter’s shoulders hung. Depressed, he said: “I guess we should have watched him more closely to make sure he was back from heaven before we all went to sleep.”
“Better MR than IA—at least we know we weren’t melding with a psychotic—letting a nut into our collective soul,” said Val.
“Still a waste,” murmured old Walter.
Arthur and Bitter saw the next applicant—an employed Howell-Jolly body—¼DPNH.
“Are you the bereaved—the widdled family?” asked ¼DPNH.
Arthur nodded and helped her set down her footlocker. The newcomer was a slim, recently polarized female with soft white skin and thin, light brown hair. Her waist was narrow and she appeared frail even for a Nebish.
“My name is One-quarterDPNH. Fourth subculture of the delta pancreas cell line from the original Howell-Jolly body, Nora Howell. My friends call me Dee Pen.”
Arthur noticed her small size—probably eats little and takes up no room. He smiled and glanced out into the crawlway. A dozen grossly fat applicants waited on their hands and knees in the dust—their footlockers scraping noisily—their heads bumping the low ceiling. He could smell the fetid odors from their intertriginous areas where skin flora flourished in the damp folds.
“Polarized?” said Arthur. “Should be warm in the meld.”
“Oh yes,” she smiled, “I’ve been tested for the sexual flush and myotonia. I can get my pulse up to 160 in a really good meld,” she answered proudly.
Female Bitter frowned: “But what are you—your job?”
Dee Pen smiled winningly at neutral Arthur and then turned to female Bitter with a more business-like expression.
“All of us Jolly bodies are Attendants. But I studied philosophy in the stacks, so my Nora Howell DNA vigor is balanced against Big ES intellectualism.”
“You’re polarized,” said Bitter, pointing to a pair of mediumsized breasts.
“Nora Howell’s DNA vigor,” explained Dee Pen, “But I wear my subcutaneous AO capsule faithfully.” She pointed to a tiny scar on her left forearm. “I can’t ovulate.”
Arthur explained to Bitter that polarization was necessary in certain Attendant positions where keratinization was desirable.
“Polarization helps your rhythm—dancing,” he coaxed.
Bitter was still reluctant.
“We should let her meet the rest of the family before we decide.”
Arthur took Bitter aside and whispered: “Want another fifteen-stone fat furnace like old Walter smelling up the place?” Bitter raised an eyebrow. He continued sotto voce: “Well, take a look out into the crawlway.”
He helped Dee Pen sort through her footlocker for her flimsy ID while Bitter glanced out the door. As he studied the curriculum vitae he heard Bitter announce that the position had been filled. Arthur smiled: “We’ll have your credits transferred and be back on family-5 status for the evening meld.”
Val and Walter stopped at Hunter Control to meditate on Jo Jo’s tragedy. It was quiet there. Scanner reported the gardens clear. Huntercraft rested in their bays sucking on their energy sockets.
“We have today’s routine optic records of the renegade Harvester near Table Mountain,” announced Scanner conversationally. The aerial views projected on the screen. Vines entangled the big wheels obscuring the skeletons on the ground.
“Any change in its mental attitude?” asked Val.
“No answer today,” said Scanner. “It has gone on stand-by. We haven’t been able to trigger it back.”
“Plates still charged?”
“Enough for mentation.”