“It sounded like, Stop, stop, stop it!”
“Thank you, Dr. Chandra.”
“But it might have been Mop, Mop, Moppet! That was her dog’s name, you know. People say all sorts of things when they’re sick.”
“Thank you, Dr. Chandra. That’ll be all.”
“She never understood that it was Miss Muffet who sat on her thingie. She thought it was Moppet. So she called her Little Miss Moppet, even though the dog was a boy, and it’s all wrong, anyway, to call a German shepherd the size of a Volkswagen Little Miss anything. She was a strange lady, wasn’t she? But wow, she was smart.”
“That’ll be all, Dr. Chandra,” said Dr. Sundae, and called the next witness. Jemma folded her hands on the table and made a steeple of her fingers, wishing they would just get down to business and make the vote. She realized that she was confident she’d be vindicated, and this was making her impatient with the testimonies, even the ones that were sympathetic toward her. She wanted and needed to be upstairs with Vivian. Maybe she could just say it — Look, I’ve got to go. I have this sick friend. She’s in the hospital, you see.
“It was definitely different from before,” said Zini, the aged nurse-supervisor with the pruny thighs. “Bear in mind that I witnessed what she did on the sixth floor — I know how that looked. Sure, the children gave a shout, or tried to fight it at first, but this was different. She was screaming like somebody was ripping out her arms.”
“Have you ever heard it before,” asked Monserrat, “when somebody gets their arms ripped out?”
“Maybe not,” said Zini. “But you know what I mean. It was like…” She gave a dreadful shriek, and twisted in her chair, and flailed her arms around like someone was trying to pull them out.
“Thank you,” said Dr. Sundae, making a note on the pad in front of her. Jemma imagined she must be drawing the outline of a hanged man, adding a piece of scaffolding, an arm, or a leg every time someone else gave a bit of damning testimony. Dr. Sasscock, Emma, Pickie Beecher: each person sat in the chair in the middle of the Council chamber and told what they had seen or heard or felt. “I was afraid,” said Wayne, “terribly afraid.”
Dr. Snood testified, too. Jemma wasn’t sure if that was precisely legal, but poring over the constitution had made her so tired and given her such a headache that she’d stopped looking before she knew for sure, and anyway Ishmael had already made his promise to her, so it seemed not to matter any more if Dr. Snood was or was not given the opportunity to present his slander.
“I first became worried about Dr. Claflin,” he said, “when she returned from the ship. It was a bad idea anyway, I felt, for her to risk herself on an exploratory mission any one of us could have carried out. It might have gone very badly over there, and then where would we have been? Who else has been able to reproduce her results? Who else has her special talents? It seemed so unlike her, too, to insist so forcefully on something so small, and something that flew so egregiously in the face of common sense. But it was her prerogative to go, and she exercised it.
“She seemed different to me, when she came back. Was this the same person who’d left our home, I wondered? There was something different in her eyes, and in the quality of her voice, and in the way she carried herself — these are subtle and subjective observations that have no proper place in such an inquiry as this, yet I offer them in the spirit of objectivity, and I know there are not a few others who noticed this same change that I did. I didn’t start to worry about her, though, until after she tried to wake the boy. It was then that I began to formulate my theory. May I have the lights down, please?”
The lights dimmed and a screen lowered from out of the ceiling on the far side of the Council chamber. Dr. Snood pressed a button on his laser pointer and the screen lit up. There was a complicated diagram featuring a picture of a brain Jemma presumed must be hers accompanied by a number of feedback loops and hormonal axes. She had to squint to read the smallest letters, and there were so many abbreviations she couldn’t make even superficial sense of half of it. “What is this power that Dr. Claflin has, anyway? We were all content to benefit from it without understanding it, and I fear we did her a great disservice by not seeking better to understand it, to divine its mechanism, because we never considered for a moment that it might be dangerous to her or to her baby. But all of you please consider, just briefly, the magnitude of what she accomplished, and then ask yourselves if such a thing could really be expected not to come at a price?
“And what sort of price you wonder? I wondered too, all those weeks ago, and though all sorts of horrifying thoughts presented themselves to me, I put them aside and began to gather data. Yes, data — that forgotten entity! I know its not been fashionable lately to indulge in empiricism, but that’s just what I did. Consider this diagram just for a moment — we’ll return to it shortly. It sums up the neurochemical imbalances brought on by the use of Dr. Claflin’s gift, and tells a very sad tale.”
Jemma raised her hand.
“Dr. Claflin,” said Dr Sundae. “You know I cannot recognize you yet.”
“Is this a testimony?” Jemma asked, “or Grand Rounds?”
“I am going to pretend I didn’t hear that, Dr. Claflin. Your turn is coming.” Rob was waving his hand in the audience. “Dr. Dickens, if this Council wants your testimony, we will call for it specifically.”
“As I was saying,” said Dr. Snood, “I first became worried when the landing party, if we can call it that, returned from the boat, and that is when I started gathering evidence. I kept a log of unusual behaviors including strange movements, strange or inappropriate comments, and unjustified or unprovoked use of her gift. This figure summarizes one data set: I or my agents recorded sixty-four separate instances where Dr. Claflin used her gift in the absence of any appreciable illness in any living being around her. Notice the increase in frequency.” He showed a graph, weeks versus frequency of the observed behavior, whose points made an upward-sweeping line.
“Jesus Christ,” Jemma said, “you’ve been following me?” Dr. Sundae, eyes on the graph, held up a single warning finger. Everyone else ignored her except Ishmael, who caught her eye and winked. Jemma shook her head. She wanted to pound her fists on the table, but instead she just collapsed her steeple and folded the left hand over the right. She stared ahead at the wall, but not at the graph, and actually tried not to listen to what Dr. Snood was saying, though when he presented a table detailing the dates of emotional outbursts including three episodes of spontaneous crying, she stood up calmly and said, loud but not shouting, “Have you noticed, Doctor, that I am pregnant?” It was the first time she had ever put the special tone in her voice when she said Doctor, the one that turned it from a title into an insult. She felt both vindicated and ashamed. Dr. Sundae, at least, seemed sympathetic — she pretended not to hear her.
“This is all starting to drag, Dr. Snood,” she said, and he hurried through his next twenty slides, summarizing the data in a flash, until he came to the brain MRI and PET scans that were done months before, as part of the initial workup of her wonderful affliction. He zipped through Dr. Pudding’s report, outlining all the normal structures with his pointer, excitement growing in his voice until he came to a last series of cuts on the MRI and said “Look, just look at the amygdala! It was grossly hypertrophied.” He presented a corresponding section of the PET that showed increased uptake of glucose in that region. “Rage,” he said, turning away from the screen and waving his arms, cutting across the Council with his laser. “Fury, violence, destruction — these are all mediated by the amygdala. Dr. Claflin’s amygdala has become an almond of doom”—he raised his fist—“struggling vainly to suppress the dark impulses unleashed by her dreadful burden. Do I have to paint a picture for you of the horrible things that could happen if it fails completely?”