“You interested in seeing a movie tonight? Me and Sue and Tori were going to see Metal Eyes.”
“Tonight? Oh, I can't. Tonight's the last performance of the one-woman show at the Hanning Playhouse.” The surfaces of the gear teeth are scratched and oily-looking. I highlight each surface using the cursor, and type in the parameters to be adjusted.
“What's that?”
“It's called Symplectic. It's a monologue in verse.” Now I adjust the lighting, to remove some of the shadows from where the teeth mesh. “Want to come along?”
“Is this some kind of Shakespearean soliloquy?”
Too much: with that lighting, the outer edges will be too bright. I specify an upper limit for the reflected light's intensity. “No, it's a stream-of-consciousness piece, and it alternates between four different meters; iambic's only one of them. All the critics called it a tour de force.”
“I didn't know you were such a fan of poetry.”
After checking all the numbers once more, I let the computer recalculate the interference pattern. “Normally, I'm not, but this one seemed really interesting. How's it sound to you?”
“Thanks, but I think we'll stick with the movie.”
“Okay, you guys have fun. Maybe we can get together next week.” We say goodbye and hang up, and I wait for the recalc to finish.
Suddenly it occurs to me what's just happened. I've never been able to do any editing while talking on the phone. But this time I had no trouble keeping my mind on both things at once.
Will the surprises never end? Once the nightmares were gone and I could relax, the first thing I noticed was the increase in my reading speed and comprehension. I was actually able to read the books on my shelves that I'd always meant to get around to, but never had the time; even the more difficult, technical material. Back in college, I'd accepted the fact that I couldn't study everything that interested me. It's exhilarating to discover that maybe I can; I was positively gleeful when I bought an armload of books the other day.
And now I find I can concentrate on two things at once; something I never would have predicted. I stand up at my desk and shout out loud, as if my favorite baseball team had just surprised me with a triple play. That's what it feels like.
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The Neurologist-in-Chief, Dr. Shea, has taken over my case, presumably because he wants to take the credit. I scarcely know him, but he acts as if I've been his patient for years.
He's asked me into his office to have a talk. He interlaces his fingers and rests his elbows on his desk. “How do you feel about the increase in your intelligence?” he asks.
What an inane question. “I'm very pleased about it.”
“Good,” says Dr. Shea. “So far, we've found no adverse effects of the hormone K therapy. You don't require any further treatment for the brain damage from your accident.” I nod. “However, we're conducting a study to learn more about the hormone's effect on intelligence. If you're willing, we'd like to give you a further injection of the hormone, and then monitor the results.”
Suddenly he's got my attention; finally, something worth listening to. “I'd be willing to do that.”
“You understand that this is purely for investigational purposes, not therapeutic. You may benefit from it with further gains in your intelligence, but this is not medically necessary for your health.”
“I understand. I suppose I have to sign a consent form.”
“Yes. We can also offer you some compensation for participating in this study.” He names a figure, but I'm barely listening.
“That'll be fine.” I'm imagining where this might lead, what it might mean for me, and a thrill runs through me.
“We'd also like you to sign a confidentiality agreement. Clearly this drug is enormously exciting, but we don't want any announcements to be made prematurely.”
“Certainly, Dr. Shea. Has anyone been given additional injections before?”
“Of course; you're not going to be a guinea pig. I can assure you, there haven't been any harmful side effects.”
“What sort of effects did they experience?”
“It's better if we don't plant suggestions in your mind: you might imagine you were experiencing the symptoms I mention.”
Shea's very comfortable with the doctor-knows-best routine. I keep pushing. “Can you at least tell me how much their intelligence increased?”
“Every individual is different. You shouldn't base your expectations on what's happened to others.”
I conceal my frustration. “Very well, doctor.”
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If Shea doesn't want to tell me about hormone K, I can find out about it on my own. From my terminal at home I log onto the datanet. I access the FDA's public database, and start perusing their current IND's, the Investigational New Drug applications that must be approved before human trials can begin.
The application for hormone K was submitted by Sorensen Pharmaceutical, a company researching synthetic hormones that encourage neuron regeneration in the central nervous system. I skim the results of the drug tests on oxygen-deprived dogs, and then baboons: all the animals recovered completely. Toxicity was low, and long term observation didn't reveal any adverse effects.
The results of cortical samples are provocative. The brain-damaged animals grew replacement neurons with many more dendrites, but the healthy recipients of the drug remained unchanged. The conclusion of the researchers: hormone K replaces only damaged neurons, not healthy ones. In the brain-damaged animals, the new dendrites seemed harmless: PET scans didn't reveal any change in brain metabolism, and the animals' performance on intelligence tests didn't change.
In their application for human clinical trials, the Sorensen researchers outlined protocols for testing the drug first on healthy subjects, and then on several types of patients: stroke victims, sufferers of Alzheimer's, and persons — like me — in a persistent vegetative state. I can't access the progress reports for those trials: even with patient anonymity, only participating doctors have clearance to examine those records.
The animal studies don't shed any light on the increased intelligence in humans. It's reasonable to assume that the effect on intelligence is proportional to the number of neurons replaced by the hormone, which in turn depends on the amount of initial damage. That means that the deep coma patients would undergo the greatest improvements. Of course, I'd need to see the progress of the other patients to confirm this theory; that'll have to wait.
The next question: is there a plateau, or will additional dosages of the hormone cause further increases? I'll know the answer to that sooner than the doctors.
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I'm not nervous; in fact, I feel quite relaxed. I'm just lying on my stomach, breathing very slowly. My back is numb; they gave me a local anaesthetic, and then injected the hormone K intraspinally. An intravenous wouldn't work, since the hormone can't get past the blood-brain barrier. This is the first such injection I can recall having, though I'm told that I've received two before: the first while still in the coma, the second when I had regained consciousness but no cognitive ability.
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More nightmares. They're not all actually violent, but they're the most bizarre, mind-blowing dreams I've ever had, often with nothing in them that I recognize. I often wake up screaming, flailing around in bed. But this time, I know they'll pass.
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There are several psychologists at the hospital studying me now. It's interesting to see how they analyze my intelligence. One doctor perceives my skills in terms of components, such as acquisition, retention, performance, and transfer. Another looks at me from the angles of mathematical and logical reasoning, linguistic communication, and spatial visualization.