Of Half a Mind Page 4

After a few moments of silence, Sue said, “Well, if that’s it, I’m outta here. Doc, you still having lunch with my husband tomorrow?”

  “Yep, as soon as I finish my status reports with Ken in the morning.”

  “What’s your husband do?” asked Nicole.

  “No one. I keep an eye on him,” replied Sue. “Oh, you asked what, not who.” She put a hand over her mouth as if embarrassed. “He’s a financial analyst. He and Doc share some sort of fascination with the stock market that totally baffles me.”

  “Yeah, Al, her husband, gets to play it,” I explained. “I just live the life of a trader vicariously through him.”

  We all got up from the table and I walked over to Nicole, hoping to strike up a conversation. “I’m glad you were available to help us out. I can tell already that we’ll be making much better use of your expertise this time.” On the last project, she had been seriously over-qualified.

  “Thanks, Sam. I’m looking forward to it,” she said, looking up into my face and smiling. She laid a hand on my arm lightly as she spoke. I’m sure it was part of her usual method of communicating, but I found it hard to think of anything but her touch. “Actually, I wasn’t available to work this project. But I rearranged a few things and asked to be assigned here.”

  Maybe it was my surprise at her comment. Maybe I was distracted by her touch even more than I thought. But whatever the reason, by the time her words became meaning in my mind, she had turned and left.

  Friday, August 7, 12:21 PM

  Al and I were about as different as two people could be. I had black hair and was dark complected to his blonde curls and pale skin. I was quiet and analytic to his gregariousness. I was the gangly runner to his…well, let’s say, he liked food a bit too much. Nonetheless, we’d become close friends.

  Part of the reason was his job. Al worked in a company that was one of the more dramatic success stories in St. Louis, Missouri, and much of the financial world – the A. Huntington Taylor & Associates hedge-fund company. In terms of total assets under management, its $2 billion paled compared to a company like J.P. Morgan Asset Management, which controlled trillions. But it had achieved this level in only its first nine months of operation.

  As someone in his first year of work, investing at the level required to join the Huntington Taylor family was impossible. But I looked forward to the day when I could, secretly holding the belief that the behavior of the stock market had as much to do with the psychology of the masses as business factors. So, until I could test some of those ideas, and probably lose my shirt by chasing the market, I talked to Al.

  I was meeting him in his office in the Huntington Taylor Building, a small structure in an unincorporated community called Earth City located along Interstate 70 near the Missouri River. With its diminutive size – it housed perhaps 25 employees – and well-tended, austere grounds, the building could have easily been a suite of dentists’ offices rather than the home to the financial analysts of a multibillion-dollar company.

  I parked and went in the front entrance. A receptionist sat at a desk centered in the lobby, double doors to her right and left. She was working on her nails when I entered, but quickly dropped the file into a drawer. “Good afternoon,” she said, smiling in a way that conveyed routine rather than warmth.

  “Al Jordan, please.”

  She must have had everyone’s office number memorized because without pause, she replied, “Room 114, down the hall to your left.” She pulled the file out and went back to work on her nails without giving me another glance.

  I opened the door to Al’s wing and was greeted by an empty hall. Taylor couldn’t be accused of wasting any of the return on his investors’ funds with ostentatious adornments…or even a plant or picture, for that matter. About the only indication that the residents were engaged in anything like ‘big business’ was a sign that read, Information Processing Services, Authorized Personnel Only at the start of a short hall to the right. It ended with a set of massive, elevator doors, surveilled by two cameras – one on each side wall – and secured by a keypad and retinal scanner. No disinterested receptionist would suffice for this domain.

  When I reached room 114, I could see the top of Al’s head through a sidelight next to his door. He was leaning over in his chair, rummaging through one of the lower drawers on his desk, a somewhat sunburnt, nearly bald spot on his skull peeking through his blonde hair. I knocked and entered. “Hey, Al. What’s up?”

  Al sat up behind his desk, his grinning face coming into view. “Good. You’re here. I was about to break out a package of cookies I’ve got stashed here…somewhere. They must be a month old, but I’m starving.”

  “Yeah, sorry I’m late,” I replied, unsure that any cookies lasted a month around Al. “It’s all your wife’s fault. I had to report on all this convoluted research she’s been telling us about.”

  He snorted. “Yeah, right, Doc. You forget, I’ve seen you two talking. If she hit you with some strange data, you’d say, thank you, can I have some more, please?” He drew out the last word like it was four-syllables long. “Can you drive? My AC’s acting up.” Al stood and headed for the door without waiting for a reply.

  I spun on a heel to follow. “Yeah, it’s no day to be without. That Mexican place again?”

  “Sure. As for what’s up,” Al replied as we walked down the hall, “the S&P’s down nearly three and a half points on heavy trading. We had some soft employment data released this morning, and that, plus concerns about Europe’s economic picture has produced a sell-off.”

  I secretly held the opinion that most analysts were far better at finding explanations for what the market had done than finding predictors for what it was about to do. I never confessed that to Al, however, since he would want to know if I thought that about him, which I did. But there were some who had insight into economic forces, or if I was right, into the psychology of the masses, as they were regularly ahead of the game. Taylor was apparently one of them.

  “I suppose Taylor & Associates dumped all the big losers before the drop,” I said.

  Al chuckled, then leaned closer to whisper to me. “Beats me, buddy. The word ‘associates’ in the title of this company is a complete misnomer. What we do on a moment-to-moment basis is known by Mr. Taylor alone.” We were passing the information processing sign, and Al gestured at the elevator doors with his thumb. “He spends nearly all his time in there with his computers.”

  “Yeah, probably a massive, global economic simulation,” I said matching Al’s volume, as if we were sharing world secrets rather than idle speculation. “Or a highly advanced artificial intelligence? Or maybe an ultra-fast system for high-frequency trading?”

  “Maybe,” Al replied. “Whatever it is, it fills up his day. And mine too, for that matter.”

  “No kidding, the way you’re in here at the crack of dawn every day. What am I saying? You’re in here even before it’s light.”

  “Sun’s up by 5:30…most of the time. Besides, the early bird gets the worm.”

  “Worm’s aren’t awake by 5:30,” I replied.

  Al chuckled. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  We had reached the door to the lobby and Al pushed through, saying more loudly than necessary, “Of course, we have some great, diversified products for the medium or long-term investor.”

  I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, barely suppressing a snicker. Did he really think the receptionist would report him if he wasn’t in full sales mode?

  I glanced in her direction and she had her smartphone out, stabbing at it. She did seem anxious to get something punched into it, but I couldn’t decide. Was she shopping online or just playing solitaire?

  Friday, August 7, 9:46 PM

  The Experimenter opened the door to the residence, allowing his nose to investigate. It signaled an all clear. When he had entered a couple of hours earlier, he had found Subject 2 covered in his own excrement. It was a curious defense mechanism, but not particularly effective
. Using the Taser to herd his subject into the shower enclosure, the Experimenter had started a cycle of five minutes of hot, soapy water, five minutes to rinse, and an hour of air dry. With the room temperature set at 82 degrees and the quick-dry clothes, Subject 2 was now ready.

  “You’re dead,” the man hissed through clenched teeth when he saw the Experimenter. “If it’s the last thing I do.”

  Defiance? The Experimenter was surprised, believing that the first sessions would have crushed all rebelliousness. He tugged on an ear, pondering the meaning. Did this spell trouble for the coming sessions? He felt not, slowly shaking his head. His protocol left little room for disruptive passions. “Unlikely,” was his only response.

  The Experimenter drove the man from the shower cage with the threat of the Taser, then began the familiar process – paralyze him, put on the restraints, position the chair. At that point, the man started to recover; the Experimenter could feel an increase in resistance. He considered delivering another bolt of electricity, but the process was almost complete. He quickly secured Subject 2’s head to the chair, then lifted him upright.

  Perhaps realizing the futility of resistance, the man sat quietly as the Experimenter rolled him into the adjoining chamber. Even so, it was easy to see the muscles working in the man’s arms, his hands clenching into fists. He positioned the chair, then pulled the cap down to the man’s head. “Just a few final adjustments,” he muttered. Proper alignment was crucial, so he crouched down until they were eye-to-eye, then leaned close. He gripped the cap’s chinstrap while placing a hand on the top of the man’s head to hold it perfectly still.

  Subject 2 lunged forward.

  When the Experimenter had attached the straps, the partially recovered man had arched his back, producing a small gap between his head and the chair’s backrest. Now he used every millimeter of that slack, his mouth wide as it rushed toward the Experimenter’s nose. If he could reach it, the wound would cause confusion, perhaps giving him a chance to escape. He had nothing to lose.

  The Experimenter reacted, but too late.

  The man reached the end of the slack and his mouth snapped shut, his teeth clamping down on…air. He screamed in agony, partially from the searing pain that shot through his jaw, but mostly from failure.

  The Experimenter fell backward onto the floor of the chamber, his eyes blinking rapidly as the reality of what had happened became clear. Had he been closer, had the slack been greater, he would have lost the tip of his nose, perhaps all of it. His heart pounded. His breath came in gasps.

  But the time to fight or flee had passed even before he realized the threat and he calmed himself. He considered the man’s gambit with cold detachment. What did he hope to accomplish? A missing nose wouldn’t free the man’s feet and hands. It wouldn’t get him out of the locked chamber. Even if the Experimenter had succumbed to shock, a possibility given the pain and loss of blood the attack would have caused, the action would only condemn the man to a slow and painful death. In the end, his ploy merely affirmed what the Experimenter already knew – humans were irrational.

  “You can still let me go,” the man pleaded, as terror returned in place of bravado. “I don’t know you. Just let me go. I’ll disappear. I won’t give you no trouble.”

  The Experiment took the head straps in both hands, pulling them tight. In moments, the shock electrodes were attached, the water was added to the pan, and the console with the lights and buttons was moved into position.

  “Shall we continue?” the Experimenter asked.

  “No. Please.” The man drew the words out in a slow, painful moan. Tremors overtook his body, as if he was freezing in a room now overheated by fear. The sounds of his plaintive whimper died as the Experimenter entered his work area and closed the soundproof door behind him.

  He sat at his desk, knowing that Subject 2’s rewiring wasn’t as far along as he had hoped after the breakthrough on Monday. With other demands on his time, they had managed only two sessions. But even with this limited practice, Subject 2 had gained more control. The motion of his right hand wasn’t perfect; it was never smooth. It looked like a small bird, flittering this way and that, until it finally landed on the right button. But the Experimenter deemed it good enough. It was time to make the task harder, to compel more of the brain to re-organize itself.

  Taking the computer keyboard in hand, he entered the command to increase the number of lights to be remembered from four to nine. This new requirement would be difficult for most people, but it would be extremely taxing when only some, recently rewired parts of the brain were available for the task. He blew out a long breath and looked through the mirror, making sure everything was in place. Then, he checked his notes. Only when satisfied did he enter the start command. The green, session-running light appeared. The subject’s body tensed, but then, he settled into the chair, his eyes peering forward as the cap on his head came online.

  Everything looked good. Perhaps the man was ready for the next wall in his consciousness to come down. The Experimenter rolled his chair to the one-way mirror.

  After a minute, the first of nine lights lit up, followed by eight more, each at two second intervals. Throughout the sequence, the man remained still, facing the panel. Now that it was complete, he should respond. But he didn’t. There was no movement, not so much as a twitch.

  The Experimenter moved his chair to the far edge of the mirror, trying to get a better angle to see Number 2’s face. His eyes were open, but something about them wasn’t right. They seemed distant, unfocused. His stillness was absolute. He wasn’t breathing.

  The Experimenter jumped from his chair and ran to his desk. The command to terminate the trial came too late, as the shock was delivered. He looked back into the chamber, seeing only a slight tremor in the leg. There was no scream of pain. There was no writhing against the bindings. There was no spit-laden stream of profanity.

  He returned to the keyboard, intending to shut down the session, but stopped. He ran a hand across his chin and stared back into the chamber. Subject 2 was dead, or if not, his brain was now so oxygen-deprived that continuing research with him would be pointless. Anything he learned might not apply to the healthy, much less, someone like himself who was already partially awakened by the technology. He needed to diagnose the equipment, see what had gone wrong. And the first steps of that task would be easier if everything was running.

  Cracking the door to the chamber, he was assaulted by the stench of death and defecation. He stepped inside and closed the door, not wanting the odor to reach his work area and beyond.

  His first thought was that his subject had been electrocuted. He retrieved a multimeter from one of the six, gray cabinets lining the walls. He carefully attached it to the electrode and the ground. When the light sequence finished and no response was entered, the shock came. The reading on the meter was perfect. He turned off the equipment controlling the shock and removed the electrode from the leg. He placed it and the meter into their cabinets.

  The Experimenter moved closer to Subject 2, looking carefully at his face. His lips were blue. A vein stood out on his neck. The Experimenter placed his ear near the man’s nose, but he heard nothing. He felt for a pulse, finding at most something like the flutter of butterfly wings – something fast and very faint. If the man was alive, he was slowly suffocating.

  The shock might have caused him to stop breathing, but the Experimenter thought not. First trial of the day? A shock precisely controlled and delivered to a leg? It didn’t make sense. But looking at the headgear, another thought came to mind.

  He reached up to remove it, but then saw one of the subject’s fingers twitch. Was he still alive? Death from asphyxiation took time, and if the gear was causing him to suffocate, removing it might allow him to revive. That would never do. Of course, he could put a hand over the man’s nose and mouth, finish the job. But he had time and somehow, the act was beneath him. Only a common criminal would strangle someone, and he was anything but common. Bette
r to let the scrambled messages in the man’s brain do their work, if that was what was happening.

  So, the Experimenter started cleaning up. He first grabbed a sheet of paper and made careful notes. He mopped the floor. He removed, cleaned, and carefully stored everything but the equipment on the man’s head. Twenty minutes passed quickly. The Experimenter was certain no one could be alive that long without breathing.

  Carefully, he removed the headgear. The problem was immediately apparent. Even though Subject 2 had been able to jerk his head less than an inch, the desperate lunge against his steadying hand had been enough to dislodge some of the metal disks in the cap. He started to push them back into place, then stopped. He scratched his chin and let his eyes play across the unbroken, gray walls of the chamber. Then, he laid the piece of equipment down on a workbench and took a micrometer from a cabinet.

  Working patiently, he recorded the precise location and orientation of each part. He was captivated by how the device had been transformed, by what it had become. Breathing is not a voluntary muscle action; people do not need to think about it to do it. True, people can hold their breath, but if held long enough, unconsciousness will follow and it will start again. But the Neural Activity Blocker had seized the voluntary part of the response, the muscles that controlled the lungs, and had refused to let go even in unconsciousness. It had caused Subject 2 to hold his breath until he was dead. In the Experimenter’s mind, the transformation was astonishing. Only when the position of each of the disks had been recorded did he complete his clean up.

  With order restored, the Experimenter exited the chamber and sat at his desk. With the premature loss of Subject Number 2, he must revise his plans. In his mind’s eye, he dropped the activities that were now moot and added others in their stead. There was the matter of disposing of Subject 2’s body, but the Experimenter wasn’t concerned about that. The headgear needed to be reinforced, but that was a matter of a few hours work. Obtaining his next subject, on the other hand, was a labor of at least one night, perhaps more. He needed to start that chore immediately.