Of Half a Mind Read online

  It wasn’t that the supply of potential participants for the Great Experiment was limited. The pool was ample, because Subject 3, like numbers 1 and 2 before him, would come from the ranks of the anonymous homeless that could be found in and around St. Louis. But care had to be exercised in their capture. They were wary. They were well-schooled in self-protection and life on the street. In fact, if his aim had been to steal their pocket change, tattered clothes, or a half-empty bottle, the Experimenter might well fail. But their defenses against abduction were not as well honed. After all, who would want to take one of their number…other than the Experimenter?

  Monday, August 10, 2:53 PM

  The Worthington-Huston Technology (WHT) offices were in the Central West End of St. Louis. As part of the city built around the time of the 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition, better known as the St. Louis World’s Fair, the area was dotted with impressive, three-story houses and mini-mansions. The building that housed their offices had been one of those residences, but fuel costs and real estate taxes had made its use as a single-family home impractical for any but the extremely wealthy. So, like many buildings in the area, it had been converted to commercial use.

  Sue and I had ridden to the area together and when we parked, I saw Nicole emerge from her car a couple of spaces away. After a moment of small talk, we entered the building and climbed to the third floor. The center-hall landing had been turned into a reception area, with a large desk in the middle and six closed doors circling it. Two of the doors had nameplates – Dr. Ned Worthington and Dr. Jon Huston. The other four were sealed, most likely providing each of the founders with a sizable, attached laboratory space.

  Behind the desk was an older, gray-haired woman, presumably Ms. Laverne Wells according to the nameplate. When she saw us, she jumped up and hurried around her desk, her brows knitted as she glanced at Worthington’s office door.

  “You’re the folks from Ruger-Phillips?” she asked somewhat breathlessly, even though she had only gone a few feet.

  “We are,” I replied. “Sue Jordan, Nicole Veles, and I’m Sam Price. And you’re Ms. Wells?”

  “Laverne, please.”

  I’m no authority on what constitutes ‘business casual’ for women, but somehow, Laverne’s attire appeared a bit formal, reminding me vaguely of June Cleaver from the 1950s television series, Leave It to Beaver. It was not so much the pale, tan dress or the light gray sweater that she wore, but the single strand of pearls around her neck. Wasn’t that June Cleaver’s trademark, one she wore even when she was doing the dishes or vacuuming the house?

  Laverne’s eyes flitted back to Worthington’s door. “I expect Dr. Worthington shortly, as he has another pressing meeting at 4:00. Please have a seat,” she said and gestured to the chairs along the wall.

  We sat. Laverne started back to her desk, then turned around, so I stood. “Can I get you something? Coffee? I guess it might be a little late for coffee. I don’t like to drink coffee after lunch. Makes it tough to get to sleep.”

  She paused, twisting a ring on one of her fingers. I glanced at the women, who both shook their heads. I was about to decline when Laverne added, “Of course, people are different. Maybe you like coffee in the afternoon? We have water too…of course.”

  “Thanks, but we’re fine.”

  Laverne nodded slowly, then returned to her desk. I sat back down. The women were already huddled, talking quietly, so I drifted into thoughts of what had happened since we had last met.

  I had spent Thursday afternoon going over everything we had discussed about brain plasticity and its possible roles in both causing and curing phantom limb pain. I was not sure if it was making more sense, or if it only seemed that way because I had reviewed it so many times. And if I was seeking full disclosure about my daydreaming, I had to admit that a few thoughts involved Nicole’s final words – that she rearranged a few things to join the project.

  Friday was marginally more productive. I pored through a physiological psychology textbook to find the brain areas involved in working memory. The list was long, including the parietal cortex, the anterior cingulate, and parts of the basal ganglia. The names meant little to me, but I read about the functions they served and the connections they had. I came away thinking that my earlier conclusion – that suppressing the areas involved in working memory would be “almost impossible” – might be an understatement. These areas were relatively large, highly interconnected, and served a variety of important functions ranging from action selection to emotion.

  Movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention. Laverne was coming over again, so I stood to meet her. “Are you sure I can’t get you folks something?” she asked, as she ran a hand across her pearls.

  I looked at the women again. This time, Sue answered. “Thanks, Laverne, but we’re OK.”

  I turned back. Laverne’s eyes were returning to my face from a clock on the wall. Curiosity got the best of me and I glanced at it; it was nine minutes after the hour. But as absent-minded professors seemed one of the more accurate stereotypes in my line of work, I wasn’t too concerned. The waiting, however, was weighing heavily on Laverne, as she had started fiddling with her ring again.

  Perhaps some small talk would put her mind at ease. “I saw a real estate company and an insurance agency on the first floor. Does WHT lease the rest of the building?”

  “We have all of this floor and share the second with an investor and a tax accountant. The businesses you mentioned have the first and everyone shares the basement…for storage.”

  I nodded. “You know who the investor represents?” I asked, not seeing much time-killing potential in the real estate, insurance, or taxes-in-August topics.

  “No, maybe himself? I don’t follow the market.”

  It hadn’t taken long to dispatch that topic. I was about to excuse myself to read an imaginary text on my phone when another line of idle chatter came to mind. “Follow the Cardinals?”

  “Who in St. Louis doesn’t?” she replied.

  I’d hit pay dirt. I wasn’t from St. Louis, having grown up across the state in Kansas City, but I was learning what it meant to live in a ‘baseball town.’ Laverne was a typical fan, knowing the Card’s standing in their division and in the wild card race. And since I had attended Saturday’s game on an extra ticket from Rick, I gave her my first-hand account.

  When we exhausted that topic, my eyes went back to the clock when Laverne peeked. It was 19 minutes after the hour, a delay not easily explained by being a bit absent-minded. Laverne must have agreed, because she was scowling at the door as she slowly made her way back to her desk. But near the midpoint of her journey, the door opened and a man appeared.

  He was short and stocky, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie. If he traded his wire-rims for sunglasses, he could’ve stepped right onto the set for the movie, The Blues Brothers. Great. Now I have June Cleaver working for ‘Joliet’ Jake. I really needed to expand my taste in entertainment.

  “Dr. Worthington will see you now,” said Laverne without missing a beat, but looking none too pleased either.

  Worthington said nothing. He forced a smile, nodded once curtly, and retreated into his office. He took a seat behind his desk and gestured at three wooden chairs placed against the wall across from him, perhaps five feet from the leading edge of his desk. We sat. In a chair to his right was a bearded, bespectacled individual. A heavy, metal door and one-way mirror on the wall immediately behind the desk confirmed my earlier suspicion about an attached laboratory.

  “I’m Dr. Ned Worthington, principle founder and lead scientist at Worthington-Huston Technology. And this is my colleague, Dr. Sebastian Atwood.”

  Atwood nodded. He had curly brown hair that transitioned to a full beard of the same color and consistency. The facial hair made it difficult to guess, but I estimated he was several years older than me. His piercing brown eyes followed our movements closely from behind gold, wire-rim glasses.

  “Nice to
meet you, Dr. Worthington, Dr. Atwood,” I replied. “We’re from Ruger-Phillips, under contract to the Veteran’s Administration. My colleagues are Ms. Sue Jordan and Ms. Nicole Veles. I’m Dr. Sam Price. Please, call me Sam.” Worthington nodded but didn’t reciprocate on the informality. Atwood sat motionless, saying nothing.

  “Thanks for meeting with us on such short notice,” I said. “I’m sure you’re quite busy, so we’ll keep this as brief as possible.”

  “Yes, that’s accurate to say. I am busy, so brevity would be appreciated.”

  I glanced sideways at Sue and Nicole. Both appeared puzzled; I knew I was. People in Worthington’s position generally wanted to convey some degree of amiability toward their evaluators. He, on the other hand, wanted to maintain his professional distance – his physical distance too. And every other researcher wanted to appear fully occupied, but all said they were happy to take time to answer your questions. ‘I’m busy, get on with it’ was a new approach.

  “OK,” I replied, trying to keep the surprise from my voice. “As I understand the situation, you originally proposed a treatment for phantom limb pain. That research transitioned into a learning technology – a means to increase memory span. But before approving more funding, the VA asked us to review the research.”

  I paused, believing Worthington or Atwood might wish to elaborate, but they didn’t. The only response was Worthington making that circular gesture with one hand that could be interpreted as ‘please continue’ or ‘spit it out.’ It felt like the latter to me.

  “Can you start by telling us more about the memory span study, and particularly, about the methods you used.” Having identified a reasonable starting point, I leaned back in my chair for what I expected to be a sales pitch – why he was about to revolutionize training, perhaps even all of education as we knew it.

  “You’ve been given my papers. They speak for themselves,” he replied. “I suggest you read them and if you have any questions, call Laverne and she can schedule another meeting. Now, I have pressing matters. Sebastian?” Both men stood to leave.

  I felt Sue and Nicole shift in their chairs, but I didn’t turn to look. There wasn’t time; the men were moving quickly. “Dr. Worthington,” I called. “Please, wait a moment.”

  Worthington stopped and turned part of the way around, facing the corner of the room rather than directly at us.

  “We’ve reviewed both your paper and your proposal. There isn’t enough information in them to start our work.” I didn’t say that with insufficient information, we never be able to recommend more funding, but it was waiting on the tip of my tongue, if he needed to hear it.

  Worthington’s eyes returned to my face and he stood staring at me, the muscles working in his jaw. After a moment, he re-seated himself at the desk. Atwood did likewise, fueling a growing impression that he was a puppet in their association.

  “Just what is it that you require?” Worthington asked, his tone sharp.

  Believing that some flattery might reduce the tension and allow the meeting to continue along more typical lines I said, “We’ve reviewed your proposal to the VA, as I mentioned. We found your approach innovative and well grounded in theory and research.” Worthington simply nodded, his glare unchanging.

  “We’ve also read your paper on increasing memory span, but this is all we have received. One thing that isn’t clear to us is how the neural activity blocking technique works to increase working memory. Perhaps you could start there?”

  Worthington waved a hand in the air, as if chasing away some unseen insect. “I would have thought it obvious, but if we must….

  “Based on research I conducted prior to the VA project, I was supremely confident that by blocking the portion of the somatosensory cortex that serves the contralateral, intact appendage, the maladaptive response that remains for a phantom limb could be supplanted via the brain’s plasticity. To do so, I designed and prototyped an electronic device that suppresses neural activity, which we have named, appropriately, the Neural Activity Blocker. I also learned during this period that localizing the blocking signal to the area serving a single limb would be problematic. It would require a degree of precision in the triangulation of the signal that funding to date has been insufficient to provide.”

  I frowned, wondering if this was how he talks or if he was trying to scare us off with technical jargon? But cutting through his verbiage, he’d admitted he couldn’t aim the device well enough to suppress the activity for a single limb. If that was true, then how could he possibly block something as complexly interconnected as working memory?

  “So, what I proposed to the VA was a proof of concept demonstration,” continued Worthington. “I recruited a single subject from a local university, identified only as A.T. He was paid for his time. Digit memory span was the task I selected.”

  Worthington leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as if he was about to make ‘the big reveal,’ the key that would make all my misgivings disappear. I glanced at Atwood, who appeared bored. He was surreptitiously checking his phone.

  “The demonstration I proposed,” said Worthington, “involved blocking activity in one hemisphere of the brain, leaving the second to encode, hold, and reproduce the digits.”

  It was a big reveal, just not the one I had expected.

  The human brain is composed of two separate and in many ways, independent halves or hemispheres. Signals from and to the right side of the body – the right hand, the right leg, or the right part of the visual field – are processed in the left hemisphere of the brain, and vice versa. So, with his deceptively simple statement, Worthington had shifted the conversation from the realm of medicine to an area where most cognitive psychologists would feel quite at home. Worthington was talking about a procedure that, if it worked, would parallel the so-called ‘split-brain’ studies.

  Those studies had involved a very small group of individuals whose hemispheres were separate, usually as the result of surgery, but occasionally from injury, illness, or developmental problems. And what that research had found were significant and systematic differences between the right and left sides of the brain. In very general terms, the left hemisphere had been characterized as analytic or logical, while the right hemisphere was seen to be more holistic and intuitive.

  While Worthington’s reference to blocking one of the two hemispheres triggered thoughts of the split-brain studies in me, his procedure evidently meant something different to Nicole. “Are you saying that you conducted something like the Wada Test, but did so electronically?” she asked.

  In the first reaction from Worthington that was not laced with boredom or disdain, he gave a single nod and said, “Precisely.”

  I had no idea what the Wada test was, but didn’t want to sidetrack the conversation by asking Nicole for an explanation now. And frankly, I didn’t want to give Worthington any more ammunition for his condescension either. I made a mental note to ask her later.

  “With a choice of hemispheres to electronically suppress, which did you select?” I asked.

  “You’re the psychologist,” Worthington replied. “Which would you choose?”

  I could have turned the question back to Worthington – he was the one seeking funding, not us. But I might learn more about his thoughts if I gave him something to consider.

  “Interesting question,” I said, rubbing my chin as I gazed off to the corner of the room for a moment, although I knew exactly what I was going to say. “The digit memory span task is generally considered to involve working memory. Working memory, however, doesn’t reside in only one of the hemispheres. But given that the left hemisphere is usually more involved in language and a common tactic to remember a list of numbers is silent rehearsal, I’d choose the left.”

  Perhaps we were making some small degree of progress with Worthington, as for a second time he seemed accepting of, if not impressed by the conversation.

  “As did I,” Worthington replied.

  “So, you
r method was to block activity in the left hemisphere, letting the right adapt to the task?” asked Sue.

  “Correct.”

  “And then you turn off the blocker and see how many items A.T. recalls when both hemispheres can contribute?”

  I looked up from my note-taking to see Worthington nod, his expression conveying something like the satisfaction he might get if a particularly slow student had finally grasped a totally obvious concept. I was finding him quite easy to dislike, but reminded myself, ‘it’s only business.’

  I glanced again at Atwood. He had abandoned any show of subtlety, as he stared at his phone’s screen, lost to the conversation.

  “According to the graph on page seven, A.T.’s digit span first grew to around 14 items, or nearly twice that observed in the general population,” said Sue. “That was after about…68 hours of training and testing, if I’m reading it right. So, it’s your belief that after this time, each hemisphere was contributing about seven items to the total when the Blocker was turned off?”

  The same glare I had seen before returned to Worthington’s countenance, except it was now directed at Sue. I didn’t expect her to be fazed by his demeanor, and a glance indicated I was right. She sat calmly waiting for a reply, wearing that formal smile that doesn’t reach the eyes.

  “Yes, that’s correct,” he said after a moment. “The two hemispheres are each contributing to the performance.”

  The certainty in his statement seemed misplaced. Most people would get better after this much practice using means that had nothing to do with recruiting new areas of the brain. It was time to peel back a layer of the onion.

  “Did you record the number of digits A.T. was recalling when the Neural Activity Blocker was turned on?” I asked. If that number was around seven, it would be additional proof that the right hemisphere had adapted and could handle the task by itself.