Brain

Chapter 11

Denise Sanger woke up in one instant. She lay there unmoving, scarcely breathing while she listened to the sounds of the night. She could feel the pulse at her temples, hammering away from the adrenaline that had been pumped into her system. She knew that she'd been awakened by some foreign noise but it was not repeated. All she could hear was the rumbling of her ancient refrigerator. Her breathing slowly returned to normal. Even her refrigerator, with a final thump, kicked off, leaving the apartment in silence.

Rolling over, wondering if perhaps she'd just had a bad dream, she realized she had to go to the bathroom. The pressure on her bladder slowly augmented until she could no longer ignore it. As distasteful as the idea was, she had to get up.

Pulling herself from the warm bed, Denise padded into the bathroom. Gathering up her nightgown in a bundle on her lap, she sat down on the cold toilet seat. She didn't turn on the light nor did she close the door.

The adrenaline in her system seemed to have inhibited her bladder and she was forced to sit for several minutes before she could urinate. She had just finished when she heard a dull thud that could have been someone hitting her wall from another apartment.

Denise strained her ears for any other sound but the apartment was quiet. Marshaling her courage, she moved silently down the hall until she had a view of her front door. She felt a sense of relief when she saw that the police lock was securely in place.

She turned and started back toward the bedroom. It was at that moment that she felt the draft along the floor and heard a slight rustle of some of the notes tacked to her bulletin board. Reversing her direction, she returned to the foyer and glanced into the dark living room. The window to the fire escape in the air well was open!

Denise tried desperately not to panic, but the possibility of an intruder had been her biggest fear since coming to New York. For almost a month after her arrival, she'd had great difficulty sleeping. And now with her window ajar her worst nightmare seemed to be unfolding. Someone was in her apartment!

As the seconds ticked by, she remembered that she had two phones. One by her bed, the other on the kitchen wall just ahead of her. In one step, she crossed the hall, feeling the aging linoleum under her feet. Passing the sink, she grabbed a small paring knife. A glint of meager light sparkled off its small blade. The tiny weapon gave Denise a false sense of protection.

Reaching past the refrigerator, she grasped the phone. At that instant, the old refrigerator compressor switched on and with a sound similar to a subway, chugged to life. Startled by the noise, her nerves already drawn out to a razor's edge, she panicked, letting go of the phone and starting to scream.

But before she could make a sound, a hand grabbed her neck and lifted her with great power, causing her strength to drain away. Her arms went flaccid and the paring knife clattered to the floor.

She was whisked around like a rag doll and rapidly propelled down the hall with her feet just touching the floor. Stumbling into the bedroom there were several flashes, a sensation of searing heat on the side of her head and the sounds of a pistol with a silencer.

The bullets slapped into the mound of blankets on her bed. A final rude shove sent Denise to her knees as the blankets were yanked back.

"Where is he?" snarled one of the attackers. The other pulled open the closets.

Cowering by the bed, she looked up. Two men dressed in black with wide leather belts were standing in front of her.

"Who?" she managed in a weak voice.

"Your lover, Martin Philips."

"I don't know. At the hospital."

One of the men reached down and lifted her up high enough to throw her onto the bed. "Then we'll wait."

For Philips, time had passed as if in a dream. After the last rifle shot he'd heard nothing. The night had remained still except for an occasional car on the city street beyond the playground. He was aware that his pulse had slowed to normal, but he was still having trouble collecting his thoughts. Only now, as the rising sun imperceptibly brushed over the playground, did his mind begin to function again. As the dawn brightened he was able to make out more details in the landscape, like the series of concrete wastebaskets that were fashioned to look like the surrounding natural rock. Birds had suddenly convened on the area, and several pigeons wandered over to the sprawled body in the dry wading pool.

Martin tried moving his stiff legs. He gradually realized that the dead body out in the playground was a new threat. Someone would soon call the police and after last night Martin was understandably terrified of them.

Heaving himself to his feet, he steadied himself against the wall until his circulation returned. His body ached as he cautiously made his way back up the cement stairs, scanning the area. He could see the path down which he'd made his terrified plunge just hours before. Way off he could see someone walking his dog. It wouldn't be long before the body in the playground was discovered.

He descended the stairs and hurried toward the far corner of the park, passing close to the body of the derelict. The pigeons were feasting on bits of organic matter that had been sprayed by the bullet. Martin looked away.

Emerging from the park, he turned up the narrow lapels of the tramp's overcoat and crossed the street, which he saw was Broadway. There was a subway entrance on the corner but Martin was frightened of being trapped below the ground. He had no idea if the people who were after him were still in the area.

He stepped into a doorway and scanned the street. It was getting lighter every minute and the traffic was beginning to pick up. That made Philips feel better. The more people, the safer he should be, and he didn't see any men loitering suspiciously or sitting in any of the parked cars.

A taxi stopped at the traffic light directly in front of him. Martin dashed from the doorway and tried to open the rear door It was locked. The driver turned around to look at Philips, then accelerated despite the red light.

Martin stood in the street bewildered, watching the cab speed into the distance. It was only as he walked back to the doorway and caught sight of his reflection in the glass that he realized why the cabby had pulled away. Martin appeared to be a veritable tramp. His hair was hopelessly disheveled, matted on the side with dried blood and bits of leaves. His face was dirty and sported a twenty-four-hour growth of whiskers. The tattered chesterfield coat completed the derelict image.

Reaching for his wallet, Philips was relieved to feel its familiar form in his back pocket. He took it out and counted the cash. He had thirty-one dollars. His credit cards would be useless under the circumstances. He kept out one of the fives and replaced the wallet.

About five minutes later another cab pulled up. This time Philips approached from the front so the cabby could see him. He'd made his hair as presentable as possible and opened the overcoat so that it's shabby condition wasn't immediately apparent. Most important, he held up the five-dollar bill. The cabby waved him in. "Where to, Mister?"

"Straight," said Philips. "Just go straight." Although the cabby eyed Martin a little suspiciously in the rear-view mirror, he put the car in gear when the light changed, and drove down Broadway.

Philips twisted in the seat and looked out the back window. Fort Tryon Park and the small playground receded rapidly. Martin still wasn't sure where to go, but he knew he'd feel safer in a crowd.

"I want to go to Forty-second Street," he said finally. "Why didn't you tell me before," complained the driver. "We could have turned on Riverside Drive."

"No," said Philips. "I don't want to go that way. I want to go down the East Side."

"That's going to cost about ten bucks, mister."

"It's okay!" said Martin. He took out his wallet and showed ten dollars to the driver, who was watching in the rear-view mirror.

When the car began to move again Martin let himself relax. He still could not believe what had happened in the last twelve hours. It was as if his whole world had collapsed. He had to keep stifling his natural impulse to go to the police for help. Why had they turned him over to the FBI? And why on earth would the Bureau want to annihilate him, no questions asked? As the car flashed down Second Avenue his sense of terror returned.

Forty-second Street provided the anonymity Philips needed. Six hours earlier the area had been alien and threatening. Now, the same aspects were comforting. These people wore their psychoses up front. They didn't hide behind a facade of normality. The dangerous people could be recognized and avoided.

Martin bought a large fresh orange juice and polished it off. He had another. Then he walked down Forty-second Street. He had to think. There had to be a rational explanation for everything. As a doctor, he knew that no matter how many disparate signs and symptoms there were in an illness, they could invariably be traced to a single disease. Nearing Fifth Avenue, Philips walked into the little park by the library. He found an empty bench and sat down. Pulling the dirty chesterfield around him, he made himself as comfortable as possible and tried to go over the events of the night. It had started at the hospital…

Martin woke with the sun almost overhead. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching him. There were lots of people in the park now, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to him. It had gotten warm and he was sweating heavily. When he stood up he was aware of his heavy ripe smell. Walking out of the park he glanced at his watch and was shocked to learn it was ten-thirty.

He found a Greek coffee house several blocks away. Balling up the old coat, he put it under the table. He was famished and he ordered eggs, home fries, bacon, toast and coffee. He used the tiny men's room but decided not to clean up. No one seeing him would ever guess he was a doctor. If he were being sought he couldn't have a better disguise.

As he finished his coffee he found the crumpled list he'd made of the five patients: Marino, Lucas, Collins, McCarthy and Lindquist. Was it possible that these patients and their histories were related to the bizarre fact that he was being pursued by the authorities? But even so, why would they be trying to kill him; and what had happened to these women? Had they been murdered? Could the affair be somehow related to sex and the underworld? If so, how did radiation fit in? And why was the FBI involved? Maybe the conspiracy was national, affecting hospitals all across the country.

Getting more coffee, Martin was certain the answer to the puzzle lay in the Hobson University Medical Center, but he knew that was the one place the authorities would expect him to go. In other words, the hospital was the most dangerous place for Martin, yet the only place where he had a chance to figure out what was happening. Leaving his coffee, Philips went back to use the pay phone. His first call was to Helen.

"Doctor Philips! I'm glad you called. Where are you?" Her voice was strained.

"I'm outside the hospital."

"I guessed that. But where?"

"Why?" asked Martin.

"Just wanted to know," said Helen.

"Tell me," said Martin. "Has anybody been looking for me…like…the FBI?"

"Why would the FBI be looking for you?"

Martin was now reasonably certain that Helen was under observation. It was not like her to answer a question with a question, especially an absurd one about the FBI. Under normal circumstances she would have simply told Martin he was crazy. Sansone or one of his agents had to be there with her. Philips hung up abruptly. He would have to think of another way to get the charts and other information he wanted from his office.

Martin next called the hospital and had Dr. Denise Sanger paged. The last thing he wanted was for her to go to the GYN clinic. But she did not pick up her page and Martin was afraid to leave a message. Hanging up, he placed a final call to Kristin Lindquist. Kristin's roommate picked up on the first ring, but when Philips introduced himself and asked about Kristin the girl said she could not give him any information and that she'd prefer he didn't call. Then she hung up.

Back at his table, Philips spread the list of patients in front of him. Taking out a pen he wrote: "strong radioactivity in the brains of young women (? other areas); Pap smears reported abnormal when they were normal; and neurological symptoms something like multiple sclerosis." Philips stared at what he'd written, his mind racing in crazy circles. Then he wrote: "Neurological-GYN-police-FBI," followed by "Werner necrophilia." There didn't seem to be any possible way all these things could be related, but it did seem as if GYN was in the middle. If he could find out why those Pap smears were reported abnormal, maybe he'd have something.

Suddenly a wave of desperation swept over him. It was obvious he was up against something bigger than he could possibly handle. His old world with the daily headaches no longer seemed so terrible. He would gladly put up with a little boring routine if he could go to bed at night with Denise in his arms. He wasn't a religious person, but he found himself trying to strike a bargain with God: if He would rescue him from this nightmare, Martin would never complain about his life again.

He looked down at the paper and realized that his eyes had filled with tears. Why would the police be after him, of all people? It didn't make sense.

He went back to the phone and tried again to reach Denise, but she wasn't answering her page. In desperation he called the GYN clinic and spoke to the receptionist.

"Has Denise Sanger had her appointment yet?"

"Not yet," said the receptionist. "We expect her any minute."

Martin thought quickly before he spoke. "This is Doctor Philips. When she arrives tell her that I canceled the appointment and that she should see me."

"I'll tell her," said the receptionist and Martin sensed she was genuinely bewildered.

Martin walked back to the small park and sat down. He found himself incapable of any sensible decision. For a man who believed in order and authority, not to be able to contact the police after being shot at seemed the height of irrationality.

The afternoon passed in fitful sleep and wakeful confusion. His lack of decision became a decision in itself. Rush hour started and reached its crescendo. Then the crowds began to dissipate and Martin went back to the coffee shop for dinner. It was a little after six.

He ordered a meatloaf plate and tried paging Denise while it was being prepared. Still she didn't pick up. When he was through he decided to try her apartment, wondering if the police knew enough about him to stake her out.

She picked up the phone on the first ring.

"Martin?" her voice was desperate.

"Yes, it's me."

"Thank God! Where are you?"

Martin ignored the question and said, "Where have you been? I've been paging you all day."

"I haven't been feeling well. I stayed at home."

"You didn't let the page operator at the hospital know."

"I know I…" suddenly Sanger's voice changed. "Don't come…" she yelled.

Her voice was choked off and Philips could hear a muffled struggle. His heart jumped in his throat. "Denise!" he shouted. Everyone in the coffee shop froze; all heads turned in Philips' direction.

"Philips, this is Sansone." The agent had picked up the phone. Martin could still hear Denise trying to shout in the background. "Just a minute, Philips," said Sansone. Then turning away from the phone he said, "Get her out of here and keep her quiet." Coming back on the line Sansone said, "Listen, Philips…"

"What the hell is going on, Sansone," cried Philips. "What are you doing to Denise?"

"Calm down, Philips. The girl is fine. We're here to protect her. What happened to you last night at the Cloisters?"

"What happened to me? Are you crazy? You people wanted to blow me away."

"That's ridiculous, Philips. We knew it wasn't you in the courtyard. We thought they'd already caught you."

"Who's they?" asked the bewildered Philips.

"Philips! I can't talk about these things over the phone."

"Just tell me what the fuck's going on!"

The people in the coffee shop were still motionless. They were New Yorkers and accustomed to all sorts of strange happenings, but not in their local coffee shop.

Sansone was cool and detached. "Sorry, Philips. You have to come here, and you have to come now. Being out on your own you are simply complicating our problem. And you already know there are a number of innocent lives at stake."

"Two hours," yelled Philips. "I'm two hours away from the city."

"All right, two hours, but not a second longer."

There was a final click and the line was dead.

Philips panicked. In one second his indecision was swept away. He threw down a five-dollar bill and ran out on the street toward the Eighth Avenue subway.

He was going to the Medical Center. He didn't know what he was going to do once he got there but he was going to the hospital. He had two hours and he had to have some answers. There was a chance Sansone was telling the truth. Maybe they did think that he'd been taken by some unknown force. But Philips wasn't sure and the uncertainty terrified him. His intuition told him that Denise was now in jeopardy.

The uptown train had standing-room only, even though the rush hour peak was over, but the ride was good for Philips. It tempered his panic and allowed him time to use his essential intelligence. By the time he got off he knew how he was going to get inside the medical center and what he was going to do when he did.

Martin followed the crowd off the train to the street, and headed for his first destination: a liquor store. The clerk took one look at Martin's disheveled appearance, bounded from behind his register and tried to hustle Philips out. He relented when Martin held up his money.

It took him just thirty seconds to pick out and pay for a pint of whiskey. Turning off Broadway onto a side street, Martin found a small alley filled with trash barrels. There he removed the top to the whiskey, took a good slug and gargled. He swallowed a small amount but spat most out onto the ground. Using the whiskey like cologne he anointed his face and neck, then slid the half-empty bottle back into his coat pocket. Stumbling past most of the trash barrels, Philips picked one toward the back. It was filled with sand probably used for the sidewalk in the winter. He dug a shallow hole and buried his wallet, putting the rest of his cash into the same pocket as the whiskey.

His next stop was a small but busy grocery store. People gave him a wide berth as he entered. It was quite crowded and Philips had to push past some customers to find an area with a clear line of sight to the checkout registers.

"Ahhh," screamed Philips as he choked and stumbled to the floor taking a display of canned beans on special with him. He writhed as if in pain as the beans rolled in every direction. When a shopper bent down to ask if he was allright, Martin rasped, "Pain. My heart!"

The ambulance arrived in moments. Martin had an oxygen mask strapped to his face and a rhythm EKG connected to his chest during the short drive to Hobson University Medical Center. His essentially normal EKG had already been preliminarily analyzed by radio and it had been determined that no cardiac drugs were needed.

As the attendants pushed him into the ER Martin glimpsed several policemen standing on the platform, but they didn't give him so much as a glance. He was carried down to one of the main ER rooms and transferred to a bed. One of the nurses searched his pockets for identification while the resident took another EKG. Since the tracing was normal, the cardiac team began to disperse, leaving the intern to take over.

"How's the pain, partner?" he asked, bending over Philips.

"I need some Maalox," Martin growled. "Sometimes when I drink cheap stuff I need Maalox."

"Sounds good to me," said the doctor.

Philips was given Maalox by a hardened thirty-five-year-old nurse who did everything but slap him for the pitiful shape he was in. She took a short history and Martin gave his name as Harvey Hopkins. It'd been his roommate in college. The nurse then said they'd give him a chance to relax for a few minutes to see if his chest pain came back. She pulled the curtain around his bed.

Philips waited for several minutes, then he climbed off the end of the bed. On an ER cart against the wall he found a prep razor and a small bar of soap used to clean wounds. He also got several towels, and a surgical cap and mask. So armed he peeked out of the curtains.

As usual at that time of night, the ER was a hopeless sea of confusion. The sign-in line at the front desk almost reached the entrance and ambulances were arriving at regular intervals. No one even looked at Martin as he walked down the central corridor and pushed open the gray door across from the besieged main desk. There was only one doctor in the lounge and he was engrossed in an EKG when Philips walked through to the showers.

Rapidly he showered and shaved, leaving his clothes in the corner of the room. By the sinks he found a pile of surgical scrub gear, which was the favorite apparel of the emergency room staff. He put on a shirt and pants and the surgical hat to cover his wet head. He even tied on the mask. There were many times that hospital personnel used masks outside of the OR, especially when they were suffering from a head cold.

Regarding himself in the mirror, Philips was convinced that someone would have to know him very well to recognize him. He'd not only gotten inside the hospital but he looked like he belonged. As for Harvey Hopkins, ER patients were always walking out. Philips looked at his watch. He'd used up an hour.

Charging out of the lounge, Philips crossed the ER and ran past two more policemen. He used the back stairs behind the cafeteria to reach the second floor. He wanted a radiation detector, but decided it was too dangerous to fetch the one in his office and had to search around the radiotherapy section until he found another. Then he ran back down the stairs to the main floor and hurried into the clinics building.

The elevators there were old and required operators, who had already left for the day, so Martin had to climb four flights to GYN. He had decided on the subway, sandwiched between two very unhappy businessmen, that the radiation could have been connected to GYN, but now that he had arrived, radiation detector in hand, his resolve began to falter. He had no idea what he was looking for.

Passing the main GYN waiting room, Philips turned into the smaller university clinic. It had yet to be passed over by the cleaning crew, and the area was littered with overflowing ashtrays and papers. It all looked so innocent and normal in the meager light.

Philips checked the receptionist's desk but it was locked. Trying the two doors behind the desk he found the whole area to be secured. But the locks were simple ones, which required the key to be inserted in the doorknob itself. A plastic card from the top of the receptionist's desk sufficed to open one. Martin went in, closed the door and turned on the lights.

He was standing in the hallway were he'd talked with Dr. Harper. There were two examining rooms to the left and the lab or utility room to the right. Martin selected the examining rooms first. Monitoring the detector very carefully he went over each room, slicking the detector into every cabinet and recess and even going over the examining tables themselves. Nothing. The place was clean. In the lab areas he did the same thing starting with the countertop cabinets, opening drawers, peering into boxes. At the end of the room he went over the large instrument cabinets. It was all negative.

The first response came from the wastebasket. It was a very weak reading and totally harmless, but it was nonetheless radiation. Glancing at his watch, Philips noticed that time was slipping rapidly away. In one-half-hour he was going to have to call Denise's apartment. He decided that he'd present himself only after he'd made sure Sansone wasn't holding her.

With the positive reading in the wastebasket he decided to go over the lab one more time. He found nothing until he returned to the closet. The lower shelves were filled with linen and hospital gowns, while the upper shelves had a mixture of laboratory and office supplies. Below the shelves was a hamper filled with soiled linen, which registered another weak positive reading when he pushed the probe almost to the floor.

Martin emptied out the soiled linen and went over it with the detector. Nothing. Sticking the probe into the emptied hamper Philips again got a weak response near the base. He reached down and put his hand into the enclosure. The walls and floor of the hamper were painted wood and seemed solid. With his fist he struck the bottom and felt a vibration. Taking his time he hit it all around the periphery. When he got to the far corner the board tilted slightly, then fell.back into place. Pushing in the same location Martin raised the floor of the hamper and looked beneath. Below were two shielded lead storage boxes with the familiar radiation warning logo.

The two boxes had labels indicating their origin from the Brookhaven Laboratories, which was a source of all sorts of medical isotopes. Only one of the labels was entirely legible. It contained 2-[18F] fluoro-2 deoxy-D-glucose. The other label was partially scraped off although it was also an isotope of deoxy-D-glucose.

Martin quickly opened the boxes. The first one with the legible label was moderately radioactive. It was the other box which had a significantly thicker lead shield that made the radiation detector go crazy. Whatever it was, it was very hot. Philips shut and sealed the container. Then he piled the linen back into the hamper and shut the door.

Martin had never heard of either one of the compounds, but the mere fact they were in the GYN clinic was reason enough to make them highly suspect. The hospital had extremely strict controls concerning radioactive material that was used for radiotherapy, some diagnostic work and controlled research. But none of these categories was applicable to the GYN clinic. What Philips had to know was what radioactive deoxy-glucose was used for.

Carrying the radiation detector, Philips descended the clinic stairs to the basement. Once in the tunnel system he had to slow his dash in order not to surprise the groups of medical students. But when he reached the new medical school he increased his pace, arriving at the library totally out of breath.

"Deoxy-glucose," he panted. "I need to look it up. Where?"

"I don't know," said the startled librarian.

"Shit," said Philips and turned and started toward the card catalogue.

"Try the reference desk," called the woman.

Reversing his direction, Philips went to the periodical section where the reference desk was staffed with a girl who looked about fifteen. She'd heard the commotion and was watching Martin's approach.

"Quick…" said Philips. "Deoxy-glucose. Where can I look it up?"

"What is it?" The girl eyed Martin with alarm.

"Must be some sort of sugar, made from glucose. Look, I don't know what it is. That's why I need to look it up."

"I guess you could start with the Chemical Abstract and try the Index Medicines, then…"

"The Chemical Abstract! Where's that?"

The girl pointed to a long table backed by bookshelves. Philips rushed over and pulled out the index. He was afraid to look at his watch. He found the reference as a subheading under glucose, giving him the volume and page number. When he found the article, he started to skim it but his frenzy turned the words into a meaningless jumble. He had to force himself to slow down and concentrate, and when he did he learned that deoxy-glucose was so similar to glucose, the biological fuel of the brain, that it was transported across the blood-brain barrier and picked up by the active nerve cells. But then, once inside the active nerve cells it could not be metabolized like glucose, and piled up. Down at the very bottom of the short article it said: "… radioactively tagged deoxy-glucose has shown great promise in brain research."

Martin snapped the book shut and his hands trembled. The whole affair was beginning to make sense. Someone in the hospital was conducting experiments in brain research on unsuspecting human subjects! "Mannerheim!" thought Martin, so enraged that he could taste the venom.

He was not a chemist, but he remembered enough to realize that if a compound like deoxy-glucose was made sufficiently radioactive, it could be injected into people and used to study its absorption in the brain. If it were very radioactive, which the stuff in the box in GYN was, then it would kill the brain cells that absorbed it. If someone wanted to study a pathway of nerve cells in the brain they could selectively destroy them with this method, and it was the destruction of nerve pathways in animal brains that had been the foundation of the science of neuroanatomy. To a sufficiently ruthless scientist it was just a step to adopt the same methods to humans. Philips shuddered. Only someone as egocentric as Mannerheim would be able to overlook the moral aspects.

Martin was crushed by his discovery. He had no idea how Mannerheim got Gynecology to participate, but they had to be in on the study. And the hospital administrator had to know something too. Why else would Drake defend Mannerheim, the prima donna neurosurgeon, the demigod of the hospital. Martin sagged under the appalling implications.

He knew that Mannerheim was heavily funded by the government; millions and millions of dollars of public money went into his research activities. Could that be the reason for the FBI's intervention? Had Martin been accused of endangering a major breakthrough funded by the government? The FBI might have no idea that the breakthrough involved human experimentation. Martin was no tyro when it came to organizational snafus when the right hand had no idea what the left hand was doing. But it was a sorry twist that the use of human sacrifice for medical research could be unknowingly protected by the government.

Slowly Martin turned his wrist to see the face of his watch. Five minutes to go before he had to call Denise. He was not sure if the agents would harm her, but after their treatment of the tramps he was not about to take any chances. He wondered what he could do. He knew something about what was going on… not everything, but something. He knew enough that if he could get some powerful person to intervene, the whole conspiracy might unravel. But who? It would have to be someone outside of the hospital hierarchy, but knowledgeable about the hospital and its structure. The Commissioner of Health? Someone in the Mayor's office? The Commissioner of Police? Martin was afraid that these people might have already been told so many lies about Martin that his warnings would fall on deaf ears.

Suddenly Philips thought of Michaels, the boy wonder. He could get to the Provost of the university! His word could be enough to stimulate an inquiry. It might work. Martin ran to one of the phones and got an outside line. As he dialed Michaels' number, he prayed that he'd be home. When the scientist's familiar voice answered, Martin could have cheered.

"Michaels, I'm in terrible trouble."

"What's wrong?" asked Michaels. "Where are you?"

"I don't have time to explain; I've uncovered some gigantic research horror here in the hospital, which the FBI seems to be protecting. Don't ask me why."

"What can I do?"

"Call the Provost. Tell him that there's a scandal involving human experimentation. That should be enough unless the Provost is involved. If that's the case, heaven help us all. But the most immediate problem is Denise. She's being held by the FBI in her apartment. Get the Provost to call Washington and have her released."

"What about you?"

"Don't worry about me. I'm all right. I'm in the hospital."

"Why don't you come here to my apartment?"

"I can't. I'm going up to the Neurosurgical lab. I'll meet you at your computer lab in about fifteen minutes. Hurry I"

Philips hung up and dialed Denise's apartment. Someone lifted the phone but did not talk.

"Sansone," Martin cried. "It's me, Philips."

"Where are you, Philips? I have the uncomfortable feeling you are not taking this situation seriously."

"But I am. I'm just north of the city. I'm coming. I need more time. Twenty minutes."

"Fifteen minutes," said Sansone. Then he hung up. Martin raced back from the library with a sinking feeling. Now he was even more sure that Sansone was holding Denise hostage in order to make him give himself up. They wanted to kill him and they'd probably kill her to get him. Everything rested on Michaels. He had to get to uninvolved authority. But Martin knew he needed more information to back up his allegations. Mannerheim undoubtedly had some kind of cover story. Martin wanted to see how many of the brain specimens in Neurosurgery were radioactive.

Martin took an empty elevator to the Neurosurgical floor in the research building. He'd dispensed with the surgical hat and nervously ran his fingers through his tangled hair. He only had minutes left before calling Denise's apartment.

The door to Mannerheim's lab was locked and Martin looked around for something to break the glass. A small fire extinguisher caught his eye. Detaching it from the wall, he threw it through the glass panel of the door. With his foot he knocked out some remaining shards, and then reached in and turned the handle.

At that exact moment the doors at the far end of the hall burst open, and two men charged into the corridor, both carrying pistols. They were not hospital security; they were dressed in polyester business suits.

One of the men dropped to a crouch, grabbing his gun with both hands while the other shouted: "Freeze, Philips!"

Martin fell forward onto the broken glass inside the lab and out of view from the hall. He heard the dull thump of a silencer as a bullet ricocheted off the metal door frame. He scrambled to his feet and slammed the door, knocking a few more bits of glass from the broken pane.

Turning into the lab Martin heard heavy footsteps pounding down the hall. The room was dark, but he remembered its layout and rushed down between the counter-top room dividers. He got to the door to the animal room as his pursuers reached the outer door. One of the men hit the light switch, filling the lab with raw fluorescent glare.

Martin functioned in a frenzy. Inside the animal room, he grabbed the cage housing the monkey who had electrodes implanted in his brain turning him into a raging monster. The animal tried to grab Martin's hand and bite him through the wire mesh. Pushing with all his might, Martin got the cage over to the door of the lab. He could see his pursuers coming around the nearest counter top. Holding his breath Martin released the door to the cage.

With a shriek that rattled the laboratory glassware, the monkey launched itself from its prison. In a single jump it reached the shelves over the counter tops, scattering instruments in all directions. Startled by the appearance of the raging beast trailing wire electrodes, the two men hesitated. It was all the animal needed. Powered by its pent-up fury, the monkey leaped from the shelf onto the shoulder of Martin's nearest pursuer, tearing at the man's flesh with its powerful fingers, and sinking its teeth into his neck. The other man tried to help but the monkey was too fast.

Martin did not stay to observe the results. Instead he dashed across the animal room, passing the long rows of preserved brains, and entered the stairwell. Down he plunged, taking the stairs as quickly as possible, leaping to the landings, turning, down again in a dizzying effort.

When he heard the stairwell door crash open far above him, he hugged the wall but did not slow his descent. He wasn't sure if he could be seen but he didn't stop to check. He should have known that Mannerheim's Neurosurgical lab would have been guarded. Martin heard loud running footsteps begin descending the stairs but they were many floors away, and he reached the basement and entered the tunnel without hearing any more pistol shots.

The ancient two-way hinges on the doors to the old medical-school building squeaked as Philips burst through. After sprinting up the curved marble stairs, Philips raced down the partially demolished corridor until he reached the old amphitheater entrance. Then he abruptly stopped. It was dark, which meant that Michaels had yet to arrive. Behind him there was silence. He'd outrun his pursuers. But now the authorities knew he was in the medical center complex, and it would be only a matter of time before he was discovered.

Martin tried to catch his breath. If Michaels didn't arrive shortly he'd have to go over to Denise's apartment no matter how helpless he'd feel. Anxiously he pushed on the amphitheater door. To his surprise it opened. He stepped inside and was enveloped by the black coldness.

The silence was broken by a low-pitched electrical snap familiar to Philips from his days as a student. It was the sound the lighting system made when it was activated. And just as in those former days, the room filled with light. Seeing movement out of the corner of his eye, Martin looked down toward the pit. Michaels was waving up at him. "Martin. What a relief to see you!"

Philips grabbed the handrail in front of him to help propel him along the horizontal aisle that used to lead between tiers of seats when the amphitheater had been used as a lecture hall. Michaels had positioned himself at the base of the stairs and he waved Philips down.

"Did you get the Provost?" shouted Philips. Seeing Michaels gave him the first glimmer of hope he'd had for hours.

"Everything is okay," yelled Michaels. "Come on down here."

Martin started down the stairs which were narrow and crisscrossed with cables to the electronic components that stood where the seats had once been. Three men were waiting with Michaels. Apparently he'd already gathered help. "We have to do something about Denise instantly they…"

"It's been taken care of," yelled Michaels.

"Is she all right?" asked Martin, halting his progress for a moment.

"She's fine and she's safe. Just come on down here."

The closer Martin got to the pit the more equipment there was and the more difficult it was to avoid the wires. "I just barely got away from two men who shot at me up in Neurosurgery lab." He was still breathless and his voice came in spurts.

"You're safe here," said Michaels, watching his friend come down the stairs.

As he arrived at the edge of the pit, Martin lifted his eyes from the cluttered stairs, and looked into Michaels' face. "I didn't have time to find anything in Neurosurgery," said Martin. He could now see the other three men. One was the congenial young student, Carl Rudman, whom he had met on his first visit to the lab. The other two he didn't recognize. They were dressed in black jumpsuits.

Ignoring Martin's last comment, Michaels turned to one of the strangers: "Are you satisfied now? I told you I could get him here."

The man who had not taken his eyes from Philips said, "You got him here, but are you going to be able to control him?"

"I think so," said Michaels.

Martin watched this strange exchange, his eyes moving from Michaels to the man in the jumpsuit. Suddenly he recognized the face. It was the man who'd killed Werner!

"Martin," said Michaels softly, almost paternally. "I've got some things to show you."

The stranger interrupted. "Dr. Michaels, I can guarantee that the FBI will not act precipitously. But what the CIA does is not under my control. I hope you understand that, Dr. Michaels."

Michaels spun around. "Mr. Sansone. I'm aware that the CIA is not your jurisdiction. I need some more time with Dr. Philips."

Turning back to Philips he said, "Martin, I want to show you something. Come on." He took a step toward the door connecting to the neighboring amphitheater.

Martin was paralyzed. His hands were gripping the brass railing that fringed the pit. Relief had become perplexity, and with the perplexity had come the deep rumbling of renewed fear.

"What is going on here?" he asked with a sense of dread. He spoke slowly, enunciating each word.

"That's what I want to show you," Michaels said. "Come on!"

"Where's Denise?" Philips didn't move a muscle.

"She's perfectly safe. Believe me. Come on." Michaels stepped back over to Philips and grabbed his wrist to encourage him to step down into the pit. "Let me show you some things. Relax. You'll see Denise in a few minutes."

Philips allowed himself to be led past Sansone and into the next amphitheater. The young student had gone in before them and switched on the light. Martin saw another amphitheater, whose seats had been removed. In the pit where he was standing was a huge screen made of millions of light-sensitive photo-receptor cells whose wires fed into a processing unit. From this first processor emerged a significantly smaller number of wires, which were gathered into two trunks that led into two computers. Wires from these computers led into other computers, which were cross-connected. The setup filled the room.

"Do you have any idea what you're looking at?" asked Michaels.

Martin shook his head.

"You're looking at the first computerized model of the human visual system. It's large, primitive by our current standards, but surprisingly functional. The images are flashed on the screen and the computers you see here associate the information." Michaels made a sweeping gesture with his hands. "What you are looking at, Martin, is akin to that first atomic pile they built at Princeton. This will be one of the biggest scientific breakthroughs in history."

Martin looked at Michaels. Maybe the man was crazy.

"We have created the fourth-generation computer!" said Michaels, and he slapped Philips on the back. "Listen. The first generation was merely the first computers that were not just calculators. The second generation came in with transistors. The third generation was microchips. We have given birth to the fourth generation, and that little processor you have in your office is one of our first applications. You know what we've done?"

Philips shook his head. Michaels was on fire with excitement.

"We've created true artificial intelligence! We've made computers that think. They learn and they reason. It had to come, and we did it!" Michaels grabbed Martin's arm and pulled him into the hall connecting the two old amphitheaters. There between the two-tiered lecture rooms was the door that led into the old Microbiology and Physiology labs. When Michaels opened it, Martin saw the inside had been reinforced with steel. Behind it was a second door. It too was reinforced and secured. Michaels unlocked it with a special key and pulled it open. It was like stepping into a vault.

Martin staggered under the impact of what he saw. The old labs with their small rooms and slate-top experiment tables had been removed. Instead Philips found himself in a hundred-foot-long room with no windows. Down the center was a row of huge glass cylinders filled with clear liquid.

"This is our most valuable and productive preparation," said Michaels, patting the side of the first cylinder. "Now I know your first impression will be emotional. It was for all of us. But believe me; the rewards are worth the sacrifice."

Martin slowly began to walk around the container. It was at least six feet high and three feet in diameter. Inside, submerged in what Martin later learned was cerebrospinal fluid, were the living remains of Katherine Collins. She floated in a sitting position with her arms suspended over her head. A respiration unit was functioning, indicating that she was alive. But her brain had been completely exposed. There was no skull. Most of the face was gone except for the eyes, which had been dissected free and covered with contact lenses. An endotracheal tube issued from her neck.

Her arms had also been carefully dissected to extract the ends of the sensory nerves. These nerve endings looped back like strands of a spider web to connect with electrodes buried within the brain.

Philips made a slow complete circle around the cylinder. An awful weakness spread over him and his legs threatened to give way.

"You probably know," said Michaels, "that significant advances in computer science, like feedback, came from studying biological systems. It's really what cybernetics is all about. Well, we've taken the natural step and gone to the human brain itself, not studying it like psychology, which thinks of it as a mysterious black box." Suddenly, Philips remembered Michaels using the enigmatic term on the day he presented Martin with the computer program. Now he understood. "We've studied it like any other vastly complicated machine. And we've succeeded, beyond our dreams. We've discovered how the brain stores its information, how it accomplishes parallel processing of information rather than the inefficient serial processing of yesterday's computers, and how the brain is organized in a functionally hierarchical system. Best of all, we've learned how to design and build a mechanical system that mirrors the brain and has these same functions. And it works, Martin! It works beyond your wildest imagination!"

Michaels had nudged Philips to continue down the row of cylinders, looking in at the exposed brains of the young women, all at different levels of vivisection. At the last cylinder Philips paused. The subject was in the earliest state of preparation. Philips recognized the remains of the face. It was Kristin Lindquist.

"Now, listen," said Michaels. "I know it's shocking when you first see it. But this scientific breakthrough is so big that it is inconceivable to contemplate the immediate benefits. In medicine alone, it will revolutionize every field. You've already seen what our very preliminary program will do with a skull X ray. Philips, I don't want you to make any snap decisions, you understand?"

They'd finished the trip around the room, which was a marriage between a hospital and a computer installation. In the corner was what appeared to be a complicated life-support setup, like an intensive-care unit. Sitting in front of the monitors was a man in a long white coat. Michaels' and Philips' arrival had not disturbed his concentration.

Standing again in front of Katherine Collins, Philips found words for the first time: "What is going into this subject's brain?" His voice was flat, unemotional.

"Those are sensory nerves," said Michaels eagerly. "Since the brain is ironically insensitive to its own state, we've joined Katherine's peripheral sensory nerves up to electrodes so that she can tell us which sections of her brain are functioning at any given moment. We've constructed a feedback system for the brain."

"You mean this preparation communicates with you?" Philips was genuinely surprised.

"Of course. That's the beauty of this whole setup. We've used the human brain to study itself. I'll show you."

Outside of Katherine Collins' cylinder but in line with her eyes was a unit that resembled a computer terminal. It had a large upright screen and a keyboard, which was electrically attached to a unit within the cylinder as well as to a central computer on the side of the room. Michaels keyed a question into the unit and it flashed onto the screen. How are you feeling, Katherine?

The question vanished and in its place came: Fine, I'm eager to start work. Please stimulate me.

Michaels smiled and looked at Martin. "This girl can't get enough. That's why she's been so good."

"What did she mean, 'stimulate me'?"

"We planted an electrode in her pleasure center. That's how we reward her and encourage her to cooperate. When we stimulate her she has the sensation of one hundred orgasms. It must be sensational because she wants it constantly."

Michaels typed into the unit: "Only once, Katherine. You must be patient." Then he pushed a red button on the side of the keyboard. Philips could see Katherine's body arch slightly and shudder.

"You know," said Michaels, "it's been shown now that the reward system of the brain is the most powerful motivating force, even greater than self-preservation. We've even found a way to incorporate that principle in our newest processor. It makes the machines function more efficiently."

"Who ever conceived of all this?" asked Philips not sure he believed everything he was seeing.

"No one person can take credit or blame," said Michaels. "It all happened in stages. One thing led to another. But the two people most responsible are you and I."

"Me," said Martin. He looked like he'd been slapped.

"Yes," said Michaels. "You know I've always been interested in artificial intelligence; that's why I was interested in working with you initially. The problems you presented about reading X rays crystallized the whole central issue called 'pattern recognition.' Humans could recognize patterns, but the most sophisticated computers had inordinate difficulty. By your careful analysis of the methodology you used to evaluate X rays, you and I isolated the logical steps that had to be solved electronically if we were to duplicate your function. It sounds complicated, but it isn't. We needed to know certain things about how a human brain recognizes familiar objects. I teamed up with some physiologists interested in neuroscience and we initiated a very modest study using radioactive deoxy-glucose, which could be injected into patients who were then subjected to a specific pattern. We used the E charts frequently used by Ophthalmology. The radioactive glucose analog then made microscopic lesions in the subjects' brains by killing the cells that had been involved in recognizing and associating the E pattern. Then it was just a matter of mapping those lesions to determine how the brain functioned. The technique of selective destruction had been used for research on animal brains for years. The difference was that, using it on humans, we learned so much so quickly that it spurred us on to greater efforts."

"Why young women?" asked Martin. The nightmare was becoming a reality.

"Purely because of ease. We needed a population of healthy subjects who we could call back whenever we needed them. The Gynecology population suited our purpose. They ask very little about what's being done to them, and by merely altering the Pap smear report, we could get them to return as often as necessary. My wife has been in charge of the university's GYN clinic for years. She selected the patients and then injected the radioactive material in their bloodstream when she drew blood for their routine laboratory work. It was very easy." Martin had a sudden vision of the severe, black-haired woman in the GYN clinic. He had trouble associating her with Michaels, but then he realized that was far more believable than everything else he'd seen.

The screen in front of Katherine Collins came alive again: Stimulate me, please.

Michaels typed into the keyboard: "You know the rules. Later, when the experiments begin."

Turning to Martin, he said: "The program was so easy and so successful that it encouraged us to expand the goals of the research. But this happened gradually, over several years. We were encouraged to give huge doses of radiation to delineate the final associative areas of the brain. Unfortunately this caused some symptomology in a few of the patients, especially when we began work on the temporal lobe connections. This part of the work became very tricky because we had to balance the destruction we were causing with the level of tolerable symptoms for the subjects. If the subject got too many symptoms we had to bring them in, which initiated this stage of the research." Michaels gestured toward the row of glass cylinders. "And it's been here in this room that all the major discoveries have been made. But of course we never envisioned this when we started."

"What about these recent patients, like Marino and Lucas and Lindquist?"

"Ah, yes. They did cause a bit of a stir. They were the patients receiving the highest dose of radioactivity, and their symptoms came on so fast that some of them went to physicians before we could get to them. But the physicians never came close to a diagnosis, especially Mannerheim."

"You mean he's not involved?" asked Martin with surprise. "Mannerheim? Are you joking? You can't have egotistical bastards like that involved in a project of this magnitude. He'd want credit for every little breakthrough."

Philips looked around the room. He was horrified and overwhelmed. It didn't seem possible that it could happen, especially right smack in the center of a university's medical center. "The thing that amazes me most," said Martin, "is that you could get away with this. I mean some poor bastard up in pharmacology mistreats a rat and the animal league is on his back."

"We've had a lot of help. You might have noticed those men out there are FBI agents."

Philips looked at Michaels. "You don't have to remind me of that. They tried to kill me."

"I'm sorry about that. I had no idea what was going on until you called me. You've been under surveillance for over a year. But they told me it was for your protection."

"I've been under surveillance?" Martin was incredulous. "We all have. Philips, let me tell you something. The results of this research are going to change the entire complexion of society. I'm not being dramatic. When we first started, it was a small project, but we had some very early results, which we patented. That caused the big computer companies to shower us with research money and help. They didn't care how we were making our discoveries. All they wanted was the results, and they competed with one another in giving us favors. But then the inevitable happened. The first major application for our fourth-generation computer was the Defense Department. It has revolutionized the whole concept of weaponry. Using a small artificial intelligence unit combined with a holographic molecular memory-storage system, we designed and built the first truly intelligent missile-guidance system. The army now has a prototype 'intelligent missile.' It is the biggest defense breakthrough since the discovery of atomic power. And the government is even less interested in the origin of our discoveries than were the computer companies. Whether we liked it or not, they blanketed us with the highest level of security they've ever amassed, even more than the Manhattan Project back when the atomic bomb was being created. Even the President couldn't have walked in here. So we've all been under surveillance. And those guys are a paranoid lot. Every day they thought that the Russians were about to storm the place. And last night they said you went berserk and were a security risk. But I can control them, to a point. A lot depends on you. You're going to have to make a decision."

"What kind of decision?" Martin said tiredly.

"You're going to have to decide if you can live with this whole affair. I know it is a shock. I confess I was not going to tell you how we were making our breakthroughs. But since you learned enough to nearly be liquidated, you had to know. Listen, Martin. I am aware that the technique of experimenting on humans without their consent, especially when they must be sacrificed, is against any traditional concept of medical ethics. But I believe the results justify the methods. Seventeen young women have unknowingly sacrificed their lives. That is true. But it has been for the betterment of society and the future guarantee of the defense superiority of the United States. From the point of view of each subject, it is a great sacrifice. From the point of view of two hundred million Americans, it is a very small one. Think of how many young women willfully take their lives each year, or how many people kill themselves on the highways, and to what end? Here these seventeen women have added something to society, and they have been treated with compassion. They have been well cared for and have experienced no pain. On the contrary they have experienced pure pleasure."

"I can't accept this. Why didn't you just let them kill me?" said Philips in a tired voice. "Then you wouldn't have had to worry about my decision."

"I like you, Philips. We've worked together for four years. You're an intelligent man. Your contribution to the development of artificial intelligence was and can be enormous. The medical application, especially in the field of radiology, is the cover for this whole operation. We need you, Philips. It doesn't mean we can't do without you. None of us is indispensable, but we need you."

"You don't need me," said Philips.

"I'm not going to argue with you. The fact is, we do need you. Let me emphasize one other point. No more human subjects are needed. In fact this biological aspect of the project is soon to be closed down. We have obtained the information we needed and now it's time to refine the concepts electronically. The human experimentation is over."

"How many researchers have been involved?" asked Philips.

"That," said Michaels proudly, "is one of the beauties of the whole program. In relation to the magnitude of the protocol, the number of personnel has been very small. We have a team of physiologists, a team of computer people and several nurse practitioners."

"No physicians?" asked Philips.

"No," said Michaels with a smile. "Wait! That's not entirely correct. One of the neuroscience physiologists is an M.D.-Ph.D."

There was a silence for a few moments as the two men eyed each other.

"One other thing," said Michaels. "You, obviously and deservedly, will take full credit for the medical advances that will be instantly realized with the application of this new computer technology."

"Is that a bribe?" asked Philips.

"No. It's a fact. But it will make you one of the most celebrated medical researchers in the United States. You will be able to program the entire field of Radiology so that the computers will be able to do all the diagnostic work with one-hundred percent efficiency. That will be an enormous benefit to mankind. You yourself told me once that radiologists, even good ones, only function around seventy-five percent. And one last thing…" Michaels looked down and shifted his feet as if he was somewhat embarrassed. "As I said, I can only control the agents to a degree. If they think someone is a security risk, it's out of my hands. Unfortunately Denise Sanger is now involved. She doesn't know the specifics about this research, but she knows enough to jeopardize the project. In other words, if you choose not to accept this program, not only you, but Denise too, will be liquidated. I have no control over that."

At the mention of a threat against Denise, another emotion overwhelmed Philips' sense of moral outrage. Hatred welled up inside of him. Only with great difficulty did he hold himself back from striking out in a fit of blind fury. He was exhausted and every nerve was drawn to its breaking point. It took every ounce of strength to force his mind back to rational thought. When he did, he was overcome by a feeling of futility in the face of the sheer power and momentum behind the project. Philips might have been able to sacrifice himself but he could not sacrifice Denise. A sad feeling of resignation settled over him like a smothering blanket.

Michaels put his hand on Philips' shoulder. "Well, Martin? I think I've told you everything. What do you say?"

"I don't think I have a choice," said Martin slowly.

"Yes you do," said Michaels. "But it's a narrow one. Obviously both you and Denise will stay under close surveillance. You will be given no chance to give the story to either Congress or the press. There are contingency plans for any eventuality. Your choice is merely between life for you and Denise or purposeless instant death. I hate to be so blunt. If you decide the way I hope you will, Denise will only be told that our research has had Defense Department application that you did not know about and that you became a mistaken security risk. She will be sworn to secrecy and that will be the end of it. It will be your responsibility to keep her from knowing the biological origins."

Philips took a deep breath, turning himself away from the row of glass cylinders. "Where is Denise?"

Michaels smiled. "Follow me."

Retracing their steps back through the double vault-like doors and past the amphitheaters, the two men walked down the rubble strewn corridor, turning into the old medical-school administrative office.

"Martin!" shouted Denise. She jumped up from a folding chair and rushed between two agents. Throwing her arms around Philips she burst into tears. "What has been happening?" she sobbed.

Martin couldn't speak. His pent-up emotions overflowed with joy at seeing Denise. She was alive and safe! How could he take responsibility for her death?

"The FBI tried to convince me you had become a dangerous traitor," said Denise. "I didn't believe it for an instant, but tell me it isn't true. Tell me this is all a bad dream."

Philips closed his eyes. When he opened them he found his voice. He spoke slowly, choosing his words with great care, because he knew Denise's life was in his hands; they had him shackled for the moment, but he would find a way to break their hold someday, even if it took years. "Yes," said Philips. "It's all a bad dream. It's all a terrible mistake. But it's over now."

Martin tilted Denise's face up and kissed her mouth. She kissed him back, secure that her feeling about him had been correct, that as long as she trusted him she would be safe. For a moment he buried his face in her hair. If individual life was important, then so was hers. For him more than anyone.

"It's over now," she repeated.

Philips glanced at Michaels over Denise's shoulder and the computer expert nodded approval. But Martin knew it could never be over…