Читать книгу The Pinocchio Syndrome - David Zeman - Страница 19

November 28

The subject was in a traditional hospital bed set up in a special room full of monitors, not terribly different from a room for a patient on the critical list in any modern intensive care unit. Monitors for the usual vital signs – blood pressure, respiration, pulse rate, and so on – were against the walls, connected to the subject by wires. In addition, however, there were more sophisticated machines that monitored less obvious physical processes. There were also video cameras timed to keep a constant watch on the subject’s physical appearance.

Two men in white coats were standing beside the bed. Both wore stethoscopes. The younger man had surgical gloves on.

‘How are we doing?’ the older man asked.

‘Vital signs slowly decreasing,’ the other man said. ‘He’s in coma now. Respiration shallow, heart rate uneven. I suspect heart failure may be the proximate cause of death.’

‘Other vital signs?’

‘Liver and kidney function well below normal. Hematocrit reflecting cellular and other changes.’

‘What about the EEG?’

The younger man held up a printout. ‘Brain waves are our best signature,’ he said. ‘The spikes and valleys form a definite pattern that never seems to vary. It’s clearly not a healthy pattern, yet it’s quite consistent.’

The older man looked for himself. ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘I wonder what’s going on in there. What kind of mentation, if any.’

‘There’s no evidence of any sense perception,’ the younger man said. ‘No response to sound, touch, or anything else.’

‘But there was in the early phase.’

‘Oh, yes.’ The younger man nodded. ‘Perception was virtually normal at that point. As to what kind of thinking went on, that we can’t measure, because the subject is paralyzed by the changes.’

‘How does he fit the time frame?’

‘From intake? A textbook case,’ the younger man said. ‘The onset of symptoms was within twelve to fifteen hours. Then the first phase of the syndrome lasted pretty much unchanged for about two to three weeks. Then we had the dramatic dip in brain function, leading to coma after another week. The first physical changes didn’t occur until coma was well under way.’

‘I find that fascinating,’ the older man said. ‘How do you account for it?’

‘I can’t,’ replied the younger man. ‘Not even our own research explains the details of it. The precise curve of the paralysis, the changes at the cellular level, and their sequelae – it will take a lot of research to objectify all that.’

‘Well,’ the older man said thoughtfully, ‘that’s the way it goes sometimes. Most of the time, in fact. Psychiatrists never did understand why shock treatment works as it works. Most drugs, too – you get your desired result, you watch for side effects, and sometimes you never know the real mechanism.’

The younger man nodded. ‘In any case, we’re seeing a great consistency in the timing of the onset and progress. Almost like clockwork. Faster in children, somewhat faster in women.’

‘Let’s look at the main map.’

The younger man turned on a video monitor connected to a mainframe computer. A special program had been designed to assay the various tissue groups, always with specific reference to one molecular factor. The present display showed the bone marrow.

‘As you see,’ the doctor said, pointing to the screen, ‘our change is in place.’

‘Excellent,’ the older man observed.

‘The modifications are reflected clearly at the cellular level. You can’t entirely extrapolate from this to the symptoms – our knowledge doesn’t extend that far – but a glance at the numbers makes it obvious. The body is giving itself different instructions. The cells are trying to follow them, but of course the body isn’t made to do that. So you have massive dysfunction, starting at the cognitive level and spreading through all the systems.’

‘I see.’ The older man looked from the screen to the experimental subject in the bed. ‘The skeletal was affected from the start, but not visible until now.’

‘That’s correct. The biopsies we did on this subject made that very clear.’

‘Fascinating,’ the older man said. ‘The mystery of life.’

‘Yes, sir. Life’s attempt to adjust itself to changes.’

‘Kind of makes you wonder whether there is a God after all,’ the older man said. ‘Only a transcendent power could design something so subtle.’

The younger man nodded a bit uncomfortably.

The older man pointed to the sheet. ‘Let’s have a closer look.’

The younger man pulled the sheet up from one side, folding it over the subject’s chest. The left hand was revealed, grossly distended and already considerably distorted. The skin was darkened, and already harder than healthy cartilage.

The older man lifted the arm from the elbow to get a better look. The fingers were still identifiable, though they were losing definition. What had once been the fingernails seemed to have fused with the hardened skin tissue.

‘Amazing,’ the older man said. ‘Like chitin, isn’t it?’

‘To the touch, yes,’ the younger man said. ‘But the cell structure is closer to what we see in human bone or cartilage.’

‘An amazing effect,’ the older man said. ‘Let’s see the foot.’

He bent to look at the left foot, whose distention and distortion exceeded that of the hand. The toes were enlarged, hardened, and beginning to lose definition. The heel and toes were being pulled together by the progressive deformation, fusing gradually into a single hard platform.

‘Pretty clear morphological difference from the hand,’ the older man said.

‘Definitely,’ nodded his companion. ‘Just as you will see a differentiation in any hoofed animal from the rear to the front.’

The older man tapped the sole of the foot with his knuckle. A dry, hollow sound emerged.

‘Fascinating,’ the man observed, ‘how consistent it is, from subject to subject.’

‘Oh, yes. It never varies. It’s the signature of the syndrome,’ the younger man said. ‘Quite amazing.’

The older man smiled. ‘I wonder what they’ll call it,’ he said. ‘When they get around to it.’

The younger man shrugged. ‘That’s not my department.’

‘I hope they pick something with a little poetry in it,’ the older man said with a smile. ‘Something people will remember.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The younger man nodded a bit weakly.

‘By the way,’ the older man said, ‘I heard we had a small accident yesterday.’

‘That’s right.’ His companion nodded. ‘It was a computer glitch. One of the special files leaked out into the network.’

‘What was the young man’s name again?’

‘Lightfoot. Damian Lightfoot.’

‘He wasn’t security, was he?’

‘No, sir. Just a computer tech. Trash management. He reported the file because he wasn’t familiar with the name.’

‘No problem about disposal?’ the older man asked. ‘Family? Colleagues?’

‘Security took care of it already. There won’t be a body. He simply disappeared.’

‘Good.’ The older man was shaking his head. ‘But we can’t allow leaks, no matter how small. I want the system redesigned immediately. An accident like that should have been discovered within the loop. Company population is just as dangerous as general population.’ He gave the younger man a sharp look. ‘Get on it with your people this afternoon.’

‘I’ll do that, sir.’

The older man stood looking at the subject in the bed. His frown faded, eclipsed by his enthusiasm for the project.

‘Something with poetry,’ he repeated. ‘Like the Black Plague …’