Isaac Asimov (25 page)

“Well, good,” said Grant. “What’s wrong with that?”

Michaels said, heatedly, “Because the mere fact of his saying so doesn’t make it so. He’s put some things together. I can do that much. Anyone can. How does he know it will
work?
”

“Because I
know
. I’ve worked with lasers for twelve years. I know when they work.”

“Well, then, show us, doctor. Let us share your knowledge.
Use
it.”

“No! Either it works or it doesn’t work. If it doesn’t work, I can’t fix it under any circumstances because I’ve done all I can and nothing further can be done. That means we’ll be no worse off if I wait till we get to the clot to find out that it doesn’t work. But if it works, and it
will
work, it remains jerry-rigged. I don’t know how long it will last; a dozen blasts or so at most. I want to save every one of those blasts for the clot. I won’t waste a single one of
them here. I won’t have the mission fail because I tested the laser even once.”

“I tell you, you’ve got to test the laser,” said Michaels. “If you don’t, then I swear, Duval, that when we get back, I will have you thrown out of the CMDF so far and have you broken into so many small pieces …”

“I’ll worry about that when we get back. Meanwhile this is my laser and I do as I please with it. You can’t order me to do anything I don’t wish to do, and neither can Grant.”

Grant shook his head. “I’m not ordering you to do anything, Dr. Duval.”

Duval nodded briefly and turned away.

Michaels looked after him. “I’ll get him.”

“He makes sense in this case, Michaels,” said Grant. “Are you sure you’re not annoyed with him for personal reasons?”

“Because he calls me coward and jackass? Am I supposed to love him for that? But whether I have personal animosity against him or not doesn’t matter. I think he’s a traitor.”

Cora said, angrily, “That’s quite untrue.”

“I doubt,” said Michaels freezingly, “that you’re a reliable witness in this case. —But never mind. We’re getting to the clot and we’ll see about Duval then.”

“He’ll clear that clot,” said Cora, “if the laser works.”

“
If
it works,” said Michaels. “And if it does, I wouldn’t be surprised if he kills Benes. —And not by accident.”

Carter had his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up. He was slumped in his chair on the base of his spine and a second cigar, freshly lit, was in his mouth. He wasn’t puffing.

“In the brain?” he said.

Reid’s mustache seemed bedraggled at last. He rubbed his eyes. “Practically at the clot. They’ve stopped.”

Carter looked at the Time Recorder, which read 9.

He felt used up, out of juice, out of adrenalin, out of tension, out of life. He said, “Think they’ll make it?”

Reid shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

In nine minutes, maybe ten, the men, ship and all, would be standing full size before them—exploding Benes’ body, if they hadn’t gotten out in time.

Carter thought of what the newspapers would make of CMDF if this project failed. He heard the speeches from
every politician in the land, and from those on the Other Side. How far would CMDF be set back? How many months—years—would it take it to recover?

Wearily, he began to write his letter of resignation in his mind.

“We’ve entered the brain itself,” announced Owens, with controlled excitement.

He doused ship’s lights again and all of them looked forward in a moment of wonder that put everything else, even the climax of the mission, out of their minds for a moment.

Duval murmured, “How wonderful. The supreme peak of Creation.”

Grant, for the moment, felt that. Surely the human brain was the most intensely complicated object crowded into the smallest possible volume in all the universe.

There was a silence about their surroundings. The cells they could see were jagged, uneven, with fibrous dendrites jutting out here and there, like a bramble bush.

As they drifted through the interstitial fluid along passageways between the cells, they could see the dendrites tangling overhead and for a moment they were passing under what seemed the twisted limbs of a row of ancient forest tress.

Duval said, “See, they don’t touch. You can see the synapses clearly; always that gap which must be jumped across chemically.”

Cora said, “They seem to be full of lights.”

Michaels said, an edge of anger still in his voice, “A mere illusion. The reflection of miniaturized light plays tricks. It bears no relation to reality.”

“How do you know?” demanded Duval, at once. “This is an important field for study. The reflection of miniaturized light is bound to vary subtly with the structure of the molecular contents of the cell. This sort of reflection, I predict, will become a more powerful instrument for studying the micro-details of the cell than any now existing. It may well be that the techniques arising out of this mission of ours will be far more important than what happens to Benes.”

“Is that how you’re excusing yourself, doctor?” asked Michaels.

Duval reddened. “Explain that!”

“Not now!” said Grant, imperiously. “Not one more word, gentlemen.”

Duval drew a deep breath and turned back to the window.

Cora said, “But anyway, do you see the lights? Watch up above. Watch that dendrite as it comes close.”

“I see it,” said Grant. The usual glittering reflections did not, as had been generally true elsewhere in the body, sparkle from this point and that randomly, making the whole look like a dense cloud of fireflies. Instead, the sparkle chased itself along the dendrite, a new one beginning before the old one had completed its path.

Owens said, “You know what it looks like? Anyone ever see films of old-fashioned advertising signs with electric lights? With waves of light and dark moving along?”

“Yes,” said Cora. “That’s
exactly
what it’s like. But why?”

Duval said, “A wave of depolarization sweeps along a nerve fiber when it is stimulated. The ion concentrations change; sodium ion enters the cell. This changes the charge intensity inside and out and lowers the electric potential. Somehow that must affect the reflection of miniaturized light—which is exactly the point I was making—and what we see is the wave of depolarization.”

Now that Cora had pointed out the fact—or perhaps because they were moving ever deeper into the brain, the moving wave of sparkles could be seen everywhere; moving along the cells, climbing and descending fibers, twisting into an unimaginably complex system which seemed, at first glance, without any form of order, and yet which gave the sense of order, anyway.

“What we see,” said Duval, “is the essence of humanity. The cells are the physical brain, but those moving sparkles represent thought, the human mind.”

“Is that the essence,” said Michaels, harshly. “I would have thought it was the soul. Where is the human soul, Duval?”

“Because I can’t point it out, do you think it doesn’t exist?” demanded Duval. “Where is Benes’ genius? You are in his brain. Point to his genius.”

“Enough!” said Grant.

Michaels called up to Owens. “We’re almost there. Cross over into the capillary at the indicated point. Just push through.”

Duval said thoughtfully, “That’s the awesome thing of
it. We’re not just in the mind of a man. This, all about us, is the mind of a scientific genius; someone I would put almost on a par with Newton.”

He was silent for a moment and then quoted:

“…  Where the statue stood

Of Newton with his prism and silent face.

The marble index of a mind …”

Grant cut in, with an awed whisper:

“…  forever

Voyaging through strange seas of thought, alone.”

Both were silent for an instant, and Grant said, “Do you think Wordsworth ever thought of this, or could have, when he spoke of ‘strange seas of thought.’ This is the literal sea of thought, isn’t it? And strange it is, too.”

Cora said, “I didn’t think of you as the poetic type, Grant.”

Grant nodded. “All muscle, no mind. That’s me.”

“Don’t be offended.”

Michaels said, “When you are done with mumbling poetry, gentlemen, look ahead.”

He pointed. They were in the bloodstream again, but the red corpuscles (bluish in color) drifted without any definite motion, shuddering slightly in response to Brownian motion, no more. Up ahead was a shadow.

A forest of dendrites could be seen through the transparent walls of the capillary; each strand, each twig with its line of sparkle moving along itself—but more slowly now, and still more slowly. And after a certain point, there were no more sparkles.

The
Proteus
came to a halt. For an instant or two, there was silence, then Owens said quietly, “That’s our destination, I think.”

Duval nodded. “Yes. The clot.”

Duval said, “Notice how the nerve action ends at the clot. That’s visible evidence of nerve damage; possibly irreversible. I wouldn’t swear that we can help Benes now, even if we remove the clot.”

“Good thinking, doctor,” said Michaels sarcastically. “That excuses you, doesn’t it?”

“Shut up, Michaels,” said Grant, coldly.

Duval said, “On with the swimsuit, Miss Peterson. This has got to be done right now. —And put it on inside out. The antibodies are sensitized to its normal surface and there may be some about.”

Michaels smiled wearily. “Don’t trouble yourselves. It’s too late.” He pointed to the Time Recorder, which was just making the slow, slow change from 7 to 6.

He said, “You couldn’t possibly perform the operation in time to allow us to get to the removal point in the jugular. Even if you succeed in the removal of the clot, we’ll end by de-miniaturizing right here and killing Benes.”

Duval did not stop in his donning of the suit. Nor did Cora. Duval said, “Well, then, he’ll be no worse off than he will be if we don’t operate.”

“No, but we will. We’ll get larger slowly at first. It may take us a whole minute to reach a size that will attract the attention of a white blood cell. There are millions of them around this site of injury. We’ll be engulfed.”

“So?”

“I doubt that either the
Proteus
or we could withstand the physical strain placed upon us by the compression within a digestive vacuole inside a white cell. Not in our miniaturized state, and not after all the ship and we have already gone through. We’ll continue expanding, but when we are back to full size, it will be as a crushed ship and crushed human beings. —You had better leave here, Owens, and make it as quickly as you can for the removal point.”

“Hold it,” interposed Grant, angrily. “Owens, how long will it take us to get to removal point?”

Owens said, faintly, “Two minutes!”

“That leaves us four minutes. Maybe more. Isn’t it true that de-miniaturization after sixty minutes is a conservative estimate? Couldn’t we remain miniaturized for longer, if the field holds a little longer than expected?”

“Maybe,” said Michaels, flatly, “but don’t kid yourself. A minute longer. Two minutes at the outside. We can’t beat the uncertainty principle.”

“All right. Two minutes. And mightn’t it take longer to de-miniaturize than we’re counting on?”

Duval said, “It might take a minute or two, if we’re lucky.”

Owens put in, “It’s because of the random nature of the basic structure of the universe. With luck, if everything breaks our way …”

“But only a minute or two,” said Michaels, “at most.”

“All right,” said Grant, “we’ve got four minutes, plus maybe two minutes extra, plus maybe a minute of slow de-miniaturization before we do damage to Benes. That’s seven minutes of our long time-distorted variety. —Get going, Duval.”

“All you’ll succeed in doing, you crazy fool, is to get Benes killed and us with him,” yelled Michaels. “Owens, get us over to removal point.”

Owens hesitated.

Grant moved quickly to the ladder and climbed up to Owens’ bubble. He said quietly, “Turn off the power, Owens. Turn it off.”

Owens’ finger moved to a switch, hovered over it. Grant’s hand moved quickly to it and flicked it into the OFF position with a strenuous gesture. “Now get down. Come on down.”

He half pulled Owens out of his seat, and both came down. The whole had taken a few seconds and Michaels had watched, open-mouthed, too startled to move.

“What the devil have you done?” he demanded.

“The ship is staying right here,” said Grant, “till the operation has succeeded. Now Duval, get on with it.”

Duval said, “Get the laser, Miss Peterson.” Both were in their swimsuits now. Cora’s looked sadly seamed and lumpy.

She said, “I must be a rare sight.”

Michaels said, “Are you mad? All of you? There is no time. All this is suicide. Listen to me,” he was almost frothing with anxiety, “you can’t accomplish anything.”

Grant said, “Owens, operate the hatch for them.”

Michaels flung himself forward, but Grant seized him, whirled him around, and said, “Don’t make me hit you, Dr. Michaels. My muscles ache and I don’t want to have to use them but if I hit, I will hit hard and, I promise you, I will break your jaw.”