"And that's what Benson is doing?"
"I think so."
Gerhard shook his head. "Listen, Jan, that's all interesting. But a person can't start and stop epileptic seizures at will. They can't control it. The seizures are- "
"Involuntary," she said. "That's right. You have no more control over them than you do over heart rate and blood pressure and sweating and all the other involuntary acts."
There was a long pause. Gerhard said, "You're going to tell me I'm wrong."
On the screen, the computer blinked:
"I'm going to tell you," she said, "that you've cut too many conferences. You know about autonomic learning?"
After a guilty pause: "No."
"It was a big mystery for a long time. Classically, it was believed that you could learn to control only voluntary acts. You could learn to drive a car, but you couldn't learn to lower your blood pressure. Of course, there were those yogis who supposedly could reduce oxygen requirements of their body and slow their heartbeats to near death. They could reverse intestinal peristalsis and drink liquids through the anus.
But that was all unproven - and theoretically impossible."
Gerhard nodded cautiously.
"Well, it turns out to be perfectly possible. You can teach a rat to blush in only one ear. Right ear or left ear, take your pick. You can teach it to lower or raise blood pressure or heartbeat. And you can do the same thing with people. It's not impossible. It can be done."
"How?" He asked the question with unabashed curiosity. Whatever embarrassment he had felt before was gone.
"Well, with people who have high blood pressure, for instance, all you do is put them in a room with a blood-pressure cuff on their arm. Whenever the blood pressure goes down, a bell rings. You tell the person to try to make the bell ring as often as possible. They work for that reward - a bell ringing. At first it happens by accident. Then pretty soon they learn how to make it happen more often. The bell rings more frequently. After a few hours, it's ringing a lot."
Gerhard scratched his head. "And you think Benson is producing more seizures to be rewarded with shocks?"
"Yes."
"Well, what's the difference? He still can't have any seizures. The computer always prevents them from happening."
"Not true," she said. "A couple of years ago, a Norwegian schizophrenic was wired up and allowed to stimulate a pleasure terminal as often as he wanted. He pushed himself into a convulsion by overstimulating himself."
Gerhard winced.
Richards, who had been watching the computer console, suddenly said, "Something's wrong."
"What is it?"
"We're not getting readings any more."
On the screen, they saw:
Ross looked and sighed. "See if you can get a computer extrapolation of that curve," she said. "See if he's really going into a learning cycle, and how fast." She started for the door. "I'm going to see what's happened to Benson."
The door slammed shut. Gerhard turned back to the computer.
Friday, March 12, 1971: Breakdown
The seventh (Special Surgical) floor was quiet; there were two nurses at the station. One was making progress notes in a patient's chart; the other was eating a candy bar and reading a movie magazine. Neither paid much attention to Ross as she went to the chart shelf, opened Benson's record, and checked it.
She wanted to be certain that Benson had received all his medications, and to her astonishment she found that he had not. "Why hasn't Benson gotten his thorazine?" she demanded.
The nurses looked up in surprise. "Benson?"
"The patient in seven-ten." She glanced at her watch; it was after midnight. "He was supposed to be started on thorazine at noon. Twelve hours ago."
"I'm sorry… may I?" One of the nurses reached for the chart. Ross handed it to her and watched while she turned to the page of nursing orders. McPherson's order for thorazine was circled in red by a nurse, with the cryptic notation
"Call."
Ross was thinking that without heavy doses of thorazine Benson's psychotic thinking would be unchecked, and could be dangerous.
"Oh, yes," the nurse said. "I remember now. Dr. Morris told us that only medication orders from him or from Dr. Ross were to be followed. We don't know this Dr. McPhee, so we waited to call him to confirm the therapy. It- "
"Dr. McPherson," Ross said heavily, "is the chief of the NPS."
The nurse frowned at the signature. "Well, how are we supposed to know that? You can't read the name. Here." She handed back the chart. "We thought it looked like McPhee, and the only McPhee in the hospital directory is a gynecologist and that didn't seem logical, but sometimes doctors will put a note in the wrong chart by mistake, so we- "
"All right," Ross said, waving her hand. "All right. Just get him his thorazine now, will you?"
"Right away, Doctor," the nurse said. She gave her a dirty look and went to the medicine locker. Ross went down the hall to Room 710.
The cop sat outside Benson's room with his chair tipped back against the wall. He was reading Secret Romances with more interest than Janet would have thought likely. She knew without asking where he had gotten the magazine; he had been bored, one of the nurses had given it to him. He was also smoking a cigarette, flicking the ashes in the general direction of an ashtray on the floor.
He looked up as she came down the hall. "Good evening, Doctor."
"Good evening." She stifled an impulse to lecture him on his sloppy demeanor. But the cops weren't under her jurisdiction, and besides, she was just irritated with the nurses. "Everything quiet?" she asked.
"Pretty quiet."
Inside 710 she could hear television, a talk show with laughter. Someone said, "And what did you do then?" There was more laughter. She opened the door.
The room lights were off; the only light came from the glow of the television. Benson had apparently fallen asleep; his body was turned away from the door, and the sheets were pulled up over his shoulder. She clicked the television off and crossed the room to the bed. Gently, she touched his leg.
"Harry," she said softly. "Harry- "
She stopped.
The leg beneath her hand was soft and formless. She pressed down; the "leg" bulged oddly. She reached for the bedside lamp and turned it on, flooding the room with light. Then she pulled back the sheets.
Benson was gone. In his place were three plastic bags of the kind the hospital used to line wastebaskets. Each had been inflated and then knotted shut tightly. Benson's head was represented by a wadded towel; his arm by another.
"Officer," she said, in a low voice, "you'd better get your ass in here."
The cop came bounding into the room, his hand reaching for his gun. Ross gestured to the bed.
"Holy shit," the cop said. "What happened?"
"I was going to ask you."
The cop didn't reply. He went immediately to the bathroom and checked there; it was empty. He looked in the closet.
"His clothes are still here- "
"When was the last time you looked into this room?"
" -but his shoes are gone," the cop said, still looking in the closet. "His shoes are missing." He turned and looked at Ross with a kind of desperation. "Where is he?"
"When was the last time you looked into this room?" Ross repeated. She pressed the bedside buzzer to call the night nurse.
"About twenty minutes ago."
Ross walked to the window and looked out. The window was open, but there was a sheer drop of seven stories to the parking lot below. "How long were you away from the door?"