“In
conclusion,” Russell clicked the mouse to advance the
PowerPoint presentation to the summation slide, “we’ve
shown the ability to use the activity of hundreds of individual
neurons in a monkey’s brain to manipulate a robotic hand
with the same precision as the monkey’s own arm. Ladies
and gentlemen, what was once science fiction is now reality.” He
paused to let that important point—the take-home message
of the entire presentation—sink in.
“In closing, I thank my colleague,
Doctor Gerda Fetz, for her ongoing collaboration on this
project.” He gave the audience a hint of a bow. “And
thank you for listening.”
As the 1500-member
audience began an enthusiastic applause, an audio-visual
gnome cloistered in the cavernous darkened ballroom brightened
the overhead lights. On the massive screen, Russell’s
slide was replaced by the blue and white logo of the American
Association of Neurological Surgeons Annual Meeting.
To Russell’s left, at the corner of
the stage, the session moderator leaned forward to adjust the
microphone on the small table in front of her. “Thank
you Doctor Lawton for your very informative and, I think it’s
fair to say, provocative presentation.” After quickly
consulting her wristwatch she continued, “Since we are
still holding to this afternoon’s tight schedule, we
have time for a few questions from the audience.”
Several eager participants
were already queued up at the various microphones placed
at strategic locations along the aisles. She pointed
to the closest man. Russell recognized Doctor Herman Nofziger,
the notorious Chairman of Neurosurgery for a prestigious
California university.
Smiling, scanning
his immediate neighbors in the audience—mostly old cronies, since the old guard
tended to cluster together like herd animals—Nofziger
cleared his throat before tossing Russell the perfunctory laudation
intended to vindicate the stiletto stab wound that would surely
follow. “Doctor Lawton, let me first congratulate you
on your extremely elegant research.”
Nofziger paused. Russell thought, But...
“But bear with me a moment, Russell,” using
his first name as if they were old tennis buddies enjoying
a court-side, towel-over-the-shoulder mineral water and lime
after a hard-fought, but sportsman-like match, “I have
a two-part question for you. First, although your work is,
as I just stressed, elegant, how do you see it applied to day-to-day
clinical issues? I mean practical clinical issues.”
Sucking a tooth,
Russell tempered his response sufficiently to justify his
own philosophical position while at the same time acknowledging
his junior-level position in the dog-eat-dog academic hierarchy. “Let me tell you
a story about a real patient...an unfortunate man who lost
both arms in a job-related accident. Researchers at the Rehabilitation
Institute of Chicago outfitted him with a kind of bionic arm,
which is controlled directly by his thoughts. Now he can do
things like simple, basic activities of daily living that he
never would’ve been able to do without that arm. Think
about that, and I bet we’d all agree it’s worth
something.
“We’re undertaking very similar
work in our lab. If we can refine this technology, we can truly
help very disabled people. As I’m sure you know, the
first direct brain-computer hookups have already been achieved
in paralyzed humans, with,” he rocked his outstretched
palm back and forth to indicate questionable enthusiasm, “limited
success. Just a few years ago the FDA granted Cyberkinetics—a
Massachusetts company—approval to implant chips containing
hundreds of microelectrodes into the brains of five quadriplegics
to evaluate whether their thoughts could control robotic arms.
Since then, at least two other research teams have started
similar brain-machine experiments in humans.” He could
feel the enthusiasm buoying his voice, spreading out, infecting
the audience. He got this way sometimes, his enthusiasm carrying
him to a high. “Those of us working in this area are
not trying to make just a mere incremental change for these
people. We’re shooting for breakthrough.”
The professor nodded
sagely. “Yes, yes.
All those various applications would be obvious to a first-year
orthopedic resident,” slipping a little neurosurgeon
humor into it. “The point, Russell, is do you really believe
in your heart of hearts that the taxpayers should be dumping
such huge amounts of precious research money into this line
of exploration, when the end result benefits only a very few
people?” He paused with the oratorical aplomb of a seasoned
Southern senator. “Ask yourself how many quadriplegics
there are compared to, say, the millions of people who suffer
back pain?”
“You are hardly the first person to
very eloquently emphasize this point of view, Professor,” throwing
back some of the same insincere praise, “but I don’t
believe it’s a question that can be answered within the
time limits allotted for my talk.”
Before the exchange
could escalate, the moderator leaned into her microphone. “Unfortunately, that’s
all the time we have for questions. I suggest that the rest
of you with questions for Dr. Lawton discuss them with him
during the next three days of the meeting.” She glanced
at a piece of paper on the table in front of her. “The
next presentation...”
Russell zoned out,
concentrating instead on negotiating the narrow, shadowy
stairs leading down off the stage. Clear of the bottom stair
he stood motionless, grappling with what to do now that the
anxiety of standing behind a podium and looking at an intimidating
audience had mercifully vanished, leaving him mentally fatigued
but exhilarated at his performance. Stay and listen to the
remaining afternoon presentations, or wander over to the
exhibits and check out displays of new instruments? He quickly
scanned the schedule and realized the final two talks—both summarizing results from a national brain
tumor chemotherapy protocol—held little interest for
him.
The next speaker’s
amplified voice began droning as the ballroom light dimmed.
The audience hushed to listen.
Russell headed to
the back of the room where the audience was still in flux,
some attendees wandering in, heads rotating back and forth
as their dark-adapting eyes searched for a place to sit while
others beat a hasty retreat to the exit. He immediately sensed
the presence of someone to his right and turned. A female
voice whispered, “Doctor Lawton,
may I speak with you a moment?”
He nodded. “Sure. Let’s
step outside.”
They stopped about
twenty feet from the auditorium door on the fringe of conventioneers
streaming by. She was slender, maybe 5’5”, flawless
light brown skin, sparkling almond eyes, luxurious black
hair secured into a ponytail. Indian or Pakistani, he suspected.
She wore a well-tailored dark brown business suit, a cream-colored
silk scarf knotted around a gracefully long, narrow neck.
Smiling, she offered
her hand. “Raveena
Khan. I do freelance reporting for a number of scientifically
oriented publications, Scientific American being one.”
Impressed, he shook
her warm hand, said, “Russell
Lawton,” and realized how lame that sounded since she
had already addressed him by name.
“Could you
possibly spare a few minutes for an interview, or are you
rushing off to another important meeting?”
He considered the
exhibits again, then realized they wouldn’t be going anywhere during the next three
days. “No, I have time.”
She fumbled in her
black leather purse, came out with a small spiral notebook
and a black Cross Pen. “I
am absolutely fascinated by your work and its potential to
help people. Thus, I would like to ask you a few questions,
if I may.” She paused, seductively holding direct eye
contact. “Doctor Lawton sounds so formal. May I call
you Russell?” Without looking at it, she flipped open
the notebook.
“Please.”
“I couldn’t
help but wonder if your technique might be applied to patients
with Locked-In Syndrome?”
“Locked-In Syndrome?” he
repeated softly, with a note of surprise.
“Yes. You know about it, of course...it’s
a rare—”
He raised his hand,
interrupting her explanation. “Sure,
I know the syndrome. It’s just that it is so
rare, I’m surprised you know of it. But just to be sure
we’re talking about the same diagnosis, it’s a
neurological disorder characterized by complete paralysis of
voluntary muscles in all parts of the body, except for those
that control eye movement. It can be the result of a head injury,
stroke, multiple sclerosis or drug overdose. The victims are
conscious and can think and reason, but they’re completely
unable to speak or move. Their only possible means of communication
is through blinking. Are we talking about the same thing here?”
She smiled. “Most
certainly.”
“Well then, the answer is yeah, sure.
In fact,” thinking back to Nofziger’s barbed comments, “I’ve
never thought about it in this light, but sure...locked-in
syndrome is a perfect example of how a brain-robot interface
might be applied.”
“Yes, but what I am most interested
in is, is it possible to use your techniques—microelectrode
recording interfaced with computer-based artificial intelligence—to
allow a patient with locked-in syndrome to communicate verbally?
In other words, to use a patient’s brain waves to produce
speech?”
Interesting question,
especially coming from a science writer. A question he and
Gerda had tossed around during their frequent brainstorming
sessions. They’d
decided although it was theoretically possible, the present
state of the art would render it technically extremely difficult
to achieve.
“Yes, it’s
possible. Theoretically, that
is.” He nodded more to himself than her. “Yeah,
as a matter of fact, Doctor Fetz and I have kicked the possibility
around several times. Kind of.”
“Then you’ve
worked out an approach to the problem?”
Well, not exactly the specifics, but in
general. “Yes.”
She held deep, penetrating eye contact. Was
she hitting on him? Naaawwww, not possible, he decided. Still...
She said, “You can’t believe how
fascinating I find this.” She finally broke eye contact
to glance around. “I’d love to hear more about
this, but I don’t want to keep you from your meeting.” She
spread her arms as if it was his meeting. “You’re
being too gracious as it is.” She flashed a heart-stopping
smile and bore into his eyes again.
“No problem.
Besides, there was nothing left this afternoon I was dying
to listen to.”
“Yes, but I suspect the depth that I
wish to talk about will take more than a few minutes.” She
dropped her eyes, as if preparing to ask a difficult question. “You
don’t suppose we could go somewhere quieter, do you?
It’s impossible to even think with all this noise.” Her
face suddenly brightened, as if tumbling to an idea. “I
would love to buy you a drink if you have the time,” she
stated encouragingly, locking eyes again, teasing him again
with the fantasy that her interest resided more in having a
drink together than his work. Was she hitting on him?
“I’d be delighted, but the thing
is, I’m not very familiar with San Francisco. Did you
have some place in mind? Something close by?”
She started toward
the exit, her black pumps clicking against the cement floor.
He fell in beside her. She offered offhandedly, “There
is this lovely little bar at my hotel. The Stanford Court.
Do you know it?”
“No.”
“We can catch a cab. It’s only
a few blocks away. But further than I care to walk in these
blasted shoes. In fact, I can’t wait to take them off.”
He pushed opened one of the large glass doors
to the outside, letting her pass, then followed her outside
onto the driveway paralleling Howard Street.
She said, “This way,” and
turned right.
“But the cabs are down there,” nodding
to his left.
She continued walking
away from him. He caught up to her just as a black limo with
tinted windows pulled to a stop in the drive-through loading
zone. Two men, the driver and a passenger stepped out, both
wearing well-tailored dark suits and wrap around sunglasses.
The driver stood with one hand on the top of the opened door,
the other hand on the car roof, his sunglasses aimed over
the roof straight at Russell. Raveena walked to the passenger
door, turned to Russell. “They
will drive us to my hotel.”
Both men struck him
as Middle Eastern. Iranian, Turkish, Lebanese, who the hell
knew? Black hair, black moustaches, probably somewhere in
their mid-thirties. Russell stopped five feet from the woman,
a gut-level premonition screaming at him not to climb in
the Lincoln. “Know what... I just remembered
I’m supposed to meet this guy...”
“Get in, Doctor Lawton.” The
other man opened the rear passenger door.
Russell held up both
palms vertically and backed up a step. “Whoa, sorry...not
interested, bud.”
Before he could turn
to walk away, the man slid a flat-black handgun with an attached
sound suppressor from under his suit coat. He aimed it dead
center at Russell’s
chest. “Doctor Lawton, please do not force me to kill
you.” |
