David Morrell - The Fifth Profession

“But where does short term end and long term begin? And how can we be sure that long-term memory truly endures? The basic issue is the limitation of consciousness. We're capable of knowing we remember only if we remember. We can't be aware of something we've forgotten…Describe the future.”

“I can't. The future doesn't exist,” Savage said.

“No more than the past, though memory gives us the illusion the past does exist-in our minds. It's my opinion that our memories don't remain permanent after they're encoded. I believe our memories are constantly changing, details being altered, added, and subtracted. In effect, we each create a version of the past. The discrepancies are usually insignificant. After all, what difference does it make if Max and I saw that movie together or separately? But on occasion, the discrepancies are critical. Max once had a neurotic female patient who as a child had repeatedly been abused by her father. She'd sublimated her nightmarish memories and imagined an idyllic youth with a gentle, loving father. To cure her neuroses, Max had to teach her to discard her false memory and recognize the horrors she'd experienced.”

“False memory,” Savage said. “Jamais vu. But our false memory isn't caused by psychological problems. Our brain scans suggest someone surgically altered our ability to remember. Is that possible?”

“If you mean, would I be able to do it, the answer is no, and I'm not aware of any other neurosurgeon who could do it, either. But is it possible? Yes. Theoretically. Though even if I knew how to do it, I wouldn't. It's called psychosurgery. It alters your personality, and except for a few procedures- an excision of brain tissue to prevent an epileptic from having seizures, or a lobotomy to stop self-destructive impulses-it isn't ethical.”

“But how, in theory, would you do it?” Rachel asked.

Santizo looked reluctant.

“Please.”

“I pride myself on being curious, but sometimes, against my nature, I've refused to investigate intriguing cerebral phenomena. When necessary, I've inserted electrodes into the brains of my patients. I've asked them to describe what they sensed.”

“Wait,” Akira said. “How could they describe the effects if their brains were exposed? They'd be unconscious.”

“Ah,” Santizo said. “I take too much for granted. I skip too many steps. I'm too used to dealing with fellow neurosurgeons. Obviously you think exposing the brain is the same as exposing the heart. I'll emphasize a former remark. The brain-our sense receptor-does not itself have a sense receptor. It doesn't feel pain. Using a local anesthetic to prevent the skull from transmitting pain, I can remove a portion of bone and expose the great mystery. Inserting an electrode into the brain, I can make the patient smell oranges that don't exist. I can make the patient hear music from his childhood. I can make him taste apples. I can make him have an orgasm. I can manipulate his sense receptors until he's convinced he's on a sailboat, the sun on his face, the wind in his hair, hearing waves crash, skirting Australia's Great Barrier Reef-a vacation he experienced years before.”

“But would he remember the illusions you caused?” Rachel asked.

“Of course. Just as he'd remember the true vivid event, the operation.”

“So that explains what happened,” Savage said.

“To you and your friend? Not at all,” Santizo said. “What I've just described is an activation of the patient's memory by means of an electronic stimulation to various neurons. But you have memories of events that apparently…”

“Never happened,” Akira said. “So why do we remember them?”

“I told you, it's only a theory,” Santizo said. “But if I expose the left temporal lobe of your brain…and if I stimulate your neurons with electrodes… if I describe in detail what you're supposed to remember, perhaps show you films or even have actors dramatize the fictional events…if I administer amphetamines to encourage the learning process… and when I'm finished, if I use the electrode to scar selected neurons, to impair your memory of the operation…you'll remember what never happened and forget what did happen.”

“We've been brainwashed?”

“No,” Santizo said. “ ‘Brainwashed’ is a crude expression that originated during the Korean War and is used to describe the process by which a prisoner can be forced to surrender deeply held political convictions. The methodology originated in the USSR, based upon Pavlov's theories of stimulus and response. Subject a prisoner to relentless pain, break his spirit, then offer him a reward if he'll agree to denounce the country he loves. Well, as we know, a few soldiers did succumb. The miracle is that more did not. Especially when psychosuggestive drugs are added to Pavlov's theory of conditioning. But if you've seen newsreels from the fifties, you know that prisoners who were conditioned always looked as if they'd been conditioned. Gaunt features. Shaky hands. Glazed eyes. Their confession of war crimes wasn't convincing. You two show none of those symptoms. You're frightened, yes. But you're functional. What's more, no attitudinal changes seem to have occurred. Your identity remains intact. You're still determined to protect. No, you haven't been conditioned. Your problem isn't directed toward the future. It's not anything you might have been programmed to do. It's what happened to you in the past. Or what didn't happen. And what really happened that you don't recall.”

“Then why was this done to us?” Savage asked.

“Why? The only answer I can suggest-”

The phone rang. Santizo picked it up. “Hello?” He suddenly listened intensely, his face becoming more grave. “I'll be there at once.”

He set down the phone. “An emergency. I'm due in OR right away.” Standing, he turned toward a wall of bookshelves. “Here. Some standard texts. Young's Programs of the Brain, Baddeley's The Psychology of Memory, Horn's Memory, Imprinting, and the Brain. Study them. Call my secretary tomorrow. She'll arrange a time for us to meet again. I really have to go.”

As Santizo hurried toward the door, Akira surged from his chair. “But you started to tell us why you thought-”

“You were given false memories?” Santizo pivoted. “No. I can't imagine. What I meant to say was the only person who'd know is whoever performed the procedure.”

They managed to get a room in a hotel near the hospital. The setting sun was obscured by smog. After ordering room service-fish and rice for Akira, steak and fries for Savage and Rachel-they each took a book and read in silence.

When their food arrived, they used the distraction of what Savage called “refueling” to talk.

“The medical terms are difficult for me to interpret,” Akira said. “My knowledge of English, I'm embarrassed to confess, has limitations.”

“No,” Rachel said, “your English is perfect. For what it's worth, these medical terms might as well be Japanese to me.”

“I appreciate the compliment. You're very gracious. Arigato,” Akira said. “That means…?”

“Thank you.”

“And what should I say in return? What's the equivalent of…?”

“ ‘You're welcome’? I'll make it simple. Domo arigato. A rough translation-‘thank you very much.’ “

“Exactly,” Rachel said. “Domo arigato.”

Akira smiled, despite his melancholy eyes.

“Well,” Savage said, “while the two of you are having a cultural exchange-”

“Don't get grumpy,” Rachel told him.