Stanislaw Lem: The Conditioned Reflex

” The candidate first reported to Albert, officially employed as janitor in the Department of Behavioral Astropsychology, but in reality the chairman’s right-hand man, whose word carried more weight than the combined wisdom of the tenured faculty. Albert, formerly the factotum of Professor Balloe, who had retired the year before—to the delight of the students, but to the distress of Albert (“No one ever appreciated me half as much as Professor Balloe emeritus”)—then took the candidate down to a small room in the basement. There he had his face cast in paraffin. Into the nostrils of this facial mask, once it was removed, were inserted two metal tubes. After that, the candidate was sent back upstairs to the “pool.” It was not really a pool at all—students never like to call anything by its proper name—but a large room containing a tank filled with water. The candidate, or, in cadet slang, the “patient,” was made to strip and climb into the water, which was gradually heated until it matched his body temperature. For some the cutoff point came at twenty-eight, for others at thirty degrees Celsius. Once the test subject’s body temperature was reached—signaled by an upraised arm of the freely floating “patient”—one of the assistants attached the paraffin mask. Salt was then added to the water—not potassium cyanide, as was attested by those who had already been through the “loony dip,” but ordinary table salt, in amounts large enough to allow the “patient” (also referred to as the “drowning victim”) to float just below the surface without sinking. Breathing was made possible by the metal tubes protruding above the water. That, in essence, was all there was to the test, the scientific name for which was the Sensory Deprivation Experiment. Blind and deaf, without any sense of smell, taste, or touch (after a very short while the water ceased to exert any sensation), lying with arms folded on his chest like an Egyptian mummy, the “victim” was soon submerged in a simulated weightless condition. For how long depended on the subject’s endurance.

It looked harmless enough. Yet when a man was subjected to this condition for any length of time, he became susceptible to the strangest sensations. The experiences of past test subjects were amply documented in textbooks on experimental psychology; yet while nothing prevented one from reading up on them, the experiences themselves were too varied to be of much help. One-third of the candidates were lucky to last three hours; five or six hours was considered exceptional. Perseverance had its rewards, too, as the summer training assignments were awarded on the basis of the class grade list: the one with the highest grade was assigned a “special” mission, rather than a routine assignment at one of the many circum-Terra stations. But there was no way of predicting who would “tough it out” and who wouldn’t; the “dip” was designed to test severely the subject’s psychological stability.

Pirx got off to an auspicious start, disregarding the fact that he unnecessarily kept his head underwater before the mask was installed. In the process he consumed a quarter of a liter of water that, as he now had occasion to verify, was treated with ordinary salt.

Once the mask was in place, his first sensation was of a slight buzzing in the ears and of being immersed in total darkness—his eyes were kept forcibly shut by the mask’s tight fit. He relaxed his muscles and was gently buoyed by the water. Then something unexpected: an itching sensation in his nose and right eye. Now what? He couldn’t very well scratch through the mask. Hm. Nobody ever reported having an itch before. Maybe this was to be his own special contribution to experimental psychology. He rested, perfectly poised, the water neither warming nor cooling his naked body. Before long it was completely lacking in any sensations. One wiggle of his toes would have told him they were wet, but he also knew that hidden in the ceiling was a video recorder and that every twitch of his body meant a minus point. By monitoring himself internally, he was able to distinguish his own faint heartbeat. Soon the discomfort passed; even the itching abated. Albert had installed the metal tubes so adeptly that he could hardly feel their presence. For that matter, he was slowly being divested of any feeling: a vacuum, the more alarming for being so painless. He was losing all sense of spatial relationship, of the position of his arms and legs; only his memory told him where they were. He tried to calculate how long he had been underwater with his face imprisoned in white paraffin. To his surprise, he discovered he hadn’t the faintest idea of how much time had elapsed since his submersion in the “loony dip”—and he’d always been able to guess the time to within a few minutes’ accuracy.

He hadn’t got over his surprise when he discovered that his body, his face—everything—was gone. Not what one would call a pleasant feeling; on the contrary, it was terrifying. Slowly but surely, he was dissolving into this water, whose presence was as unreal to him as his own body. Even his heartbeat had faded. He listened intently. Nothing. Silence engulfed him, was transformed into a low murmur, a monotonous white drone, against which he was defenseless—he couldn’t plug his ears. After a while, when he was sure enough time had elapsed so that he could risk a few minus points, he decided to move his arms.

There was nothing to move, which was more a cause for amazement than alarm. Okay, the textbooks had said something about “total sensory deprivation”—but who would have believed it could be this total?

A normal reaction, he assured himself. The thing is not to move. Whoever toughs it out the longest will get the highest grade. For a while he sustained himself on this maxim, though for how long he didn’t know.

The situation went from bad to worse.

The darkness in which he was submerged—which he embodied—began teeming, flickering with dimly incandescent circles swirling about on the periphery. He swiveled his eyeballs and was consoled, though it wasn’t long before this feeling eluded him as well.

The sum of all these sensations—the flickering lights, the monotonous drone—was a harmless prelude, a trifle, compared to what came next.

Anyone who has ever had his hand or arm fall asleep when the blood supply has been temporarily cut off knows how wooden it seems to the touch. Uncomfortable as it is, the condition is usually short-lived. The deadening numbness affects only a few fingers, or a hand, momentarily turning it into a lifeless appendage on an otherwise normal, sensate body. But Pirx was deprived of all sensation—save that of terror.

He was disintegrating not into different personalities but into a manifold terror. Of what he didn’t know. He was residing neither in reality (how could he without a body to perceive it?) nor in a dream (he was too conscious of where he was, of his own responses, to be dreaming). No, it was something else, not comparable to anything he’d ever experienced, not even to an alcoholic or narcotic stupor.

He remembered reading about it. He was experiencing what was known as “disorganization of the cortex caused by sensory deprivation of the brain.”

It sounded innocent enough. The real thing was something else again.

He felt scattered, diffused. Up, down, right, and left no longer meant anything to him. Where was the ceiling? He couldn’t remember. How could he? Without a body, without eyes, he had lost all sense of direction.

Wait a sec, he thought. Let’s get this straight. Space has three dimensions…

Words without meaning. He tried to summon up some sense of time, kept repeating the word “time”… It was like munching on a wad of paper. Time was a senseless glob. It was not he who was repeating the word, but someone else, some intruder who had wormed his way inside him. Or he inside him. And that someone was enlarging, swelling, transcending all boundaries. He was traveling through unfathomable interiors, a ballooning, preposterous, elephantine finger—not his own, not a real finger, but a fictitious one, coming out of nowhere… sovereign, overwhelming, rigid, full of reproach and silly innuendo… And Pirx—not he but his thought processes—reeled back and forth inside this preposterous, fetid, torpid, nullifying mass…

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