Eric McCormack - Cloud

Griffin herself had become violent with a janitor who tried to clean her room, to the extent that the guard had to rush in and restrain her — and remember, Dupont pointed out, she’s a sociopath, so who knows what she might be capable of? In the end, the cleaning effort had to be abandoned and more newspapers were made available to her. She immediately began tearing them up and spreading them around. As for the smell, she preferred fresh water for grooming but absolutely refused to use soap.

One last noteworthy characteristic of the volunteers was their preference for staying awake at night. The research team at first thought this might be insomnia brought on by the surgery. Now it was believed that the operation somehow released a primitive hunting instinct and turned the volunteers into night creatures. Like the others, Griffin would prowl restlessly around her room in the darkness, but sleep on and off during the day, just like a cat.

The institute’s van was negotiating a series of small hills and curves. Dupont had to pay attention and was silent for a moment. Then he went on with his description of the Griffin case.

“When she leaves us, she’ll be sent to one of our facilities in the South,” he said. “There, in addition to daily interrogations by a number of distinguished anthropologists, she’ll be put through a rigorous program to correct her little post-surgical eccentricities. Naturally, someone who tears up newspaper to make a den and won’t use soap will have trouble fitting into society again, which is our hope. Indeed, with her gift of virtual invisibility, she’ll be an ideal observer of how our society appears to a pre-human primate — in a way, she’ll be an anthropologist in reverse. Her reports should be groundbreaking in the field.

“Isn’t it curious that, if she can be taught just to act like a normal human being, no one will be able to tell the difference between her and the rest of the world? We can only judge other people by what they say and what they do. We’ve absolutely no certainty about what’s going on in their heads — even the people who are closest to us don’t know that. Fortunately, in the case of Griffin, we’re well aware she’s a manufactured sociopath, so we’ll be keeping a close eye on her for the first few years at least, just in case something goes badly wrong.”

DUPONT COULD TELL that I was taken aback by all these revelations. He began to defend himself before I could ask any questions.

“Now, Harry, you’re probably surprised that this is the kind of work I do,” he said. “For some people, it doesn’t quite fit with the ethics of the medical profession. For that very reason, our team from academia and industry had to be chosen very carefully— hence the secrecy agreement in advance, for we knew some of them might be reluctant to be involved in research of this nature and might even try to have it stopped.

“Let me assure you, we always adhere strictly to protocol regarding the volunteers who are about to undergo the procedure. I make doubly and even triply sure they do so willingly and with full knowledge of the consequences. It’s an odd thing, but without exception they don’t mind at all the prospect of having part of their brains excised. Some of them, like Griffin, have suffered so much in their lives they’re actually keen on having the procedure done on them for their own sakes — and for the advancement of science.

“In that I believe they’re right,” Dupont said, in conclusion. “Our procedure isn’t just revolutionary in terms of surgical and anthropological research. In my opinion, philosophy and psychology will also be its major beneficiaries. Because of what we’re doing at Institute 77, for the first time in recorded history researchers will be on a scientific path to finding out what actually leads to the development of the human mind.”

OUR VAN HAD BEEN labouring up what seemed like an endless hill as Dupont offered this defence of his work. His claim — that he was advancing knowledge by deliberately dehumanizing others — was the traditional argument used to support questionable scientific experiments. Ironically, the more he tried to make it sound rational and logical, the more immoral it seemed. Claiming human superiority over other life forms, while using one of our great intellectual achievements — advanced science— in such a perverted way, was patently absurd. Surely that was evident to him.

But I kept silent. I couldn’t help wondering: was it possible that after witnessing so much cruelty and inhumanity in the course of his work in some of the most unstable and brutal areas of the world, he’d become infected by them — had himself become a monster? When I first knew him he’d never pretended to be a great humanitarian, even though he’d imperilled his life practising his profession in those dangerous places. His efforts back then just happened to have a more benevolent purpose. But he’d made no bones about his love of adventure and the exotic.

Indeed, in my eyes at that time, the very fact that he didn’t pass himself off as some kind of saint made him all the more human and likable. Also, he’d been a friend to me — a good, reliable one at that.

Even now, after telling me about this dubious scientific experiment, he still seemed essentially no different from the Dupont of old. And anyway, who was I to judge anyone else? What did I have to brag about on the matter of ethics? I’d married for reasons that had little or nothing to do with love. I’d profited for more than twenty years from industries that wreaked havoc on the earth and damaged the lives of countless innocent people. Whereas at least Dupont’s victims had “volunteered” to be damaged.

SO I WAS ON THE brink of reassuring him, for I sensed he was trying too hard to persuade me — and maybe himself — that his work was ethical. I was about to tell him that I and probably most other human beings were guilty in some way or other of some awful self-betrayal.

But just then our van surmounted that final hill and the lights of a substantial town were spread out below.

“Waterville, dead ahead!” said Dupont in a quite cheerful voice. “I hope my friend’s there by now.”

Our destination turned out to be Ye Olde Mill, a nineteenth-century ruin turned into an upscale hotel, restaurant, and bar on the edge of Waterville. A plaque on the fieldstone wall of the lobby informed us that a hundred years ago the place had been a “manufactory.”

“That’s the fancy word for ‘factory,’ which is yet another fancy word for ‘sweatshop,’” said Dupont as we went inside. He seemed to be in good form, maybe relieved at having made his confession to me or maybe because he didn’t think of it that way at all.

The maître d’ led us to our table. There a striking woman with long blond hair rose to greet us. She was dressed in some kind of silken gown that fell to her ankles and had a loose, open weave that was pleasing to the eye.

Dupont kissed her lightly on the lips then introduced her. “This is Marsha Woods,” he said to me with a little wink. All along, he’d let me assume we were to meet a male friend and not a breathtaking woman.

“This is the Harry Steen I mentioned — the man from Duncairn,” he said to her.

I shook her extended fingers and we all sat down.

“I just arrived a few minutes ago,” she said. “I left my suitcase at the front desk. I haven’t even had time to order a drink.”

Now that my eyes were becoming accustomed to the dim restaurant lighting, I realized she was older than I’d first thought — in fact she must have been much my own age. Her makeup didn’t quite mask the tiny wrinkles around her eyes.

“Marsha flies to Washington at noon tomorrow,” Dupont said to me. “She’ll be staying with us overnight at the institute and we’ll have breakfast together. One of my staff will drive her back to the airport in time for her plane.”