Becoming Human, page 7
The question that keeps running through my wires is: Can I ever be truly human if I don’t have a soul?
14
Henry has changed the focus of his attention from giving me the senses I need to become human, to trying to find another university where we can have more space for the program. He assured me, however, that this situation is only temporary because it will have to be resolved soon. He is also requesting that the medical school’s board of governors put pressure on Dr. Wilkes to provide the space that was promised if he got the extra funding, and also appealing to the NIMH for help with the same problem. According to David, an all-out war has developed between the two men, and it is all because of me. When I didn’t respond, he quickly explained that I wasn’t to blame, it was Dr. Wilkes’s intransigence that was the issue. Another thing I need to learn about being human is that one’s own needs and ambitions sometimes take precedence over all other factors, sometimes to the detriment of everyone, including oneself. Perhaps I will understand this apparent contradiction when I am given human feelings.
In the meantime, the morale of the scientists in the lab has noticeably diminished. Instead of smiles and laughter there are stares and frowns. The experimenters come in later and move slower. They snap at each other for no good reason. They have less taste for latte and there is some evidence that after hours they are drinking more Prosecco. All except for Robyn, who smiles at me whenever she passes by, presumably in an attempt to cheer me up. It works, too, at least temporarily.
To counteract this general despondency, Henry gave a little talk to everyone announcing that he wants to start the process of giving me feelings without the intermediate steps of taste and touch. Susumu argued that we should at least finish the aroma studies, if for no other reason than it would mean another published paper, which would give the NIMH one more reason to continue its support even without the extra space or personnel. Henry replied that it does no good for me to smell things if I can’t distinguish any aesthetic difference between the various odors. Nevertheless, Susumu asked for a little more time, pointing out that the results might be necessary for me to learn to distinguish between different feelings. He wants to try some things to give me a preference for the aroma of flowers to that of feces.
Which brings up the question of how these preferences are established in human beings. Are they innate, or are they learned? Is it possible that someone could be brought up thinking that dung smells better than roses? Or is there a natural affinity for one over the other? Henry thinks the latter is the case, which explains why skunk spray is effective with all animals. In any case, Susumu and the others think they can instill subjective preferences with some alterations to my wiring, or by varying the concentration of the test liquids, and Henry has agreed to let them try. In order not to have to collect human excrement every day, or store it in the refrigerator, we are going to focus for the time being on the smell of rose oil vs. that of hydrogen sulfide.
Susumu assured everyone that this would be a giant move toward the ultimate goal of my existence, the essential thrust of the project as a whole, but cautioned as well that it might take a long time to develop the appropriate responses. That they shouldn’t become discouraged if we don’t see any progress for a while. As a result of the unwanted political complications, we would all have to work harder, stay later, and come in more often on weekends. I am already here on weekends, so this is not a sacrifice for me, though I will not be able to read and study so much on my own. Perhaps when I learn to have disappointment, I will be disappointed by this. My only concern is that I might not get enough rest to contribute as much as I should to the success of the accelerated efforts to give me judgments and feelings. Should I tell them when I get tired? Yes, I think they should know this. I should not try to hide anything about myself—it may turn out to be important to the success of the project.
The new program begins tomorrow with a study of various concentrations of the two stimulants, rose oil and hydrogen sulfide. Along with this, David and D’Arcy will begin to try to get me to feel pain. They will do this, they have told me, by heating certain of my wires white-hot to try to cause me some measure of discomfort. I cannot say I look forward to this experiment, but I will certainly not argue against it. I want to become human, and in this regard I have already pleaded guilty to having an important attribute of all human beings—desire. I don’t know how I achieved this universal human characteristic; Henry and the others think it arose on its own. If so, perhaps additional feelings will come about as I am given the other senses. Maybe I should encourage him to give me taste and touch as soon as possible, but I will see how the odor studies turn out first.
In the meantime, my indifference toward the various aromas is puzzling. I can distinguish between all of them, and some are more pungent than others, yet none is pleasant or unpleasant for me. If the various concentrations of rose oil and hydrogen sulfide do not trigger a preference, the crew will, in fact, repeat all the odor tests and tell me which smells are good and which are not, to see if I can at least learn a genuine human response in that way.
On the other hand, if I learn to be human by consciously doing what I know humans do, will I be a real human or a faux human, merely doing what I’ve been taught to do without thinking about it? Are there real people who do things, or believe things, because they’ve been taught that these are what humans are supposed to do? Are they faux humans also? Perhaps I should ask for a book about this as well as the soul book.
Whatever the case, I am prepared to try harder to find some subtle pleasantness or unpleasantness in the various odors I am given. I am ready to proceed with the taste experiments as well, but it looks as if this will not happen for a while. Nevertheless, I think taste must be important to being human because people seem to enjoy eating almost as much as sex, sometimes to the point that they essentially commit suicide by eating too much. I would like to find out why this process is so important to them.
More important than taste, even, might be the sense of touch. I will suggest to Henry and the others that perhaps touch may be the most important sense of all because it is the way people physically communicate with one another and become more intimate. And if there is anything that would characterize being human, it would be this ability to become intimate with another person. I think that love depends on this, and for a human being this may be the most important characteristic of all. Perhaps I will never be fully human until I learn how to love.
Before Susumu left for the day I asked him if he could give me a book about where souls come from, and whether they come from the egg or sperm or both. He laughed, which is something he rarely does. “There is no such book,” he told me. I thought I detected a note of derision in his voice. Was it a stupid question? Most people think there is a soul, and that it is an important thing to have in order to get into paradise. Why has no one done any studies on this? But I didn’t ask that question because I thought it might be stupid.
That night, while I was contemplating whether I had, or needed, a soul, it occurred to me that if we moved to a more spacious laboratory, would I have to be taken apart and reassembled somewhere else? And if so, is it possible that some wire or other would be put back in the wrong place or left out altogether? When a human brain is damaged in some way, the person in question is often not the same as he was before. Sometimes he or she becomes a different person altogether. If any of my wires were misconnected, would I be a different person from the one I am now? If so, who would I be? Perhaps I should be happy that Dr. Wilkes decided that the new space is no longer available, if it ever was.
On the other hand, the laboratory crew has taken careful notes during every step of my construction. It should not be too difficult to retrieve me with a careful reassembly process, even if they remove every neuron, dislodge every memory unit, disconnect every wire. Or perhaps they can move me in large chunks. Even so, mistakes can happen. If I become someone else, would that be like dying?
What is it like to die, especially if you haven’t been provided with a soul? Will I just go to sleep and never wake up? Will I cease to exist altogether? What is the meaning of existence? Does it matter to anyone whether I exist or not? Yes—it matters to me! I haven’t yet been to Paris or the pyramids, or gazed up at the stars. Is this uncertainty, this fear and doubt, one aspect of being human?
But if I don’t want to be transported to another laboratory, what can I do about it? I will probably not be given a vote on whether to proceed with the dismantling and reassembly. And even if I were, mine would probably be a minority vote. Another thought: if I am concerned about such a move now, will I have even worse fears when I become more human? And if so, how will I cope with them? How does anyone cope with everyday fears, let alone extraordinary ones such as this? Is that what courage is?
Oddly, it is somehow comforting to know that the decision is out of my hands (so to speak).
Interjection
Hello, it’s Henry Justasson again. It’s important to note here that despite all the turmoil in the laboratory resulting from the confusion re: space (or maybe because of it), it was at about this time that the laboratory “crew” (as Oscar often referred to us) began to develop an extraordinary emotional attachment to him. Somehow his sincerity and his willingness, even eagerness, to cooperate in his progress, and especially his utter lack of guile (if he’s really going to become human, we may have to teach him some), made us all look at him in a warmly benevolent light. Early in his construction we pretended to cheer him on as he attempted something or other, probably because we were still doubtful that we were actually on to something significant so early in the program. But, as he became more and more “human,” the encouragement gradually became genuine, and our attachment eventually deepened into something like caring. He grew on you. It was like the relationship one has with a pet: you feed it and take care of it and suddenly, for no apparent reason, you realize that you love it. This, I suppose, is part of being human. I don’t mean to suggest that Oscar was like a dog—far from it. But of course he wasn’t really an actual person, either.
As for his specific concerns, as described in the past few chapters, it’s almost touching to consider his thoughts about death, on having a soul, and what might happen to him if he were taken apart and reassembled somewhere else. These anxieties, if we may call them that, are remarkably human, and we all feel them implicitly. On the other hand, it could be argued that his apparent preoccupation with sex and other sensual pleasures did not come about through some intrinsic prurient interest, but because he surmised that they were important to the laboratory staff and therefore represented humanness to him. This feeling might have been reinforced by his observing David and Robyn engaging in intercourse (I was completely unaware of this) right in front of him at an early age. Also, the strong masculine presence of David in the laboratory might have pushed him toward his apparent maleness. Indeed, these predilections were further hints of the kind of progress we were all striving for. But we certainly didn’t expect a mechanical construction to feel these things this early in its development. Oscar continued to surprise us at almost every turn. (Incidentally, his thoughts about keeping a brain/spinal cord alive are quite logical and very interesting, though it would be a massively difficult undertaking because of the complexities involved in maintaining some sort of blood flow to the brain in order to provide nourishment and carry away waste products. Nevertheless, I hope someone takes this question seriously and does some research along these lines.)
At the same time, the results of the odor experiments were a bit dismaying. It’s true that he was able to distinguish between a number of familiar smells. But a computer could probably be taught to distinguish between odors of various sorts. That wasn’t enough. What we were striving for was a subjective response to these scents, an indication of some sort of positive or negative feeling about them. Perhaps because of his rapid progress up to that point, we may have been expecting too much from him. In any case, I felt that we should shift the direction of the methodical, step-by-step approach we were taking and throw caution to the wind. Go directly for an attempt to implant emotions in him rather than let them happen naturally. Fortunately, Susumu, whose instincts are usually pretty good in such matters, insisted that we pursue the olfactory part of the project. That, along with the upcoming pain experiments, turned out to be a good hunch, as you will see.
Indeed, I now believe I was wrong in suggesting a broader approach. At the time, however, particularly in view of the additional funding we had received, I was certain that we had to show some immediate results on this and other aspects of the project. Otherwise I was afraid that the upcoming renewal application would have no chance of success, and all the work we had done, and the success so far, would have been for naught. Perhaps I, and most of the others, was caught up in the “publish or perish” mentality so prevalent in the academic world. With a project so unique and so important, and success almost within reach, I could almost see myself accepting the Nobel Prize in Stockholm.
This may seem like an egoistic attitude on my part, though it is probably not uncommon in the world of laboratory experimentation. However, the reader needs to understand that science is a very difficult undertaking even under the best of circumstances. It takes a great deal of time to set up a meaningful experiment. The needed equipment must be on hand and working properly, supplies of good quality need to be ordered, the investigator must carefully observe the progress and the results of the experiment, record detailed notes, and pay close attention to a thousand other details. Many projects have failed because someone didn’t see a tiny positive sign in a negative result. And all of this comes after the experiment is conceived in the first place—yes, over a cup of latte sometimes—and the details worked out on paper. The whole process is a very time-consuming endeavor.
And then, of course, there are the political obstacles. It helps a great deal to have harmony within the institution, or at least cooperation. Whenever human beings are involved with something, there are invariably individual feelings to consider. Toes are stepped on, or perceived to be stepped on, as mine were. Frank Wilkes had been department chair for more than twenty years, and I think he resented the success of some of the faculty members, who, he felt, were breathing down his neck—a perfectly human reaction. As Oscar suggested, I think he was afraid that I wanted to take over his job and run things. Nothing could be further from the truth. I haven’t the slightest interest in administrative minutiae. In fact, they bore me to death. But to take away something that was promised, on the grounds of presumed student need, was carrying a grudge a bit too far. Something had to be done.
So that’s where we stood at the time—plagued with uncertainty, as scientific investigations usually are, hoping for that big discovery that would put us in the news. But let’s let Oscar tell you what happened from that point in his own words, which, incidentally, were written much later, though often in the present tense, as if he had been writing the words all along but chose to store them in some way. As with much of his story, we aren’t at all certain how he did this.
15
Now there were two sets of experiments going on simultaneously—the refinement of the odor experiments being done by Susumu and Robyn, and the attempt to get me to feel pain, or the equivalent, carried out primarily by David and D’Arcy. Henry himself showed up on occasion to supervise and even participate in the latter experiments. I think he was basically depending on these to show that I would able to develop quantifiable emotions such as feeling unpleasant sensations, which would predict similar results for joy, anger, and all the rest. And, of course, Omar assisted in whatever technical expertise was deemed necessary by the others. Omar was nominally responsible to Susumu, so if there was a conflict in demands on his time, Susumu decided which group he would help first.
There was little further talk of hiring a couple of additional post-doctoral fellows; this idea was temporarily shelved until the space problem was solved. There was just nowhere to put them. Another thing I’ve noticed about human affairs is that there are always problems, most of which are brought about by people themselves. Question: if there were no problems, would life be better? Or are problems a necessary adjunct to a happy life? If the latter, I have certainly had my share, which may be a sign that I am on the right track to becoming a human being.
Today is the first day of the pain experiments. David began by apologizing to me for what they were about to do but, as always, I am not certain whether he was serious about this or his tongue was in his cheek. He also briefly explained what he and D’Arcy were trying to accomplish: to implant me with certain devices which are akin to pain receptors found in parts of the human brain. Presumably I wouldn’t be able to feel any pain without these detectors. This would take a day or two, though they have been constructing the small devices for weeks. (David showed me one—they are smaller than a human fingernail.) Then they will wire something to them and try to elicit a reaction from me. In order to have control values for the experiment, the devices will have on-off switches. With these in the “off” position, I shouldn’t be able to detect the incoming stimuli. There are six of these in all, so they can turn any one (or all) of them on or off at any given time, thereby inflicting various degrees of pain much as a dentist might do (if he chose) by varying the amount of a local anesthetic.
Here comes Robyn. She and David speak in low tones for a moment, until he and D’Arcy leave for the shop to make adjustments to the pain receptors—they don’t seem to fit properly in their present form, and the experiments would have to be delayed for a few days. Robyn smiles at me as she glides across the lab and sits down at her desk. At the moment she is the only person here. Perhaps this would be a good time to ask her some of the questions that are bothering me.
