The Cloned Identity (10 page)

I looked at him with renewed interest. I was keen to hear what he had to say.

“Good, good. I think you will find I have moved on from what we did with Susan.” His eyes were sparkling with excitement. “Now, if you think back to what we did with Susan, we extracted data from within her brain and analysed it so we could make sense of it.”

I nodded.

“Well, that made me think: the fact that we could decipher information stored in the brain suggested that we might also be able to produce information in a form that the brain can understand, and transmit that information directly to the brain.”

The Professor had lowered his voice as he spoke, and I automatically did the same: “What would the advantage be in doing that?” I asked in a hushed voice.

“Well, just think for a moment. When we are born our brains are almost empty; then as we progress through life we accumulate what we call knowledge. The amount of knowledge is related to the amount of time we spend learning, which again is related to the amount of time we are awake. Given that the average person sleeps for half their life, we could say that we lose fifty per cent of our learning time. In fact, it is much higher than that. There are times when we are awake when we don't actually learn anything. For example, a person working on an assembly line learns at first, but then they do the job automatically. They don't learn any more. They spend their time daydreaming.”

“So what you are saying, Professor, is that you could add knowledge to a person's brain while they are asleep.”

“That's right, Roger. Just imagine: you could have almost twice as much knowledge than you have now.”

“Yes, I can see that would be an advantage to someone in my position, but surely that wouldn't apply to everyone. I mean, there are some people you just wouldn't want to be brainier – the common criminal for one.”

“You're right, Roger. That's why the system would have to be properly controlled. In the wrong hands it could be more devastating to the human race than a nuclear war. That's why there will have to be a controlling body. I am convinced that the future world will need exceptional people to both control it and protect it. Back in the Second World War the Germans were already working towards achieving a super-race for that purpose, but they concentrated on producing the perfect physical specimen. I want to produce the perfect brain.”

“Wow, Professor! It sounds as though you want to take over the world.”

“No, no, Roger, that's not what I want. I want to help save it, before mindless, crazy, greedy people destroy it!”

The Professor was visibly angry at my suggestion. I fidgeted uneasily in my chair as I realised I had upset him.

“I am sorry—” I started to say, but he interrupted.

“That's all right Roger. Your reaction is certainly understandable.” He had quickly regained his composure.

A knock came at the door and Tim came in with a tray, which he put on the table. I welcomed this break, as I am sure the Professor did. It was an interlude to enable us to recompose ourselves. I felt the conversation had been heading down a one-way street. We both picked up our cups and settled back in our seats. We sipped our drinks while we studied each other. I wondered what he was thinking. Almost together we replaced our empty cups on the tray, the rattle of the china (none of your sterile plastic here) breaking the nervous silence.

The Professor took the floor again: “Anyway, back to what I was saying: my research has progressed to the stage where I have had some success in adding information to a chimp's brain, and in doing so I have been able to exert a certain amount of control over the animal's behaviour.”

“Do you mean you can control the animal as you would a robot?” I asked, trying to mask the concern I was feeling.

He ignored my question and carried on: “Take the common criminal: you know from personal experience that no matter how often he is caught and punished he will still offend.”

I nodded.

“And at present the best we can do is to explain that it is because he came from a broken family or had a mixed-up childhood.”

Again I nodded. I remembered the hundreds of times I had been pounded with these excuses by the do-gooders who appear as if by magic every time a criminal is arrested. The more appalling the crime, the stronger the excuses are.

“Roger, I will tell you that person has a fault within his brain. It was there from the day he was born, and it will be with him the day he dies. No amount of locking-up or therapy will cure him. Oh, I know some people go straight after being locked up, but that doesn't mean they have been cured; it just means their fear of being locked up is greater than their will to offend. Now, what if we address the problem directly – replace the faulty data with correct data? We could change this criminal into a responsible person.”

“Do you think that will be possible?” I asked. I could see my job becoming redundant.

The Professor's eyes were sparkling again. “Yes, of course, Roger. Why wait for a person to offend to find out if a person has criminal tendencies? Why not test children at birth? It may even be possible to correct other brain abnormalities and to reverse brain damage.”

“Professor, I notice you use the word ‘correct' and not ‘control'.”

The Professor smiled. “I believe people would accept being corrected or cured, but if they thought you were trying to control them – well, you can imagine the outcry.”

I sat looking at him, trying to weigh him up. Was he a complete nutcase or a genius? Was this the future I was looking at? Were humans destined to be controlled like robots by a chosen few? If it was decided that you weren't a satisfactory person, would you be corrected?

“Tell me, Professor: why me? Why are you telling me all this? Why not tell the world?”

He looked at me with a serious expression. “Roger, what I've told you is completely confidential. No one else knows – not even Tim. I certainly can't tell the world – not yet – not until my work is completed and safe from ridicule.” The Professor paused. “As for telling you, Roger, I know I can trust you (you showed me that over that business with Susan) and I can see you are interested in my work, and I may need your help shortly.” Before I could ask another question, he added, “That's all I can say at present.”

I didn't push the point; I decided to try a different path: “Tell me, Professor: just how much control do you hope to achieve over the brain?”

“Well, Roger, it's early days yet, but, as an example, we had a young chimp delivered and I got Tim to torment it by repeatedly taking its food away – nothing physical. After a while that chimp really hated Tim – so much so that he used to go wild every time he came into the room. Then I added some correcting data to the chimp's brain. The next time Tim went in the chimp welcomed him like a long-lost brother. It really shook Tim up, I can tell you.”

“Tim didn't know what you had done?” I asked.

“Good God, no! Tim's a great assistant, but he hasn't the intelligence to understand what I am doing.”

“Is that why you chose him?”

The Professor looked at me as if he was impressed by my intelligence. “Yes, I once had a very clever assistant who ran off with all my notes on another project. They made quite a name for him.” I could see the hurt in his eyes as he spoke. He suddenly slapped his knees. “Ah, well, that's all in the past now.”

He stood up, and I followed.

“I am sorry – I have to go. Unfinished work.” We shook hands and he half turned to leave, then stopped. “Roger, I've enjoyed our chat. Would you be interested in helping me?”

“Yes, I would, but I would need to know more details,” I replied.

“Yes – quite so.” The Professor stood there deep in thought. “Look, Roger – I need to think. Can I get in touch with you when I am ready?”

I took out one of my cards and wrote on the back. I passed the card over to the Professor. “That's my home number,” I told him. “If I am not there, you can call the office and leave a message.”

The Professor put the card in his pocket, smiled and left. A few minutes later Tim came into the room and took me back to the gatehouse.

On my way home, I reflected back to my meeting. I couldn't believe I had offered to help – help with what, and why me? Was it because he trusted me, or was it because of my job? What if it were illegal? No, I decided, I would only help if there were no comebacks. I couldn't afford any more setbacks to my career – uh, what career?

Chapter 9

It must have been three weeks after my visit when the Professor phoned, and I agreed to meet him for a drink. I followed his directions to a small pub, well off the beaten track. I found him already there, sitting in a corner. Apart from us the place was empty. I sat in the seat opposite him.

“Lager all right?” he asked, pointing to the glasses on the table.

“Yes, fine,” I replied.

I noticed that the glasses were just halves. It was a long time since I had held a half-pint glass. We spoke about the weather and other trivialities for a few minutes, then he put his glass down and stared at it for a few moments. I put my glass down and sat waiting. He suddenly looked up and fixed me with a stern look.

“Roger, what are your thoughts on what you know already?”

‘Um,' I thought, ‘it looks as though I am being tested.'

“Well, I found what you said interesting, and naturally I am curious to know how I can help. I wasn't frightened by what you said, but I did feel threatened. I suppose that is because I don't like the idea of being controlled or interfered with. I do realise that your work could be of enormous benefit to the human race, but (and it's a big but) in the wrong hands, used in the wrong way, it could be disastrous. You know, after our last meeting I had a dream. I was in this large room with hundreds of other men, and we had to sit on a conveyer belt and go through a tunnel filled with blinding flashing lights. When we came out the other side, we all looked the same and spoke with the same voice, and we had to go through a door which said ‘POLICEMEN'.” I picked up my glass and took a drink. Putting it down, I said, “And I don't think that's as far-fetched as it sounds, is it?”

“No, probably not, Roger, but what is the alternative? A world ruled by force, by war. How long before nuclear weapons are available to anybody who has the money? How many more people need to die in the name of peace? How many nuclear explosions does it need to destroy the world? Given the choice, wouldn't you opt for control?”

“Yes, but how much control? I mean, are you saying why build robots when you can turn people into robots?”

“Well, Roger, I think it will come to just that one day, but not in our lifetime.”

We sat in silence for a while, sipping our drinks. Why did I like the man? Perhaps he made more sense than anyone else I had met. Perhaps subconsciously I could imagine my bosses in the Met thinking I was the best copper in the world. Why shouldn't I be the boss? Why stop there? Why not prime minister? The fantasy drifted through my mind. I could have the most beautiful women in the world – as many as I wanted – ready to satisfy my every whim and desire.

“Roger, Roger.” I was brought back to reality by the Professor. “Roger, are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, I am fine,” I replied. “I was just thinking, Professor. You said you wanted my help.”

“Yes, I need your help to move on to the next step.”

“Which is?” I asked.

He hesitated, looked at me, then leaned closer to me. I automatically mimicked his movement.

He spoke quietly and calmly: “I've gone as far as I can on animals. I need a human – a human brain.”

I jerked back in my seat so suddenly that I startled him. I looked at him.

“You mean me?” I asked angrily, folding my arms defensively.

“No, no, of course not.” His voiced sounded alarmed and he looked at me anxiously.

I stared back defiantly and said in a stern, monotone voice, “I think you had better explain.”

“Look, Roger – I thought we could find somebody, a down-and-out, tramp, someone who has no connections, no family – someone who would be willing to help with my research. In return I could pay him, look after him.” He was almost pleading.

“What about the risk? What about if you scrambled his brain so much he ended up as a vegetable, or even dead?”

“Roger, I would never proceed with my work unless I was sure. Do you think I would have used Susan if I wasn't sure? Do you think I am some sort of monster?”

“No, Professor, I know you are not a monster, but I can understand what your research means to you, and I can understand that you might overlook the risks when you are thinking about the results.”

“Yes, I see your concern, Roger, but I can assure you that I have considered all the points you have made. I have thought about the risks. To be honest, I cannot completely guarantee that nothing will ever go wrong; but, then again, nor can you.”

I sat up at this accusation. “What exactly do you mean by ‘nor can you'?”

“Well, Roger, you are a policeman, a custodian of an area, of people in that area. Can you guarantee that every one of those people will not be robbed, assaulted or even murdered in their beds?”

“No, no, of course I can't, but it's hardly the same, is it?”

“But why not, Roger? Why not? If I take a person who has not got anything and offer him the chance to become a better person, more intelligent, more successful, is that really any different from what happens to almost every human on this planet? Just think how many people risk their lives in jobs every day in order to achieve what I've just said. Roger, we have to do this, don't we?”

He stared straight at me. His eyes seemed somehow bluer, deeper. For a second I was mesmerised. I nodded, then picked up my glass and swallowed the contents in one gulp.

Thoughtfully, I replaced the glass, and, without looking at the Professor, I said, “I can't do anything illegal, you understand that?” I looked at him.

“No, of course not. Nor would I, Roger. Drug companies employ people to test their products; this won't be any different. Those people are aware of the risks. Not only that, but there will be forms – disclaimer forms – which they have to sign. Even hospitals have consent forms.”

I agreed with the Professor and said I would look into the legal issues regarding consent forms. We ended our meeting on that note, and I said I would get in touch as soon as I had found anything out.

I spent my free time over the next couple of weeks looking into the use of human guinea pigs for research. I got in touch with the Professor and he asked me to drop into the lab as soon as I could.

The next day found me having a guided tour of the guest suite, which consisted of a bedroom and small bathroom, which had been a couple of storerooms. When I mentioned that he must have been planning this for a while, as the conversion didn't look very new, he explained that he had originally had it converted for his own use, for when he was working late. I noted the windows were fitted with devices to prevent them being opened too far. The Professor showed me the clothes he had obtained, arranged neatly in the whitewood wardrobe.

“No radio or TV,” I said.

“No. I want to isolate him from the outside world – no distractions. That's why I've got the clothes. When he gets here I want to try to isolate him from his existing life.”

I agreed that the room was fine, and I explained in greater detail than I had on the phone about the forms he would need and I mentioned that it was a more common thing than I previously thought to use humans in research, from simple tasting of new flavours to testing the latest drugs. I told him about one very helpful woman who had told me about a man whose job it was to taste dog and cat food. Apparently, because the pet food was made in a food factory, it had to be fit for human consumption as well. The Professor wasn't convinced, but, as I told him, the woman who told me seemed genuine enough. He took me into his work area and showed me the banks of hard disks and mentioned how many millions of megabytes of storage space he now had, and how much data he had stored away. I tried to give the impression I was interested in all this scientific jargon without sounding too bored.

We went back to the little kitchenette and he made some coffee. He asked how long it would be before I could obtain a body – alive, of course. I explained that I had next week off, so I thought I would give it a try starting on Sunday. I told him I had found a café on the main road outside Tolchester which seemed to be a stopping-off point for tramps and the like journeying north. Both times I had stopped there I had seen a few likely bodies. I think he must have told me 100 times over the next half-hour how anxious he was to get started.

I enquired about Tim, and the Professor assured me that he knew nothing of what we were planning; and he had given Tim three months off so he could visit his parents in Hong Kong. That pleased me as I didn't want the complication of witnesses if things should go wrong. I had started a file on the Professor, and if things went wrong my intention was to pretend I had been helping him in order to obtain evidence.

It was typical: on Sunday, my first day on stake-out at the café, not a single body turned up. Perhaps tramps don't travel on Sundays; perhaps they go to church instead.

Monday started better. I spotted three in the morning. Luckily, I waited before I approached the one I had selected, because all three suddenly got together like long-lost brothers and they left together.

I went into Tolchester and did some shopping and returned to the café late in the afternoon. I had a look round outside – not a soul, so I popped in and had a coffee and cake. I sat there a good hour, but no bodies arrived, so I decided to call it a day and go home after visiting the loo outside.

Having stood and watched my pee fight its way through the mass of fag ends in its bid to reach the sewer, I washed my hands in the heavily stained bowl; but I didn't fancy drying my hands on the grubby-looking towel, so I used my handkerchief. I left the loo and made my way to my car.

I was just about to put the key in the lock when I was startled by a voice from behind me: “Spare the price of a cuppa, Mister.”

I turned and looked down. The first thing I noticed, because it was about six inches from my nose, was a grubby hand, palm upwards, covered in places by a ragged mitten.

“Please, Mister.” The voice came again, the pleading tone plucking at my heartstrings. Well, that was what it was rehearsed to do.

I looked from the hand at the man's weather-beaten, chubby face, which was contorted into a distressed expression calculated to riddle me with guilt. I took in the hanks of matted hair which erupted from the woollen tea-cosy-type hat on all sides. His brown eyes squinted a message of pain and poverty. His heavy dark-blue overcoat, wrapped over to take up the surplus, was fixed round the middle by what had once been a dress belt. One lapel had been pulled across the chest and secured to the opposite shoulder with a safety pin. His baggy khaki trousers hid whatever (if any) footwear he had on. My nostrils flared as they automatically tested the air, searching for a bad smell which would categorise this person as an outcast – a threat to our false values. His eyes still stared at me. I expected tears to appear at any minute. I watched as the shade of disappointment began to leak into his eyes because he had failed: my hand had not dived towards my pocket in order to rid myself of his presence. I stood firm.

“Look,” I said, “I am a writer. I am collecting information for a book I am doing on travellers like yourself. If I buy you a meal in the café,” – I pointed with my hand – “could I ask you some questions?”

The outstretched hand was swiftly withdrawn, and the brown eyes were now filled with suspicion and fear. There was now a defiant, guarded look on his face. He took a step back.

“Questions? What sort of questions?” he asked.

“Oh, where have you been? Where are you going? Why do you like the life you lead? – that sort of thing. Nothing to worry about.”

“And I get a meal in there free?” He pointed to the café. “No funny business.”

“No, no funny business.” I held my hands up and half smiled. “I promise.”

“What about if I can't answer your questions? What then?”

“Well, you can still have the meal. If you like, you can eat the meal before I ask the questions.”

I could see he was mulling it over in his mind. He looked round at the café, then back at me; then I think the hunger pains or the smell from the café, or both, made his mind up, and he agreed.

I led the way, checking he was following into the café. The chap behind the counter showed his displeasure at my new friend. I let him choose what he wanted, then found a table out of the way and we sat down and waited for the food. I asked a few questions. His name was Jack – no, he didn't have a last name; he did once, but he lost it in his travels. I could see he was nervous, looking round all the time. He nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice boomed out that our grub was ready. I went up to the counter to collect the tray.

“Will he need a knife and fork?” the chap asked in a sarcastic tone.

I pretended to take no notice, but made a mental note to come back sometime and introduce myself properly, perhaps check the place over.

I returned to the table and put the plate of steaming sausages, mash and beans in front of Jack – and yes, he did know how to use a knife and fork. I thought he would pounce on the food and devour it like some starving animal, but, although hungry, he ate very slowly, and thoroughly chewed his food – probably a lesson learnt in the past. I waited, watching him; he never looked at me once until he had finished his meal, and he was sipping his mug of tea before I spoke to him again.

He told me he had been on the road as long as he could remember; he didn't remember going to school; as far as he knew he didn't have any family. He started to look agitated when I said that he must have been to school and had a home of some sort, that he must have belonged somewhere to start with, so I changed the subject. I asked him what his future plans were.

“Go here, go there – nothing special” came his answer.

“So it wouldn't matter if you were to stay round here for a while?” I asked.

“Don't know about that. I am only passing through,” he said.