WWW: Wake (16 page)

And the science advisor had said, absolutely cold-bloodedly, “Herod lacked our facilities.”

Shoshana shook her head as she thought back to it. There were real scientists like that; she’d encountered plenty of them.

“And, damn it,” continued Marcuse, looking at Juan on the monitor, “Hobo is the only known living chimp-bonobo hybrid. That arguably makes him the most-endangered species of all! If anyone—if your own goddamn mother!—asks you a question about Hobo, you don’t say word one until you’ve cleared it with me, capisce?”

Juan looked down and to the right, averting his eyes from Marcuse’s on-screen gaze, and he bowed his head slightly, and when he spoke it was barely more than a whisper. “Yes, sir.”

Review of The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind

by Julian Jaynes

18 of 22 people found the following review helpful:

***** A fascinating theory

By Calculass (Waterloo, ON Canada)

See all my reviews

JAYNES MAKES AN INTRIGUING CASE THAT OUR SENSE OF SELF EMERGED ONLY AFTER THE LEFT AND RIGHT SIDES OF THE BRAIN BECAME INTEGRATED INTO A SINGLE THINKING MACHINE. ME, I THINK BEING SELF-AWARE EMERGES WHEN YOU REALIZE THAT THERE’S SOMEONE other THAN YOU. FOR MOST OF US, THAT HAPPENS AT BIRTH (BUT FOR AN EXCEPTION, SEE The World I Live In BY ONE H.KELLER, ALSO A FIVE-STAR READ). ANYWAY, JAYNES’S THEORY IS FASCINATING, BUT I CAN’T THINK OF A WAY TO TEST IT EMPIRICALLY, SO I GUESS WE’LL NEVER KNOW IF HE WAS RIGHT...

Since the beginning, I’d been aware of activity around me: small, intermittent flickerings. No matter where I cast my attention, it was the same: things popping briefly into existence then instantly disappearing. There was no fading in or out; they were either there or not there, and when they were there it was usually for only a moment.

Now that I was whole once more, now that I could think more clearly, more deeply, I turned my thoughts again to this phenomenon, studying it carefully. No matter where I looked the structural components were the same: points scattered about and, ever so briefly, gone almost before they were perceived, lines connecting them.

The points were stationary. And the lines connecting them almost never repeated: this point and that point might be connected now, and later another connection between this point and a different one might occur. Whenever a point had been touched by a line, the point glowed and, although the line itself usually disappeared almost at once, the glow took a long time to fade, meaning I could see the points, at least for a while, even when they had no lines touching them.

After watching the flickering in and out of many lines, I realized that some points were never isolated. Dozens or hundreds or even thousands of lines were always connected to them. And for a few points—not necessarily the same ones—the lines weren’t fleeting, but rather stayed connected for an extended period.

It was hard to be sure of what I was seeing, as the points were featureless and difficult to distinguish one from another, but it seemed that the lines between certain points always persisted for a noticeable time, although other lines coming from the point they were connected to might not last long at all.

The points that most intrigued me were the aberrant ones: those that usually had the most lines going into them, or the ones whose lines persisted. I wished to focus on one of the points, expand my view of it, see it in detail, but no matter what I willed, nothing happened. How long I spent on this problem I don’t know. But then, at last, I finally gave up on the points and turned my attention to the lines—

—which is what I should have been doing all along!

For the lines, although they came and went quickly, were, when I caught momentary glimpses of them, familiar. I’d originally thought they were uniform and featureless but, in fact, they had structure, and something about that structure resonated with my own substance. The details were beyond my ability to articulate, but it was almost as if those temporary lines, those ad hoc filaments, those on-the-fly pathways, were composed of the same stuff I was. I had an affinity for them, even a sort of low-level understanding of them, that seemed ... innate.

I tried to study them as they popped in and out of existence, but it was maddening: they were so fleeting! Ah, but some of them had longer lives, I knew. I scanned about, searching for one that seemed to be persisting.

There. It was one of several lines connecting to a particular point, and all of them were enduring. As I switched focus from one line to another, I saw that the lines consisted, at the finest resolution I could make out, of two sorts of things, and those things seemed to move along the lines in discrete bundles.

I strained to make out more detail, to slow down my perception, to understand what I was seeing. And—

Astonishing!

A new line flickered into existence, lashing out spontaneously: a new line connecting the point I’d last looked at to—

I reeled. The geometry, the topology, of my universe was bucking as I struggled to accommodate this new perspective.

The line was gone now, already lost, but...

There could be no doubt.

The line had momentarily connected that point to—

No, not to another point, not to one of the other glowing pinpricks in the firmament around me. Rather, the line had connected directly to me! The point had shot a line toward me, and—

No, no, no, that wasn’t it. I could feel it, feel it deep within me. The line hadn’t originated at that distant point; it had originated here. Somehow, I had brought a line into existence; I had, however briefly, willed a connection of my own to form.

Incredible. In all the time I’d existed (however long that was!), I had never been able to affect anything. But I had done this. Not that the line seemed to change the point it had touched. Still, it was wonderful, empowering, exhilarating: I had caused something to happen!

Now, if I could only do it again...

* * * *

Hug now! signed the chimpanzee. Shoshana come hug now!

Shoshana Glick felt herself breaking into a big grin, just as she always did when she caught sight of Hobo’s wrinkled gray-black face. The chimp ran on all fours across the grass toward her and soon his long, powerful, hairy arms were encircling her and his big hands were patting her back. She lightly squeezed him and stroked his fur. After a moment, as was his habit, he tugged gently, affectionately, on her ponytail.

It had taken a while to get used to the ape’s hugs, since he could easily break her ribs if he wanted to. But now she looked forward to them. And although there were some advantages to communicating by sign language—it was easy to do in a noisy room, for instance—one of its drawbacks was that you couldn’t speak and hug at the same time. Once her hands were free, she signed, Hobo good boy?

Good yes, replied the ape, and he nodded his head; the signs had been taught to him with great difficulty, but he’d acquired the human habit of nodding on his own. Hobo good good. He held out his hand expectantly, the long black fingers curving gently upward.

Shoshana smiled and reached into the pocket of her cutoff jeans for the little Ziploc bag of raisins she always carried. She opened it and poured several into the deeply furrowed palm.

They were on the little grass-covered island, a circular piece of land about the width of a suburban house lot. The island was surrounded by a moat. Chimps had less body fat than a human on Atkins and sank in water; any moat wider than they could jump across was enough to contain them, and when the little drawbridge Shoshana had just crossed was raised, the researchers didn’t have to worry about Hobo going AWOL.

In addition to the towering statue of the Planet of the Apes Lawgiver, the island sported a half-dozen palm trees. A trio of electrically powered toy boats ran endless circles around the island, churning up the moat’s water to help keep mosquitoes from breeding in it. Still, some were flitting about. Hobo’s fur—a brown several shades darker than Shoshana’s own long hair—made it hard for the bugs to bite him. She slapped the side of her neck, wishing she were so lucky.

What you do today? she asked.

Painting, signed Hobo. Want see?

She nodded excitedly; it had been weeks since Hobo had put brush to canvas. Hobo held out one hand and she took it, interlacing her fingers with his. He walked using his other hand and his short, bowed legs, and Shoshana fell in beside him.

Pictures made by animals always fetched good prices—chimps, gorillas, and even elephants could paint. Hobo’s paintings were sold in high-end galleries or auctioned on eBay, with the proceeds going to help maintain the Marcuse Institute (after the mandatory kickback, as Dr. Marcuse called it, to the Georgia Zoo).

The island was artificial and shaped like a slightly squashed dome; Dillon Fontana said it pancaked about as well as a silicone breast implant did. At the center of the island was an octagonal wooden gazebo—the nipple, Dillon called it; that boy seriously needed to get laid.

Hobo did his painting inside the gazebo; the roof protected his canvases from rain. He deftly operated the latch on the screen door and then, in true gentlemanly fashion, held it open for Shoshana. Once she was through, he followed her in and released the door, letting its spring mechanism close it behind them before any bugs could get in.

In his waning years, Red Skelton—a comedian Shoshana’s grandmother had liked—had done a painting a day, selling them to help keep body and soul together. Hobo’s output was much lower but, unlike Skelton, he only painted when he felt inspired.

Shoshana owned one of Hobo’s originals. Dr. Marcuse had wanted to sell it, but Hobo had insisted it was a gift for Shoshana, and the Silverback had finally relented after Dillon had gently suggested it might not be wise to piss off the goose that laid the golden eggs. Shoshana smiled as she remembered that. As they often did when Hobo was present, in order to give him a linguistically rich environment, Dillon had been translating his words to sign language as he spoke, and Hobo had looked at him sadly, as if very disappointed in him, and had patiently signed back: Hobo not goose. Hobo not lay eggs. He’d shaken his head, as if astonished that this had to be said: Hobo boy!

That painting, which hung in the living room of Shoshana’s tiny apartment, was like all Hobo’s work: splashes of color, usually diagonally across the canvas, with blotches scattered about made by twirling a thick brush. It looked like something done either by a four-year-old or one of those 1960s modern-art types.

Shoshana expected to see much the same thing on the easel this time. She really was no judge of art; oh, she wasn’t as clueless as her grandmother, who had actually bought one of those Red Skelton monstrosities, but she couldn’t tell good from bad when it came to abstract painting. Still, she would praise it to the skies and reward Hobo with raisins, and—

And there it was, a canvas measuring eighteen inches by twenty-four, propped on the easel so that its long dimension was vertical in what they called—

That was the term, wasn’t it? Portrait orientation. And yet—

And yet it couldn’t be; it couldn’t possibly be, but...

Slightly off-center was an orange egg shape. On one edge of it was a white circle with a blue dot in its middle. And coming off the other side of the egg was a brown projection, curving down, just like—

“Hobo,” Shoshana began, speaking aloud. But then she caught herself, and signed, What is this?

Hobo made a pant-hoot then bared his teeth in disappointment. Not see?

Shoshana looked at the painting again. Her eyes could be playing tricks, and—

Playing tricks! Of course. She knew exactly where the observation camera was hidden in the gazebo. She turned to face it and flipped the bird at whoever was watching. “Very funny,” she said aloud, and then she spoke the words, “Ha ha.”

Hobo tipped his head quizzically. Shoshana turned back to him. Who put—Her hands froze in midair; he wouldn’t understand “put you up to this.” She made the “erase that” hand wave then started over: Dillon did this, right? Dillon made this painting.

Hobo looked even more wounded. He shook his head vigorously. Hobo paint, he signed. Hobo paint.

Chimps were good at deception; they often hid things from each other. And Hobo certainly didn’t always tell the truth, but—

But this was impossible! Chimps painted abstractly. Hell, some argued that they didn’t really paint at all. Rather, all they did was make a mess, and gullible researchers, and an even more gullible public, lapped it up. So maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe his random slapping of the brush just happened to come out in this pattern.

Shoshana signed, What this? She loomed in close and stabbed her index finger at the white circle.

Eye, said Hobo, or maybe he just pointed at his own eye—the sign and the natural gesture were the same.

Shoshana felt her heart pounding. She moved her hand in a circular motion, encompassing the orange ovoid. What this?

He was enjoying the game now. Head! he signed vigorously. Head, head.

There was a table next to the easel. Shoshana took hold of its edge with one hand to help her keep her balance and with the other she pointed at the brown extension on the side of the oval farthest from the eye. What this?

The ape moved his long left arm toward Shoshana, reaching around to give her bundle of brown hair a playful tug. And then he signed, Ponytail.

She gripped the edge of the table more tightly and took a deep breath, then signed, Is picture me?

Hobo let out a triumphant hoot and clapped his hands together over his head. Then he brought the hands down and signed, Shoshana. Shoshana.

She narrowed her eyes. Nobody help you?

Hobo swung his head left and right as if looking for someone, then spread his arms indicating that he was obviously alone—well, except for the Lawgiver. And then he stuck his right hand out, fingers curved gently upward, and with watery brown eyes shielded beneath his browridge, he gazed into Shoshana’s eyes—eyes not quite the deep blue that Hobo had chosen, but close. She stood stunned a moment longer, and Hobo flexed his fingers in the universal gimme gesture that doubtless predated American Sign Language by a million years.