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Authors: Jeffrey Small
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held a row of lockers, and across from where they entered was yet another door. Rachel turned a lock on the door they had just entered.
Ethan glanced between the two doors. “You have an air-lock system here?”
She laughed. “It’s not quite a spaceship.” She nodded to the second door. “But that leads to the monkey room. We need the multiple layers of security because they’re smart. We’ve had some close calls with escape attempts.”
She opened a locker and from it pulled out two sets of blue surgical scrubs, shoe covers, masks, and eye shields, which she handed to the men. For herself, she pulled out a set of scrubs in tie-dye.
“Why the scrubs?” Chris asked. “The experiment is noninvasive.”
Ethan wondered the same thing. It was one of the conditions for conducting the tests at CapLab; this was a psychological research lab, not a medical one. When he first approached Dr. Sanchez about testing the Logos on the monkeys, he had to assure her that no surgical techniques or drugs would be used. The Logos would only send weak magnetic pulses aimed at the capuchins’ skulls.
“It’s to protect the monkeys from human diseases,” she said as she slipped her scrubs over her clothes, “but sometimes they bite and throw feces.”
Ethan pulled the strap of his surgical mask over his head. The last thing he wanted was a mouthful of monkey poop.
“They bite?” Chris asked.
“In the nineties”—she bent over to slip on her shoe covers—“a researcher at Yerkes was bitten by a macaque and died from encephalitis.”
She opened the last door into the monkey room. They were greeted by loud vocalizations from the capuchins and the distinctive smell of a zoo. The room was approximately thirty feet square. Two-thirds of it was enclosed by thechain-link fence. At the far end was the large window that opened onto the office, but from this side he could only see a reflection of the room they were in; the window was a one-way mirror. Sitting on a metal cart with wheels just outside the cage was the Logos.
The brains and the mechanics of the Logos were contained in a black metal box the size of a large stereo receiver. The box had several dials to adjust the power and frequency of the electromagnetic pulses it generated, but it also had a serial port into which Chris had loaded Ethan’s proprietary algorithm from his laptop that morning. His programming, rather than the dials, would determine the exact protocol by which the machine would generate its outputs. Extending off of the box was a metal articulated arm that telescoped out three feet. On the end of the arm were what appeared to be headphones—the kind that covered one’s ears—although these were wider and ended in three-inch plastic disks rather than plush cushions.
The Logos was designed to be placed on either side of a subject’s head without touching it. Instead of speakers, the disks contained solenoids, tightly wound loops of wire that would produce variable magnetic pulses when an electrical current was passed through them. Today, the solenoids were suspended above a rectangular wire tunnel that branched off of the main cage by a few feet. The tunnel was large enough for a single monkey to crawl through. At the end of the tunnel was a wire box with a small hole and a U-shaped foam attachment on top.
Ethan felt the anticipation building within him. The past five years working with Elijah, the scorn from their colleagues, their financial difficulties—once they made the Logos work, the long nights and early mornings would be worth it. If it works , he thought. The first dozen tests had failed, no matter how they’d tweaked the programming. Then he’d had the epiphany to base the algorithm on the EEG of epileptics who experienced hyperreligiosity. That was six months ago.
Elijah had leapt out of his desk chair when he’d made the suggestion. Receiving the approval of his mentor meant more to Ethan than all of the snide comments his
Ethan glanced between the two doors. “You have an air-lock system here?”
She laughed. “It’s not quite a spaceship.” She nodded to the second door. “But that leads to the monkey room. We need the multiple layers of security because they’re smart. We’ve had some close calls with escape attempts.”
She opened a locker and from it pulled out two sets of blue surgical scrubs, shoe covers, masks, and eye shields, which she handed to the men. For herself, she pulled out a set of scrubs in tie-dye.
“Why the scrubs?” Chris asked. “The experiment is noninvasive.”
Ethan wondered the same thing. It was one of the conditions for conducting the tests at CapLab; this was a psychological research lab, not a medical one. When he first approached Dr. Sanchez about testing the Logos on the monkeys, he had to assure her that no surgical techniques or drugs would be used. The Logos would only send weak magnetic pulses aimed at the capuchins’ skulls.
“It’s to protect the monkeys from human diseases,” she said as she slipped her scrubs over her clothes, “but sometimes they bite and throw feces.”
Ethan pulled the strap of his surgical mask over his head. The last thing he wanted was a mouthful of monkey poop.
“They bite?” Chris asked.
“In the nineties”—she bent over to slip on her shoe covers—“a researcher at Yerkes was bitten by a macaque and died from encephalitis.”
She opened the last door into the monkey room. They were greeted by loud vocalizations from the capuchins and the distinctive smell of a zoo. The room was approximately thirty feet square. Two-thirds of it was enclosed by thechain-link fence. At the far end was the large window that opened onto the office, but from this side he could only see a reflection of the room they were in; the window was a one-way mirror. Sitting on a metal cart with wheels just outside the cage was the Logos.
The brains and the mechanics of the Logos were contained in a black metal box the size of a large stereo receiver. The box had several dials to adjust the power and frequency of the electromagnetic pulses it generated, but it also had a serial port into which Chris had loaded Ethan’s proprietary algorithm from his laptop that morning. His programming, rather than the dials, would determine the exact protocol by which the machine would generate its outputs. Extending off of the box was a metal articulated arm that telescoped out three feet. On the end of the arm were what appeared to be headphones—the kind that covered one’s ears—although these were wider and ended in three-inch plastic disks rather than plush cushions.
The Logos was designed to be placed on either side of a subject’s head without touching it. Instead of speakers, the disks contained solenoids, tightly wound loops of wire that would produce variable magnetic pulses when an electrical current was passed through them. Today, the solenoids were suspended above a rectangular wire tunnel that branched off of the main cage by a few feet. The tunnel was large enough for a single monkey to crawl through. At the end of the tunnel was a wire box with a small hole and a U-shaped foam attachment on top.
Ethan felt the anticipation building within him. The past five years working with Elijah, the scorn from their colleagues, their financial difficulties—once they made the Logos work, the long nights and early mornings would be worth it. If it works , he thought. The first dozen tests had failed, no matter how they’d tweaked the programming. Then he’d had the epiphany to base the algorithm on the EEG of epileptics who experienced hyperreligiosity. That was six months ago.
Elijah had leapt out of his desk chair when he’d made the suggestion. Receiving the approval of his mentor meant more to Ethan than all of the snide comments his
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