Read Online The Tomorrow File by Lawrence Sanders - Free Book Online
Authors: Lawrence Sanders
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symptoms of epilepsy, depression, schizophrenia, etc.
But as frequently happens, what began as a biomedical blessing became a medical craze. It was estimated that more than two million Americans had had electrodes implanted in their brains for the sole purpose of self-stimulation. The operation was not inexpensive, and even with the development of plastitanium, the presence of electrodes (or any foreign matter) in the brain presented certain risks, especially during violent acceleration or deceleration of the object. In a car crash, for instance. But the risks did not lessen the human hunger for new pleasures. They never do.
Now enters Project Supersense. It was my idea. I realized that the brains of these two million electrode-implanted Americans were being stimulated by a radio signal, self-produced. I saw no reason, considering the state of our technology, why a film—either in a movie theatre or on a TV set at home—could not be coded along its edge, just as sound is synchronized to the visual image, to send a signal to all receivers under the scalps or within the skulls of the “Mind-Jerkers,” as the people who had opted for the electrode implant operation were popularly called.
Then these two million, watching a film on any subject, would be automatically stimulated to pleasure, thirst, pain, hunger, or eventually any other appetite or emotion, if neurobiological research continued at its present rate. Their titillations would be synchronized with the scene being shown on the film. Mind-Jerkers would feel greatly increased sexual arousal during a love scene, increased pain during a torture scene, increased fear during a horror scene, increased glee during a comedy scene.
I discussed this concept with Paul Bumford. He enthusiastically concurred that it was feasible. It was assigned to my Psychobiology Team. After investigation and research, they reported the plan practical, valuable, and eagerly awaited a go signal to develop the necessary hardware and film synchronization techniques in conjunction with the Electronics Team.
It was the file on Project Supersense that I was reviewing and attempting to evaluate on my train trip to Detroit. I was trying to decide whether to recommend going ahead with it or stopping it.
The railroad station in Detroit occupied a concourse on the two lowest floors of a new high-rise crematorium. Carrying my case, I took the express elevator to the copter pad on the roof. My father’s copter was waiting. In his inimitable style, the four-seater was painted a startling Chinese red. On the cabin, in block lettering of vibrating purple, it read: FLAIR TOYS: THE TOYS WITH A FLAIR! Subtle.
The pilot was a young ef with flaming blue hair. She wore a Chinese-red zipsuit. Across one breast the expected legend was embroidered in that jarring purple. But she was so pneumatic it read: “flAIRToys.” She told me she would drop me at the house, have something to eat, then go out to the airport to pick up my father, who was coming in on a commercial flight from Denver. He had a factory out there.
We tilted out over the Detroit River and almost immediately began our descent over Belle Isle to Grosse Pointe. She hovered a moment over my father’s beautifully tended estate, then let down on the front lawn. My mother wasn’t too far away, near the water. She was seated in a garden chair of white-painted iron. She was wearing one of her gowns of flowing silk, all pleats and ruffles. Her thin arm poked out, resting on the table alongside. Her fleshless fingers grasped the glass.
I looked around for Mrs. McPherson. She was nearby, a wooden statue with folded arms, standing under a small copse of young elms. She never let my mother out of her sight. Never.
I walked slowly down to the garden chair.
“Mother,” I said softly.
“Who?” she said vaguely. She looked up at me, dazed and faraway.
“Nick.”
“Who?”
“Nicholas, your loving and devoted son.”
Her face cracked into a
But as frequently happens, what began as a biomedical blessing became a medical craze. It was estimated that more than two million Americans had had electrodes implanted in their brains for the sole purpose of self-stimulation. The operation was not inexpensive, and even with the development of plastitanium, the presence of electrodes (or any foreign matter) in the brain presented certain risks, especially during violent acceleration or deceleration of the object. In a car crash, for instance. But the risks did not lessen the human hunger for new pleasures. They never do.
Now enters Project Supersense. It was my idea. I realized that the brains of these two million electrode-implanted Americans were being stimulated by a radio signal, self-produced. I saw no reason, considering the state of our technology, why a film—either in a movie theatre or on a TV set at home—could not be coded along its edge, just as sound is synchronized to the visual image, to send a signal to all receivers under the scalps or within the skulls of the “Mind-Jerkers,” as the people who had opted for the electrode implant operation were popularly called.
Then these two million, watching a film on any subject, would be automatically stimulated to pleasure, thirst, pain, hunger, or eventually any other appetite or emotion, if neurobiological research continued at its present rate. Their titillations would be synchronized with the scene being shown on the film. Mind-Jerkers would feel greatly increased sexual arousal during a love scene, increased pain during a torture scene, increased fear during a horror scene, increased glee during a comedy scene.
I discussed this concept with Paul Bumford. He enthusiastically concurred that it was feasible. It was assigned to my Psychobiology Team. After investigation and research, they reported the plan practical, valuable, and eagerly awaited a go signal to develop the necessary hardware and film synchronization techniques in conjunction with the Electronics Team.
It was the file on Project Supersense that I was reviewing and attempting to evaluate on my train trip to Detroit. I was trying to decide whether to recommend going ahead with it or stopping it.
The railroad station in Detroit occupied a concourse on the two lowest floors of a new high-rise crematorium. Carrying my case, I took the express elevator to the copter pad on the roof. My father’s copter was waiting. In his inimitable style, the four-seater was painted a startling Chinese red. On the cabin, in block lettering of vibrating purple, it read: FLAIR TOYS: THE TOYS WITH A FLAIR! Subtle.
The pilot was a young ef with flaming blue hair. She wore a Chinese-red zipsuit. Across one breast the expected legend was embroidered in that jarring purple. But she was so pneumatic it read: “flAIRToys.” She told me she would drop me at the house, have something to eat, then go out to the airport to pick up my father, who was coming in on a commercial flight from Denver. He had a factory out there.
We tilted out over the Detroit River and almost immediately began our descent over Belle Isle to Grosse Pointe. She hovered a moment over my father’s beautifully tended estate, then let down on the front lawn. My mother wasn’t too far away, near the water. She was seated in a garden chair of white-painted iron. She was wearing one of her gowns of flowing silk, all pleats and ruffles. Her thin arm poked out, resting on the table alongside. Her fleshless fingers grasped the glass.
I looked around for Mrs. McPherson. She was nearby, a wooden statue with folded arms, standing under a small copse of young elms. She never let my mother out of her sight. Never.
I walked slowly down to the garden chair.
“Mother,” I said softly.
“Who?” she said vaguely. She looked up at me, dazed and faraway.
“Nick.”
“Who?”
“Nicholas, your loving and devoted son.”
Her face cracked into a
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