Out of the Goldfish Bowl

Chapter One

The Time Monitor

The electromagnetic equivalent of a sigh wafted through subspace as the Time Monitor slogged through his supposedly urgent assignment: the complete examination of all time lanes.

He was fast losing interest. Frequency values wavered and megahertz magnitude fell, while central processor calculations strayed outside defined limits. All this lulled the Time Monitor into an electrical languor in which he estimated that he liked goldfish.

Goldfish, he calculated, were happy in their bowls and did little harm to anything. Some of the deeper thinkers among them did sometimes wonder how the water got changed but, most of the time, most of the goldfish were happy to believe themselves to be the supreme beings in the Universe.

But what of the humans? Well, they were a different kettle of fish. They prowled their bowl doing lots of harm to most things, while the deeper thinkers among them were only marginally less out of touch than the goldfish. Not only were they convinced that they had been created as the supreme beings in the Universe, and would eventually make a good job of controlling it, but they had also decided how it all got started. It went something like this: a single point of matter of infinite density, infinite smallness, suddenly appeared in a void of infinite volume, which had also suddenly appeared to accommodate itself. Then came a Big Bang when the omni-infinite speck exploded, followed by a course of extremely improbable events which, purely by chance, resulted in them. Right? No problem there then...

Meanwhile, outside the bowl, the Time Monitor got back to his task of analysing many trillions of event combinations. What was all the fuss about? Why the urgency? After generating a yawn of expired voltage he regrouped his resources and narrowed the field to concentrate on his designated planet. Then he detected that some humans did have possible futures that could prove awkward. One of these commanded the resources of a more than substantial percentage of his emergency high capacity megahertz cores. Better get closer and intensify computation, he computed.

He reached the surface of the planet as a pale November sun sank behind the factories, causing a leaden dusk to envelop the already grey north of England town of Haveridge.

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Chapter Two

Adam Foster had been bashing against the confines of his own personal bowl for the best part of forty years. He couldn't get out and nobody could get in. Of course, this state of affairs would drive a goldfish mad. But Adam Foster possessed intelligence, logic, and reasoning power far in excess of any goldfish; he could use rational means to escape the prison of his inadequacies, but he didn't, he used alcohol. And that drove him mad.

Adam Foster’s eyes wouldn’t stay where he pointed them. They slewed away from the accusing eyes in front and settled on the condensation-soaked windows of the overheated office and blankly followed the sinking November sun.

Bertram Thaldow, the overweight Managing Director of Thaldow Engineering, known internally as That’ll Do Engineering, sat behind yards of polished desk, which probably cost more than the machinery in the workshop. He sweated profusely and with his slicked-back hair and enormous cigar looked like he had just arrived from pre-war Chicago. But he hadn’t; this was northern England and Mr Thaldow’s eyes weren’t those of a Chicago gangster either. They softened behind expensive gold-rimmed glasses while a cupped hand supported his chin. The fingers of his other hand drummed a rhythm of frustration on the desktop. Just what are you trying to prove? he said with a sigh. You really don’t care, do you? he added, slowly shaking his head.

Adam cared all right, his stomach churned; his shaking hands clutched the bottom of his jacket. Not brave enough to argue his case and too proud to plead it, he remained silent.

I’m sorry, said Mr Thaldow. His fingers stopped drumming and he leaned back in his chair. That’s it, you can go now. We can’t afford you any more.

Adam dropped his head; his overlong dark hair hung limply.

It’s the drink, you know, said Mr Thaldow, as if trying to convey some degree of comfort.

Adam blinked, raised his head and set his jaw, while a tear rolled down his cheek. I can handle it, he tried to snap defiantly.

Handle it? scoffed Mr Thaldow. Take a look at yourself. You haven’t had a shave in days; you need a haircut and - well... He hesitated. Well, to put it bluntly, Adam - you need a bath.

Adam searched for a searing remark to divert the attack.

The Time Monitor calculated. Could this sorry specimen of humanity be the seed of catastrophe?

Mr Thaldow peered over his glasses. He sighed again, shook his head, and tapped the desk with his pen as if having second thoughts. No, he said finally. Enough is enough. We can’t afford passengers. Goodbye, Adam, and good luck. Your money will be sent on. That’s all.

Couldn’t let me have the cash now, could you? Adam’s voice came from his boots.

I’m sorry, that’s not possible.

Oh, said Adam. In that case could you send it to me by cheque to my home address, and not to the bank?

Yes, I'll do that for you, said Mr Thaldow.

Blinking rapidly, Adam wheeled round, exited the office and slammed the door.

The Time Monitor had no choice but to follow his only speck of computed evidence that would give him a start to the formidable task ahead.

It was raining. You know, that fine stuff that seems to have more wetting ability than an equatorial monsoon. You also know the sort of street, a city-centre just before six in the evening, shops closing, workers hurrying to cars, buses and trains, in a mad dash to get in front of their TV sets and into the real world.

The Time Monitor watched, and calculated. He was coming up with nothing, only the fact that this was the man.

The rain got heavier; it ran down Adam’s bowed head and dripped from the end of his nose as he stood at the bus-stop. He squinted through the downpour at the pub across the street where the lights beckoned with a promise of comfort. Sighing heavily he checked his pocket and counted the meagre small change in a forlorn hope that it would add up to more than it did last time. It didn’t. He had just enough for his bus-fare home. The promise blazing from the pub window now turned into a mocking, taunting glare. His eyes rose to the heavens. On the way, they fell upon a lit window above the pub where an elderly woman was staring at him, magnetically holding his gaze. Her dark eyes unnerved him even from that distance. He tried to look away and wondered why he was trembling.

The Time Monitor's computer cores gave warnings of high usage. The results were almost instant. Now he had two subjects involved.

The bus journey did nothing to erase the haunting stare of the woman. I need a drink, he muttered as he reached for a cigarette, then realised that even that relief was denied him. He was allowed to breathe in vast volumes of diesel exhaust from the vehicle he was travelling in and the many others around him, but cigarette smoke would surely kill everyone on the bus?

When he alighted from the bus at his stop, the chill wind and rain bit deep. Bracing himself, he pulled his shabby donkey jacket tighter and trudged the remaining yards home. The light from the semi-detached council house told him someone was in - it did not seem welcoming.

He hung his wet coat in the hallway. In front of him were the stairs; to his right was a passageway to the kitchen. Along the passage were two doors: one led to the dining room, the other to the front room where Carole would be waiting. He took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

A coal fire flickered in a tiled fireplace. Two armchairs, well past their best, were placed on either side and in an alcove next to a heavily curtained bay window was a television set. It was on but the sound was down.

Carole looked up from her newspaper. Oh, you’re back, she said. Have you been to work?

Yes, Adam mumbled, I came straight home.

That makes a change. What’s the matter? Got no money left?

She folded the paper and placed it on the coffee table. There’s dinner in the oven. I’m going up to watch the TV in the bedroom. Her usual behaviour when they had had an argument. She rose from the chair, her long blonde hair falling loosely around her shoulders. She glared at him as she passed.

Adam protested. What have I done?

Don’t you remember? Carole retorted, her deep blue eyes blazing.

Adam sagged visibly; he didn’t remember. Listen, he said. I’ve had the sack.

Why doesn’t that surprise me? Carole snapped, slamming the door and stomping up the stairs.

Adam sighed. The image of the well-filled tee shirt and the tight blue jeans caused a stirring. Damn, he said. Why do I always fancy her when we’re rowing? The bedroom door slamming crushed any further thoughts of that nature. He dragged himself into the kitchen to investigate his dinner.

The kitchen had a door to the left which led to a passage and on to the back door. A door on the right of the passage led to the bathroom and toilet. There was no water supply upstairs, so a bucket in the bedroom was the order of the day should anyone get caught short in the night.

Later, resting his head on the back of the settee, he closed his eyes. His dinner, barely touched, lay on the floor beside him. The front door opened, and Adam’s younger son Gerald entered accompanied by a gust of chill air.

Hi, Da -

Shut the bloody door! Adam erupted, regretting the outburst even before he had finished it, but he didn’t apologise.

Gerald was a well-developed twelve-year-old. His closely cropped blond hair gave him an air of toughness that the tears in his eyes made a mockery of. He paled visibly at his father’s outburst. Where’s Mum? he asked nervously.

Upstairs, watching tele, she’s been there since six. We've had a bit of a disagreement. I think you’d better go up as well. It’s school in the morning.

Dad, pleaded Gerald. You said I could play on the computer.

The Time Monitor calculated frantically. A man, a woman and a computer were now involved. But as yet, he could make no connection or find any use for the incoming flow of information.

I can’t do with all that beeping and whistling tonight, Adam groaned. Go and read a book or something, give me a bit of peace.

Gerald trudged miserably upstairs.

Adam had another son, Stephen, who was seven years older than Gerald and had taken the first possible opportunity to escape from his father’s unpredictability. Stephen had set up home with his girlfriend. I could be happy like him, Adam thought, if it wasn’t for all this bad luck. He eyed Gerald’s computer. There’s money to be made in those things, he thought. People have made millions. How did they manage to break into banks and things?

Adam knew that the computer contained a device that enabled it to connect to the interweb, or some such thing, via a telephone line. He wasn't sure how or why. He did know that Gerald was able to play games with other users remotely and that Carole used it for banking and paying bills and stuff.

He toyed with the idea of trying it out, to get into a bank's system and access money, even Carole's, if need be. But he soon rejected the idea as he hadn't the remotest clue as to what he was thinking of trying to do.

The Time Monitor sighed in random access memory load decrease relief. Adam Foster knew nothing about computers.

To hell with it, Adam muttered, taking a twenty-pound note from where Carole had thought she had hidden the rent money from him. To keep it really safe she should have hidden it under a bar of soap. The child in him slammed the door as he left, in the hope that if Carole were asleep then now he would have woken her, and she would be worried about him, and would be sorry that she had been so mean to him when he had come home.

Walking briskly to the public house his problems flew away; he was going to get a drink. For the first time that day his step was light. The sharp corners of reality would soon be smoothed away by a wave of blissful alcohol-induced euphoria.

Among his jumbled thoughts, Adam became aware of a quiet voice from the boundaries of his mind. His conscience was imploring him to stop what he was doing, to go back and return the money, to get some sleep and not drink any more alcohol. Shaking his head, he tried to quiet the unbidden voice. He wasn’t going to let anything interfere with the imminent relief of his discomfort.

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Chapter Three

Mabel Stringer paced the hotel room, the familiar knot of tension tightening in her stomach. This was definitely the last time. After this tour she was going to retire and live in peace in an ivy-covered cottage somewhere, with loads of cats, and loads of photos around the place to trigger off loads of memories of long-gone happier times.

Moving to the window she wiped the condensation away and peered into the street below. It was misty with spray, drizzle and exhaust fumes. A day in the life of a city was ending and the offices, shops and factories were exhaling their spent workforce to be refreshed and refuelled for tomorrow.

A man in the queue at the bus-stop opposite caught her eye and immediately a mental danger signal snapped all her senses to full alert. Her body prickled as pores expanded to allow a free flow of sweat. Hardly able to breathe, she fought to see what it was about this man that could cause such a reaction. He seemed normal enough; true, he looked a bit fed up, but didn’t everybody?

He was a big man, at least six feet, with unfashionably long dark hair hanging to his shoulders. Mabel watched him search his pockets. Had he got a gun? A bomb? No, he was counting money. Then he looked up. He held her gaze as if facing an adversary. She felt dizzy, detached, hypnotised, and almost vomited. Then, thankfully, a bus obscured her view.

The man was gone when the bus drew away.

The Time Monitor calculated and computed back through the history of each of his subjects from their birth, but could find no connection between them whatsoever. But one thing he was sure of: pretty soon there would be.

The street looked fresher without that unexplainably disturbing man at the bus stop. The gaudy logos of the shop-fronts still assaulted Mabel's eyes, but they now seemed comforting, like familiar bedroom furniture when you wake from a nightmare. She shuddered and closed the curtains.

Picking up a brush, she began to tidy her hair in preparation for the meeting. Her once black hair used to complement her eyes but now the ever-increasing greyness only served to accentuate their piercing darkness. Accusingly they stared back at her from the mirror. Her hands were shaking.

Damn it. I've had enough of this, she cried, hurling the brush to the floor with a venom that belied her slight frame. She felt aged and tired. The toll taken by every one of her seventy years, during most of which she had been an object of curiosity, dragged at her body. She glanced at her watch, blurred through tear-filled eyes. Five thirty, she groaned. Shuddering, she pictured the darkened room, the polished table, the circle of faces, the air of expectancy, and the undercurrent of scepticism.

Effortlessly she began to empty her mind in readiness for the séance. Everyday thoughts left her. Her senses were quiet, receptive, except for one still, soft voice, a voice that hailed from the boundaries of her mind. She stilled her own thoughts and listened. Her conscience was imploring her to stop using her abilities for material gain. To get rid of the hangers-on she was supporting. She shook her head to clear the unbidden voice away.

The Time Monitor calculated furiously. He needed her to do the séance. She could think about retirement later. He needed to enter his subject's mind as soon as possible.

Mrs Stringer continued her preparation. People were waiting for her. She didn't want to let anyone down. But this was definitely going to be her last performance, she decided.

The windowless room had thick red curtains draped around the walls. A diffuse red light source overhead cast an eerie glow. In the centre of the room was a highly polished, large oval table, around which were placed eight wooden hard-backed chairs. One was empty. The occupants of the other seven chairs gazed at each other and at the vacant seat with an air of hushed expectancy. In the background was the muted sound of soft, unidentifiable music, which grew louder as Mrs Mabel Stringer walked slowly to her seat.

She placed her hands palm downwards on the table and asked the others to do the same. Each person was silent, sitting stiffly. Mrs Stringer instructed each to hold the hand of the person next to them. She did the same. Now, Mrs Stringer could gather their minds into a single coherent force, brought to a focus within her own mind. Thus armed with the collective power of thought within the room, her mind could generate an independence and travel at will, its experiences relayed to the people present via the entranced body of its host.

Are the spirits with us? Mabel's strident voice pierced the silence of the room. Her eyes gazed blankly at a spot above the heads of her guests, her breathing became barely perceptible, her only movement being a slight tightening of her fingers around the hands on either side of her.

Are the spirits with us?

Waves of abstraction washed over Mrs Stringer's conscious mind; all thoughts concerning her own reality were swilled away by a consciousness barely her own. Her perception drifted, she was high in the room. She could see the people beneath staring at the empty shell that was her physical being.

The seconds ticked by. Minutes passed. The guests fidgeted.

Questions replaced murmurs. Contact was broken. They tried to rouse Mrs Stringer.

No. Don’t break the circle, she screamed from high in the room.

They heard nothing.

Please, she screeched again. Something’s wrong. It hasn't worked. You have to keep the circle. I can't get back!

Someone turned the lights on. I'm going for help, someone else cried. Within seconds three assistants rushed in. One phoned for an ambulance. On arrival, the paramedics were quickly through the door alongside the pub and up the stairs leading to Mrs Stringer's apartment. After a brief examination to ensure she had no injuries and was breathing properly, with controlled efficiency they strapped Mrs Stringer to a stretcher and carried the body down the stairs to the ambulance and on to hospital.

Mrs Stringer didn’t resist the strange magnetism that dragged her conscious being along with her body, but no matter how she tried she could find no way of re-entering it.

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Chapter Four

Unconsciousness battled with consciousness. Adam desperately wanted to remain unconscious but the more conscious he became the more conscious he was that he wasn't unconscious and the worse he felt. And so reality expanded and depression deepened. He had to get a drink from somewhere.

He forced his eyes open. The alarm-clock glowered nine-fifteen in garish red numbers while the colon between the digits blinked at him mockingly.

Oh no, he groaned. I've missed work again. Then he remembered. The black cloud was complete.

Almost blinded by headache and bent double with nausea, he stumbled into the living room. He groped for cigarettes and lit one. Then he was sick on the carpet. Ignoring the mess, he crawled around searching for a bottle he may, or may not have fetched back with him last night.

He remembered: he had borrowed some money off a friend in the pub and bought a bottle of whisky on his way home. But, where had he put it? After an hour of weeping, cursing and frantic searching he was still without the drink he desperately craved.

The house was empty and the remainder of the rent money had gone. The whereabouts of his family didn't bother him. The whereabouts of the bottle did. Once or twice, he did hear a quiet voice in his head, saying that it might be best if he got himself cleaned up, but he didn't attach any particular significance to it.

The bottle was in the garden shed; well, it would be, wouldn't it? Drunks are brilliant at hiding bottles but abysmal at finding them. His relief, when he laid hands on it, was almost tangible. He laughed hysterically as the ragged nerve ends quietened. The world was a much rosier place, and he hadn't even had a drink yet, such was the power alcohol had over him.

His shaking hands fumbled with the top of the bottle as he tried to break the seal. At last he managed it. He raised the bottle to his lips and drank. He gasped, and then sighed in deep relief as he felt the fiery liquid burn a course down his throat to his stomach.

Thirty minutes later, a third of the bottle inside him, he felt better. He was in control. As he sat there, hair uncombed, teeth un-brushed, splattered in his own vomit, he was again the dashing cavalier of his dreams, the witty raconteur, the irresistible womanizer, the articulate political commentator. Adam was content with himself although he was only his own invention. His will, he felt, was now his own, the thought was the action, no mental debates, no decisions. Think it; do it. He had nothing to stop him now, the alcohol was flowing. He could hear no advisory voice to hinder his delusions.

It was past midday. The whisky was almost gone, along with all thoughts of responsibility. Adam had reached a level of cotton-woolly euphoria, a nebulous state that was all too brief, the no man's land between anxiety and blind drunkenness. This was the way that Adam needed to feel. When in this euphoric state he felt invincible. He could solve his and anyone else's problems and demand that people take his advice - couldn't they see that he was obviously right? He wanted everyone he met to share his opinion of himself.

Without alcohol, Adam's behaviour was the exact opposite. He was afraid of his own shadow. His conversations with strangers were monosyllabic, and he brought such encounters to a close when possible. Even with friends Adam found it difficult to maintain social intercourse. His main concern was still to make a favourable impression, but, as opposed to feeling superior when bolstered by alcohol, he felt inferior without it.

At the other extreme, when totally drunk, his behaviour became increasingly bizarre. His antics had long since ceased to be amusing; his behaviour while in this state was a cause of embarrassment, and sometimes horror, to everyone in the vicinity.

This was Adam's situation. Although he didn't realise it, he was, because of drink, living in the guise of three different people. He took on the guise of the raving lunatic when totally drunk, the exuberant extrovert when in the mid range of intoxication and the fearful, near recluse when sober.

Adam's true personality had been lost over a period of twenty-five years of increasing alcohol dependence. The factors contributing to this dependence were probably due to some inherent character defects in Adam himself, although this was still a matter of conjecture among the medical and psychiatric professions. The fact remains that any personality defects that Adam had at the start of his alcohol dependence were now magnified a thousand-fold.

The only person not aware of the danger was Adam himself. His physical well-being was deteriorating fast, his mental condition was definitely suspect and he was morally and spiritually bankrupt.

Mid afternoon, the whisky had gone. Adam lit another cigarette. Even with a bottle of whisky inside him he still felt a twinge of panic at the thought that there was nothing in reserve, and no money to buy any.

He sighed, lay back on the settee, and took a deep draw on his cigarette. He watched the smoke curling and swirling then mingling with the stale smoke of past cigarettes. The nagging thought of no ready source of more alcohol steadily began to drag him down. He searched his memory for any pleasant thought that would relieve the nightmare of his present. He searched back, back in time, back to his teens, back to his childhood.

The feelings Adam sensed from those early memories were of loneliness, always the outsider, pride, battling with a low self-esteem and self-consciousness always holding him locked within himself, until he found alcohol.

No sleep for him, the next drink was already the major priority. He pondered the possibilities: aftershave lotion? Cough mixture? Eau de cologne? Metal polish? He brushed aside these desperate thoughts; he needed some money. What can I sell? he muttered, searching the room. Of course. The television. Then, again his spirits sank when he realised how old and out of date the set was. His eyes alighted on a pink and white porcelain pig on the shelf behind the television set. It was Carole's money box. Adam shook it; there were coins inside. He set about trying to extract the coins through the slot with a knife. After five minutes he had only managed to remove one fifty pence piece. Defeated and angry he threw the pig to the floor. It shattered and a cascade of fifty pence pieces showered onto the carpet.

Twenty-seven pounds fifty. He giggled insanely, and telephoned a taxi.

Where to, mate? asked the driver.

Anywhere in town, replied Adam, vainly trying to rub the dried vomit from his clothes.

The driver tried to make small talk but Adam wasn't having any, he wanted an off-licence.

That'll be three twenty please, said the driver, pulling the cab into the kerb.

Adam passed him eight fifty pence coins and said, Keep the change. He wanted the taxi driver to think well of him.

The off-licence was empty. Good, Adam grunted as he entered. No waiting behind a crowd of wine buffs choosing vineyards and vintages when he just wanted a drink.

Half-bottle of scotch, please.

What brand would you like, sir?

The cheapest and the strongest, Adam said.

Thank you, sir, that'll be five pounds eighty, please.

Adam placed twelve of the fifty pence coins on the counter.

Been robbing the meter, have we, sir? The assistant asked with a laugh.

No, I work in a bank, Adam said with a growl. They pay wages in whatever they've got most of at the time. Keep the change.

He stuffed the whisky into his inside pocket and walked briskly down the street, his head down avoiding any possible eye-contact with passers-by. He needed somewhere quiet to drink and knew just the place. Lengthening his stride, he made for the public toilets.

The toilets stank. Paper used and unused strewn everywhere. A foul-smelling liquid covered the floor, the content of which Adam chose not to deliberate on. Ignoring the smell he paddled through the filth and chose the cleanest of the five cubicles, and locked himself in. He pulled the whisky from his pocket and with shaking hands unscrewed the top. Three deep swallows took him almost halfway down the bottle.

The Time Monitor, with no feelings or senses, was as close as he could get to being disgusted.

Inhaling deeply on a cigarette, Adam waited for the effect. Without food inside him it wasn't long in coming. The numbing, calming, burning feeling started in his stomach and spread in soothing waves throughout his body. The shaking stopped. He leaned his head back against the bare brick wall of the stinking toilet. Adam felt better.

He finished his cigarette, replaced the remainder of the whisky in his inside pocket and went off in search of company.

About a dozen people were in the bar, most of whom Adam knew. He ordered a pint of cider and a double whisky, said a few hellos, and made for an empty table in the far corner of the room. He sat where he felt secure, his back to the wall, facing the door.

Snippets of conversation reached him through the music of the jukebox

Did you see Eastenders last night?

Do you think United will beat City?

Who do you think will win the snooker?

Did you read about the man who bit a dog?

God, what trivia, thought Adam. Haven't these morons got anything better to talk about?

Adam ignored the chit-chat around him. His thoughts were returning to his own problems, the primary one being alcohol. He had already made a sizable dent in his resources and his fear of not having a constantly available supply of drink was nagging at him.

As if on cue, the manager of the pub appeared behind the bar and began talking to the barman.

Having been on good terms with the manager for a number of years, Adam saw a glimmer of hope. He caught the man's eye and beckoned him to go to end of the bar. Hiya, Mac. How you doing? asked Adam on reaching the bar.

I'm fine, said Mac, a hint of caution in his voice. And you?

Well, I'm in a bit of trouble. I've lost my job, and my last pay cheque isn't through yet. Adam glanced around to make sure no one could hear.

I thought it might be something like that. Mac sighed. How much you need this time?

Couldn't do me a twenty, could you?

Mac took a deep breath and let it out slowly in resignation. OK, a score it is; you always been good for it in past. He took a twenty pound note from his pocket and discretely handed it to Adam.

Cheers, Mac, said Adam, it'll be back as soon as I cash my cheque.

Adam returned to his seat with a slight bounce in his step.

After his third whisky and third pint of cider Adam rose unsteadily to his feet in need of the toilet. He staggered, and when the room spun before his eyes, he tried to spin with it. The floor tilted under his feet, he threw his weight to counter the tilt and fell headlong onto a table full of drinks. As he lay there amid the glasses and bottles, he saw a sea of faces looking down at him. He saw aggression where they were showing only concern. He kicked and swore. The hands that tried to restrain him only served to heighten his panic. The tighter they held the more he struggled. Now unable to move, his eyes bulged in their sockets, vomit gurgled in his throat, he gasped and gagged, fighting for breath, seeing only a blood-red haze.

I think we'd better call an ambulance, he heard someone say just before the silence of unconsciousness.

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Chapter Five

Tubes from an array of bottles led to various points on Mabel Stringer's body. Wires attached to numerous points on her head fed information to a bewildering bank of electrical equipment. Three doctors in starched white coats looked at monitor screens, rubbed their chins and scratched their heads in synchronised puzzlement.

The entity that was the essence of Mrs Stringer watched from a point five feet above her supine body, equally puzzled and not a little afraid.

I've never seen a response like it, said a doctor.

It's a totally negative wave form, said another.

The third doctor, the oldest of the three, sighed wearily. Negative wave form my backside, he snorted, as if talking to a couple of schoolboys. This reading signifies that the brain is working normally and supporting all bodily functions. The patient does not need artificial life support.

We have no reading on this screen, said the youngest of the doctors. Why isn't it registering? Is there something wrong with it?

No, said the eldest doctor, it's been checked. He tapped the screen with his pen. This screen, gentlemen, he said purposefully, is giving us a reading from the conscious part of the brain, and as you can see, no activity. He paused for effect. "No conscious activity, as we could expect in the circumstances. However, more significantly, we have no evidence of subconscious activity either. Apart