Free The Invincible by Stanislaw Lem Page A

lost; he did not understand any longer, but he seized upon the neurologist’s last words.
    “What do you mean, less?”
    “Because I just arrived. I haven’t seen anything besides this corpse. But you’ve been here all day. Doesn’t this image suggest anything to you?”
    “No. Those—they were moving. Were they still alive then? What were those little black spots all over them?”
    “They weren’t moving. That was an optical illusion. These engrams are registered on the brain like a photographic still. And sometimes it happens that several images are present, like in a multiple exposure. But this was not the case here.”
    “But those spots? Are they also an optical illusion?”
    “I don’t know. Anything is possible. But I don’t think so. What would you say, Nygren?”
    Nygren had already peeled off his protective suit.
    “I don’t know either. I’m not sure whether they were artifacts or not. There weren’t any on the ceiling, were there?”
    “The black spots? No. They only covered the dead bodies and the floor. And some of them were on the walls—”
    “If that had been a second projection, they would have been all over the image,” said Nygren. “But you can never be sure with engrams. So much is purely due to chance.”
    “And that voice? That—babbling?” Rohan searched desperately for an answer.
    “One word was perfectly clear: ‘Mama.’ Did you hear it?”
    “Yes, I did. But there was something else. ‘Ala … lala.’ That was repeated over and over again.”
    “Yes, but only because I made a systematic examination of the entire occipital lobe,” said Sax. “In other words, the area that controls acoustic memory,” he explained for Rohan’s benefit, “That’s what’s so unusual here.”
    “Those words?”
    “No. Not those words. A dying man might think of anything. If he had been thinking of his mother, those words would have been quite normal. But his auditory memory bank was absolutely empty. Do you understand?”
    “No, I’m afraid I don’t. What do you mean by empty?”
    “As a rule we cannot obtain any useful results when we search the occipital lobe,” explained Nygren. “Too many engrams there, too many stored words. It’s as if you would attempt to read one hundred books simultaneously. Sheer chaos. But this one,” he glanced over in the direction of the elongated shape under the white sheet, “he had nothing in it. No words, only those couple of syllables.”
    “Yes, you are right. I have examined everything thoroughly from the sensory speech center to the sulcus Rolandi ,” said Sax, “And the same syllables kept recurring. These were the only phonemes that have been left in there.”
    “And what happened to the rest?”
    “There aren’t any others.” Sax seemed to lose patience. He jerked the heavy apparatus violently upwards and off the floor, making the leather handle squeak. “They aren’t there and that’s all there is to it. Don’t ask me what happened to all the other words. This man must have totally lost his acoustical memory bank.”
    “But how about the image?”
    “That’s something entirely different. This he saw. He did not even have to understand what he perceived. Just like a camera that does not comprehend but still registers whatever object you aim it at, I have no idea whether he understood it or not.”
    “Could you help me with this, please, Nygren?” The two physicians carried their gear out of the híbernator, and the door fell shut behind them.
    Rohan was alone in the room. He felt so desperate that he stepped over to the table, flung back the white sheet, unbuttoned the dead man’s shirt and carefully examined his chest. He trembled when he touched the body, for the skin had become supple again. As the tissues were thawing out, a general relaxation of all the muscles had taken place. The head, which until now had been propped up in an unnatural position, had sunk down limply. Now it seemed indeed as if he were