The Traveler

9

As a neuroscientist, Dr. Phillip Richardson had used a variety of techniques to study the human brain. He had examined CAT scans, X-rays, and MRI images that showed the brain thinking and reacting to stimuli. He had dissected brains, weighed them, and held the grayish-brown tissue in his hand.

All these experiences allowed him to observe the activities of his own brain as he gave the Dennison Science Lecture at Yale University. Richardson read his speech from note cards and clicked a button that caused different images to be displayed on the screen behind him. He scratched his neck, shifted his weight to his left foot, and touched the smooth surface of the podium. He could do all this while he counted the audience and placed them in different categories. There were his colleagues from the medical school and about a dozen Yale undergraduates. He had chosen a provocative title for his talk-“God in the Box: Recent Advances in Neuroscience”-and it was gratifying to see that several nonacademics had decided to attend.

“For the last decade, I have studied the neurological basis of the human spiritual experience. I assembled a sample group of individuals who frequently meditated or prayed, then injected them with a radioactive tracer whenever they felt they were in direct connection with God and the infinite universe. The results are as follows…”

Richardson pressed the button and a photon-emission image of a human brain appeared on the screen. A few parts of the brain glowed red while other areas showed a faint orange color.

“When the person prays, the prefrontal cortex is focused on the words. Meanwhile the superior parietal lobe at the top of the brain has gone dark. The left lobe processes information about our position in space and time. It gives us the idea that we have a distinct physical body. When the parietal lobe shuts down, we can no longer distinguish between our self and the rest of the world. As a result, the subject believes that he or she is in contact with the timeless and infinite power of God. It feels like a spiritual experience, but it’s really just a neurological illusion.”

Richardson clicked the button and showed another slide of a brain. “In recent years, I’ve also examined the brains of people who believe they’ve had mystical experiences. Note this sequence of images. The individual having a religious vision is actually reacting to flashes of neurological stimulation in the temporal lobe, that area responsible for language and conceptual thinking. In order to duplicate the experience, I’ve taped electromagnets onto the skulls of my experimental volunteers and have created a weak magnetic field. All of the subjects reported an out-of-body sensation and a feeling that they were in direct contact with a divine power.

“Experiments like these force us to question traditional assumptions concerning the human soul. In the past, these issues were examined by philosophers and theologians. It would have been inconceivable to Plato or Thomas Aquinas that a physician would have been part of the debate. But we have entered a new millennium. While the priests continue to pray and the philosophers continue to speculate, it is the neuroscientists who are closest to answering mankind’s fundamental questions. It is my scientific view, verified by experiments, that God lives inside the object concealed by this box.”

The neurologist was a tall, shambling man in his forties, but all his awkwardness seemed to disappear as he walked over to a cardboard box on a table next to the podium. The crowd stared at him. Everyone wanted to see. He reached inside the box, hesitated, and then took out a Plexiglas jar containing a brain.

“A human brain. Just a piece of tissue floating in formaldehyde. I have proven with my experiments that our so-called spiritual consciousness is only a cognitive reaction to neurological change. Our sense of the divine, our belief that a spiritual power surrounds us, is created by the brain. Take one last step, judge the implications of the data, and you must conclude that God is also a creation of our neurological system. We have evolved into a consciousness that can worship itself. And that is the true miracle.”

THE DEAD MAN’S brain had provided a dramatic ending to the lecture, but now Richardson had to carry it home. Carefully he placed the jar back in the box and climbed down the steps from the platform. A few friends from the medical school clustered around to offer him their congratulations and a young surgeon escorted him out to the parking lot.

“Whose brain is it?” asked the young man. “Anyone famous?”

“Heavens no. It’s got to be more than thirty years old. Some charity patient who signed the release form.”

Dr. Richardson placed the brain in the trunk of his Volvo and drove north from the university. After his wife signed the divorce papers and went to live in Florida with a ballroom dance instructor, Richardson had considered selling his Victorian house on Prospect Avenue. His rational mind realized that the house was too large for one person, but he consciously gave in to his emotions and decided to keep the place. Each room in the building was like a portion of the brain. He had a library lined with bookshelves and an upstairs bedroom filled with photographs from his childhood. If he wanted to change his emotional orientation, he just sat in a different room.

Richardson parked his car in the garage and decided to leave the brain in the trunk. Tomorrow morning he would take the brain back to the medical school and return it to its glass display case.

He walked out of the garage and pulled down the overhead door. It was about five o’clock in the evening. The sky showed a dark purple color. Richardson could smell wood smoke coming from his neighbor’s chimney. It was going to be cold tonight. Perhaps he’d build a fire in the living-room fireplace after dinner. He could sit in the big green chair while he skimmed through the first draft of a student’s dissertation.

A stranger got out of the green SUV parked across the street and walked up the driveway. He appeared to be in his forties, with short hair and steel-rimmed glasses. There was something intense and focused about the way he held his body. Richardson guessed that the man was a bill collector sent by his ex-wife. He had deliberately missed last month’s payment after she had sent a certified letter asking for more money.

“Sorry I missed your lecture,” the man said. “God in the Box sounded interesting. Did you get a good crowd?”

“Excuse me,” Richardson said. “Do I know you?”

“I’m Nathan Boone. I work for the Evergreen Foundation. We gave you a research grant. Correct?”

For the last six years, the Evergreen Foundation had sponsored Richardson’s neurological research. It was difficult to get the initial grant. You couldn’t actually apply to the foundation; they contacted you. But once you crossed that initial barrier, the renewal was automatic. The foundation never called you on the phone or sent someone to the lab to evaluate your research. Richardson’s friends had joked that Evergreen was the closest thing in science to free money.

“Yes. You’ve supported my work for some time,” Richardson said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Nathan Boone reached inside his parka and pulled out a white envelope. “This is a copy of your contract. I was told to direct your attention to clause 18-C. Are you familiar with this section, Doctor?”

Richardson remembered the clause, of course. It was something unique to the Evergreen Foundation, placed in their grant contracts to guard against waste and fraud.

Boone took the contract out of the envelope and began to read: “Number 18-C. The grant recipient-I guess that’s you, Doctor-agrees to meet with a representative of the Foundation at any time to give a description of the ongoing research and a statement concerning the allocation of grant funds. The meeting time will be determined by the Foundation. Transportation will be provided. Refusal to honor this request will cause the grant to be rendered null and void. The grant recipient must return all previously allocated funds to the Foundation.”

Boone thumbed through the rest of the contract and reached the final page. “And you signed this, Dr. Richardson? Correct? Is this your notarized signature?”

“Of course. But why do they want to talk to me right now?”

“I’m sure it’s just a small problem that needs to be cleared up. Pack some socks and a toothbrush. I’ll take you down to our research center in Purchase, New York. They want you to review some data tonight so you can meet with the staff tomorrow morning.”

“That’s out of the question,” Richardson said. “I have to teach my graduate students. I can’t leave New Haven.”

Boone reached out and grabbed Richardson’s right arm. He squeezed slightly so the doctor wouldn’t run away. Boone hadn’t drawn a gun or made threats, but there was something about his personality that was very intimidating. Unlike most people, he didn’t show any doubt or hesitation.

“I know your schedule, Dr. Richardson. I checked it before I drove up here. You don’t have any classes tomorrow.”

“Let go of me. Please.”

Boone released Richardson’s arm. “I’m not going to force you to get into the car and come down to New York. I’m not going to force you at all. But if you decide to be irrational, then you should prepare for negative consequences. In this case, I’d always feel regretful that such a brilliant man made the wrong choice.”

Like a soldier who had just delivered a message, Boone turned quickly and marched back to his SUV. Dr. Richardson felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. What was this man talking about? Negative consequences.

“Just a minute, Mr. Boone. Please…”

Boone stopped at the curb. It was too dark to see his face.

“If I go down to the research center, where am I supposed to stay?”

“We have some very comfortable living quarters for our staff.”

“And I’ll be back here tomorrow afternoon?”

Boone’s voice changed slightly. It sounded as if he was smiling. “You can count on it.”