Adrenaline was coursing through me as I waited for his answer.
"I...I guess it depends." He'd become somewhat less introspective than the high school student who would have analyzed his thoughts and emotions, all viewed through a gauze of guilt and responsibility and vague dread. "I mean, if you'd wanted to do anything to me, you could have when I first came here, or when I was out of it..."
"Then I'll ask you this. Did you try to kill yourself, expose yourself to too much of the meteors, even swallow one? I'm not going to judge or condemn you, Clark," I added as he hesitated.
"No." He then grimaced. "Or at least I don't remember, but that doesn't say much, I don't remember writing that letter, or my parents telling me, or anything like that."
"Don't worry, Clark, I think it's unlikely. You'd be feeling more persistent pain, at least, unless your body is having some success in fighting the effects. I think my original theory is still valid, that something in your brain or nervous system is over-triggering a body response. Almost like an auto-immune disorder. Does the pain get worse when you're...thinking about things?"
He lowered his head in thought. "I...it seems to get worse when I feel...lonely."
"Abandoned?"
"I guess so."
"That fits. You had two very traumatic abandonments in your life, so bad they make mine look like an hour's separation. The first one, when your...home people sent you away, and now this one. You couldn't *not* be affected by all that. But I think something's gone into overdrive. So I'm asking my real question about trust now. Will you let me run a brain scan on you? If we can see what your body is doing, we can try, well, biofeedback, or try something to supress the reaction."
He looked mulish. "I don't want to take drugs." To think that some people say substance abuse messages don't reach today's youth.
"I'd keep that as a last resort, anyway," I answered, with a light smile. "There's no good website on the effect of neurochemicals on alien brains, believe it or not."
"So that's one in the eye of the people who say there's a site on every topic," he chuckled uneasily.
"Do you want to get it over with now?"
He hesitated a moment, then got up. "Yeah."
I rested a hand on his shoulder for an instant and walked him up to the lab. I'd confidently had it cleared of anything that he would still object to, some of the more advanced experiments, and gestured for him to sit on a table. He was visibly nervous, eyes darting and shoulders tense.
"Can you take off one of your shoes for me?"
"A shoe?" He laughed. "If that's where you're planning to run a brain scan, I think I've changed my mind."
I looked at him sideways and then answered, "I mean it. I want to test for the Babinski reflex. If something happens when I touch your foot, it might indicate an abnormality in nerve tracts."
He gave me an incredulous look but complied. "Now, just relax," I told him, lifting his leg. I ran my fingers on the underside of his foot, and as I expected, there was no response, though it would have been a promising insight into other matters if there had been. "Perfectly normal," I reassured him, letting the foot go. "If there had been certain types of nerve irregularity, there would have been some involuntary motion, your big toe would have moved. Or if you have ticklish feet, of course. So it's still a possibility that there's damage to your peripheral nervous system, though there could be to your autonomic nervous system."
He was shaking, barely perceptible to the sight but easy to detect with my hands as I smeared gel on the sensors and affixed them. "I know, it's ridiculous to say relax right now, but try. I want to get images of your brain at its normal operations." I glanced around the room as if for inspiration. "Tell me about...oh, tell me about your apartment. What does it look like?"
"It's kind of messy. It's a studio, but a decent size. Older building. It looks a bit like a loft, the ceiling is real high but it has these odd angles in it. There's a big window in one of the walls, but not on any of the others. Let's see, there's a sofa bed, and lots of red pillows that my mo..." His voice broke off.
"That's okay, Clark. I have some good images here." I paused. "This will be the hard part. Make yourself think about...anything that makes you feel lonely, or abandoned...I'm sorry to have to make you do this."
"Don't be." His eyes were lowered and veiled.
"There's no change," I said after a moment. "There goes that theory." I sighed. "Pity, it was a good one. Actually, it was my only good one."
I waited for him to say something, then realized that expecting him to think in subtleties was beyond the boy scout's capacities. "Wait," I said, slowly. "Let's try this again. But I'm going to leave the room. Maybe it's hard to feel abandoned with somebody right there."
He looked skeptical again but nodded, then grimaced as some of the sticky gel moved. As I left, behind his back, I slipped the piece of meteor on a shelf. I hadn't modified the lab yet, but I expected that the piece would do.
I came back after ninety seconds. Clark was uncomfortable and perspiring. I put the meteor back in the lead container as I walked over to him.
He tried to chuckle. "Looks like that did it."
"Shhh. You'll be fine in a minute." I patted his shoulder awkwardly as the color returned to his face. "Better now?"
"Better."
"Let's see what we've got." I showed him the various brain images which I'd previously set up as the new images. The real ones were already saved to a hidden server for me to look at later. I pointed at two small, very bright spots. "That's it. Over-production of acetylcholine and under-production of enkephalins."
"Lex, I'm not a scientist like you. What does that mean?" The first sign of testiness.
"Are you familiar with what adrenaline and serotonin do?"
He nodded. "Adrenaline is pretty much the fight-or-flight and serotonin is kind of a mood regulator."
"That's the general idea. Acetylcholine and enkephalins are very much like them, neurotransmitters in the same family. They help control the muscles, help process memories, and regulate emotions. Your memory lapses fit in with that perfectly, as well as all the other symptoms."
"Why does it feel like the meteors, then?"
"I'm guessing here, Clark, but probably they have some kind of frequency that interferes with your brain and causes the same thing. I don't know if it's the kind of weakness that would affect your entire...people, or if it's the equivalent of a genetic predisposition to, say, clinical depression. Since the meteors came with you, I'm guessing the latter."
"So even among my own people, I'd be a freak."
I took two steps towards him. He actually looked at me with a hint of defiance, but it was the look of a child almost daring an authority figure to stop him doing something; the look of someone who knows he can be stopped. "Clark, you are not a freak. Or an abnormality. You are..." I made myself come close to stammering, and took a step back. "I won't listen to you talk about my friend like that." I smiled slightly to take the sting of the harsh tone away.
He looked awkward, even performing his high school trick of seeming to try to shrink. "Sorry." He looked up at me again. "But what does all this mean?"
"It means that at least until your brain returns to normal on its own, we just need to get you something to regulate your system. There are all kinds, and they're all generally safe for humans. We just need to see what will work for you." I paused. "Then you'll be as good as new. You'll be able to leave." I said the last quietly.
"I...I guess it depends." He'd become somewhat less introspective than the high school student who would have analyzed his thoughts and emotions, all viewed through a gauze of guilt and responsibility and vague dread. "I mean, if you'd wanted to do anything to me, you could have when I first came here, or when I was out of it..."
"Then I'll ask you this. Did you try to kill yourself, expose yourself to too much of the meteors, even swallow one? I'm not going to judge or condemn you, Clark," I added as he hesitated.
"No." He then grimaced. "Or at least I don't remember, but that doesn't say much, I don't remember writing that letter, or my parents telling me, or anything like that."
"Don't worry, Clark, I think it's unlikely. You'd be feeling more persistent pain, at least, unless your body is having some success in fighting the effects. I think my original theory is still valid, that something in your brain or nervous system is over-triggering a body response. Almost like an auto-immune disorder. Does the pain get worse when you're...thinking about things?"
He lowered his head in thought. "I...it seems to get worse when I feel...lonely."
"Abandoned?"
"I guess so."
"That fits. You had two very traumatic abandonments in your life, so bad they make mine look like an hour's separation. The first one, when your...home people sent you away, and now this one. You couldn't *not* be affected by all that. But I think something's gone into overdrive. So I'm asking my real question about trust now. Will you let me run a brain scan on you? If we can see what your body is doing, we can try, well, biofeedback, or try something to supress the reaction."
He looked mulish. "I don't want to take drugs." To think that some people say substance abuse messages don't reach today's youth.
"I'd keep that as a last resort, anyway," I answered, with a light smile. "There's no good website on the effect of neurochemicals on alien brains, believe it or not."
"So that's one in the eye of the people who say there's a site on every topic," he chuckled uneasily.
"Do you want to get it over with now?"
He hesitated a moment, then got up. "Yeah."
I rested a hand on his shoulder for an instant and walked him up to the lab. I'd confidently had it cleared of anything that he would still object to, some of the more advanced experiments, and gestured for him to sit on a table. He was visibly nervous, eyes darting and shoulders tense.
"Can you take off one of your shoes for me?"
"A shoe?" He laughed. "If that's where you're planning to run a brain scan, I think I've changed my mind."
I looked at him sideways and then answered, "I mean it. I want to test for the Babinski reflex. If something happens when I touch your foot, it might indicate an abnormality in nerve tracts."
He gave me an incredulous look but complied. "Now, just relax," I told him, lifting his leg. I ran my fingers on the underside of his foot, and as I expected, there was no response, though it would have been a promising insight into other matters if there had been. "Perfectly normal," I reassured him, letting the foot go. "If there had been certain types of nerve irregularity, there would have been some involuntary motion, your big toe would have moved. Or if you have ticklish feet, of course. So it's still a possibility that there's damage to your peripheral nervous system, though there could be to your autonomic nervous system."
He was shaking, barely perceptible to the sight but easy to detect with my hands as I smeared gel on the sensors and affixed them. "I know, it's ridiculous to say relax right now, but try. I want to get images of your brain at its normal operations." I glanced around the room as if for inspiration. "Tell me about...oh, tell me about your apartment. What does it look like?"
"It's kind of messy. It's a studio, but a decent size. Older building. It looks a bit like a loft, the ceiling is real high but it has these odd angles in it. There's a big window in one of the walls, but not on any of the others. Let's see, there's a sofa bed, and lots of red pillows that my mo..." His voice broke off.
"That's okay, Clark. I have some good images here." I paused. "This will be the hard part. Make yourself think about...anything that makes you feel lonely, or abandoned...I'm sorry to have to make you do this."
"Don't be." His eyes were lowered and veiled.
"There's no change," I said after a moment. "There goes that theory." I sighed. "Pity, it was a good one. Actually, it was my only good one."
I waited for him to say something, then realized that expecting him to think in subtleties was beyond the boy scout's capacities. "Wait," I said, slowly. "Let's try this again. But I'm going to leave the room. Maybe it's hard to feel abandoned with somebody right there."
He looked skeptical again but nodded, then grimaced as some of the sticky gel moved. As I left, behind his back, I slipped the piece of meteor on a shelf. I hadn't modified the lab yet, but I expected that the piece would do.
I came back after ninety seconds. Clark was uncomfortable and perspiring. I put the meteor back in the lead container as I walked over to him.
He tried to chuckle. "Looks like that did it."
"Shhh. You'll be fine in a minute." I patted his shoulder awkwardly as the color returned to his face. "Better now?"
"Better."
"Let's see what we've got." I showed him the various brain images which I'd previously set up as the new images. The real ones were already saved to a hidden server for me to look at later. I pointed at two small, very bright spots. "That's it. Over-production of acetylcholine and under-production of enkephalins."
"Lex, I'm not a scientist like you. What does that mean?" The first sign of testiness.
"Are you familiar with what adrenaline and serotonin do?"
He nodded. "Adrenaline is pretty much the fight-or-flight and serotonin is kind of a mood regulator."
"That's the general idea. Acetylcholine and enkephalins are very much like them, neurotransmitters in the same family. They help control the muscles, help process memories, and regulate emotions. Your memory lapses fit in with that perfectly, as well as all the other symptoms."
"Why does it feel like the meteors, then?"
"I'm guessing here, Clark, but probably they have some kind of frequency that interferes with your brain and causes the same thing. I don't know if it's the kind of weakness that would affect your entire...people, or if it's the equivalent of a genetic predisposition to, say, clinical depression. Since the meteors came with you, I'm guessing the latter."
"So even among my own people, I'd be a freak."
I took two steps towards him. He actually looked at me with a hint of defiance, but it was the look of a child almost daring an authority figure to stop him doing something; the look of someone who knows he can be stopped. "Clark, you are not a freak. Or an abnormality. You are..." I made myself come close to stammering, and took a step back. "I won't listen to you talk about my friend like that." I smiled slightly to take the sting of the harsh tone away.
He looked awkward, even performing his high school trick of seeming to try to shrink. "Sorry." He looked up at me again. "But what does all this mean?"
"It means that at least until your brain returns to normal on its own, we just need to get you something to regulate your system. There are all kinds, and they're all generally safe for humans. We just need to see what will work for you." I paused. "Then you'll be as good as new. You'll be able to leave." I said the last quietly.