“My patron doesn’t want me distracted,” I said dryly.

Dr. Yeniknani sighed. “No, he doesn’t. Not by anything.”

“Is there anything more?”

He chewed his lip for a moment “Yes, but your therapist will cover all of it, and we’ll give you the usual brochures and booklets. I may say that you’ll be able to control your limbic system, which influences your emotions. That is one of Dr. Lisan’s new developments.”

“I’ll be able to choose my feelings? Like I was choosing what clothes to wear?”

“To some extent. Also, in wiring these areas of the brain, we were often able to affect more than one function at one location. For instance, as a positive bonus, your system will be able to burn alcohol more efficiently, quicker than the standard ounce an hour. If you choose.” He gave me a brief, knowing look, because of course a good Muslim does not drink alcohol; he must have been aware that I wasn’t the most devout person in the city. Yet the subject was still a delicate one between two relative strangers.

“My patron will be pleased by that, too, I’m sure. Fine. I can’t wait. I’ll be a force for good among the unrighteous and corrupt.”

“Inshallah,” said the doctor. “As God wills.”

“Praise Allah,” I said, humbled by his honest faith.

“There is still one thing more, and then I wish to give you a personal word, a little of my own philosophy. The first thing is that as you must know, the brain — the hypothalamus, actually — has a pleasure center that can be electrically stimulated.”

I took a deep breath. “Yes, I’ve heard about that. The effect is supposed to be absolutely overwhelming.”

“Animals and people who have leads into that area and are permitted to stimulate the pleasure center often forget everything else — food, water, every other need and drive. They may continue exciting the pleasure center to the point of death.” His eyes narrowed. “Your pleasure center has not been wired. Your patron felt it would have been too great a temptation for you, and you have more to accomplish than spending the rest of your life in some dream heaven.”

I didn’t know if I felt glad about that news or not. I didn’t want to waste away as the result of some never-ending mental orgasm; but if the choice was between that or going up against two savage, mad assassins, I think, in a moment of weakness, I might pick exquisite pleasure that didn’t fade or pall. It might take a little getting used to, but I’m sure I would get the hang of it.

“Near the pleasure center,” said Dr. Yeniknani, “there is an area that causes rage and ferociously aggressive behavior. It is also a punishment center. When it is stimulated, subjects experience torment as great as the ecstasy of the pleasure center. This area was wired. Your sponsor felt that this might prove useful in your undertaking for him, and it gives him a measure of influence over you.” He said this in a clearly disapproving tone of voice. I wasn’t crazy about the news, either. “If you choose to use it to your advantage, you can become a raging, unstoppable creature of destruction.” He stopped, evidently not liking how Friedlander Bey had exploited the neurosurgical art.

“My … patron gave this all a lot of thought, didn’t he?” I said sardonically.

“Yes, I suppose he did. And so should you.” Then the doctor did an unusual thing: he reached over and put his hand on my arm; it was a sudden change in the formal atmosphere of our talk. “Mr. Audran,” he said solemnly, looking directly into my eyes, “I have a rather good idea of why you had this surgery.”

“Uh huh,” I said, curious, waiting to hear what he had to say.

“In the name of the Prophet, may peace be on his name and blessings, you need not fear death.”

That rocked me. “Well,” I said, “I don’t think about it very much, I guess. Anyway, the implants aren’t that dangerous, are they? I admit that I was afraid they’d roast my wits if something went wrong, but I didn’t think they could kill me.”

“No, you don’t understand. When you leave the hospital, when you are in that situation for which you underwent this augmentation, you need not be afraid. The great English sha’ir, Wilyam al-Shaykh Sebir, in his splendid play, King Henry the Fourth, Part II, says, ‘We owe God a death … and, let it go which way it will, he that dies this year, is quit for the next.’ So you see, death comes to us all. Death is inescapable. Death is desirable as our passage to paradise, may Allah be praised. So do what you must, Mr. Audran, and do not be hindered by an undue fear of death in your search for justice.”

Wonderful: my doctor was some kind of Sufi mystic or something. I just stared at him, unable to think of a damn thing to say. He squeezed my arm and stood up. “With your permission,” he said.

I gestured vaguely. “May your day be prosperous,” I said.

“Peace be on you.”

“And on you be peace,” I replied. Then Dr. Yeniknani left my room. Jo-Mama would get a big kick out of this story. I couldn’t wait to hear the way she’d tell it.

Just after the doctor went out, the young male nurse returned with an injection. “Oh,” I said, starting to tell him that earlier I hadn’t meant that I wanted a shot; I had only wanted to ask him a few questions.

“Roll over,” said the man briskly. “Which side?”

I jiggled a little in bed, feeling the soreness in each hip, deciding that both were pretty painful. “Can you give it to me someplace else? My arm?”

“Can’t give it to you in your arm. I can give it to you in your leg, though.” He pulled back the sheet, swabbed the front of my thigh about halfway down toward the knee, and jabbed me. He gave the leg another quick swipe with the gauze, capped the syringe, and turned away without a word. I wasn’t one of his favorite patients, I could see that.

I wanted to say something to him, to let him know that I wasn’t the self-indulgent, vice-ridden, swinish person he thought I was. Before I could speak a word, though, before he’d even reached the door to my room, my head began to swirl and I was sinking down into the familiar warm embrace of numbness. My last thought, before I lost consciousness, was that I had never had so much fun in my life.

Chapter 13

I did not expect to have many visitors while I was in the hospital. I’d told everyone that I appreciated their concern but that it was no big deal, and that I’d rather be left in peace until I felt better. The response I usually got, carefully considered and tactfully phrased, was that nobody was planning to visit me, anyway. I said, “Good.” The real reason I didn’t want people coming to look at me was that I could imagine the aftereffects of major brain surgery. The visitors sit on the foot of your bed, you know, and tell you how great you look, and how quickly you’ll feel all better, and how everybody misses you, and — if you can’t fall asleep fast enough — all about their old operations. I didn’t need any of that. I wanted to be left alone to enjoy the final, straggling, time-released molecules of endorphin planted in a bubble in my brain. Sure, I was prepared to play a stoic and courageous sufferer for a few minutes every day, but I didn’t have to. My friends were as good as their word: I didn’t have a single, goddamn visitor, not until the last day, just before I was discharged. All that time, no one came to see me, no one even called or sent a card or a crummy plant. Believe me, I’ve got all that written down in my book of memories.

I saw Dr. Yeniknani every day, and he made sure to point out at least once each visit that there were worse things to fear than death. He kept dwelling on it; he was the most morbid doctor I’ve ever known. His attempt to calm my fearful spirit had absolutely the wrong effect. He should have stuck with his professional resources: pills. They — I mean the kind I got in the hospital, made by real pharmaceutical houses and all — are very dependable and can make me forget about death and suffering and anything else just like that.