Body Parts

By Arthur Herzog III

From imagination to materialism, the provacative stories in Body Parts cover the bases, Can brains survive without bodies? AWill the love modm result in romance or homicide? Should a loose tongue reveal its secrets?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arthur Herzog III
• Release date: Mar 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310281242

Arthur Herzog III

Arthur Herzog is an award-winning novelist, non-fiction writer and journalist, renowned for his best-selling novels The Swarm, Orca (both made into popular movies), and IQ 83, hailed by the British press as one of the best science fiction works ever written. IQ 83 is currently under development for a feature film by Dreamworks.

Book preview

BODY PARTS

by

ARTHUR HERZOG

® 1998 Arthur Herzog

C O N T E N T S

CRANIUMS

TEAR DUCTS

THE NOSE

LOOSE TONGUE

THE VOICE

GLANDS

VAGINA DENTATA

THE PRICK

OPERATION HEART

A BAD HEART

FAT

SULLIVAN'S KIDNEY

SPERM

GROINS

FEET

Craniums

By

Arthur Herzog

In the period before torsectomy was banned, or even heard of beyond an extremely limited circle, the President of the United States heard whispers of Project JOHN. Aware that certain matters were kept from his attention, and feeling peevish one day, he demanded to know what JOHN was. Only one of his closest aides seemed to have an inkling.

The aide frowned unaccountably. Had to do with heads, sir. NASA's baby. Somewhere they have a lab.

J-O-H-N. Bound to be an acronym. Standing for?

I haven't been told.

Tied up with the space program, obviously, Janus said. The five year probes you authorized, sir.

Maybe I should inspect the lab.

Maybe you shouldn't. The place can be a bit unsettling I've been led to believe.

Only the liberals unsettle me, the President said, curiosity piqued. Arrange a visit, please.

# # #

Security precautions were unusual. The President was asked to arrive in an unmarked helicopter so as not to draw attention and be escorted by a minimum of Secret Service with no fanfare. Not even his wife was to be told of his destination, much less the purpose of the jaunt. The President agreed. He enjoyed the prospect of an unofficial day off.

In a limousine with darkened widows, Janus was escorted to what appeared to be a small, private hospital on the outskirts of Washington. Guards in civilian clothes grinned politely as the small procession passed through the gates. The media were absent. Dr. Harvey Philabaum and his staff, all sporting medical whites, waited with expectant smiles. So happy to have you, sir, the director said.

So happy to be here, the Chief Executive said. To discover J-O-H-N.

J-O-H-N, Philabaum repeated. If you need one....

No seriously, what does John mean?

Seriously? We're uncertain now. It might be something like Juxtaposition of Head Nodules, but nobody quite remembers. The powers that be might have wanted to confuse the computers, but the real idea was simply the name John.

John? John who?

Philabaum said mirthfully, Remember the dancer Salome who served John-the-Baptist's head on a platter?

Yes.

We pretend to be a mental hospital for rich incurables, the reason nobody bothers us. We are into heads but in a different way. Our patients are perfectly sane. Shall we take a peek?

# # #

The descent in a freight elevator suggested the facility was mostly underground. Philabaum, tall and spindly, smirked as he inserted a card into a slot. After numerous computer-voice inquiries of a personal kind, including the doctor's precise hour of birth, questions that probably changed regularly, a portal opened with a mournful sigh.

We're in, the doctor said with a chuckle. A swirling cloud, warm, moist, that smelled of disinfectant, enveloped the President. The subjects require a special atmosphere, tropical so they won't dry out, yet germ-free. They can catch diseases all too easily. They're so excited sir. They've been up since dawn. They're dying to see you. They'd love to shake hands, but I wouldn't try, the doctor said gaily.

Stepping forward, the doctor halted abruptly, and, after a beseeching glance at his aide, who glanced away, President Janus examined his toes. He had grasped what the cheerfulness was all about — the preservation of sanity. The heads smiled from their tilted-back positions, disembodied craniums held by clamps on metal stalks attached to life sustaining apparatus — bottles, canisters, tubes, leading inside bandaged necks. Wires leading to shaved domes.

Well, quite a...

The Commander-in-Chief faltered.

Say hello, people. Their hearing is fine. They're of various races — no discrimination here — and both males and females, though you can't tell the difference, of course.

Good morning, the heads replied in a pneumatic gurgle.

How....

The most advanced techniques, the doctor said. After torsectomy, when their bodies are removed, the decaps are given blood nutrients and an air supply so they can speak. You should hear them chatter when they're allowed but we don't want them to tire. Their brains function normally, of course.

The President watched a tongue creep out and lick spittle from pale lips. They're....

Miracles of modern medicine. Can't run the hundred yard dash or rock-and-roll, but they have plenty of time to think. What a blessing to be rid of natural functions! Once in a while, I suppose, they'd like to be more active and curse the absence of sex, but chemicals placed in their bloodstream soon make them forget.

What do they feel about themselves? I was hoping you'd ask, sir. Surprisingly good. You might think that being without a torso and utterly helpless — it's we, not they, who decide on TV shows and when the lights go out — would be hard on one's self-confidence, but that was considered in advance. Electrodes placed deep inside the brain stimulate the hypothalamus with the result that not only have they pride but consider themselves superior because they're in the vanguard of scientific research.

The President watched eyes roll in dark sockets. Why....

An excellent question. Shall we move along?

The director waved to his subjects and stepped briskly as the President, one of whose legs had gone numb, was assisted by his aide who wouldn't or couldn't glance at him. I didn't want to discuss it in front of them, Philabaum continued as he led the way down a steamy corridor, but the 'whys' are severalfold. Let's begin with space travel. For great distances unmanned ships won't suffice. Human presence is vital. Weight being a significant factor, some genius in Washington had the idea to send only living heads. The cryonauts — I don't mean cry-babies, far from it, it's just that they were kept cold — could operate controls by means of implanted electrodes and breath-sensitive devices inside their helmets.

The director paused to open a door and the President witnessed, under red lights, numerous heads, eyes closed, floating in jars. Discards, Philabaum explained with a smile. He resumed: The advantages were obvious. The requirements of the human body would be virtually eliminated. Four heads would take up only a square yard or so. They'd need minimum oxygen and nutrients. You wouldn't have to worry about wasted disposal. If one died en route a metal arm would merely have to bathe it in sulfuric acid....An ideal solution all around.

But....

You're right. The candidates had to agree. We offered them inducements. Ten million each in numbered Swiss accounts, tax-free and collectible when the experiment was over. Meantime, of course, they had to disappear, hence the five-year space probes you announced. We needed a certain latitude as regards time.

The probes were manned, the President murmured uneasily.

Well, not really, sir. These are...were..supposed to be the crews.

Were they willing to lose their....

You might infer that when the volunteers signed the forms they had the impression we could put them back together just like that. Philabaum soundlessly snapped his fingers.

More deception, the President noted.

I wouldn't call it that, the director said, unruffled. We had every reason to believe the breakthrough lay at hand and when we had to push on to learn how to save those that had already been severed, technicalities had developed that we couldn't anticipate. The reject problem....You saw them.

Rejects?

Their bodies rejected their heads.

The aide said for the speechless Chief Executive, Has any subject been successfully rejoined?

"Well, no, not yet, but we preserve the torsos and we're optimistic that before the rockets are due to return we'll have them back in one piece. Right now, of course, their families think they're halfway to Mars.

And if you can't put them back together? the President managed.

We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, in about three years. The space probes may have to meet with accidents.

If the decaps are....permanent?

If I believed that.... The director's smile dissolved into a frown. We'll have them back on their feet, never fear. Meantime, we keep them as happy as we can.

Another portal opened that the President found himself behind a glass window. He noticed small wagons bearing what resembled bowling balls. What....

Decaps in headgear and face masks. The wagons contain their life-support equipment—the little devils are mounted into them for recreation. You've been to amusement parks which have these electric carts you can smash into somebody else with? It's the same game, only the subjects guide the vehicles with their brain electrodes. Hit him, boy!

The President watched a wagon with rubber skirts wheel suddenly and crash into another, moving on swiftly. Aren't they hurt?

They're protected by their clamps and thick foam rubber. Not even a toothache. Oh, I have no doubt there have been mutual suicide pacts, but they come to nothing. What they accomplish is to purge themselves of hate—hatred of me, no doubt. Philabaum laughed.

Have any of them attempted to escape? the President asked.

"Frankly, yes. One or two have tried, in their carts, but they