Cascade Point

"In that case the law would have to be changed, obviously," I told her.

"Obviously, you've never been pregnant with a child you didn't want," she said, a bit tartly. "A law like that would condemn thousands of women to either the trauma of an unwanted pregnancy and labor or to the danger of an illegal abortion. It would necessarily put the rights of a fetus over those of her mother—a mother whose rights, I'll point out, are clearly and definitely guaranteed by the Constitution."

"I understand all that," Dan said, "but I don't really know what to do about it. I'm not trying to make a legal or political statement with this, though I'm sure others will probably do so. But, then again, shouldn't the law reflect medical realities wherever possible?"

"Yes—but you're talking metaphysics, not medicine," McClain returned. "And as far as the law goes, what right do you or any other man have to tell women what we can or ca

"Just a second," I put in before Dan could reply. "Aren't we jumping the gun just a little bit here? Dr. Staley hasn't even done the experiment yet and already you're complaining about the results. It's entirely possible that the whole thing will be a boost to your point of view."

"You're right, of course," McClain admitted, cooling down a bit. "I'm sorry, Doctor; I guess I forgot that working with Pamela Halladay didn't automatically mean you were against us."

Dan waved a hand. "That's all right," he said, clearly thankful the argument had been temporarily defused. "I was unaware when we started that Dr. Halladay had strong feelings on the subject, but I'm convinced she'll be able to keep her feelings under wraps."

"I hope so." McClain paused. "I wonder, Doctor, if you would consider allowing a member of NIFE to participate in the pla

"Actually, I don't think we really need any help at the moment," Dan said slowly. "There are only a couple of problems to be dealt with, and I'm sure we can find solutions reasonably quickly. If not, I'll keep NIFE in mind."

"Will we at least be permitted to have an observer present during the main part of the experiment?" McClain persisted.

"If it'll make you feel better, sure," Dan said tiredly. "Give Iris your phone number and we'll do our best to keep you informed." She gave me the number and then stood up, her expression that of someone who's gotten more or less what she hoped for. "Thank you for your time, Doctor. I hope this Lifeline Experiment of yours will prove to be something we can wholeheartedly support."

I saw her out and returned to Dan's office. "Is it my imagination," I asked, "or is this project starting to get just a little out of hand?"

He shook his head. "I can't believe it. First the Family Alliance and now NIFE—people are practically standing in line for a chance to complain about the experiment. Is the opportunity to find out the truth really so frightening?"

"I thought all psychologists were cynics," I said. "Of course nobody wants to hear facts that'll contradict their long-held beliefs. And organizations are even worse than individuals."

"I'd rather know what the truth is," he countered. "So would you. Are we the only intellectually honest people around?" He held up a hand. "Skip it. I'm just tired. Let's go somewhere quiet where we won't run into a hit squad from the PTA and get some di

Sometime that evening both the wire services and the major networks picked up on the story, and by the next morning the entire country was hearing about the Lifeline Experiment—the name, unfortunately, having been picked up as well. Commentaries, both pro and con, appeared soon after. Though the publicity was stifling to Dan's everyday work, I think he found a grim sort of amusement in watching the creative ways various organizations phrased their statements so as to condemn the experiment without actually saying they would reject its results. Only the most fanatical were willing—or clumsy enough—to burn such a potentially useful bridge behind them.

The reporters who began hanging around Dan's home and office were more of a nuisance, but Dan had years ago mastered the art of giving newspeople enough to keep them satisfied without unduly encouraging them to keep coming. Fortunately, though, as the initial excitement passed and the experiment itself still seemed far in the nebulous future, the media's interest waned, and within ten days of the story's initial release the reporters' physical presence was replaced by periodic phone calls asking if anything was new. I, at least, was relieved by this procedural change; my friend Kathy would be calling any day now, and I preferred sneaking away from telephones than from people.

—

Late one evening in the last week of June the call came, and Dan and I drove down to Fresno for the birth of Kathy's third daughter.

It was the first birth I'd ever seen, but even so I gave the main operation scant attention; I was far more interested in what Dan was doing. The obstetrician, a close family friend, had been clued in, but I could still sense his professional uneasiness each time Dan's ungloved hand probed gently into the birth canal. What was visible of Dan's expression above his mask indicated a frown of intense concentration that remained even when his hand had been withdrawn, a look that silenced the questions I was dying to ask. He reached into the canal four times during the labor, and in addition had a hand on the baby's head from its first appearance to the moment when the crying child was laid across her mother's breast.

"What did you find out?" I asked him a few minutes later, after our tactful withdrawal from the birthing room. "Can you reach the baby through its mothers nervous system?"

"Yes," he said, absently picking at a bloodstain he hadn't quite managed to get off his finger. "Once I knew what I was looking for I could find it even with the loud interference from Kathy's mind. I wouldn't want to try it with a baby much farther from term, though—we're still going to have to find a safe way to knock out the mothers."

I nodded. "How about... huma

"No doubt," he said promptly. "Those people who want to believe the first breath is the dividing line are fooling themselves. Elizabeth A

" 'Elizabeth A

He smiled sheepishly. "Well, that's the name they were pla

"Why do you think they call it labor?" I asked, only half humorously. He grimaced, and I quickly changed the subject. "So what does a baby think about in there? I mean, she couldn't have all that much sensory experience to draw on and certainly wouldn't have what we'd consider abstract thoughts."

"Oh, there really was a fair amount of sensory input—tactile and auditory mostly, but taste and even vision also got used some." He shook his head thoughtfully, his forehead corrugated with concentration. "But it wasn't the use of her senses, or even the way that such information was processed that made her a human being. It was—oh, I don't know: a feeling of kinship, I guess I'd have to say. Something familiar in the mental patterns, though I'll be damned if I can describe it."

"Whatever it was didn't change at the actual birth?"

"Not really. There was a sudden sensory overload, of course, but if anything it heightened the feeling..." He trailed off, then abruptly snapped his fingers. "That's what it was. On some very deep level the baby felt herself to be an individual, distinct in some way from the rest of the universe." "I didn't think even young children understood that," I said.