The Explorer

By Brian Crawford

I

Colby was an odd one, we all knew that, but his intellect was so overpowering that it excused any idiosyncrasies. We were all somewhat in awe of him. He could debate any one of us or the whole lot together, and completely destroy us. He was always cool, incisive, and utterly brilliant. Often he would simply disassemble his opponent’s argument and put it back together to substantiate his own point. His own arguments were unassailable. He always left his opponents wondering how they could possibly have held their former opinions.

We were a rather arrogant lot in general, I’m afraid. Medical school tends to weed out those who can’t think and argue clearly, and most of us were accustomed to winning our debates. There were a number of bad scenes at first, when Colby would devastate one of us, leaving not a crumb to fall back on. He made rather more enemies than friends that first term. But after a while, we came to realize that Colby was something different, almost another type of being. We could not compete, with him, but we could all learn from him. We stopped resenting his always being right, and not a few of us sought his opinion on important issues. He became something of an institution, pointed out as a campus landmark.

For most of us his most endearing trait was his unfailing ability to ask questions which dismayed and often angered our professors. We could always count on him to see the one loophole in an otherwise elegant theory being taught as fact, or to inquire about one of those glossed-over gaps in medical knowledge. He must have been the subject of many a discussion at faculty meetings.

He had little social life, and no women friends that anyone ever knew of. He was sometimes accused of being a bit of a misanthrope, but actually he was just complete unto himself. Some thought him arrogant or standoffish, but he was always civil and ready to help any of us in the library or the dissecting labs. He made perfect grades himself, apparently effortlessly. We always saw him as drifting through his studies, usually with a little half-smile that made one think he was amused by it all, although we were in the most rigorous and prestigious medical school in the country. All this caused him to be regarded with a kind of awe, most rare in our irreverent generation. His genius set him apart and his self-sufficiency gave him little need for friends, so he had very few. I was proud to be one of them.

One afternoon, as we filed out of the hall after what I thought a particularly good lecture, Colby caught my arm and pulled me out of the noisy river of students.

"Williams," he said, in his rather quick, clipped speech, "I’m onto something rather interesting. I’d like to discuss it with you. Could you come up to my rooms? I believe I still have some of that excellent cabernet you liked so much."

I was pleased to be invited. "Certainly. I’m always glad to drink your wine, though I fear that you really just want to bounce another of your theories off my attentive ear, rather than carry on a civilized discussion."

"Ah, you see through me, Williams. I must admit that talking to you does more to clear up my muddled thinking than a week of churning an idea around in my head. Come, the grape awaits."

Matching his long quick strides, I walked beside him to his rooms, in a small but respectable boardinghouse in a quiet neighborhood several blocks off campus. He picked up his mail from a small table inside the front door and checked the return addresses quickly, as if he’d been expecting a letter. Apparently it had not come, for he stuffed the letters carelessly into his pocket and preceded me up the long narrow flight of stairs to his rooms.

As we entered I felt, as I had before, a mixture of familiarity and strangeness. Familiarity, in that many objects were similar to those in the rooms of other medical students: Bunsen burners, burette clamps, scalpels, and forceps littered the top of a dresser; a human skull grimaced from the desk. But other things were most unusual. Odd geometric patterns of impossibly complex design hung on the walls. Books on many religions, some of which I had never heard, stood among works of philosophy and metaphysics. Colby’s amazing mind delved into many subjects. Poetry, literature, music, art, architecture; he seemed to have some knowledge of them all. It was truly an impressive library and, unlike many such collections, one had the impression that it was often read and very well known to its owner. The books were in quite a disarray; some stacked in heaps on the floor, others piled in chairs. Sheets of paper protruded from most.

As Colby poured the cabernet, I sat in the only easy chair, drawn up beside the desk. I noticed a well-stuffed file on his desk. Several pages of it were scattered about. They seemed to be mostly letters from widely scattered and, to me at least, exotic places.

"What’s all this, Colby? You seem to be quite a correspondent. I’m surprised."

He brought our glasses over, the bottle under his arm. He gestured with his chin toward the litter of papers. "That’s material for an idea I’m researching. It’s involved with a theory of mine."

I took the proffered glass and took an appreciative sip. "Is that what you wanted to try out on me?"

"Yes, it is. As a matter of fact, today’s lecture also had a direct bearing on the subject. I found it most interesting, and I wanted to discuss some of the things that were brought up." He sat in the desk chair and set the bottle on the floor by his feet. "Tell me," he said, sipping from his glass, "what did you think of the good doctor’s lecture?"

"I thought it quite good," I replied immediately. "A difficult subject, certainly, and little understood, but I thought old Billings gave a remarkably clear and concise overview of the current state of knowledge. He adroitly skirted anything approaching the religious or mystical, of course, but that’s understandable. We are scientists; we discuss what is known. An interesting lecture on a rather fascinating subject, I thought."

"But was it complete, did you think?"

"Complete?" I considered a moment. "Well, death is a most complex phenomenon. Even leaving out the emotional and philosophical aspects, it is complex medically. It would be impossible to cover every aspect of it in two hours. He clearly stated at the beginning that it was intended only as a summary of a large body of knowledge."

Colby leaned forward, uncharacteristically agitated. "But it seemed to me that he avoided completely the question uppermost in my mind, the central question of all: just what is death?"

"That’s a little unfair. He described what happens to the body just before, during, and after death. He discussed the legal implications, the medical responsibilities, the procedures to be followed. You know there is still a great deal of debate over the exact nature of death."

"Debate? I daresay. There’s no agreement at all. Why, every book you read gives a different definition - they can’t even agree on what they disagree about. Most of the definitions boil down to one thing: the permanent cessation of bodily functions. But that’s no definition. A man doesn’t click off like a light. Different functions cease at different times. The muscular and digestive systems often operate for hours after the heart has stopped. Some systems can shut down completely for long periods, and we wouldn’t call the subject dead. In extreme circumstances, people have been known to live for years without solid food, months without water, days without air. Practitioners of certain religious regimens have survived deprivations that would kill most people. Even the heart can be restarted after considerable periods of no circulation whatsoever. Was the subject dead while his heart was stopped; did the medical staff give him a second birth? Did they create life anew? Of course not. The patient wasn’t dead yet, any more than a yogi in an airless box is dead. People’s kidneys fail, their hearts fail, even their brains cease to function, and yet they are not dead. One or another system has simply stopped functioning. Cardiac arrest is a symptom of a medical problem, like a collapsed lung or a blocked urethra. It may lead to, or contribute to death, but it is certainly does not define it."

He gestured toward me with the wine bottle, raising his eyebrows in question. I held out my glass to be refilled.

"Well, I see what you mean. The failure of any one organ does not necessarily cause death. But the failure of each further stresses those remaining, eventually causing more and more to fail, until the whole organism ceases to function. At that time we may say the subject has died."

He nodded, a quick, birdlike movement. "Yes, yes, but many organ failures can be treated. A few years ago a failed heart or kidney was always fatal. Now we have treatments that allow patients to survive such failures. But are these patients dead because they had a condition that used to be fatal? No, of course not. The earlier patients simply did not have access to medical treatment sufficiently advanced to save them. Such definitions do not define death; they define the limitations of our medical knowledge. Already the collapse of the respiratory system need not be fatal, nor the circulatory, nor the muscular, nor the neural. When we have developed techniques to treat more such failures, there will be no reason for people to die of organ failure. Cessation of function will no longer cause death. How will they define death then?"

"But our techniques are only stopgaps," I objected, "temporarily replacing the functions of the lost system. Death will still occur if these conditions persist. All the sources agree on that, at least. The point of contention is simply defining the exact moment a person may be considered dead. It is a judgement call, admittedly, but at some point it must be made. After a time so many systems are inoperable that there is no longer any question."

"But could we not call cellular activity a system? On the lowest levels, activity continues long after the death certificate is signed. Protoplasm remains active; many cells continue their normal functions, including reproduction, for days, maybe even weeks. The hair and nails, for instance, keep right on growing, totally unaffected by breakdown in the other systems. Are the nails alive, but the rest of the organism dead? Is death a process that may take a month to complete? Do we get progressively more and more dead as time goes by? Who is to say?"

I sipped my wine thoughtfully. I saw his argument, but not where he was going with it. "So what’s your point, Colby? That death is gradual, not instantaneous? That’s nothing new. But the point of death has to be arbitrarily determined for medical and legal reasons - and emotional reasons, for that matter. There comes a time when consciousness is gone, brain activity has ceased, the heart has failed - there is no longer any hope of saving the patient. The patient must be declared dead, even though some minor activity may still be occurring in the body. When would you call him dead, only after putrefaction has reduced the body to its basic compounds?"

Colby shook his head violently, spilling a little wine from his glass. "No, no, you misunderstand me. I’m not arguing that the actual death occurs later than normally thought, but earlier."

I blinked in surprise. "Earlier? But… I don’t think I understand."

"It’s just a matter of definition. I disagree with the whole idea of death as a cessation of function. I believe that all these processes we’ve been discussing are not the cause of death, but the result of it, the aftermath of it. After death occurs, the controlling force is gone from the organism. The individual organs are no longer parts of a cohesive unit. Running without organization or control, they soon malfunction and begin to fail. Different systems take different times to completely cease. But these breakdowns are the symptoms of death, not the cause of it.

I mulled that over for a long minute. "But that’s still not answering the question," I said at last. "How would you define death then?"

"Death is simply the end of life, just as conception is the beginning of it. So to understand it we must first define what we mean by life. It is a very abstract term, difficult to pin down. There’s such a variety. Any description of life has to be broad enough to include everything we consider living, including viruses and anaerobic bacteria. Would you like to hazard a definition?"

"Of life? Well, I guess… hmm, give me a minute." Colby leaned over and refilled my glass, then drained the bottle into his. He sat back and watched me calmly.

"Well, how about this: a living organism is a highly ordered self-sustaining system that consumes raw material to grow and reproduce itself."

He shook his head quickly. "Not good enough. Crystals are highly ordered and reproduce themselves from raw materials in their environment. Stars attract and consume hydrogen and use it to sustain themselves. Are crystals and stars living things then?"

"No, I suppose not. Well, how do you define life then?"

"It seems to me that life is a matter of will. Even the simplest living things show a will to survive. It’s hard to determine just how far down the scale of complexity this will extends. There’s a very fine line between living and nonliving systems, especially when you go down to the molecular level. On the basis of complexity alone, there is little difference between the simplest viruses and the most complex molecules. We consider a virus alive, though it’s only a molecule of DNA wrapped in a few molecules of protein. But we consider an antibody a mere chemical though it goes out in search of a particular antigen, locates it among thousands, and locks onto it. But quibbling over these fine points is moot. As we return up the scale of complexity, the will becomes more and more clear.

"Even at the unicellular level we can see it easily. Under the microscope, each tiny organism is enclosed in a defensive wall and armed with all the tools and organs required for its perpetuation and survival. Each struggles with its neighbors for its share of the environment. More complex organisms have protective coloration, thorns, poison, claws, teeth, and even such survival mechanisms as blood clotting factors or a sturdy eggshell. Then there is all the behavioral overlay - reflexes, instinctive responses, inborn defense and predation tactics. Each of these is a manifestation of the basic will to live that drove the first organic molecule to reproduce itself."

Colby went on excitedly, leaving me no chance for a response. "But the most advanced animals now face a danger not shared by their simpler cousins. Their brains have become so complex to allow them a wider range of voluntary behavior that they now produce thought as a by-product. Even when their survival needs are met, they continue to think. But the danger then is that they may become bored, which makes them apathetic, less alert to dangers. So they create behavior that is apparently not survival oriented - they play and gambol, vocalize and explore.

"We human beings have developed a remarkable brain that has allowed us to spread across the planet with unparalleled success. But our superior brains also give us a much greater potential for boredom. Therefore we keep ourselves busy with reading and writing, art, sports, and so forth. Once we realize that all art, intellectual endeavor, even our businesses and hobbies, are merely activities to keep our complex brains active and functional, we can see that all human activities are after all simply survival techniques. Just as with all the other organisms, our every action is guided by the same motive; the same motive that drives and animates all living things - the will to survive and continue. This is my definition of life. It is common to everything we call alive, and absent in everything we classify as inorganic. Will is the difference."

Colby looked at me closely. I emptied my glass thoughtfully and set it down on the edge of his desk.

"Well, it seems like a good working definition," I admitted. "I can accept it for the sake of argument, certainly. But how does it fit in with our discussion of the point to death? Are you saying that the body no longer wants to continue?"

"Well, yes, in a way. Conditions may become so unfavorable for life, through disease, injury, deprivation, or just wear and tear, that the body eventually loses its will to continue and surrenders to the inorganic."

"But a man can despair completely," I pointed out, "and lose his will to survive long before he actually dies. Granted, his attitude can hasten his death, but you can’t say that he dies at the time he first lost the will to survive, except perhaps figuratively.

"No, that’s true, of course. But I said the body, not the man, loses its will. You’re talking about a mental state. I mean will on a cellular level, or molecular, or subatomic, or wherever it exists. The will that causes a cut to heal or a white blood cell to attack an infection. These things are not willed by the man’s brain. A man could resolve to die, but his body will continue to metabolize - the blood circulates, the synapses fire, and so forth. He will continue to live until something damages his bodily systems. Internal conditions for continued operation become increasingly difficult. Only then do his cells begin to lose their will to survive and he dies. The physical structures still exist, but without the common unifying motive, co-operation among the interdependent components disintegrates - literally dis-integrates. Immediately the infinitely delicate organism that is the human body falls into decay like so much rusty clockwork. And the physicians observe this disintegration and argue endlessly at which point death occurs. But by that time they have missed the event completely."

I mulled this over for a moment. I still didn’t see where he was going with all this.

"That’s all very well as a theory, Colby," I said, "but it doesn’t seem to resolve the issue of point of death. You postulate yet one more arbitrary instant of death, but that point would not be recognizable. A physician couldn’t use your theory to determine the exact time of death. If it’s arbitrary and unobservable, I can’t see that it’s even very useful. You’re counting angels on pins, Colby. This isn’t a subject for physicians, but metaphysicians."

Colby frowned at me. "I don’t think so, Williams. It’s true we may be beyond the normal bounds of medicine, but I don’t think we’ve left the realm of science. But metaphysics and religion are merely non-scientific attempts to answer questions still unanswered by science. When science explained thunder and lightning, Thor became a myth. What I’m trying to do is to extend biological science into a field hitherto only addressed by theology. Perhaps when these questions have been answered, religion will disappear altogether."

"But your theory is just as unprovable as the various religious beliefs. A scientific theory must be verifiable. There’s no way to prove by experiment when an organism loses the will to survive. We can’t observe the internal experiences of a dying person, and once he’s dead we can’t ask him how it felt."

"Obviously. But I think it is possible to approach death closely enough to examine it without actually dying and thus losing the knowledge."

"And your life. This would be a most dangerous line of research. You’re not likely to find volunteer subjects willing to allow themselves to be nearly killed. I have a hard enough time just getting people to let me take blood."

"True enough. That’s why I approached the subject from another angle. Many people have accidentally approached the point of death very closely and yet returned. If I could question many such people, I might be able to learn about the early stage of the process of dying."

"A near drowning, for instance?"

"Exactly. A deprivation death, in which some necessary factor is withheld, would be perfect. There would not be any major physical injury or trauma, so the subject would be more likely to undergo a "purer" form of near-death experience, and be able to report it more clearly. And drowning or suffocation are relatively quick and painless, compared to, say, starvation. I decided to pursue respiratory deprivation. It is also relatively common for people to survive such experiences. Many people are resuscitated and return to normal life with their abilities unimpaired. I have done a great deal of research and have managed to get in touch with a good number of such people. Those are their statements in that folder beside you."

I turned with interest to the thick folder. I picked up a sheet and read a few lines. It was from a man in Ceylon who had fallen overboard from a river ferry and spent several minutes under water before being rescued and revived. He began to describe a series of religious visions he clearly recalled. I dropped the letter back on the stack.

"I have heard," I said, "that most people who survive a near-death event report very similar experiences - their lives flash before their eyes, and so on."

"Yes, that is very common. More than eighty percent of my correspondents describe some form of it. But on further analysis I have found that many of these images did not actually occur in the subject’s life. I believe this phenomenon is a type of dreaming or hallucinating, in which the mind throws up a rapid series of images, a sort of visual free association series. Most are drawn from the subject’s actual experiences, of course, but others may be from dreams, fantasies, literature - anything, really. It seems to be much the same as normal dreaming, but greatly accelerated and even more disjointed, so that it is experienced as a high-speed slide show. It is difficult for the subjects to remember many of this blur of images - they tend to recall the ones with a physical basis in their lives, so they report it as their lives flashing before their eyes."

"That seems probable, but why should the mind throw up such a disorienting display when it should be applying all its resources to saving the organism?"

"That puzzled me as well. What I believe to be occurring is this: the brain is a matrix of neurons, which after all are no more than ordinary nerve cells whose internal chemical activity causes electrical impulses to be generated. The electrical impulse crosses the neuron and causes certain specific chemicals to be emitted at the other end. These molecules are then picked up by other cells, and the message is passed on. When something happens to upset the chemical balance of the cells, the electrical impulses are naturally affected and the messages are garbled and misrouted. The subject experiences this as altered perception."

"But any number of things will alter the chemical balance of the cells."

"Precisely. It is a common experience. Any number of stimuli will bring it on. Shock, injury, illness, even certain hormones, such as those generated by fear or weariness, will upset the balance and bring on an altered state. It can even be artificially attained, through drugs, meditation, hypnotism, trance - any number of ways. I suggest that we dream in normal sleep for the same reason - we are tired, we have built up chemical imbalances in our cells, including our brain cells, and so our minds throw up random images, unguided by our conscious minds. It is simply random, undirected thinking."

I pondered this, but Colby went right on.

"When this chemical change occurs in the brain, the mind, which is to say the subjective experience of the brain’s activity, is free to wander in normally unvisited realms of thought. This hallucinatory state I consider to be the first stage of dying. We actually enter it every night when we dream. But the more drastic the chemical imbalance, the further the mind can wander. In normal sleep, the body soon flushes out the toxins and delivers fresh nutrients and we awaken refreshed to our normal state. But in a drowning person, the supply of oxygen and other nutrients remains cut off. The residual oxygen in the lungs is exhausted, then reserves in the tissues are drawn upon. Finally there is no more to be had. The chemical imbalance in the brain increases and the mind wanders further, entering the second stage of dying."

"Which is?"

"Unconsciousness. This state is quite different from mere dreaming. The mind has now wandered so far afield that it ceases to identify itself with the body. It is not inactive, but it is no longer aware of its surroundings. The body continues to maintain its functions to the best of its ability. In a coma, for instance, the autonomic systems can continue to function for months or years. In a sudden death, this stage may last only for a few seconds. Our drowning subject I believe remains in an unconscious state for several minutes.

"Now the subject has lost voluntary control. This may have survival value. If he had been merely holding his breath, for example, his body will now resume normal respiration and he will recover. Clearly, even though the mind is now absent, the will to survive is still fiercely active in the body. For a drowning person, however, the lungs will only inhale water. The oxygen imbalance in the brain increases, and the mind enters the third stage of dying.

"This is the point beyond which we can no longer follow the process directly. My correspondents with near-death experiences have no further clear recollections before being revived. The remarkable thing is that they almost universally recall this stage as peaceful, pleasurable, even ecstatic. Those who have returned from this state have been transformed by it, and are immensely grateful. Some of their reports form the original nucleus of many of the world’s religions. I suspect most are guesses or suppositions created later to explain the mysterious and indescribable experience, but still there are remarkable concurrences in every human culture. Each culture describes the experience in terms of their own gods and devils, their own worldview, but clearly there is an incredibly rich and very real experience waiting there for us all. But what is it - what remains after the religious and moralistic claptrap is stripped away? This is the real goal of my research."

I smiled indulgently. "Well, you’ve taken on a big enough project, all right. Don’t you think you should narrow your field a bit? Perhaps some work on the physiological changes at the instant of death?"

"Bah. Trivia. Let small minds work on small problems. I am compelled to always go to the heart of the matter. It’s why I have little interest in the vast majority of our classes. It is minutia, only minutia - never looking at the macrocosm. I tell you, Williams, this subject is not only within our power to learn and understand, it is nearly within my grasp at this moment."

"What do you mean?"

"As you know, there are many descriptions of the near-death experience. But most are by untrained observers, caught by surprise by some unexpected trauma. They react with anxiety, even terror. When these unusual experiences overwhelm them, they attempt to interpret them by applying images from their religious and cultural milieu. They are not trained scientists; they have no idea how to describe and record their experiences, and no way to separate the objective from the subjective."

"True enough, but you’re not likely to find a scientist willing to deliberately put himself through a true near-death experience just to be able to send you a clear description."

"But such descriptions exist. A few. Sometimes such an experience occurs to a scientist, a trained and dispassionate observer who can keep his emotions under control and later produces a clear and concise report. Such reports are invaluable. I have several such here in my file.

But the most useful of all are those experiments performed intentionally by dedicated researchers, like myself interested in truly understanding the experience. These courageous men, and women too, put their lives on the line every time they perform an experiment. I have been in close correspondence with several such. One in particular has been most helpful. His ideas have greatly stimulated my own thinking. His last letter hinted at a promising new line of experiments that he felt sure would yield a breakthrough at last. His work was closely paralleling my own, and I have been anxiously awaiting the results of his experiments."

"What type of experiments can these be? Does the man deliberately nearly kill himself?"

"No. He is not seeking to kill himself. He is trying to approach death, but asymptotically - each time getting closer and closer, but without ever actually going over the line."

"Good God! This sounds like extremely dangerous research. What is the man’s field? Is he a physician?"

"No, but he is a scientist."

"A scientist? What do you mean? What is his field?"

Colby actually looked uncomfortable. "Well, I’m afraid you’ll laugh, Williams, but he’s not a medical man at all, really. He’s a psychic researcher."

"What? One of those mystic types? Seances and Ouija boards and all that? Colby, I can’t believe…."

"I know. I have the same reaction to all that superstitious nonsense. But this fellow isn’t like that. He’s a serious researcher who truly believes there’s something to the paranormal. He believes that scientists have been so repelled by the mumbo-jumbo of the quacks and charlatans that they have shied away from the whole field, and they may be overlooking some very real, and very fascinating phenomena."

"But still, Colby. A psychic?"

"He’s not a psychic - he’s not a medium or anything. But he has collected some very convincing evidence that there is some kernel of truth among the chaff."

"And you are paralleling his research, you say? In what way?"

"In the true scientific tradition. I am trying to reproduce his results. If what he says is true, and my work verifies it… well, let me just say, medicine will never be taught the same way again. This work could change our very understanding of the nature of life and death. Is that not a noble goal, Williams?"

I laughed. "I have to admit, it would make a shocker of a doctoral dissertation."

Colby’s smile was almost too quick to see. "But my work now is greatly hampered by my inability to obtain several books. They are rare and obscure books that my correspondent has access to, but as he is in Nepal it is inconvenient for me to see them. Without these books I can but guess at his assumptions. It will be nearly impossible to follow him through this next series of experiments."

"Well, I might be able to help you there," I volunteered. As you know, I am somewhat of a bibliophile. I am fairly well known in the higher circles of the rare book collectors. Perhaps I can check with a few of my contacts."

"Would you? That’s wonderful. That’s what I hoped you would say. I can find most scientific works myself, of course, but these works are far from, shall we say, scientific orthodoxy. I’m afraid you will think I have taken up religion or black magic when I give you the titles."

"Well, I’ll say they’re for an eccentric friend. That’s certainly true enough," I laughed. "But if anything comes of this research, I shall want be acknowledged when you publish your treatise."

Colby laughed. He seemed immensely relieved. "Of course, Williams, of course. You are a great help to me. At present all my time is taken by my personal experiments, and I have no time for the leg work." He shuffled through a clutter of papers on his desk. "Ah, here it is. This is a list of the books I need. As you can see, they’re hardly medical texts. They’re certainly not in the library here. I’m afraid you’ll have to go into the city for some of them. It may put you to some trouble."

"No problem at all," I said, rising to go. "I enjoy sniffing along on the trail of a rare book."

"I can’t thank you enough," he said, as he walked with me to the door. "I’ve enjoyed our talk tonight. It is good for me to talk with someone else about my work. It helps to clarify my ideas."

"We must do it again soon. I must admit, you’ve raised some fascinating ideas. I hope you’ll keep me informed of your progress."

"I will, rest assured. Good night."

"Good night, Colby. And be careful."

"I will."

As I left the house and crossed the dark campus to my apartment, I felt strangely detached from my surroundings, as if these new ideas Colby had put into my head had already altered my attitudes to the world around me. I wondered again what his "personal experiments" consisted of. I resolved to go into the city for his books as soon as possible. I wanted another excuse to visit with him and hear more of his strange "work".

II

It was almost a week before I could get my hands on the books Colby had requested. Even with my extensive contacts in the rare book world, I had had a devil of a time finding them. My search took me to some very curious and obscure little bookshops. Finally I had them all and I was feeling rather pleased with myself as I knocked at Colby’s door. The contentment vanished by my first glance at his face. It was sallow and drawn, and his eyes were sunken under his brows. I was startled.

"Colby! What is it man? You don’t look at all well." He waved me in with an impatient gesture, brushing away my concern.

"Glad to see you, Williams," he said in a hoarse whisper. "Do you have the books? Excellent. Let me reimburse you at once."

I gave him the receipts and watched with concern as he fumbled in a drawer and handed me the money.

"I couldn’t find one of them," I said. "The Arabic one, the Necronomicon. One bookseller went so far as to say that it doesn’t exist, or perhaps was only some kind of a hoax. I couldn’t find a trace of it anywhere."

"No, I’m not surprised. It has been suppressed for a thousand years. It does exist, though, I am sure of that. But no matter, I don’t need it any longer - my research has taken me in other directions. My experiments are progressing well. I seem to get a little further each time. I had a bit of a shock yesterday, though."

"Oh?" I asked, instantly concerned. "Were you injured?"

"No, not me. But do you remember my mentioning a correspondent, a colleague of mine, you might say, in Tibet?"

"The occultist? I remember."

"Hardly the word I would use to describe him. Occult means hidden, and he was attempting to draw away the veil from a vast field of knowledge, currently totally ignored by the rest of the scientific community. His work was innovative and daring."

"Was?"

"Yes. He’s dead. I received a note from his landlady yesterday. She was notifying all his correspondents. She found him when she unlocked his room after he had not come out for two days. He was sitting in a chair in the middle of the floor, without a mark on him. The postmortem revealed nothing. The coroner ruled it heart failure. The fools! They might as well call rigor mortis the cause of death. Of course his heart stopped - the man was dead!"

"Come now, Colby, something must have caused his death."

"Of course. He did. He was experimenting with the mind’s ability to control the body. Like me, he was trying to learn the true nature of death. I rather think he succeeded."

"If he did, the knowledge is lost to the rest of us. What good did his death serve?"

"As much as any man’s. But I tend to agree with you. His experiment was fatally flawed. He bungled it by not leaving some sort of message to help us. If I follow him I will ensure that my report reaches you."

"Me? Good God, Colby, you’re not planning to kill yourself too?"

"No, I’m not planning it, but my experiments are similar to his. It is possible that, like him, I will someday misjudge my safety margin. Who knows? Once I get there, I may find that death is more desirable than life. Many who have experienced it describe it so. Many regret that their lives were saved, and profess to no fear of death afterwards.

I studied him closely. He spoke calmly, almost off-handedly, but he seemed to me to be excited and possibly even apprehensive. And his appearance and voice were so drastically changed in only a week. I wondered again at the nature of his "experiments". I feared that he was going into a depression, and I found his last remarks especially disturbing.

"You seem depressed, Colby. Are things going badly?"

"No, no, on the contrary," he said in a tone that struck me as forced. "My theories are being verified - what more could a scientist ask? I’m really quite pleased. I’ve discovered some very interesting new material and expanded my theories quite a bit since our last talk." He gestured to the two easy chairs drawn up by the hearth. "Would you care for a drink while I discourse? I have found time to replenish my wine stock since we plundered it last week.

"Certainly. Have you a very dry white?"

"Of course. I picked up something especially for you." He brought out a bottle and poured me a glass. I noticed he did not pour one for himself.

"You’re not drinking?"

"No, I’ve decided to abstain while I’m involved in these particular experiments. Alcohol tends to fog the mind and could hinder the rigorous self control required in my work. It seems a small enough price to pay."

He saw me hesitating as I studied his haggard face. He was clearly not telling me everything. What were these experiments of his?

"Please," he urged. "Don’t abstain on my account." I didn’t correct his assumption, but shrugged and sipped appreciatively.

"So tell me about these new theories," I said. "Do they contradict the ideas we’ve already discussed?"

"Not at all. They are an extension of them. You remember I was researching the third stage of dying. The first two stages, the hallucinatory state and the unconscious state, have been described many times. There is still much to learn about them, but I feel that physiologically they are well understood. Thousands have visited these regions and returned. Some have even glimpsed the road beyond, but very few indeed have traveled it and returned to describe the journey.

"The clearest reports have invariably come not from the accidental travelers, hurtled down the road by some grave physical trauma, but from determined explorers. Using widely divergent techniques - drugs, chanting, meditation, they have purposely altered the electrochemical equilibrium in their brains and set off on the long road that leads eventually to death.

"From such journeys have come all the seminal religious experiences throughout history. All the gods and devils, heavens and hells, have come from the hallucinatory stage. The mind is still identifying with the body and with ‘normal’ reality. It tries to make sense of the new experiences by externalizing them, personifying the shifting dream images as other entities with powers over us. Anyone can understand these interpretations of the inexplicable. The simple man clutches these images fiercely to him, building faiths and hopes around them. This is the origin of the totemic and animistic religions, and of the almost universal belief in ghosts and spirits.

"The second stage of dying is quite different. The body is now unconscious. The mind is still active, but no longer feels associated with the body and the physical world around it. It drifts through strange and ephemeral regions of thought, and can view life from a wholly new perspective, freed from the fear of death and the daily concerns of our lives. From these heights, the hopes and fears of each man become infinitesimally small, and the commonality of human experience looms large. It takes a truly exceptional mind to have the strength of will to return from these airy realms. Such travelers are profoundly changed by their experiences. The few that do return are often deified as prophets or messengers of the gods. Their ideas form the nuclei of the world’s great religions, though simple men continue to cloak them in ghosts and pearly thrones.

"Only a very few have entered the third stage and returned, and their experiences are so strange and non-verbal as to be nearly impossible to communicate to others. Some of the writings and teachings of these men have been preserved by the cults that sprang up around them. I have therefore investigated the innermost beliefs of several of the more advanced religions, in hopes of discovering among the mythology some real knowledge of the process of dying. I believe I have found it in the Tibetan Book of the Dead. The truths are admittedly hidden in imagery and metaphors, apparently to make the knowledge more comprehensible to the common man. The book is like a road map of the final regions of life, and contains instructions for crossing the border with minimal distress and discomfort. But who could have written such a book? How can they have left such a remarkable record if they died to discover it? I propose the author did not in fact die and come back to write a book about it, but he succeeded in going further than anyone else ever has, then returned. Stripped of its metaphors, it appears to be the description of how to simulate the conditions of imminent death. It is the closest we have to a report of what it really feels like to die.

"The author states that there is a feeling of contentment at the end, and a perfect awareness of the entire universe in all its manifold aspects. The Tibetans theorized from this that all life in its most basic form is in fact a unity: a non-physical, omnipresent entity, quite different from any Western idea of a god. It is not a person, but a sort of collective consciousness of which every living thing is a part. For lack of a suitable English word, I refer to it by their word, "Brahma." This Brahma in its normal state is not associated with matter or even spatial location. But occasionally it does divide itself - small consciousnesses, or "atman", bud off, as it were, from the whole. These atman associate themselves at will with bits of matter and begin to animate it and make it move about, much as we operate a machine. But the atman pays a price for its playful toying with the physical world. In this state it is cut off from the Brahma and loses all awareness of the infinite whole of which it is but a part. It does not remember being part of the Brahma, nor of its separation from it. It is not a happy state - the atman finds itself bound, apparently forever, within an insignificant organism, with no reason to its life, no goals, no purpose - and at the end, only the yawning black void of death to end it all.

"And yet the atman is not hopelessly lost. It cannot remember the Brahma, but it retains an overwhelming sense of loss, of separation from something greater than itself. This yearning drives it to try to discover what it has lost and to ultimately return to its former state of unity. But only the most advanced, complex physical organisms are capable of achieving this understanding. And so the atman must develop its physical vehicle. This is the Tibetan’s explanation for the biological drive to evolve, to change, to diversify. Each individual is animated by its own atman, each struggling blindly toward understanding. Each development permits a wider range of thought and experience, a greater knowledge of the universe, and therefore a greater potential for achieving reunion. This atman is therefore identical with that ‘basic drive’ I proposed to you as the true common denominator of all living things. I had pictured it as simply a will to live, to continue, to multiply. But this book says that all these are simply means to a higher end - the reunification of all minds into one."

I broke into his monologue at last. "But Colby, this seems like so much Eastern mumbo-jumbo. It’s an interesting idea, surely, but is there any reason to think these Tibetans have it all right and everyone else simply has it wrong? I mean, this is all totally alien to Christian belief."

"Not necessarily. The imagery is different, of course, but the basic concept is not all that different. Judeo-Christian belief states that there was once a time of perfect bliss when there was no evil or unhappiness. But then we were cast out of paradise by our own mistakes and are doomed to travel an ages-long road of misery before we can return to grace. And after we die we shall return to a land of bliss, where we will live forever with the all-knowing consciousness from which we sprang. And the atman is not too dissimilar to the concept of a soul - that part of us we have in common with everyone else and which separates from our bodies to return to God when we die.

"The atman, you must remember, does not know the goal toward which is it striving. It just keeps on pushing forward. It nearly worked itself into a cul-de-sac when it developed into the higher life forms. Now that it has evolved itself into a form capable of the abstract thoughts and flights of imagination necessary to conceive of the Brahma, it has become trapped by long usage into patterns of thought and behavior that will not permit the union. The survival of the individual physical vehicle has become so ingrained that the atman can not see that it has arrived. All that is necessary is to step out of the vehicle, thereby becoming once again non-corporeal and finally capable of rejoining the Brahma. But after so many millennia in physical bodies, the atman has now identified itself with the vehicle and will not take the final step.

"Only when the brain malfunctions is the mind freed to drift toward awareness of its true identity. In the first stages of disruption the mind and atman are so concerned with maintaining bodily processes that the subjective reaction is one of anxiety and terror. Later, after the mind is no longer associated with the body, the emotions relax in unconsciousness. At the end, the atman is freed entirely from the sleeping mind and catches the first glimpses of the Brahma, so a feeling of joy predominates. This emotion has been reported so many times by so many disparate people from every culture of the world, that the Tibetan theory is a logical conclusion. It would be unscientific to deny so much evidence. I believe that the last action of the atman before its reunion with the Brahma is a voluntary relinquishing of control over the body; a conscious, joyous, laying down of the physical burden. That, I maintain, is the actual moment of death. Without the atman to animate it, the body is only a collection of organic chemicals, and it immediately begins to break down. This deterioration manifests itself as the various symptoms which we associate with death."

I sat for a long moment, contemplating the almost untasted wine in my glass. The new ideas percolated in my mind. I could think of no strong counter-arguments. His theory seemed plausible, if wholly unproven. I tossed off the glass and poured myself another.

"Assuming your interpretation is correct, Colby," I began, "and I’m not convinced it is; you’re talking about some priest or mystic voluntarily dying as part of his religious convictions. While such cases surely exist, we started out talking about death in general. Surely the vast majority of deaths are not this joyful, willful action you describe."

Colby sat forward suddenly, his face bright and eager. "But don’t you see? I think they are - every one of them. What takes a Tibetan monk years of study and effort to learn, is learned by a drowning man in a few moments, or in a split second by a man hit by a truck. It’s ironic but true. When a holy man finally accepts and truly knows the truth about life, he simply stops doing it. But then he is in exactly the same state as everyone else who has ever died, for whatever reason. The monks dedicate themselves to the task for years because they want to achieve the knowledge while yet alive and then die with perfect understanding, but they know the end result is exactly the same.

"When the mind is thrown far enough from its usual patterns to be able to perceive the Brahma, doubt and indecision become impossible. The atman regains full recall of its former blissful state of union and simply drops its burden of self-appointed duties in the physical world. I believe this is the basic truth that so many have glimpsed but misunderstood. It explains so much: of course no one ever returns from death - they know that life is the height of purposeless folly. The poor limited, entrenched minds of us fearful animals could never conceive of the full reality. They do not return to tell us about death just as we do not try to teach relativity to earthworms. They are incapable of understanding. But they will progress until eventually they too will understand. All we can do is let them follow their own path."

"A pretty theory, Colby, but we can be glad more people don’t believe it. Life on Earth would become a real hell."

He seemed truly surprised. "Do you think so? I would have thought that the news would be welcomed if I found some proof of my views. Certainly the established religions would fall, but to my mind that would be long overdue. They have surrounded the truth with mystical claptrap, purely to give their leaders more control over their followers. Do you really think they couldn’t handle the truth? Many Tibetans believe it to be true and they survive well enough. What about yourself, Williams? Wouldn’t you want to know the truth? What if I presented solid, irrefutable proof of all this? Wouldn’t you welcome having the age-old questions settled once and for all? It would be the crowning glory of science."

"Sure, I’d like to know," I replied. "And so would a lot of others whose love of knowledge seeks the true answers to questions, not just the traditional answers. But what about all the others? If people knew for certain that there is nothing to fear in death, all the restraints of civilization would collapse. People would become wild animals, unrestrained by the fear of death or punishment in hell. The world would collapse in anarchy. And what of suicides? If we are simply here to die, wouldn’t millions of people turn to suicide?"

"It’s possible, but what of that? They’re right. We would know there is nothing morally wrong with suicide - they are not hurting themselves, they are helping themselves along. Suicide would be a wise and moral choice. But the others would be freed too. Those who choose to go on living would be free of all the old fears and superstitions. They could live their lives in peace, secure in the knowledge that when they die they will return to bliss."

"I daresay they would be freer. But those old fears also ensure some order and cooperation. There’s some violence in all of us, Colby - murder, theft, rape, vandalism, cruelty - the dark desires lurk beneath the surface. Some of us form our own moral codes and govern our behavior by what we feel to be right or wrong. But many people are restrained solely by fear, fear of punishment, either in this life or in the hereafter. If you prove all such fears baseless, there’ll be nothing to restrain them - who would fear death when death is bliss? All our little repressed urgings will be manifested as terrible actions. Society, and the individuals who comprise it, would collapse into chaos."

Colby looked shocked. He stared at me, speechless for once.

"Do you really think that would happen? Are we humans that evil? Perhaps a few misfits would take advantage of their new freedom, but we have such madmen now and they can be restrained. Do you think selfishness and fear are our only motives?’

"Look about you, Colby. Look at the horrors committed every day in spite of the deterring fears. What would the world be like without them?"

"But if I’m right," he persisted, "the fate of the physical world and we poor humans is really insignificant. It doesn’t matter how men die, because they’ll all end up in the same state in the end. It doesn’t make any difference if they achieve reunion through meditation or if they all kill each other in a cataclysmic war."

"Does it really seem the same to you, Colby? Does it? You may be a bit of a misanthrope, but is it really all the same to you if millions of people massacre each other because of what you reveal to them?"

That point struck home. He jumped up and went to the window. Agitatedly he stared down at the people passing in the street below. Suddenly he turned back to me.

"No, you’re right. It shouldn’t end that way. Perhaps after I die I’ll know that all this is a charade. But until that moment I remain a man and my human feelings must guide my actions. I don’t want to be the cause of human suffering, even if it doesn’t matter in the final analysis.

"But on the other hand, I am also a scientist. I want to know the truth for myself, at any cost. And there are many others who feel the same. It is my responsibility as a scientist to pursue my research, and also to make the results of my research available to those who truly want to know."

"You’re right, of course," I conceded. "Just because the truth may have dangerous ramifications, we should not shrink from the knowledge. Perhaps you could reveal the information without actually saying it in so many words." I pondered a moment. "Perhaps some form of deception, say publishing the results of your work, not as a scientific work, but in a form that might seem mere fiction to the general run of men. But those who truly seek to know the truth can see through the fiction to the truth."

Colby laughed. "Well, if I succeed I’ll leave that to you. I would find such deception quite beyond me. But I fully intend to make the experiment."

"I don’t know exactly what you have in mind, but it sounds terribly dangerous. What makes you so certain this old book is on the right track?"

"Because it describes so precisely the phenomena I’ve been encountering in my own experiments. I wanted to experience at first hand the sensations described by people who had nearly died. I used hyperventilation, drugs, self-hypnotism, yoga, and other means, until I found that simply meditating on stopping my breathing was the most effective and the most controlled. I found that with practice and concentration I could halt my respiration until I completely lost consciousness. Up to that point I was exactly reproducing the drowning experience. I found there was a period of altered perception and hallucination, just as they had described. Then, with no noticeable transition, I was awakening to consciousness. I had of course passed out and my conscious suppression of my breathing had been interrupted.

"If my theory is correct, the atman, as yet unaware of the Brahma, was still identifying with my body. It became aware that my body was in danger of dying and had caused my lungs to inhale. And so the brain gradually returned to normal operation and the atman was again drawn into the thought patterns of normal awareness and was subsumed into my day-to-day awareness. All that remained was a vague sense of excitement bordering on pleasure.

"I am convinced that during that minute or two of unconsciousness I had approached very near to death and my atman had the first inklings of the Brahma waiting beyond. If I could have maintained that state for only a few moments more, perhaps the full awareness would have come and I would have had my proof. My intention is to return with that proof, but perhaps the sudden awareness makes all such concerns of life seem absurd and I would have continued on to reunion. I suspect this is what happened to the colleague I mentioned earlier. It is very frustrating to think that he may have accomplished what I have been trying to do, but then he failed to carry through with his intentions. If I ever reach that point, I am determined to exert every effort to pass on the knowledge to my fellow men.

"After such an experiment, I lie gasping and trying to recall the experience I have just undergone. Even before vision and hearing have returned, I always experience a wistful feeling of regret, as if I were awakening from a beautiful dream. I have done this experiment repeatedly and always it is the same. Nearly everyone who has had a near-death experience describes the same emotion. This convinces me the theory is accurate and drives me to push ever nearer the brink."

"But damn it, man," I burst out. "How can you be sure? You could just kill yourself for no reason at all. All those experiences you describe are purely subjective. We have no instruments for observing these phenomena directly. It could be pure hallucination. The theory must always remain conjecture."

"I intend to change that," said Colby fiercely. He jumped up again from his chair and circled the room as he spoke. "I hope to venture closer and closer to death each time until I know the answer. My control gets better with each trial. Already I can voluntarily reduce my heart rate and respiration to extremely low rates, then restore them to normal levels without ill effects. Ideally, I could stop them completely, verify my theories, and still return to report the results."

"But perhaps you will not be able to stop the process and return. Remember your friend who failed. It may be more difficult than you imagine."

"Willing oneself to death is not all that difficult. I suspect the reason so few researchers return is because it is so easy and so pleasant on the other side. But I solemnly swear to you now, Williams, that if I do succeed but am unable to return, I will do everything within my power to leave some kind of message for you so you will know the truth. And if that comes to pass, I charge you, Williams, with passing the information on to those who wish to know."

"Well, of course I will respect your wishes," I replied. "But I fear what might happen if you succeed and the word is published."

"I have been considering what you said earlier. You may be right about a panic if all this becomes general knowledge."

"I’m sure of it, Colby. But how could I pass the word without everyone soon learning of it? I have no way of identifying those seriously interested in your work and able to handle the answers to such questions."

He pondered this a few moments. "Perhaps you could elaborate the theories and describe the experiments, but not reveal the nature of the proof I send you."

"I have it," I replied. "I could tell the story, but report that your proof was negative - that you failed to prove your theory. If I frame it carefully enough, say as a work of fiction, only the most astute and discerning would be capable of seeing through the deception and knowing the truth."

He clapped me on the shoulder firmly. "Excellent! Excellent, my dear Williams. You’ll be my Boswell. I knew you were the man for the job. I knew I could count on you."

"So you really intend to go through with it? With your experiments?"

"Definitely. I’m coming closer to success each time. I’m sure I’ll be able to cross over soon."

"I certainly hope you’re right about all this. If not, you’re just committing an elaborate and senseless suicide."

"I am right - I know it. I no longer have any doubts on the matter. I only hope I have the courage and determination to see it through. But your task is as important as mine. Without you here to receive my message and pass it on, mine would be only another meaningless death. I am depending on you."

I felt honored and not a little thrilled at the trust he placed in me. I was determined not to let him down. "You can count on me, Colby," I said fervently. He searched my eyes a moment as if reading my soul, and for the first and only time in our relationship, I felt a wave of affection pass between us. It was the first time Colby seemed truly human to me.

Then he stood up and the moment was past. I thought I detected a hint of embarrassment in him, as if he felt that revealing his emotional side somehow detracted from his intellectual magnitude. We exchanged a few pleasantries that struck me as strained, then I took up my coat and he showed me to the door. We shook hands solemnly, and I realized that if he were successful I might never see him again.

"Good luck, Colby."

"To us both. Good night."

"Good night."

III

Three days later my phone rang in the middle of the night. I fumbled to the phone in the dark and grunted sleepily into the receiver.

"Williams? Colby. Now. Come immediately." The phone went dead before I was fully awake.

It took a few seconds to collect my thoughts, then I leaped from the bed. Five minutes later I was hurrying across campus. Not ten more had elapsed before I was knocking at his door. There was no answer, but it was unlocked. I pushed it slowly open and went in.

The room was dark, but some light entered from a window. Colby was sitting cross-legged in the center of the floor, eyes closed. Reluctant to disturb him, I knelt before him and studied his face. I wasn’t sure if he even knew I was there. His face was in deep repose, as if asleep. As far as I could tell without touching him, he wasn’t breathing.

Nothing happened for several minutes. I dithered back and forth about disturbing him. Then he suddenly gave a guttural gasp and his head fell forward, chin on chest. His whole body seemed to shrink and slump into itself. Suddenly I was very afraid. My romantic notions of the nobility of Colby’s experiments collapsed before the terrible reality. This was no heroic quest - my friend was dying.

Afraid for us both, I rushed to him and examined him. There could be no doubt about it. He was dead. I knew it as soon as I touched him: his skin was cold and dry; there was no pulse or respiration; and his eyes showed no reaction to the light. His face was distinctly cyanotic, and reflexes were absent. I was not yet a doctor, but I knew a corpse when I saw one.

I had no idea what to do. We had not discussed what I should do with his body if he should succeed in dying. I decided I would sit with him until daylight, then report his death to the authorities. Struck with grief and coming close to panic, I stretched his body out on the floor, closed his eyes and waited.

As the hours passed, my mind wandered over everything he had said. Where was my friend Colby now? Was he simply gone, like the flame from a snuffed candle? Did he still reside somewhere in that still body stretched out beside me? Or did he wander in strange lands even as I sat my vigil?

It was ghastly sitting there in the dim light beside him. As dawn approached I began to berate myself for not calling an ambulance as soon as I arrived. What nonsense the man believed - he must have been verging on madness. After what he had told me, had it not been my duty to report him to the staff of the college? I was very possibly the only one he told his bizarre tales to - had I been remiss in not seeking help for him, or at least in not trying to dissuade him from his mad plan? And now he was dead, and I was at least partly responsible. I would never be able to forgive myself.

Suddenly there was a rustle in the room and I startled as if touched by an electric charge. I leaped to my feet, heart pounding, and stared down at Colby’s body. The sound seemed to have come from him!

As I stared down in horror, his right hand twitched perceptibly. His mouth dropped open and his swollen black tongue protruded horribly. I was just telling myself it was his muscles contracting in rigor mortis, when his hand lifted and came slowly up to his face. His tongue began to writhe and twist like some ghastly worm. Then there was a gurgle and rasp in his throat and he began to speak in a slurred and hoarse voice.

As if in a dream, I leaned over him, my ear close to his mouth.

"Will’ms," he said in a long-drawn sigh. "R’there?"

"Oh, God, Colby," I stammered. "Is this real? Are you…."

"Must… talk… fast," he said without indicating whether he had heard me. "All I… can do… to speak. I was… wrong. Theories… all bunk. Don’t let… others… follow. I was… fool." His mouth suddenly fell slack. His arm thudded to the floor. The air escaped from his lungs in a soft hiss, and he moved no more.

After a few moments, I gingerly toughed him. His body was stiff with rigor mortis and quite cold. There could be no doubt about it. He had been dead all night, and he was still dead.

I stared at him for a long time, then the horror of the scene swept over me. I rushed out of the room and out into the street. All that night I wandered through the town, thinking about him lying up there in that room, wondering what I should do.

IV

Memorandum

To: Chief Inspector Porter

From: Detective-Sergeant Reid

I’ve attached an odd little document, Jack. It appeared at the coroner’s inquest into those two deaths out in the university area last week. It was found in a briefcase on the bridge that we believe young Jack Williams jumped from - at least his body was found not far downstream from there. The coroner ruled it a suicide due to despondency over the death of his friend Colby two days previous.

The coroner’s still undecided about the death of the other one, Samuel Colby. He did a full autopsy and could find nothing at all. No poison, no wounds, nothing pathological. Colby’s professors said he hadn’t been attending his classes the last month or so. Most we talked to seemed very upset about his death. Apparently he was extremely bright and an excellent student before his attendance lagged. They all thought he’d go a long way.