by Lazlu Morbius,

Professor, University of Vilnia

Copyright (c) 2000 by Michael Finley

When the nanotechnology wars began, other researchers took the conventional route. They sought to make tiny computers out of protein and even electrons, and putting them to work in the human body, regulating heartbeats, gland production, and disease prevention. The insipid fools!

Only I, Dr. Morbius, had the breadth of mind to conceive another way.

First, I would preprogram ordinary desktop computers to monitor and control key physiological functions. Then I would shrink them to microscopic size (through an imaging process I am not at liberty to divulge, patent pending). Finally, and most boldly, I would inject them into myself, and put the programs into effect.

Ordinary scholars can’t get their mind around the enormity of my plan. My goal was nothing short of immortality, heh heh – to so optimize my biological systems that my life expectancy would, by my conservative calculations, quintuple.

It was simplicity itself. First I bought a hundred PCs. I got them online, from Compaq. I set them up just outside my laboratory, alongside the car. Then I wrote dedicated optimizing sequences for each computer. One was for the cardiac system, another for the pulmonary systems, several for various endocrine functions, and so forth and so on. Each PC was equipped with a unique homing device and sensors.

Then, using a shrinking ray I formulated when I was a lad at St. Alban's -- child's play, really -- I reduced the 100 PCs to 1/10,000th their size, and injected them into me.

Within hours the PCs sought out their proper coordinates and began to run their programs. Almost immediately I experienced a flush of well being. I metabolized my food better, obtained the maximum amount to fresh oxygen in each breath, and clarified scores of other biophysical processes. I felt stronger, more alert, and -- if such a thing is possible -- smarter.

It wasn't until the second day that I began to experience side effects. Fortunately, I was able to log each failure. First, a crash in the cardiac system caused my heart to quicken -- not a disaster, but enough to cause certain feelings of anxiety.

Then, a power supply went on the fritz in my lower tract. This was unfortunate, as it caused my colon to cycle through an endless loop of spasms, which at the least was embarrassing and worst was socially crippling. I am still working to debug this.

On the third day, a hard disk failure in the area regulating my tear ducts and submaxillary glands caused me to tear up and salivate helplessly. These processes were harmless enough, but I find that I have to gulp about every 30 seconds to keep the saliva from overflowing, and daub my eyes with a handkerchief about as frequently.

But none of that really matters. What matters is that my genius has propelled me beyond the upper ranks of human physicality. I can change the tire of a car without a jack. I can hold my breath long after other people give up, gasping. And I can leap relatively small buildings with a single bound.

And that is why I stand before you today, the members of the Academy of Life Sciences, and although I know I was not nominated for the Lifetime Award, I sure that when you consider the facts, you will find favor with me.

And although you see before you a man who is ostensibly helplessly weeping, drooling, intermittently pounding his heart with his fist to slow it down, and having to run to the bathroom every three and a half minutes, I want you to look beyond that to see the man of the future -- I, Dr. Morbius.

And even if your puny brains are unable to appreciate the overwhelming superiority of what I have done, and what I become, I pray that you at least have the intelligence, the next time you embark on an earthshaking research product requiring superior computer control, to not buy Compaqs.