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<p>Page 62.</p>
<p>I woke at some indeterminate time in
the night to a terrible cramp in my right foot. I groped around in
the dark, grimacing and clutching at empty sheets, trying to find my
toes. Eventually, I realized I didn&rsquo;t have any.</p>
<p>I grabbed at the light switch and
hauled myself into a sitting position. I was in my bunk. I threw back
the sheets, so my brain could see for itself. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s
nothing there.&rdquo; My voice sounded thin and frightened. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s
nothing there to hurt.&rdquo;
It didn&rsquo;t help. I gave in and pretended to massage the space
where my toes would have been. As a scientist, I am not proud of
this. But it seemed to help. After a while, I was able to lie back.</p>
<p>I had never really believed in phantom
pain. I&rsquo;d heard of it, of course. But it had always struck me
as the product of irrational minds. I had suspected that if you were
to plot the data sets of people who experienced phantom pain
following the loss of a limb with people who believed in higher
beings, reincarnation, and spiritual energy, you would see a fairly
serious correlation. It seemed like the logical consequences of
allowing your brain to operate without discipline.</p>
<p>And in the weeks following my own
amputations, I&rsquo;d felt nothing worse than itching or crawling
sensations. Well, that&rsquo;s not quite true. There had been
twinges. Some minor cramps. The occasional shooting, blinding pain.
But that had been easily attributable to nerve issues. I was, after
all, doing some fairly serious messing around with the nerves, to
interface them to my mechanical parts. It was reasonable to believe
an occasional cross-wire would produce pain. Not phantom pain. Real
pain.</p>
<p>But four of the last five nights, I&rsquo;d
woken to discomfort in a body part I didn&rsquo;t have. And that
other night, I had somehow turned myself completely around in my
sleep. I think I had been trying to find my legs. I could no longer
believe this was damaged nerves. It was my brain, punishing me.</p>
<p>I had to give it to my brain. It had
taken a while, but it had figured out how to fight back. It had
absorbed an impressive arsenal of pain-damping drugs and come out
swinging.</p>
<p>I sat up again. The cramp was
returning. It was preparing to clench tight my phantom toes. I had
once read of a treatment for phantom pain that involved mirrors: they
had patients stare at optical illusions of themselves, made whole and
healthy. That was enough to convince the brain that there was no need
to perceive pain, apparently. You see why I was skeptical about the
whole area. But it gave me an idea. I didn&rsquo;t have a mirror, or,
for that matter, a spare foot to reflect, but I had something. I
swung my thighs off the edge of my bunk and reached for the Contours.</p>
<p>The cramp hit halfway through fitting.
I had to alternate between slotting needles and grabbing at the air
to massage ghost toes, whimpering. My fingers shook. By the end, I
was jabbing those needles in there, hoping they hit something,
gnashing my teeth against the pain. Finally, I finished. I extended
the Contour. My hoof flexed, up and down, up and down. &ldquo;Ahhh,&rdquo;
I said. That <em>was</em> better.</p>