The Fredösphere

It is night and the vacant cavern is dim, chilly, still.  A few animals have arrived before the others, bustling about the immense expanse beneath the cavern roof sixty feet above.  From time to time a cry echoes throughout he chamber and the flurry of activity increases.  And then, all at once, a herd of two thousand shuffles in. It is a highly territorial species and each animal seeks out its rightful station in the cavern.  Those of highest status roost farthest in; others withdraw to murky corners near the entrance.  Outside, they had cooed and preened, dominated and submitted, but all that is finished now.  It is time to nest.  Deep in the brain, structures as ancient as a brontosaurus announce, "It is safe here.  You can relax.  But do not sleep, for something is about to happen."  Pulse rates drop, blood pressure slackens, breathing lightens. The cavern visitors are a species of tool users, and when a group of a hundred more enter--individuals with distinctive black and white coloration--they carry oddly shaped wooden boxes and metal tubes to the front of the chamber, where they sit together.  Abruptly, the dominant male struts in, climbs to a position above all others, and performs a triumph display.  His arrival is greeted by much hooting and clatter. Then silence.  In two thousand brains the frontal lobes take command:  there is to be no coughing, no spitting, no loud yawning, and for that matter no vocalizing or fighting or mating.  The cavern darkens, muscles relax, touch receptors quiet, and much of the brain dozes off.  But in the auditory cortex of these two thousand brains, spontaneous neural activity has increased--a sing of heightened expectation.  When the dominant male suddenly commences an elaborate display, swinging his forelimbs to and fro, nerve cells fire in cascades.  It has begun.