Thomas grimaced in sympathy. 'How could anything be right or wrong? Good or evil?'
'Exactly. Morality. Doesn't morality mean we have to have free will?'
'Who said morality was real?'
She worked her bottom lip for a moment, then added, 'Bullshit. It's gotta be…'
A crimson eighteen-wheeler roared down the street outside the window, hauling who knew what to who knew where. Its diesel roar faded into the sound of a crowd cheering through the tin of television speakers. The Braves, a canned voice said, were on the warpath once again.
'I mean, I make decisions, all the time.'
She was arguing now, Thomas realized, not simply entertaining academic claptrap for the purposes of tracking down Neil. The Argument had a way of doing that to people. He could remember the horror it had engendered in him years ago in Skeat's class. The sense that some kind of atrocity had been committed, though without date or location. More than a few times he and Neil had made the mistake of debating it while catastrophically stoned—a mistake for Thomas, anyway. He had simply sat rigid, crowded by paranoias, his eyes poking and probing the tissue that had once been his thoughtless foundation, while Neil had laughed and chortled, pacing the room as if it were a cage. Thomas could see him, hair askew, ducking to peer into his face. 'Whoa, dude… Think about it. You're a machine—a machine!—dreaming that you have a soul. None of this is real, man, and they can fucking prove it.'
Thomas rubbed his eyes. 'In controlled circumstances, researchers can determine the choices we make before we're even conscious of making them. The first experiments were crude and hotly contested—pioneered by a guy called Libet. But over the years, as techniques improved and the fidelity of neuro-imaging increased, so did the ability to pin down the precursors of decision making. Now…' Thomas trailed with an apologetic shrug. 'What can I say? People still argue, of course—they always will when it comes to cherished beliefs.'
'Free will is an illusion,' Sam said in a strange tone. 'Even now, everything I'm saying…'
Thomas swallowed, suddenly apprehensive. He had been carefully folding his napkin as he talked; now he set it like a tiny white book on the table before him. 'Only a small fraction of your brain is involved in conscious experience, which is why so much of what we do is unconscious. The bulk of your brain's processing falls outside what you can experience; it simply doesn't exist for your consciousness, not even as an absence. That's why your thoughts simply come out of nowhere, apparently uncontrolled, undetermined… Yours and yours alone.'
Samantha yanked her hands out in a warding gesture, shook her head. 'Come on, professor, this is just too crazy.'
'Oh, it goes deeper, trust me. Everything falls apart, Agent Logan. Absolutely everything.'
Sam watched the streamers of bubbles in her beer. 'So it has to be wrong, doesn't it?'
Thomas simply watched her.
'Doesn't it?' she repeated, her tone somewhere between wonder and irritation.
He shrugged for what seemed the hundredth time. 'Free will is an illusion, that much is certain. As for other psychological staples like the now, selfhood, purpose, and so on, the evidence that they are all fundamentally deceptive continues to pile up. And if you think about it, perhaps this is what we should expect. Consciousness is young in evolutionary terms, a jury-rigged response to a perfect storm of environmental circumstances. We're stuck with the beta-version. Less even. It only seems slick because it's all we know.'
'You mean,' Sam said drily, 'as far as science is.concerned.'
Thomas took a long drink, exhaled heavily out his nose. In his freshman classes, attacking science was hands down the most common response to the threat posed by the Argument—as well as the weakest.
'And science is a mess, sure. But it's the only mess in recorded history that has had any success at generating and deciding between theoretical claims—not to mention making everything around us possible as a result. In historical terms, it is absolutely unprecedented. What are you going to believe? A four-thousand-year-old document bent on tribal self-glorification? Your own flattering intuitions on the fundamental nature of things? Some hothouse philosophical interpretation that takes years of specialized training just to understand? Or an institution that makes things like computers, thermonuclear explosions, and cures for small-pox possible?'
Samantha Logan stared at him for a long and lovely moment. Someone jacked up the volume on the flat-screen above the bar. A silky whisper fanned across the tables, extolling the wonders of Head & Shoulders.
'Because when your hair shines, you shine…'
'But there're truths outside of science.'
'Are there? I mean, there's a lot of non-scientific claims floating around, that's for sure. But truths? Is the Bible more true than the Quran? Is Plato more true than Buddha? Maybe, maybe not. The fact is we have no way of knowing, even though billions of us jump up and down screaming otherwise. And the more science teaches us, the more it seems we're just duping ourselves altogether. Our internal yardstick is bent, Agent, we know that for a fact. Why should we trust any of our old measurements?'
Most people simply nodded and dismissed the Argument. Most people found their fables too flattering to seriously challenge. A thousand sects, cults, religions, and philosophers agreeing on nothing, and yet each thought their ticket held the winning number of beliefs. Why? Because they held it. Somehow their personal experience of speaking in tongues, of remembering past lives, of having this prayer answered or that premonition come true was the only experience that mattered, the only one that made true…
So few could crawl into the Argument's belly and truly comprehend. The trick was crawling back out again.
Thomas watched as various expressions struggled for mastery of Sam's face. A dismissive scowl, a sarcastic retort, a plea for reassurance. It seemed he could glimpse all of them.
'I have to say, professor, that this, without a doubt, is one of the most depressing conversations I've ever had. I feel like drowning myself in a tub.'
Despite the sorrow that welled through him, Thomas smiled a mock winning smile. 'Welcome to the semantic apocalypse.'
Sam breathed deeply, enough to blow aside the odd strands of hair that had fallen across her face. 'So you think this is what Cassidy is up to? You think he's simply making the Argument in the most dramatic way he can?'
Thomas paused, troubled by the hollow in his stomach. 'For the ancient Greeks, puppets were neurospastos, "drawn by strings". I think this might be what Neil is up to.'
'You mean showing us the strings?'
'Exactly. He wants the whole world to share his revelation.'
Even as he said it, Thomas somehow knew that it couldn't be true, that something far more terrifying was at stake. But as so often happens in the course of making arguments, it didn't seem such a bad thing cutting corners here and there, allowing what was convenient to trump what was true. What mattered was that she believed.
'Think about Cynthia Powski,' he continued. 'Think of that BD as the first premise in an argument. What does it say? What conclusion does it point to?'
Sam nodded appreciatively. 'That he's in charge. That he can force her to do, and more importantly, to feel, anything he wants.'
'Is it? Then why does he surrender the controls to her?'
'I dunno. To show that he can make her want to be raped? Isn't that the rapist's credo? That all women secretly want it?'
Frowning, Thomas let his gaze wander the bar. The number of people now hunched over drinks and tables surprised him. He glanced at a waitress marching with a steaming plate of fries. 'Maybe. But remember what Atta said? What we witnessed wasn't rape. Neil—supposing it was Neil—forced a woman to experience something akin to multiple orgasms. Be he didn't touch her—not sexually, anyway. No. I think he's pointing to something more abstract. From his standpoint, I think he thinks his position is incidental to the BD, not at all important.'
'And why's that?'
'Why? Ask yourself: if you we
re in that chair, if you were Cynthia Powski, would you want it?'
'What kind of question is that?'
'An important one. Would you want it?'
'Fuck, no.'
'If Cynthia Powski were here right now, what do you think she would say?'
Samantha looked at him angrily. 'The same.'
'Exactly. Perhaps that's Neil's point. We all think we're free, that no matter what the circumstances, we can freely decide to do things differently. Neil's arguing otherwise. He's simply showing us what the brain is: a machine that generates behaviors which are either repeated or not depending on how the resulting environmental feedback stimulates its pleasure or pain systems. How can he do something against her will when there's no such thing?'
Samantha's eyes fell to her empty beer glass.
'Strike that,' Thomas said. 'He's going one better. He's demonstrating otherwise. He's committing a crime that proves that there's no such thing.'
'No such thing as what?'
Thomas raised his brows. 'Crime.'
'So what's wrong with him then? I mean in psychological terms, what's wrong with him?'
Staring at her, Thomas found himself wondering what it would be like to be her. Studies had shown that beautiful people lived happier, longer, and more successful lives. 'The halo effect', researchers called it. Because beauty generated positive social feedback, beautiful people tended to develop the positive attitudes that everyone from sales gurus to Baptist preachers associated with health, happiness, and success.
How many doors had Samantha Logan's beauty opened?
'But that's what I've been saying,' Thomas replied. 'It's conceivable there's nothing wrong with him.'
A thoughtful frown. 'Sure, but only because you know about this semantic apocalypse thing. Just pretend you're an average psychologist, someone unscarred by Skeat. What would you think?'
It was a good question. Thomas breathed deeply, glanced across the dim interior. More and more people were arriving, filling the silence that lurked at the bottom of all busy places.
'Well,' he began, 'obviously, I'd suppose Neil was suffering from some kind of antisocial personality disorder—I mean, only a psychopath could do what we saw this morning, right? After building a case history, though, I'd be troubled by the fact that Neil doesn't fit the standard profile for severe antisocials.'
'There's your wife,' Samantha said abruptly. 'That certainly fits the profile.'
'Just because all antisocials are bastards, doesn't mean all bastards are antisocials. No. As much as I would like to chalk this betrayal up to some kind of neurophysiological deficit, there has to be a pattern of some kind…'
He trailed, found himself blinking back the heat in his eyes. For a moment, he'd almost forgotten.
Neil and Nora.
'Sorry,' Samantha said.
Thomas pulled his hands into his lap, pretended to cough. He knew that he had to be careful. He could feel it, lurking like a scarcely suppressed alter-ego behind his words, his thoughts—the need to prove himself to this beautiful woman. But there was more to be wary of—far, far more. People chronically attributed emotions generated by their circumstances to the people they happened to find themselves with. Couples meeting for the first time on high suspension bridges reliably ranked their opposites as more exciting and attractive than couples meeting for the first time on a footpath. And this situation with Neil was nothing if not precarious.
'I'd also suppose he was suffering from some kind of extreme depersonalization disorder, either something—'
'What do you mean?' Samantha asked.
Thomas stared, tried to will away the buzz of excitement that seemed to hover around her. There was something about Samantha Logan. Klutzy and ambitious. Crude-talking and intelligent. Earnest and urbane. He tried to blink the shine from his eyes, to remind himself of the madness that encircled him. But there she was, front and center, humming with promise and focused entirely on him.
But then there was what Neil would say—and what Thomas-the-professor knew. Thanks to a potent blend of hardwiring and socialization, men were far more likely to read sexual cues where none were to be found. They constantly confused female attention for sexual interest. The sad truth was that false positives paid better reproductive dividends. Assuming that every woman wanted to jump your bones was just another way of covering your odds at the evolutionary craps table.
'I don't think,' Thomas finally said, 'Neil sees himself as a person anymore.'
Samantha crinkled her nose in disbelief. 'Not a person? Then what does he see himself as?'
'A brain. A brain among brains.'
'I'm having difficulty wrapping my head around this one.'
'I'm a philosopher, remember? It's all bullshit.'
'It's gotta be.'
Thomas looked down to his thumbs. 'If you think of a way out, be sure and let me know. I mean, I love my kids. I really love them. I don't think I knew what love meant until Ripley was born. And Frankie was double trouble. That simply has to mean something, doesn't it?'
Or is it just another lie? Like my marriage.
Samantha stared at him.
'What's wrong?' Thomas asked.
'Ah, nothing. It just didn't hit me until now.'
'What didn't hit you?'
'When you were going through the Argument and all that… I guess I just assumed there had to be some kind of catch. Some kind of trapdoor you weren't letting me in on. But there isn't, is there? I mean when you asked for… for a way out a couple of seconds ago, you really were asking, weren't you?'
'I suppose I was.'
Long silence. 'So what if he's right, Tom?'
'Neil?'
'Yeah, Neil. What if he wins his argument?'
Thomas shrugged. She looked like Nora, he thought. She looked like Nora when she was frightened.
'We should go,' Samantha said, rooting through her purse. She looked up and smiled girlishly. 'I'm barely fit to drive as it is. How about you? You okay?'
'I'll just take a cab home.'
'Home? The day's just beginning, professor. You're coming with me.'
Thomas smiled, more relieved than annoyed. The thought of returning home made him feel hollow. 'You think so, do you?'
'I know so,' she said to her purse. 'You need to tell Shelley all this.'
She stood abruptly and Thomas found himself following. There was something about her manner, a breezy certainty, that demanded he acquiesce. 'Tell me,' she said as they walked to her white Mustang, 'when was the last time you saw Neil Cassidy?'
And like that, the spell was broken. He was just another tool in her investigative kit, he realized, a way of nailing his best friend.
'About six months ago,' he inexplicably replied.
CHAPTER FIVE
August 17th, 1.54 p.m.
The lie nagged him so much the most he could do was stare out the windshield at the flash and glare of passing vehicles. Why hadn't he just told her the truth?
They think he's a serial killer, for Christ's sake!
And Nora was making love to him.
'Where are we going?' he asked numbly.
'Back into the city. To the Field Office.'
'Things will be crazy, I imagine,' he said lamely.
She cocked her head. 'Crazy?'
'You know, with the Chiropractor and all.' In these days of broadband it was rare for anything non-political to rise above the disjointed din of millions pursuing millions of different interests. The niche had become all-powerful. The Chiropractor story was a throwback in a sense, a flashback to the day when sitcoms or murders could provide people a common frame of reference, or at least something to talk about when polite questions gave out.
'Actually things will be quiet,' Sam replied. 'The NYPD's hosting the Chiropractor Task Force.'
Thomas said nothing, stared at two kids in SUNY sweatshirts waiting at a bus stop.
Tell her the truth! Neil's gone off his fucking rocker! You sensed it last night. You just
knew something was wrong. He could see them, Neil and Nora making love. He thought of her little 'yoga trick', the one they would laugh about on Sunday mornings. She had always been so hot, so frank with her lust. He could almost hear her whisper in his ear…
'So goooood… So good, Neil…'
His hands were shaking. He took a deep breath.
Tell her!
Sam was turning right on a street he didn't recognize. 'Are you sure you're okay, professor?'
'Call me Tom,' he replied, ignoring her question. 'Someone, either you or Agent Atta, said you were certain that Neil was responsible for what we saw on that BD. How? How do you know?'
His tone had been sharper than he'd intended.
Agent Logan glanced at him apprehensively. 'Ten weeks ago the NSA informed us that a low-level researcher of theirs, a neurologist, had gone AWOL. They gave us his name, his biometric data, and just asked us to keep an eye out, which we did as best we could.'
'Neil? But—'
'You thought he worked at Bethesda.' Sam shook her head.
Thomas had been about to say that Neil was far more than a low-level researcher. 'Bethesda was just his cover?'
'Bingo. So anyway, since the matter had been pitched as a potential espionage problem—and a low priority one at that, the case was given to the Counterintelligence Division. A week afterward, the Criminal Investigative Division caught a break in the Theodoros Gyges abduction… Did you ever hear about that?'
'Not much.' Thomas did know about Gyges—everyone did. In his short-lived activist days, Thomas had actually organized a boycott of one of the guy's New Jersey Target stores. 'Just the Post headline,' he said. '"Brain-damaged Billionaire," or something like that.'
'Exactly. Missing for two weeks, then he just pops up in Jersey, his head wrapped in bandages. Aside from some disorientation, he seems perfectly fine, until, that is, he's reunited with his wife.'
'What happened?'
'He doesn't recognize her. He remembers her, and everything else, perfectly, but he can't recognize her. According to the report, he demands that she stop impersonating his wife's voice, and when she continues pleading—she is his wife, after all—he freaks out and hospitalizes her. Big mess. The media would have loved it if their plates weren't already so full.