by Ben Bova
“What treatment?”
“The treatment you and Dr. Ho have going up at Hopkins, the one where you fix the brains of people who think they’re ugly.”
“You think you’re ugly?”
“I know I’m ugly,” Rick replied. “My mother said so once.”
“Your mother—uh, never mind. Rick, that treatment is for people with body dysmorphic disorder. What’s this got to…” Chris’s expression changed. “This better not be about that girl.”
“I’m sure I could get over Mariel if only … I didn’t find her so damn attractive.”
“What are you saying?”
“The treatment. You adjust the part of the brain that perceives attractiveness—”
“The fusiform face area, yes.”
“—so that these people no longer see themselves as being somehow disfigured.”
“Right.”
“So…” Rick continued, “it must be possible to turn it around. Let’s say, you adjusted my brain so that … I won’t find Mariel attractive anymore.”
Chris didn’t answer for a moment. “That’s insane.”
“Why?”
Chris grabbed Rick’s mug, topping it up. “This is all the treatment you need.”
“I’m serious!”
“The procedure is experimental, and we’ve never done what you’re suggesting.”
“I know it’s experimental,” Rick said. “I’m willing to be a guinea pig. Hell, I’m sure you and Ho could get a good paper out of this.”
“Man, you are really screwed up.” Rick opened his mouth, but Chris held up his hand. “Sorry, I’m not trying to diminish your feelings. But this is way overkill for a broken heart, and there are significant potential risks here.”
“Like what?”
“Well, hypothetically … prosopagnosia.”
“What’s that?”
“Face blindness. The FFA is also the part of the brain that processes facial recognition. There’s a chance you could lose your ability to recognize people.”
Rick fell silent.
“Drink … your … beer…” Chris punctuated each word with a jab of his finger. “Women are supposed to outnumber men in DC, so do yourself a favor. Find another girlfriend!”
* * *
The rain was coming down hard. Rick had left his umbrella in the car. He grabbed a magazine, a month-old copy of Aviation Week, from a table before exiting the revolving door into the parking lot. Laptop bag in one hand and the magazine held over his head in the other, he made a dash for his car.
As he fumbled for his remote, he spotted two people leaving the Devcon building. It was Mariel, sharing an umbrella with Dan Ricardo, one of the division presidents. They jogged the short distance from the building to the reserved parking spot where Ricardo’s silver Jaguar sat. The lights of the Jag flashed, and Rick watched them open the doors and get in.
The Jag didn’t start right away. Rick saw them talking inside. Ricardo looked old. Mariel looked happy.
* * *
Rick and Chris sat at a table near the back of Clyde’s Restaurant in Georgetown, under a skylight from which models of World War I airplanes were hung. Along one wall was a large fireplace, while another was covered with travel posters from the Twenties and Thirties.
“I took Mariel here once,” Rick said.
Chris poked his appetizer with a fork, pretending not to hear.
Rick looked up. “I want it done.”
“Want what done?”
“The treatment,” Rick said. “I’m tired of seeing Mariel every day and being heartbroken. I can’t take this anymore.”
“The only treatment you need is to find a cuter dinner date than me.”
“Chris—”
“Get over her!”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is that simple.”
“You don’t—”
“Rick … grow up! I’m sick of hearing about this. Can we talk about anything else?”
“Some friend you are!”
“It’s an experimental procedure with significant risks.” Chris ticked off points on his fingers. “We’ve never done what you’re suggesting. There’s no way Barbara will go for this. Rick, we’re treating people with serious neurological disorders, not—guys fixated on … wacky women from Canada.”
“Spoken by you, who still has a thing for what’s her name … Adrienne, from undergrad?”
“Hey—”
“You have no idea how much this hurts!” Rick’s voice was rising. He looked around, and the other diners turned away, pretending not to hear. “To meet someone as beautiful as she is, to think you know this person … and then, suddenly, one day it’s like a switch is thrown, and she becomes someone else. And every day, every time I see her, I hope that maybe that switch will go back and she’ll be that sweet and wonderful woman I fell in love with again.”
Rick slumped in his chair. “The things I was going to do for her. Move to Canada, get a job in Vancouver…”
“Cook gluten-free food for her? Wake up beside her every morning and wonder if you’ve got Jekyll or Hyde for the day?”
They glared at each other. A waiter came and placed a pewter pitcher inscribed with the words REFINED WATER on the table. Neither man touched his food.
Finally, Chris spoke. “All right. I’ll talk to Barbara tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
“No, don’t thank me, because it’s not for you. It’s for me.” Chris waggled his fork. “I’m sick and tired of this girl and your moping. This’ll be worth it if it’ll make you shut up.”
Rick said nothing.
“Besides, you’re right about one thing.” Chris poured himself a glass of water. “I’m sure we’ll get a great paper out of this.”
* * *
The treatment went faster than Rick had expected. When he woke from sedation, only five hours had passed. Dr. Ho sent him away with a bottle of pills. “Retainers,” she called them. He was to take one daily until finished, by which time the changes to the neural pathways in his brain would become permanent.
A beige Buick station wagon with wood-panel sides, a relic from the Eighties, pulled up to the curb in front of the Wood Basic Science Building. Rick got in.
“Hey.”
“Yeah, hi.”
Rick had barely closed the door and was still fumbling with the seat belt when Chris put the car in motion. They turned left on to East Monument Street, then proceeded to the on-ramp for the Harbor Tunnel Throughway.
“How do you feel?” Chris asked.
“All right, I guess. But I have a bit of a headache.”
Chris looked surprised. “Really?”
As they approached the Fort McHenry Tunnel, Chris slowed the car and rolled down his window to drop some coins into the toll bin.
“Take an aspirin when you get home,” Chris suggested.
“Yeah, I think I’ll do that.”
They emerged from the tunnel and continued to Interstate 95. The dull buildings of Baltimore gradually gave way to the fields and farms of Howard County.
“Listen,” Chris said, “I’m sorry about that time at Clyde’s.”
“Well, I can see why you’d get sick of hearing about my issues with Mariel.”
“You went out to Vancouver last year to see her, didn’t you?” Chris asked.
“Yeah. What a disaster that was.”
“She did the Hyde thing up there too? Evil twin with the goatee from the Star Trek mirror universe?”
“You got it.”
“Was she gluten intolerant then?”
“No. She told me she’d taken a bad fall while doing kung fu and hit her head.”
Chris laughed. “I’m sorry!” He wiped his eye with a finger. “All I can say is, I would love to get this woman into our functional MRI. Now there’s a paper!”
Rick stared out the window at the passing countryside. “Speaking of papers, Dr. Ho wanted me to bug you about your thesis.”
“Consider me bugged.”
Chris stepped on the gas, and the car surged down the interstate.
* * *
There was a knock at the entrance to Rick’s cubicle. He looked up from his computer.
A young Indo-American man was there. Rick blinked.
“Hey, you gotta check this out,” the man said. “Davidson and Mariel are having some kind of screaming match in his office!”
After a moment, Rick recognized the voice as Sanjay’s.
He followed the man through a maze of cubicles. Davidson’s office was floor-to-ceiling glass on two sides with vertical blinds that were currently open. Sanjay and Rick could easily see inside, so they dared not get too close as the opposite was also true.
Mariel and Davidson were indeed in the office. At Rick and Sanjay’s distance they could hear little, but mouths were flapping and fingers were pointing. Rick could see some of the engineers closer to Davidson’s office cautiously prairie-dogging over their cubicle partitions.
Suddenly, the door flew open and Mariel shouted, “Fine! I’ll bring it up with Dan tonight!” She stormed out of the office and marched down the corridor.
Rick turned to the other man. He saw the other man, Sanjay, shrug his shoulders.
* * *
Time was running out.
The defender marking Rick was already at stall six. Rick had less than four seconds to pass the disc. He looked down field to the end zone. A blond woman had broken away from her defender and was running for the corner.
“… stall seven, stall eight…”
Rick had a clear line of sight to her. She was looking right at him. But he hesitated.
“… stall nine…”
Rick was unsure, unable to throw.
“… ten. Disc is dead!”
Rick handed the disc to the opposing player, who tapped it into play. He had barely started counting stalls when his opponent threw a long hammer downfield toward a teammate in the other end zone. The throw was completed, and the opposing team scored.
As Rick walked off the field, the blond jogged up to him.
“What the hell was that?” she demanded. “I was going for the corner! Why didn’t you pass to me?”
“Knock it off, Cassie,” said another woman.
The woman named Cassie pointed at Rick. “He was looking right at me and did nothing! It’s like he didn’t know I was there.”
“Well, maybe if you wore an orange shirt like the rest of us you might be easier to see,” the other woman shot back.
“Why do you defend him, Jill? He’s sucked all season.”
“Hey!” A male voice chimed in. “Knock it off, both of you.”
The woman named Cassie stormed off to get water. The other woman, Jill, looked at Rick with an apologetic expression.
Rick turned to the third speaker. After a moment, he said, “Thanks … Chris.”
* * *
The Devcon cafeteria was serving tuna casserole. It was vile. A strange stench wafted from the plate. It was uneatable, so Rick didn’t eat it.
He confronted the cook, a short middle-aged man with scrawny arms covered with tattoos who wore a small white apron and a silly, misshapen toque. His name tag read BOBBY MAC, CHEF DE CUISINE. Rick was convinced the cook was a parolee.
“I want a refund,” Rick said.
“Why, sir?” Bobby Mac exclaimed brightly, a toothy grin plastered on his gaunt face.
“There’s a weird smell. I can’t eat it.”
“But it’s tuna, sir!” said the beaming Bobby Mac, as if it were an explanation.
After further negotiation, Rick got his money back. But he had lost his appetite. He looked at his watch and decided to return to his desk.
As he walked through the seating area of the cafeteria, he passed a table where a young woman was sitting alone.
“Rick!”
She got up and approached him.
“Hello,” Rick said.
“Oh, Rick,” she said, “I’ve been here for months but haven’t spent any time with you.”
“That’s … all right.”
“I haven’t talked to you.” She added, “I’ve been having many gluten attacks.”
“You’ve been very busy, I’m sure,” Rick said carefully.
“You need to find me. Yell out to me. Grab me by the shoulders.” Her speech quickened with each sentence.
“I don’t want to do that,” Rick said.
“You are upset,” she continued, her voice staccato, “because I am pretending with the others but being honest with you. It is easy to pretend. It’s hard to be honest.”
Rick had no idea what she was trying to say.
Suddenly, she threw her arms around him. Startled, Rick paused before returning the embrace. She held him for several long moments, gently running her fingers down his back.
Just for a moment, Rick felt a familiar frisson.
“I have to go,” he finally said.
Rick let go of her hand, turned around, and headed for the exit. He walked slowly, as if waiting for someone to join him. When he got to the door, he was still alone. He put his badge against the card reader.
The door opened.
Rick walked through, and he did not look back.
* * *
The phone rang several times before Chris picked up.
“Rick, what’s up?”
“There’s something wrong with me.”
“So what else is new?”
“I’m serious, man!” Rick gripped the phone tighter. “I’ve been having trouble recognizing people.”
There was a pause. “Say again?”
“People at work, people on the team … it’s like it takes me a second or two to see who it is. And then I bumped into Mariel at work yesterday.”
“And?”
“And I felt … nothing,” Rick said, a part of him knowing it wasn’t quite true. “It was like she was a stranger.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Make an appointment for me to see Dr. Ho again, right away!”
“I’ll try to get ahold of Barbara, but she’s out of town until next week.”
“Well, there’s got to be someone else in the lab who might be able to—”
“It would be best to wait for Barbara to get back.” There was a pause. “Listen, Rick … our game this afternoon, it’s at the Reflecting Pool fields, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Meet me at Foggy Bottom Metro an hour before the game.”
* * *
Chris and Rick rode the escalator out of the Foggy Bottom Metro station. As they emerged at street level, the entrance to the George Washington University Hospital appeared to their left.
“Think anybody in there can help me?” Rick asked.
“Sure,” Chris replied. “There’s lots of cute girls at G.W.”
“This isn’t funny!” Rick snapped.
“Sorry,” Chris said. “Look, I’ve spoken with Barbara. She can see you next week.”
They walked south down 23rd Street NW, and as they passed the State Department, the Lincoln Memorial, resembling a Greek temple with its limestone and marble faces and fluted Doric columns, came into view. They followed the throng of tourists making their way around the ring road to the front steps of the memorial.
“Hey, the fields are that way.” Rick pointed to the south side of the Reflecting Pool.
“We have time.” Chris jerked his thumb at the memorial. “Let’s have a look.”
“At Lincoln?” Rick asked. “Why?”
“Indulge me.”
Puzzled, Rick followed Chris up the steps to the front portico. Dodging tourists, they walked past the massive Doric columns into the central hall, finding themselves before the sculpture of the seated Lincoln. The marble visage of the sixteenth president gazed unblinking toward the ivory needle of the Washington Monument in silent, benevolent contemplation.
Chris pointed. “The man was hideous, wasn’t he?”
; “What?” The chatter of tourists echoed loudly through the hall. Rick was sure he’d not heard right.
“Abe,” Chris repeated. “He was one ugly dude.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I read that one of his political opponents once accused him of being two-faced. You know what he said?”
“I have no idea.”
“He said, ‘If I were two-faced, do you think I would be wearing this one?’”
“What’s your point?” Rick asked.
Chris turned back to the sculpture. “During his lifetime, Lincoln was widely regarded as ugly. But later on … well, what do you think of when you see Lincoln?”
Rick shrugged. “Emancipation Proclamation. Brought the country together after the Civil War. Is this a quiz?”
“Do you think he’s ugly?”
“No, I don’t think Abraham Lincoln is ugly!”
Chris nodded. “President Lincoln’s physical features are beloved, not because of their physical qualities, but because of what they stand for.”
“What’s your point?” Rick asked.
“I worked on an interesting study when I was doing my masters at Wisconsin-Madison. We got the university’s ultimate team together and asked them to rate each other on physical attractiveness. Then we got some strangers to rate the team members, but based only on photographs. You know what we found?”
Rick shook his head.
“There was a tight-ass on the team, a Cassie Clarke type, that every other member of the team rated as ugly, even though I thought she was kind of cute myself. She’s actually the reason I got into ultimate, but that’s another story. Anyway, there was another woman, one of the team leaders, who was rated most beautiful by her peers. But the strangers rated the other woman more attractive on the basis of the pictures.
“Later on, we put some of the volunteers in a functional MRI, and it confirmed the results at the neurological level. The brain processes attractiveness differently when the person knows nonphysical traits of the other person that are unknown or invisible to strangers. Nonphysical factors are crucial to the subconscious assessment of beauty.”
Rick waited for Chris to continue.
“So, it turns out the old saying was right all along. Beauty is a hell of a lot more than skin deep, and now we know there’s an actual neurological basis behind it.”
Chris looked his friend in the eye. “Rick, we never gave you the treatment.”