"How about you, Doctor? Boyfriend?"
"Not exactly."
He walks over to the machine. “What is it you're looking for? Love?"
"Sort of."
He moves closer. “What does love look like?"
I imagine it. Dendrites and neuro-pathways lighting up. Snowflakes building . . . melting.
He is too close, looking at me now, not the machine. “You think maybe you've found it?"
I turn away, embarrassed. “Please leave."
"What? What'd I do?"
"I'm not a test subject."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It means I'm not interested."
* * * *
She comes in with black hair tangled around her shoulders and an attitude to match. The first thing I hear is her gum.
"You pay?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"They didn't renew my grant."
"Don't you know that's what separates us from them? People get paid. Guinea pigs don't."
I feel myself smile. “You're in it for love and money, huh?"
She shakes her head. “Nope. Just money."
Sadness swells through me as I notice a butterfly tattoo on her left ankle, the wings green, blue, and purple—colors that, on a scan, would mean inactivity.
"How do you know it's not just lust?” she adds.
"I take both single people and people who are in committed—"
"Bring in a john."
I stand there with my mouth open, like an idiot.
"You think of that?” She comes closer. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe the variable you think you're measuring isn't there at all?"
I feel my face redden. She is not stupid, not uneducated. “Where do you go to school?"
She snaps her gum. “Here.” Her gaze is hard, accentuated by black liner circling two piercingly blue eyes. “I'm going for my Ph.D. in physical education.” She grins. “Get it?"
"Huh?"
"Physical education?” She raises a wry brow. “Nevermind. You professor types think you're smart, but really—"
"I want you as a part of my study."
"Your study? If I participate, wouldn't it be our study?"
"Okay. Whatever you say. Are you in or out?"
She smiles. “In. This ought to be entertaining."
* * * *
"You want tongue or no tongue?"
I turn and there she is with a man, green-eyed and quiet.
"This is John.” She giggles. “Get it?” Then she kisses him, open-mouthed, gum and all.
"Uh..."
She turns and smiles. “Want to catch it on that machine of yours?"
"You know, this isn't exactly—"
She walks up to me. “It is exactly.” She grins. “You want to know what love is, I'll show you."
My gut tightens. This isn't love. “What's your name again?"
"Karla."
"Karla, I don't think this is such a good—"
"Wait.” She winks, a dare, climbing into the machine. “Turn it on."
I do, and I watch. Their brains, like twin stars, each pulling on the other, light up. My heart sinks. So it all looks the same.
She climbs out, still grinning. “What'd you think?"
"You looked happy."
"Happy?"
I print the image, hand it to her. “All that yellow . . .” I catch her gaze, want to say that's love, only it isn't.
"So, that's us.” She looks at me. “What's it mean?"
"It means you like each other."
"Just like?” She raises an eyebrow.
I catch his gaze, his eyes sea-foam green. “You're . . . stimulated."
She snorts.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Karla and . . .” Whatever his real name might be. I look at him and can't stop looking.
"Trevor,” he says, taking my hand. His grip is firm, confident.
"You two are free to go."
"So that's it?"
I catch the dumbstruck expression on Karla's face. “Yeah, that's it."
"I thought this was a study on love."
"It is."
She stands there, momentarily taken aback. “No wonder you didn't get your grant."
* * * *
I dream about him. Ocean Eyes. I wonder what it might be like to be in Karla's place. In the dream, he has a slightly European accent—German, maybe. Or Dutch. But my father's eyes were blue. Blue, flecked with gold. Eyes of sky, not of sea. Trevor is the same age my father was when he left, but he isn't my father. Maybe that's the appeal.
Is he really a john? And why is it that her brain lights up when he's nothing more than a stranger?
As soon as I'm fully awake, I call her.
She answers, groggily. “Yeah?"
"Karla?"
"Yeah? Who the hell's this?"
"This is Dr.—"
"Julie? You wanted me to call you Julie, remember?” Her voice gets harder, louder. “Do you know what time it is?"
I glance at my watch, the digital numerals reading 5:24. “I, I'm sorry, look, I just need you to come back in—you and . . . Trevor."
"I thought you were done with love.” But her voice is no longer harsh.
"Not yet."
"Well, then . . .” I imagine her bounding out of bed. “What are we waiting for?"
* * * *
She doesn't bring Trevor. This time she arrives with a different guy, younger, with wild, unruly hair a generation out of date. “This one's really John,” she says. “Yesterday, Trevor filled in. John had a gig."
John meets my stare. He's clad in stained blue jeans and a black tee. Karla matches. They are casual, sloppy, love all that seems to matter. But how is it possible? And why the hell, after bringing Trevor in yesterday, is she flaunting it to John?
The machine gives strange readings. There's heat, but not in the right places. They're going at each other with apparent passion, and the pleasure centers of their brains are nicely lit up, but there's way too much going on in the cortex, and something else I haven't even begun to figure out by the time they unclench.
I let her see the new scan, with its bursts of yellow, red, green, and blue. To her, it must look like yesterday's. “See,” she says to John. “I told you you'd be good."
"Huh?” Something about Karla always reduces me to monosyllables. “How'd you two meet?"
She glances at him sidelong, grinning wickedly. “You mean, am I really a working girl? Sure, who isn't? But not that kind."
"What kind are you?"
"Student. Pre-med for a while. These days I'm more into theater. That's how I know John, though he's mostly a musician."
"What about Trevor?"
"Nosy, aren't you?"
I reach for my clipboard. “Background."
"Yeah, right.” She unwraps a wad of Bazooka, pops it in her mouth and works her jaws. Dramatically, I now realize. I should be angry, but mostly I'm remembering the dream. “Trevor's a playwright,” she says eventually. “He and I were an item a year or so ago, but he's a bit too traditional.” She pops the gum, loudly, with authority. “He's one hell of a kisser, though. That was never a problem."
By this time, she's out of the machine, heading for the door. They're already in the hallway when she turns, and with perfect timing, drops a parting shot. “By the way, John's gay."
* * * *
For an hour after they've left, I seethe. I don't like being played for a fool. But eventually I pull up the scan and study it. All that activity in the cerebral cortex? I bet that's the part of their brains they use when acting. It's stronger in John, maybe because he had the tougher role. His performance was certainly good enough to fool me. The other stuff? Maybe that's what you get when you're secretly laughing at someone.
I flick the scan off again. I really don't like being played for a fool.
But I remember Karla's enthusiasm when I called her back. Deep inside, she's curious. Maybe it's just about the scanner; ov
er the years, most of my subjects have been fascinated by it. That's why I give them printouts as souvenirs. But maybe she too is curious about love. She'd never admit it, but she's wounded too, or she'd never have played out this little charade of johns and Trevors. Unless, of course, she's practicing a role. Hooker with a heart of . . . well, not gold. More like diamonds in the rough.
Not that it matters. I think back on the waiver I make all my study participants sign. There's not much risk to the scanner, but I'd written the thing pretty broadly. Maybe it's time to take this to the next step.
* * * *
Getting her back in is as easy as I'd hoped it would be. “Can you bring in both John and Trevor?” I ask.
"Ooh, getting kinky, aren't we?"
I sigh. “Not at the same time."
"Aw, what's the fun in that? Who do you want first?"
"Doesn't matter."
* * * *
It turns out to be John. She'd wanted to come right away but I'd stalled because I needed a few days to prepare.
"Good,” I say when they arrive. “This time I'm going to want you to kiss three times."
"Only three?
"You can have as long as you want on each."
Karla's grin is wolfish.
"Within reason."
The first is a baseline. Similar results as before, though with less of the odd stuff I presume to be humor. Maybe the joke is wearing thin.
"Great,” I say and let them climb out. “Let's let you catch your breaths a bit. “Want anything to eat? Coffee? Sandwich?"
For once she doesn't have gum. “Nah. Got a big audition next week. Gotta starve."
I poured myself a cup of coffee. If my nerves show, I can blame it on the caffeine. “Okay, now we're going to test the effect of personal hygiene."
"Excuse me?"
"Well, if you'd eaten the lunch, you'd have found it full of onions, pepperoni, garlic, and stuff like that. Since you didn't, we'll have to try it this way.” I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a couple of small glasses, capped with Saran Wrap.
Karla peeled off the lid and took a sniff. “Ew! What's that?"
"Juice.” Straight from Carl's old health-food juicer, which he'd never bothered to retrieve and I'd never gotten around to taking to Goodwill. The lab's not the only place that accumulates junk. “No calories. Just the good stuff.” The two concoctions are slightly different so they'll each get the full impact of the other's breath. “Bottoms up."
When they're done, I have them kiss again. Not surprisingly, the starburst is less intense, with some previously unnoticed activity, largely in the olfactory centers. It isn't a truly legitimate test because, other than the olfactory stuff, it might just mean the novelty is wearing off. But the next step is the one that matters.
"Now, let's see what happens when you freshen up a bit.” I hand them each a small spray bottle. “Breath freshener.” Which is partly true. Nice minty taste and all that. But the real show is in the chemicals behind the mint. Oxytocin. Testosterone. Estrogen. Epinephrine. A few others I suspect might play roles: excitement, stimulation, pair bonding—the whole shebang.
They'd never climbed out of the machine, and the scanner is quick enough to catch an image, even though they're not holding all that still. A bit blurry, but enough to see their brains light up like firecrackers. The epinephrine hits first, then there's a petal-like unfolding as the others kick in behind it. You can feel it happen—I tried it at home—but it's mild enough I was sure they'd put it down to the mint. How do they describe mouthwash in ads? Bracing, or something like that. Some of the rush I'm seeing is simply that. But hopefully, I've also primed them enough for the next kiss to be . . . interesting.
And from the looks of the scanner, it appears to have worked. John pulls back, startled, but Karla's the type who lives for the moment, so she won't let him go. This time the kiss lasts five minutes, and I don't intervene, as the starburst blossoms then fades.
"Wow,” Karla says. “What was that stuff?"
I hold up a bottle of Scope. “Mouthwash."
"Huh. Guess I don't know everything after all.” She's oddly subdued and for a moment I feel guilty. Then I remind myself that they fooled me first. I feel a bit more guilty about John; if the kiss was as potent as the scanner indicated, he might be having a crisis of sexual identity. But like Karla, he brought it on himself. Whatever he's feeling will be short lived, anyway.
They climb out of the machine, holding hands. But Karla is already reverting to her old self. “That was fun,” she says. “When's the encore?"
"Excuse me?"
"When do I come back? With Trevor? Or anyone else? I know a lot of guys."
But suddenly, I'm remembering my father. Before he left, back in the good years, he dabbled in magic. Even then I knew he wasn't very good, but the first time he did a card trick he was good enough to fool me. But he could never resist doing it over, and by the second or third time, I always got him. It was a bit of a game, where from his point of view losing was also winning. I saw that Daddy! You can't fool me! But it wouldn't be the same for Karla. She'd bring her own mouthwash or maybe some kind of breath-freshening gum and when that didn't have the same impact, it would be like me spotting my father's badly palmed card.
"I don't think that's necessary,” I say.
"Why not?"
"I found what I was looking for.” It's probably the biggest lie I've ever told in my life. In addition to my father's magic, I've also remembered that Karla and Trevor were once an “item.” John will figure out soon enough that today was an aberration. But Karla and Trevor must once have shared kisses that were the real thing. Rekindle that, and they might decide to replay the relationship that hadn't worked a year ago. I wasn't sure which bothered me more, the fact I had no right to do this to them or the fear that this time it might work out.
Karla drops John's hand, approaches me. She's close enough for me to see flecks of darker blue in her light-blue eyes. “You're scared, aren't you? Why?"
For every step I take back, she takes another forward. “I'm not scared."
"Sure you are."
"No I'm not."
She snorts and turns to leave “Liar."
"Wait.” My words surprise me. “I need Trevor's contact information. I'm not sure I know how to reach him except through you."
She snorts again. “Yeah. Gotta have the background.” But she rattles off a phone number and I write it down without knowing what I'm writing, as though my fingers, my brain, have gone numb. I imagine it on a scanner. Blues and greens. Ocean hues.
* * * *
I dream about him again that night. Every time I drift off, I see those sea-green eyes. The next day, I power up the scanner. Climb in and think about him. But the scan tells me nothing. Lots of activity, but no pattern I've seen before. Confusion, in other words, which is pretty much what I'm feeling.
I finger the spray bottle, then figure what the heck and give it a whirl. Everything sparks up, but it's not like Karla and John. Not like anything. Just me and a fantasy. A man who might as well be in Europe.
On the third day, I call him. My hands shake. My mouth is dry. I hear it ring on his end, anticipate his voice.
"Hello?"
"Trevor?"
"Speaking."
"It's Dr.—Julie."
"Dr. Julie?"
"Sorry. It's Julie."
"Uh . . . hi."
"Can you come back in?” I swallow. “Alone?"
"Why?"
"I have some questions for you. I sometimes need to interview subjects separately."
"Oh."
"Does this afternoon work?"
"Sure."
"How's one o'clock?"
"Fine by me. See you then."
I set down the phone, trembling again. I've got enough spray for one more test. Then, if I want more, it'll be another week in the chemistry lab.
* * * *
He arrives ten minutes early, in dirty khakis and a green polo that m
atches his eyes. I see his shadow first, lingering in the hall, not wanting to interrupt.
I swallow. “Trevor?"
The shadow turns into a man. In the dim light, his face seems young, unlined. I think of my mother and the way she aged, the way her hurt stole the softness from her face and made her sadder, so I could see it even when she tried to forget.
He walks in, smiles. If there's hurt there, I can't see it. “So..."
I take a breath. “I made some coffee. Would you like a cup?"
"Thanks, but I don't drink coffee."
"Me, I live on the stuff.” The corner market, in fact, makes a brew they call Ultra-Extreme Super Jolt. I don't think they sell much: it tastes like reagent-grade caffeine mixed with burned cork. It does the job, but I know better than to offer it to others. At the moment, I've got a thermos of Kenya's best.
I pour myself a cup, and try to get to the point—try to pretend there really is a point. “Karla can be a bit . . . enigmatic."
"You don't say?” The smile touches his eyes and it's all I can do to keep my train of thought.
"Is she really an actress?"
"Yes. And I'm really a playwright. Though that's not my only job. I'm also a sail maker."
"A what?"
"I make sails. For boats. Down near Shilshole Bay. It's what, in my field, they call a day job."
"And the two of you?"
"We gave it a go, but she's a long way from being ready to settle down. I'm not sure why I let her talk me into this. She gets these goofy ideas, and then you're in, up to your eyebrows, wondering what you're doing."
I check my clipboard, trying to figure out how, earlier, I'd gotten so rattled I never even asked him the most basic questions. “How old are you?"
"Older than I look. I still get carded all the time. I actually collected a degree in mechanical engineering before I quit the corporate rat race. Some of it comes in handy, though, working with boats.” He's looking at me oddly. “I'm forty-one. And you?"
"Thirty-seven."
"This isn't about science, is it?"
It hadn't been about science since I'd lost my grant. Maybe for some time before that. If it had been, I'd have remembered to have him fill out the damn intake form before we'd started. If it had been, I'd have had no excuse to call him back.
Analog SFF, April 2010 Page 10