Sexual Chemistry and Other Tales of the Biotech Revolution. Brian Stableford

a more profound change in human affairs than he had intended or supposed.

      Wars were gradually petering out.

      Terrorism was on the decline.

      Violent crime was becoming steadily rarer.

      Oddly enough, these trends passed largely unnoticed by the world at large. The majority of people did not begin to wake up to the significance of it all until a much-advertised contest to settle the heavyweight boxing championship of the world was stopped in the third round when the weeping combatants realized that they could not bear to throw another punch, and left the ring together with their arms around one another’s shoulders.

      Because of these upheavals in the world’s routines, the clinical trials of Giovanni’s new hormones and enkephalins attracted a little less attention than they might have, but their outstanding success was still a matter for widespread celebration. In 2036 Giovanni was awarded a Nobel Peace Prize to set beside his earlier award, and there was some discussion about the possibility of making it the last prize of its kind, given that the world no longer seemed to require peacemakers. Once again, Giovanni became the darling of the world’s media. He was billed as a modern Prometheus, sometimes even as a modern Dionysus, who had brought into the world of men a divine fire more precious than any vulgar power-source.

      Giovanni was still embarrassed by these periodic waves of media exposure. He still felt very self-conscious about his physical appearance, and every time he saw his own picture on news-screen or in a videomag he blushed with the thought that half a billion viewers were probably saying to themselves: “He doesn’t look like a Casanova!” He was probably being oversensitive; nowadays it was his face and his achievements that were now called to the mind of the man in the street by the mention of the name Casanova; his ancient namesake had been eclipsed in the public consciousness.

      In addition, Giovanni no longer appeared to the unbiased eye to be as unprepossessing as he once had seemed. He was now graciously bald, and his bare pate was by no means as freakish as the tangled black hair that once had sprouted there. He still wore spectacles for his myopia, but corneal surgery had corrected his astigmatism, and his eyes now looked kind and soft behind the lenses, not at all distorted. His complexion was still poor, but his skin had been roughened and toughened by age and exposure to the elements, and its appearance was no longer offensive. His paleness and frailness could now be seen as appealing rather than appalling.

      He was startled the first time that he realized that a woman was using his own aphrodisiac technology upon him, and quickly jumped to the conclusion that she must be one of those people who used it on everyone, but he gradually became accustomed to the idea that he really was admired and desired. In time, the secretion of aphrodisiac sweat became subject to a new etiquette, whereby indiscriminate use was held to be in bad taste, and also to be unnecessary as it could now be taken for granted that everyone could love one another even without its aid.

      Politeness came to demand that a sophisticated and civilized person would use the Casanova secretion occasionally and discreetly, to signal a delicate expression of erotic interest with no offense to be taken if there was no response. As this new code of behavior evolved, Giovanni was surprised to find himself a frequent target for seduction, and for a while he reveled in sexual success. Many of the younger women, of course, were interested primarily in his wealth and status, but he did not mind that—he could, after all, claim responsibility for his status and wealth, which he had won by effort.

      Anyway, he loved them all. He loved everybody, and everybody loved him.

      It was that kind of a world, now.

      In this way, Giovanni Casanova succeeded at last in adapting to his name. He lived up to the reputation of his august namesake for a year or two, and then decided that the attractions of the lifestyle were overrated. He gladdened his mother’s heart by marrying again, and this time he chose a woman who was very like the earliest memories which he had of his mother. His new bride was named Janine. She had been born in Manchester, and she had embarked on a career in cosmetic cytogenics, which was the nearest thing to hairdressing that the world of 2036 could offer. She was much younger than Giovanni, but did not mind the age difference in the least.

      Giovanni and Janine favored one another constantly with the most delicate psychochemical strokings, and learned to play the most beautiful duets with all the ingenious hormonal instruments of Giovanni’s invention, but they also had a special feeling for one another—and eventually for their children—which went beyond mere chemistry and physiology: an affection which was entirely a triumph of the will. This was a treasure which, they both believed, could never have come out of one of Giovanni’s test tubes.

      With all these advantages, they were able to live happily ever after.

      And so was everybody else.

      BEDSIDE CONVERSATIONS

      “It’s not entirely unprecedented,” said the doctor, “but so far as I know, this is the first time it’s happened in the present medical context—which means, of course, that it poses a novel moral problem. I’ll have to refer it to the hospital’s Ethics Committee, of course, and they’ll want to interview you, but I’m certain that the essential decision will be left in your hands.”

      Gerald heard what was being said to him, but couldn’t find a sensible way to react to it. It was as though his thought-processes had seized up, leaving all the ideas in his head stuck fast, grinding against one another painfully as he tried to force them into motion again.

      Dr. McClelland waited politely for an answer, but when none came he repeated the last phrase, for the sake of emphasis. “In your hands,” he said, as though he were bestowing a favour.

      Gerald found his voice again. “What did you say it was called?” he asked.

      “Fetus in fetu. What happens, you see, is that the fertilized ovum divides, as it does when producing identical twins—but then one embryo develops faster than the other, growing around it. Usually, development of the engulfed embryo is simply suspended and never restarts; even in those cases where it does restart it rarely produces a perfect fetus.”

      “This has happened before, then?”

      “Oh yes. The first reported case was in the late nineteenth century, when the French surgeon Dupuytren found an apparently-entire fetus in the body of a thirteen-year-old boy. In England at a slightly later date Blundell tracked the development of a similar fetus in a nine-year-old, which was contained in a sac and connected to the abdominal wall by an umbilical cord. At thirty-one you might be the oldest person on record to have the problem, but you’re certainly not the first.”

      “What happened to the two boys?”

      “Those particular ones both died. But you needn’t worry about that, Mr. Duncan; this is the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth. You’re in no danger at all. The twentieth-century cases fared better. A surgeon named McIntyre operated to remove a similar fetus from an eleven-year-old boy in the 1920s; the boy made a full recovery. I found records of three later operations, all successful—but the last one was in 1992, before the first successful experiments in tissue-reconstruction.”

      Gerald found a lump in his throat, which he couldn’t quite contrive to swallow. He was possessed by a perverse mix of emotions. On the one hand, he was deeply relieved that the tumor had turned out not to be malign; on the other hand, he was horrified by the revelation that it wasn’t really a cancer tumor at all, but the phantom embryo of a twin brother he’d never had. He pressed his right hand to the bulge that was distending his abdomen to the side of his navel. Four months had passed since he first noticed the swelling—two since he had belatedly become anxious enough to seek medical advice.

      “How soon will you need to operate?” he asked, numbly.

      “It’s not as simple as that,” replied McClelland, patiently. “That’s what I’ve been trying to explain. It has to go to the Ethics Committee—but I really am certain that the final decision will be left to you.”

      “What decision?”

      “What will happen to the embryo,