The next haircut was wavy, and Lisa said: “That’s more like it. But I think he had a part.”
The next was curly. “Better still,” Lisa said. “This is better than the last one. But the hair is too dark.”
Mish said: “After we’ve looked at them all, we’ll come back to the ones you liked and pick the best. When we have the whole face we can carry on improving it using the retouch feature: making the hair darker or lighter, moving the part, making the whole face older or younger.”
Jeannie was fascinated, but this was going to take an hour or more, and she had work to do. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “Are you okay, Lisa?”
“I’m fine,” Lisa said, and Jeannie could tell it was the truth. Maybe it would be better for Lisa to get involved in hunting the man down. She caught Mish’s eye and saw a flash of triumph in her expression. Was I wrong, Jeannie wondered, to be hostile to Mish and defensive of Lisa? Mish was certainly
“I’ll call you,” Jeannie said to her.
Lisa hugged Jeannie. “I can’t thank you enough for staying with me,” she said.
Mish held out her hand and said: “Good to meet you.”
Jeannie shook hands. “Good luck,” she said. “I hope you catch him.”
“So do I,” said Mish.
6
STEVE PARKED IN THE LARGE STUDENT PARKING LOT IN THE southwest corner of the hundred-acre Jones Falls campus. It was a few minutes before ten o’clock, and the campus was thronged with students in light summer clothes on their way to the first lecture of the day. As he walked across the campus he looked out for the tennis player. The chances of seeing her were slender, he knew, but he could not help staring at every tall dark-haired woman to see if she had a nose ring.
The Ruth W. Acorn Psychology Building was a modern four-story structure in the same red brick as the older, more traditional college buildings. He gave his name in the lobby and was directed to the laboratory.
In the next three hours he underwent more tests than he could have imagined possible. He was weighed, measured, and fingerprinted. Scientists, technicians, and students photographed his ears, tested the strength of his grip, and assessed his startle reflex by showing him pictures of burn victims and mutilated bodies. He answered questions about his leisure-time interests, his religious beliefs, his girlfriends, and his job aspirations. He had to state if he could repair a doorbell, whether he considered himself well groomed, would he spank his children, and did certain music make him think of pictures or changing color patterns. But no one fold him why he had been selected for the study.
He was not the only subject. Also around the lab were two little girls and a middle-aged man wearing cowboy boots, blue jeans, and a western shirt. At midday they all gathered in a lounge with couches and a TV, and had pizza and Cokes for lunch. It was then Steve realized there were in fact two middle-aged men in cowboy boots: they were twins, dressed the same.
He introduced himself and learned that the cowboys were Benny and Arnold and the little girls were Sue and Elizabeth. “Do you guys always dress the same?” Steve asked the men as they ate.
They looked at each other, then Benny said: “Don’t know. We just met.”
“You’re twins, and you just met?”
“When we were babies we were both adopted—by different families.”
“And you accidentally dressed the same?” “Looks like it, don’t it?”
Arnold added: “And we’re both carpenters, and we both smoke Camel Lights, and we both have two kids, a boy and a girl.”
Benny said: “Both girls are called Caroline, but my boy is John and his is Richard.”
Arnold said: “I wanted to call my boy John, but my wife insisted on Richard.”
“Wow,” Steve said. “But you can’t have inherited a taste for Camel Lights.”
“Who knows?”
One of the little girls, Elizabeth, said to Steve: “Where’s your twin?”
“I don’t have one,” he replied. “Is that what they study here, twins?”
“Yes.” Proudly she added: “Sue and me are dizygotic.”
Steve raised his eyebrows. She looked about eleven. “I’m not sure I know that word,” he said gravely. “What does it mean?”
“We’re not identical. We’re fraternal twins. That’s why we don’t look the same.” She pointed at Benny and Arnold. “They’re monozygotic. They have the same DNA. That’s why they’re so alike.”
“You seem to know a lot about it,” Steve said. “I’m impressed.”
“We’ve been here before,” she said.
The door opened behind Steve, and Elizabeth looked up and said: “Hello, Doctor Ferrami.”
Steve turned and saw the tennis player.
Her muscular body was hidden beneath a knee-length white laboratory coat, but she moved like an athlete as she walked into the room. She still had the air of focused concentration that had been so impressive on the tennis court. He stared at her, hardly able to believe his luck.
She said hello to the little girls and introduced herself to the others. When she shook Steve’s hand she did a double take. “So you’re Steve Logan!” she said.
“You play a great game of tennis,” he said.
“I lost, though.” She sat down. Her thick, dark hair swung loosely around her shoulders, and Steve noticed, in the unforgiving light of the laboratory, that she had one or two gray hairs. Instead of the silver ring she had a plain gold stud in her nostril. She was wearing makeup today, and the mascara made her dark eyes even more hypnotic.
She thanked them all for giving up their time in the service of scientific inquiry and asked if the pizzas were good. After a few more platitudes she sent the girls and the cowboys away to begin their afternoon tests.
She sat close to Steve, and for some reason he had the feeling she was embarrassed. It was almost as if she were about to give him bad news. She said: “By now you’re wondering what this is all about.”
“I guessed I was picked because I’ve always done so well in school.”
“No,” she said. “True, you score very high on all intellectual tests. In fact, your performance at school understates your abilities. Your IQ is off the scale. You probably come top of your class without even studying hard, am I right?”
“Yes. But that’s not why I’m here?”
“No. Our project here is to ask how much of people’s makeup is predetermined by their genetic inheritance.” Her awkwardness vanished as she warmed to her subject. “Is it DNA that decides whether we’re intelligent, aggressive, romantic, athletic? Or is it our upbringing? If both have an influence, how do they interact?”
“An ancient controversy,” Steve said. He had taken a philosophy course at college, and he had been fascinated by this debate. “Am I the way I am because I was born like it? Or am I a product of my upbringing and the society I was raised in?” He recalled the catchphrase that summed up the argument: “Nature or nurture?”
She nodded, and her long hair moved heavily, like the ocean. Steve wondered how it felt to the touch. “But we’re trying to resolve the question in a strictly scientific way,” she said. “You see, identical twins have the same genes—exactly the same. Fraternal twins don’t, but they are normally brought up in exactly the same environment. We study both kinds, and compare them with twins who are brought up apart, measuring how similar they are.”
Steve was wondering how this affected him. He was also wondering how old Jeannie was. Seeing her run around the tennis court yesterday, with her hair hidden in a cap, he had assumed she was his age; but now he could tell she was nearer thirty. It did not change his feelings about her, but he had never before been attracted to someone so old.
She went on: “If environment was more important, twins raised together would be very alike, and twins raised apart would be quite different, regardless of whether they were identical or fraternal. In fact we find the opposite. Identical twins resemble one another, regardless of who raised them. Indeed, identical twins raised apart
