He looked again at the nudibranchs. Their cerata, the burnt-orange respiratory structures that lined their purple bodies like the fringe of a gaudy shawl and that gave Flabellina iodinea its common name, swayed in the current made by the tank’s pump. Ben envied their passionless exchange of genetic material. There was nothing of love or desire in it, only the meeting of a common need. The nudibranch’s attractions were purely chemical, and although there was no way to know for sure, Ben was certain that rarely did the question of sexual orientation arise in their minds.

Not that it would matter, he reminded himself. They’re hermaphroditic. This, of course, was their saving grace. Humans, too, would be better off having both sets of reproductive organs. In addition to simplifying procreation, he thought, it would render moot all of the fuss and bother about the nature of desire.

You’re stalling. Carol had returned, throwing at him another of her frequent complaints. Stop trying to compare yourself to a slug.

Ben ignored her. He was thinking of other creatures for whom sexuality was meaningless. There was, of course, the infamous sheephead, as well as various snails, shrimps, and seahorses. They were capable of self-fertilization or, in some instances, even changing gender as it became necessary. Perhaps he was like that as well, somehow neither one thing nor another.

Oh, for Christ’s sake, Carol said. You’re a man, Ben. Either you want to sleep with this guy or you don’t. Which is it?

“I don’t know!” Ben said angrily. “I don’t know, all right?”

“Ben?”

Ben turned to see Angela watching him, a look of concern on her face. “Are you okay?” she asked.

No, Ben thought. I’m not at all okay. I don’t know what I am.

“Just trying to work something out,” he told Angela.

“Well, maybe this will cheer you up,” she said. She held out a magazine. “I found that article I was telling you about, the one about the cytotoxic properties of Adalaria loveni. They’re found in the North Sea, but I bet they’re similar in structure to our Adalaria. It might be something to explore.”

Ben took the magazine and looked briefly at the article. “They’re calling the triterpenoid ‘lovenone,’ ” he said.

“Maybe it destroys the capacity for romance,” Angela joked. “We could sell it as the anti-Viagra.”

Ben set the magazine down. “Thanks for finding this,” he said. “I’ll take a look at it later.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Angela said.

“No,” Ben told her. “Your thinking is right on. It’s making those connections that’s hard for most people. With you, it comes naturally.”

“Nobel Prize, here I come,” said Angela. She stood up. “I’d better get back to Rhodes,” she said. “I promised he could come with me on a dive later. That’s okay, right?”