'But it is, Goodbook. Desires arise from the deepest of the brain's mechanisms. It's like plastic surgery. There's what? Five high-production channels entirely devoted to plastic surgery on the web now? Evolution has hardwired us to assess the fitness of prospective mates in terms of visual appearances. Once our tools and techniques allow us to manipulate skin and bone, desire does the rest. The old taboos are gradually rinsed away, and before you know it, the cosmetic surgery industry is producing a quarter of the country's bio-waste, and makeovers require bone-saws instead of dainty little pencils and brushes. Where once we used to paint ourselves to conform to desire, now we recarve ourselves. Same with designer babies. Or gene-doping in sports. You name it. Neuromanipulation. Neurocosmetic surgery. Are you telling me you don't think it's inevitable?'

Thomas glared at him, breathing evenly. 'No. I'm telling you I don't think it's right.'

Neil shrugged. 'If you mean that most people would disapprove, then you're correct.' He had looked away while saying this. Now his eyes flashed dark and menacing. 'But why should I give a fuck?'

Thomas belted down another shot, not because he wanted it, but because it seemed safer than replying. It was funny how easily a lifetime of learning could be forgotten, how all the layers of sophistication could be stripped away, leaving a wounded boy, a hurt and mystified friend.

'Have you an arm like God?' Neil suddenly asked, obviously quoting something. He laughed.

'I don't understand.'

'It's his program,' Neil had said. 'So why not just enjoy the ride?'

Booze was never a good thing when having conversations like this. The content came through loud and clear; it was the emotional significance that was filtered. Booze had a way of making sharp things fuzzy and fuzzy things sharp.

'Why tell me this now?' Thomas asked.

'Because,' Neil said, reapplying his mischievous smile, 'I've quit.'

'But…' Thomas paused. Suddenly it dawned on him that Neil was doing far more than breaking a nondisclosure agreement, or even committing a felony for that matter. This stuff had to be classified—which meant his friend was committing treason. They were treading water in the deep end of the pool.

Death-penalty deep.

'Just like that?' Thomas asked.

'Just like that.'

'I didn't think they let you guys quit.'

'No. They don't.'

'But they're making an exception for you.'

Another smile, a second coat of mischievousness. He ran a finger along a dark braid in the couch's upholstery. 'They have no choice.'

'No choice,' Thomas repeated, looking with dread at the brimming shot of whiskey before him. 'Why?'

'Because I've covered my bases,' Neil replied. 'I've been planning this for a long time.'

Despite the booze, Thomas suddenly felt very alert. Something told him he needed to be careful.