'Exactly. Perhaps that's Neil's point. We all think we're free, that no matter what the circumstances, we can freely decide to do things differently. Neil's arguing otherwise. He's simply showing us what the brain is: a machine that generates behaviors which are either repeated or not depending on how the resulting environmental feedback stimulates its pleasure or pain systems. How can he do something against her will when there's no such thing?'

Samantha's eyes fell to her empty beer glass.

'Strike that,' Thomas said. 'He's going one better. He's demonstrating otherwise. He's committing a crime that proves that there's no such thing.'

'No such thing as what?'

Thomas raised his brows. 'Crime.'

'So what's wrong with him then? I mean in psychological terms, what's wrong with him?'

Staring at her, Thomas found himself wondering what it would be like to be her. Studies had shown that beautiful people lived happier, longer, and more successful lives. 'The halo effect', researchers called it. Because beauty generated positive social feedback, beautiful people tended to develop the positive attitudes that everyone from sales gurus to Baptist preachers associated with health, happiness, and success.

How many doors had Samantha Logan's beauty opened?

'But that's what I've been saying,' Thomas replied. 'It's conceivable there's nothing wrong with him.'

A thoughtful frown. 'Sure, but only because you know about this semantic apocalypse thing. Just pretend you're an average psychologist, someone unscarred by Skeat. What would you think?'

It was a good question. Thomas breathed deeply, glanced across the dim interior. More and more people were arriving, filling the silence that lurked at the bottom of all busy places.

'Well,' he began, 'obviously, I'd suppose Neil was suffering from some kind of antisocial personality disorder—I mean, only a psychopath could do what we saw this morning, right? After building a case history, though, I'd be troubled by the fact that Neil doesn't fit the standard profile for severe antisocials.'

'There's your wife,' Samantha said abruptly. 'That certainly fits the profile.'

'Just because all antisocials are bastards, doesn't mean all bastards are antisocials. No. As much as I would like to chalk this betrayal up to some kind of neurophysiological deficit, there has to be a pattern of some kind…'

He trailed, found himself blinking back the heat in his eyes. For a moment, he'd almost forgotten.

Neil and Nora.

'Sorry,' Samantha said.