Peter and Cathy had been planning to go to Barberian’s, their favorite steakhouse, for dinner that night. At the last minute, though, Peter canceled their reservation and they went to a vegetarian restaurant instead.
When Peter Hobson had taken a university elective in taxonomy, the two species of chimpanzees had been Pan troglodytes (common chimps) and Pan paniscus (pygmy chimps).
But the split between chimps and humans had occurred just 500,000 generations ago, and they still have 98.4% of their DNA in common. In 1993, a group including evolutionist Richard Dawkins and best-selling science fiction writer Douglas Adams published the Declaration on Great Apes, which urged the adoption of a bill of rights for our simian cousins.
In took thirteen years, but eventually their declaration came to be argued at the UN. An unprecedented resolution was adopted formally reclassifying chimpanzees as members of genus Homo, meaning there were now three extant species of humanity: Homo sapiens, Homo troglodytes, and Homo paniscus. Human rights were divided into two broad categories: those, such as the entitlement to life, liberty, and freedom from torture, that applied to all members of genus Homo, and other rights, such as pursuit of happiness, religious freedom, and ownership of land, that were reserved exclusively to H. sapiens.
Of course, under Homo rights, no one could ever kill a chimp again for experimental purposes — indeed, no one could imprison a chimp in a lab. And many nations had modified their legal definitions of homicide to include the killing of chimps.
Adriaan Kortlandt, the first animal behaviorist to observe wild chimpanzees, once referred to them as “eerie souls in animals’ furs.” But now Peter Hobson was in a position to see how literally Kortlandt’s observation should be taken. The soulwave existed in Homo sapiens. It did not exist in Bos taunts, the common cow. Peter supported the simian-rights movement, but all the good that had been done in the last few years might be undone if it were shown that humans had souls but chimps did not. Still, Peter knew that if he himself did not do the test, someone else eventually would.
Even though chimps were no longer captured for labs, zoos, or circuses, some were still living in human-operated facilities. The United Kingdom, Canada, the U.S., Tanzania, and Burundi jointly funded a chimpanzee retirement home in Glasgow — of all places — for chimps that couldn’t be returned to the wild. Peter phoned the sanctuary, to find out if any of the chimps there were near death. According to the director, Brenda MacTavish, several were in their fifties, which was old age for a chimp, but none were terminal. Still, Peter arranged to have some scanning equipment shipped to her.
“And so,” Peter said to Sarkar during their weekly dinner at Sonny Gotlieb’s, “I think I’m ready to go public now. Oh, and my marketing people have come up with a name for the superEEG: they’re calling it a SoulDetector.”
“Oh, please!” said Sarkar.
Peter grinned. “Hey, I always leave those decisions up to Joginder and his people. Anyway, the SoulDetector patents are in place, we’ve got a backlog of almost two hundred units ready for shipment, I’ve got three good recordings of the soulwave leaving human beings, I know that at least some animals don’t have souls, and I’ll hopefully soon have the data on chimps, as well.”
Sarkar spread lox on a bagel half. “You’re still missing one important piece of information.”
“Oh?”
“I’m surprised you haven’t thought of the question yourself, Peter.”
“What question?”
“The flip side of your original inquiry: you know now when the soul leaves the body. But when does the soul arrive?”
Peter’s jaw went slack. “You mean — you mean in a fetus?”
“Precisely.”
“Holy shit,” said Peter. “I — I could get in a lot of trouble asking that question.”
“Perhaps,” said Sarkar. “But as soon as you go public, someone will ask it.”
“The controversy will be incredible.”
Sarkar nodded. “Indeed. But I’m surprised it hadn’t occurred to you.”
Peter looked away. He’d been suppressing it, no doubt. An old wound, long since healed. Or so he’d thought.
Damn, thought Peter. God damn.
CHAPTER 13
It had happened thirteen years ago, during their first year of marriage. Peter remembered it all vividly.
October 31, 1998. Even back then, they didn’t eat at home often. But they’d always thought it rude to go out on Halloween — someone should be in to give treats to the kids.
Cathy made fettuccine Alfredo while Peter put together a Caesar salad with real bacon bits crisped in the microwave, and they collaborated on making a cake for dessert. They had fun cooking together, and the tight confines of the tiny kitchen they’d had back then made for plenty of enjoyable contact as they squeezed past each other, jockeying for access to the kitchen’s various cupboards and appliances. Cathy had ended up with flour stains in the shapes of Peter’s handprints on each of her breasts, while Peter had her handprints on his bum.
But after they’d finished eating the salads and had made a good start on the pasta, Cathy had said, without preamble, “I’m pregnant.”
Peter had put his fork down and looked at her. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“That’s — ” He knew he should say “That’s wonderful,” but he was unable to get the second word out. Instead, he settled for “interesting.”
She chilled visibly. “Interesting?”
“Well, I mean, it’s unexpected, that’s all.” A pause. “Weren’t you — ” Another pause. “Damn.”
“I think it was that weekend at my parents’ cottage,” she said. “Remember? You’d forgotten to—”
“I remember,” said Peter, a slight edge in his voice.
“You said you’d have a vasectomy when you turned thirty,” Cathy said, a tad defensively. “You said if by then we still didn’t want to have kids, you’d do it.”
“Well, I wasn’t bloody well going to do it on my birthday. I’m still thirty. And, besides, we were still discussing whether to have a child.”
“Then why are you angry?” asked Cathy.
“I — I’m not.” He smiled. “Really, darling, I’m not. It’s just a surprise, that’s all.” He paused. “So, if it was that weekend, you’re what? Six weeks along?”
She nodded. “I missed my period, so I bought one of those kits.”
“I see,” said Peter.
“You don’t want the baby,” she said.
“I didn’t say that. I don’t know what I want.”
At that point, the doorbell rang. Peter got up to answer it.
Trick or treat, he thought. Trick or treat.
Peter and Cathy had waited another three weeks, weighing their options, their lifestyle, their dreams. Finally, though, they made their decision.
The abortion clinic on College Street had been in an old two-story brownstone. On its left had been a greasy spoon called Joes — no apostrophe — that advertised a breakfast special with two “egg’s” any way you like them. On its right had been an appliance store with a hand-lettered sign in the window that said, “We do repairs.”
And in front of the clinic there had been protesters, marching up and down the sidewalk, carrying placards.
Abortion is murder, said one.
Sinner, repent, said another.
Baby’s have rights too, said a third, perhaps produced by Joe’s sign maker. A bored-looking police officer was leaning against the brownstone’s wall, making sure the protesters didn’t get out of hand.