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A story to listen to while doing crochet.
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A story to listen to while doing crochet.
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Psyche Munro is invited to a research discussion on falling in love at a university. Upon arrival, she realizes it is a secretive and highly guarded event. The speaker reveals that a research unit at the university had multiple inter-departmental marriages and sudden departures due to relationship issues. The research project was focused on the vomeronasal organ and its role in detecting pheromones. They discovered a love potion that triggers a rapid redevelopment of the organ, resulting in strong romantic feelings. The speaker warns of the potential threat to personal liberty and choice, and mentions the possibility of litigation against the developers. The audience is intrigued by the potential market value of the love potion. So, here we are in the second part of Story 30 in the Life and Times of Miss Psyche Munro. The title of this story is An Alarming Development. Despite her sarcasms at the expense of their pretty undistinguished professor during the recent online conference on secrets, Psyche had been invited to come in person to the same university to attend an important research discussion. The administrator who had phoned was strangely guarded about telling her what it was to be about, but this time there was passable pay and expenses, so Psyche signed up. The confirmatory email indicated a symposium on falling in love. Wow, big subjects, she thought. Her own experience was more on the lines of being fallen in love with. So awkward, so embarrassing, so downright difficult, generally speaking. Her expectations of being welcomed by joyously twangling troubadours proved ill-founded. It was just too bad. Instead of happy nymphs and happy swains to greet her there was a large turnout of security men, then identity-checking, bag-checking, and finally an issuing of lanyards that opened doors. It will cease to function after midnight, she was sourly told. Will it then revert to being a pumpkin? He ignored her, and turned the scowl he obviously thought appropriate to his profession onto the next arrival. At the indoor side she was asked to sign a non-disclosure agreement, and told neither to film, nor photograph, nor live-stream anything during the conference. Easing the tension, some milling about followed, getting coffee, plus institutionally branded two packs of biscuits. She settled for lemon-curd flavour, and nibbled slowly, thinking. One or two people did seem to know one another. There was much coveting of names on lanyards. Looking at some of these, and also looking at the seating plan, Psyche felt puzzled. Were they here to discuss falling in love, or settle the year's Nobel Prize winners? So many titles before, and letters after, names. Psyche found herself at a forward-facing table with some female behavioural scientists, who were friendly enough. You look a bit lost. Nobody has told me why I'm here, and I haven't worked it out for myself yet. Don't worry. We're all pretty much the same. It has been all urgency, and yet hush-hush. A sub-registrar gave a brief welcome, and ran through the housekeeping points and timetable. Junior staff ran round the room, handing out folders that, excitingly, were stamped SEALED and embargoed until direction by senior staff. A precise-looking man, with precise hair, clothing, and spectacles, approached the rostrum. Speaking, yes, precisely, he thanked them all for coming, and for their patience. He then strayed into something more vague. One doesn't know whether not saying very much doesn't cause more of a stir than being open and up-front. But we've been seeking to avoid publicity, of course. So we have a problem. I will disclose its nature via an introductory narrative of some recent events. During 2022, a small research unit at this university had, curiously, two inter-departmental marriages and seven sudden departures, three of which were certainly, and all the others suspectedly, due to marital or relationship issues. The reaction in the room was electric attention. Where could this be leading? What could this be about? Well, c'est normal, as the French would say, happens a lot. But a research group rapidly disappearing? Happens all the time at my bloody university, said someone from the floor. Informal discussions with colleagues who knew those who had left generally indicate a high level of surprise. All the people involved happened to be female members of staff who were considered to be settled in their job and in stable relationships. Without making further comment, to start with, here are some images of the people involved. As you've been asked, do not photograph the screen. These are confidential matters, but do illustrate something. On the screen behind him, first there appeared a beaming but rather ordinary woman, and a very distinguished-looking man, his arm round her waist. Dr. Janet Suskind, he said. Then appeared a woman whose tight features and frown lines told a tale of career anxiety. Standing behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders, grinning broadly, was, in the immortal idiom, a bit of all right. Youthful, tall, and crowned with wondrous hair. Dr. Laurentia Niven, he said. Larry, as we called her. He spoke again, about some whispering. And this was one of our former senior researchers, found on her social media before all her social media accounts abruptly closed. The location and identity of the other woman in the photographs are unknown at the moment. Psyche looked at one of those mysteriously grainy photographs that download from Facebook. An arrow had been superimposed to designate the former employee, her face caught while turning from the camera. But to her surprise, Psyche recognised one of the unknowns. Outlandish attire, and something about a blurry face and its hint of a bleak scrutiny, indicated that here was none other than Janice's mother. Psyche Jane at first thought she might have some clue as to why she herself was present. But it didn't make sense. The university people didn't seem to know who Joan was, so how could they connect her to Psyche Monroe? The speaker, clearly under some strain, resumed. We have today, on behalf of the university, and to the benefit of society as a whole, are unearthed. Just listen please. We have gathered behavioural scientists, philosophers, social historians, social scientists, human biologists, endocrinologists, economists, and the science advisors to governments of four countries. So why am I here, thought Jane, why am I here? You will all be curious as to the nature of the research that was taking place in the department under scrutiny. Of course, you would expect Professor Dolcemara, the lead researcher, to be here to speak, but she too has gone. Again, I remind you that the security team will confiscate any phone raised in the hall. Another photograph. An intelligent-looking and attractive woman was about to enter an Italian restaurant in the company of... Clearly by the noises in the room one or two people knew. A whisper went round of the speaker letting it travel. Finally he spoke again. Yes, he's the world-famous tenor. And here is her deputy, who is unable to speak on behalf of her boss. An intense-looking woman, tall and rather too thin, affectionately embraced by a fashionably handsome TV actor, who looked her junior and very happy with his catch. The vacated research project had begun in a rather unpromising area of human evolutionary biology, specifically in the vomeronasal organ. He paused again. There was silence in the room. Some were already consulting their phones. No, it's not that well-known, is it? It is an organ that is only present in a vestigial form in the human fetus. But a vomeronasal organ is active and important in many other creatures. It is the organ by which such creatures detect pheromones, something which human beings, despite ill-informed talk to the contrary, simply cannot do. As far as we can guess, the research took an unexpected turn. Two months ago, one of the purchases made by the unit was 50 very small empty perfume sprays. Nine had been found unused in the laboratory. Staff searching the laboratory found a full and unused spray where it had rolled out of sight under a piece of benchtop equipment. I have it with me. What was put into it, and the 40 others we cannot find, seems to have been a realisation of millennia of fantasy. Judging by other purchases of moth larvae from supplies to butterfly farms, our analysts think it likely that a genetic trigger was taken from the DNA of an animal with powerful pheromonal detection. As I say, most likely a male moth. The researchers seem to have had some ethical differences about working with Jacobson's organ in mammals. When administered in an oral nasal spray, this DNA strand apparently triggers a rapid redevelopment of the vomeronasal organ. And I mean rapid. The effects are dramatic, a fellow might even say cataclysmic. Our in-house discussions prior to this session have developed hypotheses that account for an evidently fast and strong response in humans, perhaps we should say certainly in Western European humans, either by interaction with cultural factors or by some chance amplification when the active gene is introduced into the human body. But one plain deduction can be made from what we observe. Out there somewhere is a 100% effective love potion. There was whistling, consternation, excited talk. The inevitable male whack said, well, pock that. Chain, a woman's voice. A dark suited man stood up, everything about him saying lawyer. This is the greatest threat to man's personal liberty and choice that can be imagined. I for one will be happy to lead litigation against developers, manufacturers and distributors. Sexist, you sexist man. Order, everybody please, order. It is mere chance that the members of this research group were all women. The last male researcher departed 18 months ago. We have some evidence that the reactivating spray works on women too. Here is the laboratory supervisor, Dr. Adina, with her new life partner. The screen showed two joyous looking women making their vows in white wedding dresses. The speaker, excited, was starting to gavel. But his audience could not have been more attentive. Inamoramento, as some surviving notes on whiteboard indicate that the absconded team had arrived at a provisional product name, would be worth billions if it came to market. He checked himself and added, it won't I think ever get through drug certification, but slipped back further by adding, though it might be administered under medical supervision by joint consent. He tried to straighten his tie and took a firm grip on the rostrum and then raced forwards. On the black market it will be worth many billions more. Mates and celibates aside, we are animals that seek our choice of mate. Among the other autism mammals, that mate choice leads quickly on to mating, irresistible. The re-triggered working of the femoral nasal organ in human subjects so far evidently swamps cultural and individual suppressions. He tried to slow himself down and failed, opting for urgent seriousness. This spray obliterates consent. In handsome men it will lead to abuse at a level beyond precedent. It also seems plausible that the effect is powerful enough to supplant personal sexual preferences. It will be a conversion therapy that takes full effect in mere moments. A gay man, entirely and exclusively gay, certainly is mad to mate with a woman who, let's imagine, might be old enough to be his mother. There was a deplorable snort of mirth. Sorry, bear with me please. I did put that badly, but this is serious. To put it another way, a heterosexual man could experience overwhelming sexual desire for another man. The waggish voice was heard again over the buzz in the conference hall. Look, don't blame me, darling. It's just the id of you coming out. Please, this could mean a numerical change in human behaviour. It could be the beginning of a happier world, though a world of factitious happiness. There was yet another remark in the hall. Can I sign up now? And some suppressed sniggers. The hall was by now full of urgent conversations. Then two delegates were on their feet, a man and a woman, flushed with excitement, holding hands. Professor Spentbolt, sir, we volunteer. He. We've been getting to know one another recently. She. We know we like each other. He. We neither of us have other commitments to other people and... but together. We'd like it to be true love. She. You said you had a spray lamp. He. We offer ourselves as subjects. She. As a demonstration for the conference. There was uproar and a banging of tables, and a collective growing cry of, Do it! Do it! Do it! The speaker stood nonplussed, looking at a small vial in his hand. The microphone picked him up, muttering about some attempt at refusal, about this sample having already been reduced by analysis. But he had lost control of the room. The two made their way to the front, amid cheers and whistles. The man snatched at and pulled open the speaker's hand, the woman grabbing the little vial rolling in his palm. Then they put their faces close together, cried, On the count of three, three, two, one, there was a tiny puff of spray. They gazed into one another's eyes, enraptured. They reached out in yearning, and then it really hit. His right hand on her backside pulled her close to him, his left hand clutching eagerly at her breast, while her hand went down between his legs and found what it sought. Just in time, a resourceful member of junior staff secured rapid promotion by coming out of the kitchen area, pulling a rattling train of room dividers on wheels, and curtained off the copulating couple. Cries of passion and ecstasy could be heard. The room was full of talking and shouting. Some people sat mute and in rigid astonishment, others stood on the tables in hope of a better view. Why am I here? wondered Jane. Why am I here? I don't know. But when I consider not knowing, I don't want to be here a moment longer. She stood up and walked. Nobody was paying her any attention, but she carefully skirted past one door so she could exit by the one with the toilet's arrow, grimacing with a hand fluttering in front of her abdomen. Attention seemed to be entirely elsewhere. Out in the corridor she picked up speed. Ahead, there was the lady's loot. She darted in, flushed the toilet, turned on the tap, stuffed a balled-up swatch of wet paper towels into a hand dryer, flushed another toilet, and went back outside, continuing her way down the corridor. The scuffed walls and shabby chairs outside rooms indicated that she was in the teaching area, well removed from the conference suite. Ahead was an exit, but the sign said, Emergency exit only. This door is alarmed. She hesitated, but was relieved to see right next to the door a broad window one peg open. Do not leave this window open, it said on it. She dragged up a chair, pushed the window as far open as it could be, and slipped out through it with the ease of youth. She pushed the window back as shut as she could possibly manage, hearing as she did so a male or mannish voice calling down the corridor. Swiftly she rubbed the heel marks she made in the grass away as best she could with one hand. Miss Munro, are you there? The conference is continuing and security regulations do apply to delegates. Miss Munro, we expect your contribution to this important discussion. Jane bolted, moving round the outside of the building, from which could be heard shouting and banging, then ran across a gap to another building, hoping that she was in the right direction of the car park. A glimpse of shiny pink theatre, what an excellent colourway for a woman in an emergency, could be seen through a sparse hedge. She ran for it. In the evening of this tumultuous day, a flying heart, still agitated by her escape, phoned Joan, mother of her friend Janice. The little sprays that ignite sexual passion. How did you do it, Joan? How did you hear about them so early? I have my contacts both in the spirit and the material world. I might ask you how you know that I know. I saw your face in a rather blurry photograph, near as you by your clothes, really. What do you intend to do? Well, working in the interests of myself and the associates, I'm encouraging a bidding war among the wags of elderly edge. As some want to cement their own marriages, while others seem inclined to play serious games with the marriages of old rivals, it should be easy. Meanwhile, I have a journalist or two in play. The tabloids that pay up will know not just about existing affairs, but about affairs still to commence. Right. I see. But here's the thing. They're looking to get the sprays back. They'll have to be quick, then. I could tell them where to look and who to look for. You could. What's stopping you? I will not, provided that you... You want one, don't you? Why, child? You should know you're just about the last girl in England that needs artificial assistance. I could better supply you with a kind of magical shitty stick to beat them off. Thanks for that. I don't want it to use. I want it for insurance. I want it for the power to strike back if it's ever done to me, not to be in somebody else's power one-sidedly. Well, it's a consideration, isn't it? I was going to give one to Janice, in case she ever makes her mind up who she wants. I will give one to you, for all the fun we've had at casting the glamour over people. Use it wisely, young friend. That, or not at all.