by Peter David
It was a tiny cut. No gushing. No trauma. Just a dot. He held a piece of tissue paper to it for a moment and the bleeding stopped almost immediately.
He actually chuckled when he saw how minimal the damage was. “The dangers of letting yourself get worked up,” he said aloud, although no one was there to hear.
And then, almost against his will, he saw those eyes, and suddenly felt as if someone was indeed there to hear. Someone other than himself.
He finished shaving far quicker than he ever had before, threw a wet towel over his face, and wiped away the shaving cream. When he lowered the damp cloth, his eyes were his and his alone, leaving him to ponder the fact that he was suffering from too much imagination and too little morning coffee.
The laboratory within the Lawrence Berkeley facility in which Bruce spent most of his time was an amusing place. Well, amusing to someone like Bruce. Whenever he saw labs in movies, the scientists’ domains were always clean and polished and wonderfully organized. As a student, all the labs he’d ever been in during his school days were maelstroms of barely controlled chaos. In a way, he’d always looked forward to becoming an adult so that he could inhabit one of those movie labs and never have to be stepping in between or under or around various projects to get where he had to go.
Well, here he was, a project administrator, the lead scientist in one of the facility’s most promising projects, and not only had his organizational skills not improved, but apparently they had degenerated.
His assistant, Jake Harper, was theoretically supposed to help Bruce keep on track. The operative word, unfortunately, was “theoretically,” and as it happened, it turned out not to be one of Bruce’s better theories. Harper was almost as hopeless as Bruce himself.
Betty could have gotten everything organized, of course. She had that sort of mind. But she had once told Bruce point-blank that if he was waiting for her to get their act together for them, then he was going to be waiting a long, bloody time, because she’d be damned if she voluntarily took on the role of token female cleaning up after the guys.
This left Bruce and Harper to make occasional, perfunctory attempts at getting the place in order, and Betty to stand in the midst of the discord, shake her head, and make disapproving clucking noises every so often. So the lab never got cleaned up, but at least everyone knew their place in the order of things. Bruce took some comfort from that, cold as that comfort might be.
Harper—with his disheveled hair, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and perpetually wan complexion—was several years younger than Bruce and several light-years more nervous. Certainly that nervousness came from lack of confidence in himself, which Bruce couldn’t begin to comprehend. Harper’s competency tested off the charts, and he’d graduated eighth in his class at MIT. His doctorate on cellular regeneration had been so groundbreaking that no less an authority than Dr. Henry Pym had shaken his hand and congratulated him on a job well done.
Yet during procedures, Harper had a tendency to move around with energized nervousness, as if concerned about his own adequacy, or perhaps about the possibility that something might blow up in his face and take his face along with it. Still, he got the job done better than any dozen men with whom Bruce had been associated, and so Bruce was willing to tolerate Harper’s little quirks. Fortunately enough, Bruce wasn’t of the temperament to let a great deal bother him.
Except your own reflection, he thought.
Annoyed with himself for mentally retreating to his mirror encounter—which had been elevated in his mind, much to his irritation, from a simple shave to some vast analysis of his psyche—Bruce pushed away all such irrelevant considerations and concentrated instead upon the gammasphere.
The round chamber sat glistening before him, the product of two years of meticulous planning and labor. Shielded with glass a foot thick, the lower section was lined with glittering panels, reflectors designed to process and focus the radiation that would be carefully manipulated by the scientists outside. In the center of the gammasphere, staring out passively from within a small dome atop a pedestal, was a frog. The dome was perforated with microscopic airholes that would both enable the frog to continue breathing and for gases and the like to pass through and reach the test subject. A focusing mirror was situated directly above the pedestal.
Bruce referred to the frog as “Number Eleven.” This didn’t sit well with Harper, who insisted on naming every damned one of the test subjects over Bruce’s objections. This one he had dubbed “Freddie.” Bruce considered it unprofessional. One simply didn’t humanize test subjects. He’d commented rather loudly during one lunch meeting that it was pointless to expend emotional energy becoming attached to experimental creatures. Whereupon Betty, without looking up from her tuna sandwich, had commented rather pointedly that if one wasn’t going to become too attached to experimental creatures or to other human beings, what was one going to become attached to? Harper had looked puzzled, and Betty had just smiled sweetly, but Bruce had been all too aware that the oblique observation was directed at him.
What did she want from him? Why couldn’t she simply accept that he wasn’t like her? What was it about women that made them feel compelled to try to change the men they loved?
Well, that was how much Betty truly knew him, he decided. Because if she knew him at all, she’d be aware that if there was one thing Bruce Krenzler didn’t do well with, it was change. He was too set in his ways, too locked into the man he was, to see beyond to other possibilities. Personal transformation wasn’t his forte. Ask anyone.
Bruce made a last minute check of the levels, and glanced across the room to make eye contact with Harper. Harper had just finished his own cross-checks, and nodded once to indicate that he was good to go.
“Harper,” said Bruce, “release the nanomeds.”
Harper nodded once, his hair flopping around like so much seaweed as he pressed a release valve. There was a hissing sound as the chamber filled with gas.
Freddie the frog glanced around in passive bewilderment. He didn’t see the nanomeds, of course. He would have required eyes formed on Krypton to be able to discern them. He did, however, hear the soft hiss of the gas. He flicked his tongue out experimentally, in the off chance that there was something in the gas that would provide nourishment.
“Okay,” said Bruce, taking a deep breath and then letting it out slowly. “Let’s hit Freddie with the gamma radiation.”
Harper punched instructions into a keyboard, muttering softly to himself something that Bruce at first didn’t hear. But then he did, the words repeated softly, like a mantra: “Let it work, let it work, let it work . . .” At that, Bruce had to smile, albeit very slightly. He wondered whether Harper was so desperate for it to work because he wanted the project to succeed . . . or because he was concerned about the fate of the frog should the experiment fail.
A pinpoint stream of gamma radiation hit the focal lens above the pedestal. In a flash, it zapped the frog across the chest. The poor creature flipped over onto its back for a moment, its little arms and legs flailing before it was able to take the time to recover and right itself. Had there been any exposure to open air from the chamber, there would doubtless have been the faint smell of burning meat. Certainly the sound would have been unpleasant. But instead Bruce and Harper were conveniently isolated, and the only thing they were able to observe was the ugly gash the frog had acquired on its chest.
Freddie was still stumbling about, looking disoriented. The frog blinked furiously, probably wondering if this was the first step toward prepping it to become an entrée; perhaps it was about to lose its legs to some gourmand.
For a moment there was nothing. Bruce watched. And then slowly, miraculously, the wound began to close up. As it closed, it left a zone of throbbing, almost fluorescent green in its wake, the freshly produced tissue saturated with color.
Bruce couldn’t believe it. Next to him, Harper was chortling with pleasure and triumph, and then he heard a female voice, so close
to him that she was practically breathing in his ear, whisper, “Yes!”
He turned to see, to his surprise, that Betty Ross was standing there. He had no clue how long she’d been there, but obviously it had been long enough to observe the results of the experiment. He hadn’t even been aware that she was in the lab, or else he would have held the tests up. He had thought she was out at a conference, and yet here she was in the flesh. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised at that. Betty routinely blew off national gatherings, claiming the work she and Bruce were doing was so evolved past anyone else’s that hanging around with other scientists, looking for tips and clues and guidance, was a waste of time.
She was so close that he could smell her perfume. He never quite understood why women tried to make themselves smell like flowers or palm trees or an evening rain rather than just smelling like women.
Still, it wasn’t a bad scent. . . .
He caught her glance, smiled involuntarily, then went back to the issue at hand and studied the readings from the scanners mounted directly under the frog. The frog was trembling slightly, but that could be due to a dozen things, most likely sympathetic vibrations to—
The frog exploded.
Harper let out a tragedy-soaked cry as the amphibian’s little innards splashed all over the inside of the container. Betty emitted a frustrated, “Oh!” Bruce, as was his habit, didn’t let any of his disappointment show on his face, but he felt his shoulder muscles bunching up as they tended to do whenever he was faced with a tense situation. He forced himself to relax, but he could practically taste the feeling of disappointment. Other frogs had suffered “grievous setbacks,” that is, died horribly, far faster, leading him to think that maybe Freddie—Number Eleven, dammit—was going to beat the odds.
He looked at the others in the lab, sighed, and said, “Lunch break.”
“Oh, good,” Harper said, sounding queasy as he surveyed the frog’s remains trickling down the sides of the container, “because, y’know, strapping on the feed bag is exactly what I feel like doing right now.”
There was a lab cafeteria and also some decent restaurants in the area, but Bruce usually chose to eat at his desk. Knowing this, Betty fell into step behind him as he headed toward the lab refrigerator.
“Saw my father in the news,” she said.
“Oh?” The comment surprised him. Betty very rarely made any mention of her father.
“Uh-huh. Getting some medal or something from the president.” She shrugged. “He’s got so many hanging on his uniform already, I’m not sure where he’ll put it.”
“Are you going to call and congratulate him?”
“I was thinking about it.”
That stopped him for a moment as he turned and saw an impish expression on her face. “Really? That would be unusual.”
“Well, you know, he is my father, and since I actually know that, I figured maybe I might be able to lead by example.”
At first Bruce had no idea what she was talking about, but then he understood. He sighed and reached into the refrigerator, pulling out a small paper bag. “Are we back on that subject again?” he asked with a tired playfulness in his voice as they walked back toward his desk.
“Yes, that subject again,” she replied with a fair imitation of his voice. “Just give it some thought. Don’t you want to know about your birth parents, where you come from? It’s not that hard to unseal adoption papers these days. It might open you up to more feelings.”
“And do I want more feelings?” asked Bruce, feeling like the tin woodsman from The Wizard of Oz.
Betty’s response, in a surprisingly serious tone, caught him off guard. “I can wish, can’t I?”
He felt a flicker of guilt when she said that, and some of that must have shown through on his face despite his best efforts, because she looked immediately contrite, as if sorry that she’d said anything at all. He wanted very much to ignore it, but it had been said, and it was out there, which meant it was going to be like the proverbial elephant seated at the table that no one could pretend wasn’t there.
With great sadness and feeling more wistful than he would have thought himself capable of, he said gently, “I do wish I were someone who could feel more, express more. If I were, we’d still be together, wouldn’t we?”
“I don’t know,” said Betty. She looked down, leaning against his desk. “I guess it’s none of my business anymore. I’m just having a hard time, us being apart but still seeing you every day, working together. It makes me feel more lonely than ever.” She sighed. “But what can you do?”
“I can still appreciate you,” said Bruce, “admire you, be a friend—” Then he paused, thinking, My God, you’re giving her the “We’ll always be friends” speech. How pathetic is that?
Betty didn’t seem put off by it; just a bit sadder. “I wish I could say it’s enough,” she said.
Never had Bruce felt a greater, more gaping emptiness in himself than he did at that moment. He wanted to reach over to her, to hold her, to tell her all manner of things and share feelings and emotions with her. The problem was he didn’t truly know if he’d be saying things he actually felt . . . or just uttering the things he thought she wanted to hear.
Instead, he forced a smile and said, in as light a manner as he could, “Well, there is one thing.”
She raised an eyebrow questioningly as, with a flourish, he opened the paper bag and pulled out a container. “Chocolate, chocolate chip,” said Bruce.
Betty smiled, a smile as radiant as gamma rays . . .
As gamma rays? Good Lord, can I ever turn off being a scientist?
The problem was he knew the answer to that as soon as he thought it.
Betty hated the dog and pony show.
That’s what she called the semiannual gatherings of the board of directors, when she and Bruce and whoever was working for the lab would be forced to try to explain in words of one syllable just what it was they were doing, and all the “practical applications.” That was the phrase that drove her the most insane, the one she heard so often she had occasionally been known to mutter it in her sleep. They always wanted to know about “practical applications,” which of course translated to, “How can we make some fast money off this latest experiment?”
They didn’t understand that it wasn’t that easy. Many of the most significant advances in science, the most “practical” and useful developments in the history of mankind, had been incidental discoveries that were offshoots of other studies. Experimentation was about possibilities, discovery was about “what if.” While opponents of the space program were howling about the waste of money entailed in landing a man on the moon, they were utterly oblivious to the many practical aspects of everyday life that had their origins in technology developed while putting men into space. Everything from voice-responsive software to athletic shoes to water purifiers to thermal insulation for the home had all resulted from the space program.
But go explain that to number crunchers searching for some sort of mythical bottom line, as if one could put a price tag on progress.
These meetings were the only time that Betty envied Bruce his emotional detachment. She always maintained a cool demeanor when dealing with these people, but it required tremendous effort. Bruce accomplished the same thing but made it look easy . . . probably because, for him, it was. Betty gave herself a mental, if ironic, pat on the back. It took some kind of woman to find a silver lining to a character trait that effectively torpedoed a relationship.
She let none of what was going through her mind show in her presentation, of course. She was far too professional for that. Instead, she watched the fifteen or so men—all in their cookie-cutter suits and neckties—grouped around the table, studying the results and charts she had provided them on the well-founded assumption that they wouldn’t have a clue what she and her colleagues did without visual aids. She was walking them through it, reminding herself that she shouldn’t have any resentment toward them simply because at l
east half of them knew nothing about science, and only understood dollars and cents. They were . . . a necessary evil.
With a pleasant smile affixed to her face, Betty continued, “To distance the cells we subject them to gamma radiation.” Behind her on a projection board mounted on the wall, there were clear color representations of the cells agitating and unraveling. “Our little molecular machines—the nanomeds—are inhaled into the organism and spread through its tissues. They remain inert until we awaken them with gamma radiation. Once awakened, they instantly respond to the cellular distress signals—from a wound, for example—making copies of healthy cells and breaking down the damaged ones.” She paused to see if they comprehended. It was darker in the room than she would have liked, and it wasn’t easy to discern their faces, but she thought they got it. In the meantime, the image on the board displayed the nanomeds at work.
“The main problem,” she continued, “is figuring out how a living body can withstand the help our nanomeds provide so vigorously. We’ve yet to find anything that can survive not only the energy flux of such swift cellular replication, but the discharge of the waste products, mainly water and carbon dioxide, created as damaged cells are dismantled.”
Puckishly, she’d wanted to include a graphic of an exploding frog, just to see their reactions. The humorous notion had been vigorously vetoed by Bruce and Harper, and so instead the board members only witnessed a cellular explosion. “We’re trying to balance these two functions,” said Betty. “If we succeed, we may someday realize the promise of near-instantaneous bodily repair.” She looked to Bruce as she thought, There. Near-instantaneous bodily repair. That should be practical application enough for them. “Dr. Krenzler.” She gestured and Bruce rose and stepped up as she moved to one side.
She found to her surprise that she had to fight a reflex to reach up and squeeze his arm. It would have been meant in the simplest “go get ’em” terms, but she was worried it might be read as more than that—and, for all she knew, it was more than that. So she kept her hand at her side and just nodded to Bruce in a vague show of support. He returned the nod and stepped up to the small podium that had been erected.