by Peter David
“Thank you, Dr. Ross,” Bruce said, looking out over the room. He smiled slightly. Betty couldn’t help but think that this was exactly the sort of situation in which Bruce was the most comfortable. No emotions, no personal interplay. Pure lecture. He’d probably make a hell of a teacher. He tapped for a moment thoughtfully on the podium, and then said, “We’ve been thinking a lot lately, in the lab, about memory and forgetting, about the role they play in living and dying. Death, you might say, is a kind of forgetting.”
Betty glanced around the room. They seemed to be hanging on his words. Meanwhile, Bruce, warming to his topic, continued. “Each time a human cell replicates, it loses a little more DNA from the end of its chromosomes, eventually forgetting so much it forgets its function, its ability to cope with trauma, to continue to reproduce. Whereas life, life is the ability to retrieve and act on memory.” He moved slightly away from the podium, leaning against it on one elbow, looking very casual. He’s so much more comfortable with science than people, Betty sighed mentally, as Bruce said, “Now if our work succeeds, and our nanomeds begin to take over more and more of this process, you’ll have to ask is it you that’s alive, or is it the billions of artificial creatures inside you?”
He paused. The interest from the men at the board table was palpable, and Betty could almost sense their next question: When would it be ready? When would it be available to distribute to hospitals and doctors and think tanks so we can make a ton of money off it? Bruce apparently sensed that, as well, for he drew a cautionary line in the sand.
“For now, our nanomedical cures have been more deadly than the diseases they treat,” he admitted. “Maybe that’s because they remember their instructions too well. Perhaps, to stay in balance and alive, we must forget as much as we remember.”
There was a pause. Then, from the darkness, one of the men said, “All right, doctors, thank you for your thoroughly professional update. We’ll be evaluating the data and giving our recommendations.”
Betty stifled a laugh. Oh yes, their recommendations would be ever so helpful. Why, it might open up entirely new directions that never would have occurred to them in a million years. Or, at the very least, more trees would die in vain so the board members could expend paper upon their recommendations. But Bruce, unflappable as always, just nodded and said, “Thank you. We’d appreciate that.”
Moments later they were in the hallway, and Betty was looking incredulously at him. “‘We’d appreciate that’?” she asked.
Bruce just shrugged. “Why wouldn’t we?”
“Bruce! They’ll have nothing of use to contribute! You know that. They’ll suggest things we tried six months ago. Their idea of advice is laughable.”
“Very true,” Bruce replied. “But laughter is beneficial in a variety of ways, and anyone who provides the opportunity for others is to be appreciated.”
She tried to have a comeback to that, but instead all she could do was chuckle when she saw the mock seriousness on his face. She bowed slightly and said, “I am dazzled by your intellect and insight.”
“As well you should be,” he said gravely.
“You coming back to the lab?”
“In a few minutes. I want to go to my office, make a few calls. You go ahead, if you’re so inclined. Or perhaps you want to take the rest of the day off to recover from our—what is it again—”
“Dog and po—”
“Right, right, dog and pony show.” He looked askance. “So would I be the dog or the pony?”
“The latter.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve always wanted a pony.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. He smiled in spite of himself, and then gestured in the general direction of his office as he started to back away. “I’ll . . . be making some calls. . . .”
“I’ll be in the lab, blowing up frogs.”
“Betty,” he said reprovingly.
“I’m hoping to work my way up to blowing up other things. Like alligators.”
Bruce stared at her appraisingly. “Okay, now. That was a joke, wasn’t it?”
With a flounce of her hair, Betty said, “Drop by the lab and find out. You may want to bring your galoshes.”
And as she walked away, she heard Bruce mutter behind her, “Galoshes? Who says ‘galoshes’ anymore?”
She stopped briefly at the snack machine, gave it a solid punch in exactly the right place, and scooped up a bag of Doritos. So practiced was she that she barely had to pause for more than a few moments before continuing on her way. She nodded to workers as she passed, one of whom pointed at her in congratulations and said, “I heard you killed at the meeting.”
“I wish,” she said cheerily.
She rounded a corner, and a voice called from behind her that she didn’t recognize instantly—but only because she didn’t want to.
“Betty,” came the voice, “Betty Ross!”
Her mind turned it over and over, refusing to believe it. Slowly she pivoted on her heel and stared. “Glen?” she said.
Sure enough, there was Glen Talbot, almost exactly as Betty remembered him. His face was a bit more full, but it added maturity and even a bit of character to him. His hair had grown out since the army-reg do he had sported back in the days when they were dating, but that canniness in his eyes—and that way he had of taking in the entirety of her with a glance which she found ever so slightly chilling—that was still there. What she was most surprised to see was that he was wearing a sharply styled blue suit, crisp salmon-colored shirt, and what appeared to be—yes, she could see the initials—a Pierre Cardin necktie.
She had no idea what to say, having had no warning that he was going to be showing up, and no clue why he had done so. In many ways, she felt as if no time at all had passed since the last occasion on which she’d seen him, and parted with him, under less than cordial circumstances. That odd sense of “just having seen him,” combined with the obvious physical evidence that time had passed was very jarring. The first thing she wanted to say was, “Well, this is awkward,” but that hardly seemed like an appropriate opening gambit.
Grasping at conversational straws, she commented, “What happened to your uniform?” She promptly started kicking herself mentally and walked into the lab just to distance herself from him.
Talbot looked surprised, as if she’d come up with a complete non sequitur—which, to a degree, she had. Then, smiling gamely, he stepped back, put his arms out to either side, and turned in a small circle like a model on a runway. That way Betty could admire his sartorial splendor. “I switched over,” he said, following her into the laboratory. He glanced around appraisingly. She definitely didn’t like the way he was looking things over. It made her want to toss drapes over everything to shield it all from view. “Still work with your dad, but you know, the military’s subcontracting out all the most interesting work, and I can’t argue with the paycheck. I basically run all the labs on the base now.”
She in fact hadn’t known that at all. It wasn’t as if she chatted regularly with her father—or at all, really. For some reason she suspected that Glen was fully aware of that, but had chosen to appear oblivious to the strained relationship she currently had with her father. In the meantime, acting as if he had just thought to assess her demeanor, he gave her a quick look over and said heartily, “Hey, you’re looking good.”
Betty inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the compliment. No reason she couldn’t be cordial, particularly until she learned just what he wanted. “So,” she said, “why are you here?”
But the neutrality of her reaction and the lack of enthusiasm she bore for his sudden reentry into her life were all too evident to Talbot. Voice dripping with sarcasm, he said, “I missed you, too.”
“At least you’ve had my father,” said Betty, matching sarcasm for sarcasm. And as with all great sarcasm, there was a very large kernel of raw emotion at its base. The simple fact was that it had never been lost on her just how much old Thunderbol
t had doted on Glen Talbot. It was evident in Thunderbolt’s attentions and attitudes: Talbot was the son he’d never had.
And that was really the truth of it. Betty had never really fully been able to comprehend it, or even articulate it, for herself back when she had been closer to her father. Now, though, face-to-face with Talbot and possessing the analytical mind of a scientist and an adult, she knew what the real problem was. If Talbot was the son that Thunderbolt never had, what did that make her? Every time she looked at Talbot, she saw in him a symbol of everything she wasn’t to her father. No “Y” chromosome. No army career. Talbot was a reminder of what Thunderbolt Ross had genuinely wanted . . . and what he’d been stuck with in return.
None of which was the least bit fair to Glen Talbot. Except Betty didn’t give a damn about the fairness. All she cared about was Talbot exiting her life as quickly and unexpectedly as he’d reentered it.
Talbot, meanwhile, was feigning having been struck to the heart by her jibe. “Ouch. You don’t waste any time getting back to the old repartee, do you?”
It made her think of the old gag where one guy says. “Why do people take an instant dislike to me?” and another guy responds. “It saves time.” The thought made her smile slightly, and then she realized that Talbot might misinterpret her expression and conclude that he was amusing her. So she passed a hand over her mouth, covering the smile and frowning once more.
“You can take it,” said Betty.
“That I can,” Talbot assured her, not at all nonplussed. “But you’re too hard on the old guy. He’s a great man. It’s an honor to work with him.”
It made her want to salute. Or barf. She couldn’t decide which. Remembering her train of thought from earlier, she said, “I know. And you’re like a son to him. Which makes you,” she added with exaggeration, as if it were an afterthought, “something like my brother.”
To her surprise and discomfort, he took a step toward her. “Maybe we could make that kissing cousins,” said Talbot.
His proximity, his attitude and bearing, all shouted warnings in Betty’s head. Her immediate instinct was to back away, but she didn’t want to appear afraid of him, no matter how nervous he made her. Keep it light, keep it light, went through her head, and sounding as if it meant nothing to her, she said, “Sorry, we tried that and it might lead to inbreeding, and we don’t want any of that, do we?”
Talbot appeared to be trying to process what she’d just said in order to determine whether she was serious or not. She was beginning to think that he had comic instincts that made Bruce look like a stand-up comedian in comparison. Then he shrugged, as if dwelling on it was too much effort. “You’re the genetics expert,” he said, and then added with a barely restrained touch of impatience, “Look, I’m sorry I’m the only guy your father ever approved of. I can’t help that, can I? Why don’t we start this conversation over? Let’s focus on the present, not the past.”
He sounded sincere. Damn him. He always sounded sincere. That was how it started. Still, there was no reason to be paranoid, although the common notion was that being paranoid didn’t guarantee that someone isn’t out to get you.
“Sure,” said Betty, although she couldn’t help but feel that in trying to look relaxed when she was anything but, she just wound up appearing constipated.
“So how’s business?” asked Talbot.
She was about to try to make small talk with him, and then realized the whole game-playing thing just wasn’t working in the least. Maybe she really should endeavor to emulate Bruce. The man had a poker face that would put Mount Rushmore to shame. Giving up any pretenses, she said flatly, “Spill it. What do you want?”
He smiled ingratiatingly. That alone was enough to make her want to pop him one, but at least the games were over.
“Okay, I’ll cut to the chase,” he said, taking a step toward her as if they were about to have an intimate chat. “I’ve been hearing interesting things about what you guys are doing here. This could have some significant applications.” His voice suddenly turned wheedling. “How’d you like to come work for Atheon, get paid ten times as much as you now earn, and own a piece of the patents?”
If anyone else on the planet had put forward that offer, Betty might well have turned handsprings and started going over the car ads to find that perfect BMW that she knew was out there waiting for her somewhere. But because it was Glen, there was no hesitation in her response.
“Glen, two words: the door.”
And with supernatural timing, the door opened, and Bruce Krenzler was standing in the doorway.
The three of them stared at each other for one of those delightful moments that stretched into eternity. Bruce looked from one to the other, clearly wondering if he was going to be receiving an introduction to the newcomer anytime in the immediate future.
“Bruce Krenzler,” Betty said politely, “this is Glen Talbot. I’ve mentioned him in the past.”
“No, you haven’t.” Bruce reached over and shook Talbot’s hand. Obviously his grasp wasn’t firm enough for Talbot; he looked down at Bruce’s hand and, although he maintained a smile, his eyes looked like those of someone who had just gotten a palm full of dead mackerel.
“Glen,” Betty continued, “this is Bruce—”
“Krenzler,” said Talbot. “I’m a big fan, Dr. Krenzler. And please, call me Glen. And I should call you—”
“Dr. Krenzler,” Bruce replied. “Odd. I wasn’t aware that I was in a line of work that generally acquired fans.”
If Talbot was annoyed at the offhand rebuff, he didn’t show it. With no abatement of enthusiasm, he said, “You’ve certainly got one here. Your studies on cellular regeneration are groundbreaking.”
“Yes, they are.” He looked at Betty quizzically. “You’ve mentioned him?”
“We . . . used to see each other socially,” she said as judiciously as she could.
Bruce stared owlishly at Glen, apparently trying to place him, and then he abruptly said, “Oh! Wait. Would this be the ‘army clown’ you said you dated before you went to college?”
Betty covered her face with her right hand. And the cold look on Talbot’s face dropped another twenty degrees.
Meantime Bruce seemed oblivious to it all. “I’m sorry. It’s the lack of relevant costume that confused me.”
“Well, it’s Thursday, and I tend to send my clown costume out so I can have it back nice and clean for the weekend,” Glen said gamely. But then, surprisingly—at least to Betty—he smiled, apparently amused by the whole thing. “So my understanding is that you and Betty work together.”
“That’s right.”
“And does she speak for you, as well?”
Bruce stared at him in bemusement. “I like to think I’m capable of speaking for myself, thank you. What would this be about?”
“It’s probably my fault, Dr. Krenzler,” said Talbot, but even though he was nominally addressing Bruce, he was still looking at Betty. “I spoke with Dr. Ross about Atheon, the outfit that I work for. I don’t know that you’ve heard of us . . .”
“You’re being unduly modest . . . or inappropriately coy,” Bruce said evenly. “Anyone in just about any field of research has heard of Atheon. However, your exceedingly close ties with the military . . .”
“We don’t have close ties with the military, Dr. Krenzler. They have close ties with us—if you see the difference.”
“I’m sure it’s a great difference to you, Mr. Talbot,” said Bruce. “To me, it’s a mild semantic hairsplitting, but nothing beyond that.”
“That may be, Dr. Krenzler. But if you’d like to hear the point I was trying to make . . .”
“If making it will enable us to get back to work sooner rather than later, I’m all for it,” said Bruce.
“The point is I invited Dr. Ross to come work for Atheon . . .”
“Did you?” He looked with raised eyebrows at Betty.
“. . . and what I failed to make clear,” continued Talbot, “is that natu
rally we want you aboard as well. Our investigation indicates that you’re an excellent research team. We’d be extremely foolish to even contemplate splitting you up. The offer I made to you, Betty”—he nodded toward her—“applies equally to Dr. Krenzler. And since you’ve made it quite evident that you have other matters to attend to, I’ll leave you to attend to them, since I’m sure Betty can bring you up to speed, Dr. Krenzler.”
He put out a hand and Bruce shook it without much enthusiasm. Then he half-bowed to Betty, as if he were a German courtier, pulled out business cards with his name and the Atheon logo printed in bright red and gold, and with a flourish, presented one each to Betty and Bruce. “Betty, you doing anything tonight?”
“Sleeping.”
“Alone?”
Bruce saw Betty look at him, but maintained his utterly stoic demeanor. Her lips twitched in annoyance. “You never give up, do you, Glen?”
“What man in his right mind would?” he smiled. “Look, how about a quick dinner tonight, the three of us?”
“I’m not interested, nor is Betty,” Bruce said firmly, and instantly realized from the look in Betty’s eyes that he had made a mistake. Still, keeping an even keel, he said, “Of course, I could be wrong about that. I don’t maintain Dr. Ross’s social calendar.”
Without hesitation, Betty said to Talbot, “Is Atheon buying?”
“Of course.”
“Might be a nice change of pace from junk food grabbed out of a machine, or occasional scoops of ice cream. Paid for by a company that I deplore. It says ‘yes’ to me.”
Bruce knew that the words were deliberately intended to provoke him. He wasn’t sure why she was doing it, but he wasn’t about to be fazed by it. Instead, he simply shrugged and said, “I imagine it will be stimulating. Enjoy yourselves.”