His empty stomach growled at him, demanding pizza. As usual, the cells were just fine. In a few seconds they would be dead, and then he and Yak would go to Pizza Hut and check out the green peppers.
The overhead light went out suddenly, leaving the room in darkness save for the dull glare from the computer. “Now what?” he muttered. “Must be a fuse.” He clicked the microscope’s light switch; the tiny bulb came alive instantly. Not a fuse, then. He looked up at the ceiling fixture, realizing two things at once: The computer was still on, so it couldn’t possibly be a fuse because this grand manor only had one; and the elderly bulb overhead was black and dirty-looking.
“Have any new light bulbs?” Yakky asked.
“Downstairs in a box, I think. Can you give me the time first?”
Yakky brought the stopwatch close to his eyes. “Ninety-nine minutes, forty seconds.”
“Okay. Put a new light in and we’ll abandon ship.” Out of habit he looked through the microscope one last time, again knowing exactly what he would see: fragmentation, death.
The cells were busily pulsating, looking very healthy.
“Check that time again, Yak. Something’s weird.”
Yak checked it. “Ninety-nine—one hundred minutes.”
“Baloney.” Peyton snagged the watch and dragged it over, towing Yakky along. “Hmm . . . one hundred minutes, sixteen seconds. I need a new stopwatch.” He pressed it to his ear. “Sounds normal. Piece of shit.”
“Want me to chuck it out the window, Dr. Peyton?”
“Nah, I’d rather smash it with a hammer.”
“I could do that. Very gladly.”
Peyton smiled and checked the tissue sample again.
Pulsating.
He checked his wristwatch. Hard to tell. “Are you sure you punched that on at the right time? You didn’t jump the gun, did you?”
“Gun?”
“Never mind. I saw you click it myself.” He looked at the stopwatch again. One-hundred minutes, thirty-two seconds. To the microscope: still pulsating. To the watch: one hundred minutes, forty-five seconds. To the microscope. Yakky was being dragged all over the place but took it like a man.
“Holy cow,” Peyton whispered, suddenly too stunned to move. “The cells are stable. No fragmentation yet. Could it . . .”
He pressed his eyes to the microscope.
Alive. Alive and well.
“I’ve done it,” he said, shaking with excitment. “Yak, old boy—we’ve done it! Take a gander for yourself!”
Yakky bent over and took this strange thing called a gander. The cells were just fine.
“A hundred and one minutes, Yak! I can’t believe it!”
Yakky straightened. “But why now? What is different?”
Peyton shrugged, then looked up at the dead light bulb. “Light,” he breathed, smiling. “It’s the goddamn light, Yak! The cells are photosensitive—have to be. In the dark they don’t fragment.” He hurriedly snapped off the microscope light. “I’ll check it every thirty seconds. Hell, maybe it’s just weak light that destroys the cells. Sunlight might be good for them. This will take some research, but man! Think of it! With just an old photograph we can give burn victims their undamaged faces back!”
Yakky smiled, but it looked slightly off-kilter. “Does this mean we’re done? I have to look for another job?”
“No, no. This is just the beginning. All we’ve got is a piece of the puzzle. There’s still the big question—how to keep the cells stable in normal light. Once we lick that, consider yourself unemployed. Call me in Tahiti sometime.”
He turned the miniature light on, grinning, and peered into the microscope. The cells were slowing. “Baked them in the scope light too long,” he muttered, watching them die and fragment. “Time?”
Yakky looked at the stopwatch. “One hundred and two.”
“That’s three minutes better than ever before. I love it.” He pushed away from the microscope. “They’re all dead now. Let’s knock out the windows and see what sunlight does to them. There’s a
The overhead light went out suddenly, leaving the room in darkness save for the dull glare from the computer. “Now what?” he muttered. “Must be a fuse.” He clicked the microscope’s light switch; the tiny bulb came alive instantly. Not a fuse, then. He looked up at the ceiling fixture, realizing two things at once: The computer was still on, so it couldn’t possibly be a fuse because this grand manor only had one; and the elderly bulb overhead was black and dirty-looking.
“Have any new light bulbs?” Yakky asked.
“Downstairs in a box, I think. Can you give me the time first?”
Yakky brought the stopwatch close to his eyes. “Ninety-nine minutes, forty seconds.”
“Okay. Put a new light in and we’ll abandon ship.” Out of habit he looked through the microscope one last time, again knowing exactly what he would see: fragmentation, death.
The cells were busily pulsating, looking very healthy.
“Check that time again, Yak. Something’s weird.”
Yak checked it. “Ninety-nine—one hundred minutes.”
“Baloney.” Peyton snagged the watch and dragged it over, towing Yakky along. “Hmm . . . one hundred minutes, sixteen seconds. I need a new stopwatch.” He pressed it to his ear. “Sounds normal. Piece of shit.”
“Want me to chuck it out the window, Dr. Peyton?”
“Nah, I’d rather smash it with a hammer.”
“I could do that. Very gladly.”
Peyton smiled and checked the tissue sample again.
Pulsating.
He checked his wristwatch. Hard to tell. “Are you sure you punched that on at the right time? You didn’t jump the gun, did you?”
“Gun?”
“Never mind. I saw you click it myself.” He looked at the stopwatch again. One-hundred minutes, thirty-two seconds. To the microscope: still pulsating. To the watch: one hundred minutes, forty-five seconds. To the microscope. Yakky was being dragged all over the place but took it like a man.
“Holy cow,” Peyton whispered, suddenly too stunned to move. “The cells are stable. No fragmentation yet. Could it . . .”
He pressed his eyes to the microscope.
Alive. Alive and well.
“I’ve done it,” he said, shaking with excitment. “Yak, old boy—we’ve done it! Take a gander for yourself!”
Yakky bent over and took this strange thing called a gander. The cells were just fine.
“A hundred and one minutes, Yak! I can’t believe it!”
Yakky straightened. “But why now? What is different?”
Peyton shrugged, then looked up at the dead light bulb. “Light,” he breathed, smiling. “It’s the goddamn light, Yak! The cells are photosensitive—have to be. In the dark they don’t fragment.” He hurriedly snapped off the microscope light. “I’ll check it every thirty seconds. Hell, maybe it’s just weak light that destroys the cells. Sunlight might be good for them. This will take some research, but man! Think of it! With just an old photograph we can give burn victims their undamaged faces back!”
Yakky smiled, but it looked slightly off-kilter. “Does this mean we’re done? I have to look for another job?”
“No, no. This is just the beginning. All we’ve got is a piece of the puzzle. There’s still the big question—how to keep the cells stable in normal light. Once we lick that, consider yourself unemployed. Call me in Tahiti sometime.”
He turned the miniature light on, grinning, and peered into the microscope. The cells were slowing. “Baked them in the scope light too long,” he muttered, watching them die and fragment. “Time?”
Yakky looked at the stopwatch. “One hundred and two.”
“That’s three minutes better than ever before. I love it.” He pushed away from the microscope. “They’re all dead now. Let’s knock out the windows and see what sunlight does to them. There’s a
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