desk and a battered typewriter were barely visible beneath piles of books and papers.
Garth grinned. 'I am known in these parts as the Tinkertoy man.'
*rm not surprised/ Stephanie said. 'Garth, what is all this?'
He swung his arm to encompass the room. 'My models. Works of art, each made by hand—'
'Garth. Be serious.*
'You know, I am serious. These cockeyed models are my works of art.'
'Tell me.'
He smiled at her serious face. 'Each model is a different kind of molecule. The balls are atoms, the sticks are the forces that hold them in their different arrangements. You do know what molecules are.'
She nodded. 'They have them in Switzerland, too.'
'Sony, was I talking down?'
'A little. But I really don't know very much.'
'Here.' He erased the blackboard and sketched as he talked. 'This is the cell, and inside it, the nucleus. Inside that, these ribbons are the chromosomes, made up of long strands of a particular molecule.' He reached down to pick up a model, but just then a roar surged from the crowd below and he looked impatiently at the window. 'We can come back another time.'
'No, tell me now.' She felt close to him in the silent laboratory; outside there was danger, but inside, with Garth, was safety.
'I'll make it short. The molecule that makes up the chromosomes is DNA. This is a model of it: something like a ladder twisted into a corkscrew. DNA is the molecule that controls heredity. It's a blueprint; the different kinds of rungs on the ladder are organized in special ways that make up a code, with all the information needed for the duplication of life. That's where I come in: uying to understand how this molecule, this ladder, is made/
'And when you do?'
'Then I might learn how to repair it when it's damaged.' He returned the DNA model to the bench. 'Kids are being bom now with diseases we can't cure, because somewhere on their DNA ladder something went wrong with one or more of the rungs. If we knew how—*
He broke off. The shouting was louder; a girl's voice came through the bullhorn. 'There's more to it, but that's the meat and potatoes. We'll get to the rest on a quieter day. Shall we
go?'
As they were leaving Stephanie glanced at the other side of the laboratory. It was more familiar, with microscopes, test tubes, beakers, syringes, a sink. On one wall, beside a large window, dozens of white mice scampered in small cages. Looking over her shoulder, Garth said, 'Bill and I trade information; he's working on inherited diseases in mice.'
Stephanie smiled. 'Tinkertoys and pet mice. Modem science—' Abmptly she screamed as an explosion threw her against him and fragments of glass shattered at their feet.
Garth cursed. 'Don't talk,' he said roughly. 'And try to hold your breath.'
'Why?' she asked, but his arm wa$ muffling her face as he half-carried her into the hall and up a stairway. Suddenly she was violently ill: her eyes stung, tears streamed from under their swollen Uds and her chest felt crushed as harsh gasps tore through her burning throat.
Then there was cool air and sunlight on her face, and Garth's strong arm steadying her. 'I can't stop crying,' she said. 'I can't open my eyes.'
His other arm came up to cradle her. 'You'll be all right in a few minutes. It's only tear gas.'
'Only—!'
'Not permanently damaging. Can you stay here alone? I'll get some water.'
'Where are we?'
'On the roof. Be right back.*
The burning lingered, but within ten minutes Stephanie could open her eyes and look over the parapet at the police dragging coughing, crying students into paddy wagons. 'Why did the police throw one at us?'
'Not exactly at us; somebody had lousy aim. You'd think with all their practice they'd be in better form. Stephanie, I've got to go back and cover that broken window. Do you want to wait here?'
'I'll come with you.'
But in the laboratory she shrank back from his rage. It welled up as he stood in the room, his face rigid, the veins standing out in his neck. 'Bastards.' The
Garth grinned. 'I am known in these parts as the Tinkertoy man.'
*rm not surprised/ Stephanie said. 'Garth, what is all this?'
He swung his arm to encompass the room. 'My models. Works of art, each made by hand—'
'Garth. Be serious.*
'You know, I am serious. These cockeyed models are my works of art.'
'Tell me.'
He smiled at her serious face. 'Each model is a different kind of molecule. The balls are atoms, the sticks are the forces that hold them in their different arrangements. You do know what molecules are.'
She nodded. 'They have them in Switzerland, too.'
'Sony, was I talking down?'
'A little. But I really don't know very much.'
'Here.' He erased the blackboard and sketched as he talked. 'This is the cell, and inside it, the nucleus. Inside that, these ribbons are the chromosomes, made up of long strands of a particular molecule.' He reached down to pick up a model, but just then a roar surged from the crowd below and he looked impatiently at the window. 'We can come back another time.'
'No, tell me now.' She felt close to him in the silent laboratory; outside there was danger, but inside, with Garth, was safety.
'I'll make it short. The molecule that makes up the chromosomes is DNA. This is a model of it: something like a ladder twisted into a corkscrew. DNA is the molecule that controls heredity. It's a blueprint; the different kinds of rungs on the ladder are organized in special ways that make up a code, with all the information needed for the duplication of life. That's where I come in: uying to understand how this molecule, this ladder, is made/
'And when you do?'
'Then I might learn how to repair it when it's damaged.' He returned the DNA model to the bench. 'Kids are being bom now with diseases we can't cure, because somewhere on their DNA ladder something went wrong with one or more of the rungs. If we knew how—*
He broke off. The shouting was louder; a girl's voice came through the bullhorn. 'There's more to it, but that's the meat and potatoes. We'll get to the rest on a quieter day. Shall we
go?'
As they were leaving Stephanie glanced at the other side of the laboratory. It was more familiar, with microscopes, test tubes, beakers, syringes, a sink. On one wall, beside a large window, dozens of white mice scampered in small cages. Looking over her shoulder, Garth said, 'Bill and I trade information; he's working on inherited diseases in mice.'
Stephanie smiled. 'Tinkertoys and pet mice. Modem science—' Abmptly she screamed as an explosion threw her against him and fragments of glass shattered at their feet.
Garth cursed. 'Don't talk,' he said roughly. 'And try to hold your breath.'
'Why?' she asked, but his arm wa$ muffling her face as he half-carried her into the hall and up a stairway. Suddenly she was violently ill: her eyes stung, tears streamed from under their swollen Uds and her chest felt crushed as harsh gasps tore through her burning throat.
Then there was cool air and sunlight on her face, and Garth's strong arm steadying her. 'I can't stop crying,' she said. 'I can't open my eyes.'
His other arm came up to cradle her. 'You'll be all right in a few minutes. It's only tear gas.'
'Only—!'
'Not permanently damaging. Can you stay here alone? I'll get some water.'
'Where are we?'
'On the roof. Be right back.*
The burning lingered, but within ten minutes Stephanie could open her eyes and look over the parapet at the police dragging coughing, crying students into paddy wagons. 'Why did the police throw one at us?'
'Not exactly at us; somebody had lousy aim. You'd think with all their practice they'd be in better form. Stephanie, I've got to go back and cover that broken window. Do you want to wait here?'
'I'll come with you.'
But in the laboratory she shrank back from his rage. It welled up as he stood in the room, his face rigid, the veins standing out in his neck. 'Bastards.' The
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