hall, and it looked as though it had been visited by a cyclone from hell. Phil Johnson always was a slob, but that wasn’t the whole problem — not even most of it. He had two assistants who cleaned up after him (necessarily so: Johnson didn’t work with anything especially dangerous, but there wasn’t any such thing as biologicals you could afford to be messy with). The mess itself wasn’t pleasant to the eye, but the real problem was the trash — two or three cartsfull of red-bag trash, drippy-looking stuff. The kind you couldn’t pile too high in the trash wagon, because too many of those bags on top of each other would make the ones on the bottom burst. Ron didn’t want infected trash bursting on him, not in a place where people spent their time cutting open germs and putting teeth inside them. Which meant that he had an hour’s work ahead of him, piling red bags one layer thick in the cart, running back and forth to the incinerator. Ralph Hernandez, out there stoking the fire, was going to love him when he saw this.
Not that there was any choice; the stuff had to be burned.
Ralph wasn’t anywhere to be seen when Ron got to the incinerator; he left the bags standing by the incinerator door and rolled the cart back inside for the next run. He had it parked in the hall outside Phil Johnson’s lab and half refilled when he heard Luke calling him from the far end of the corridor.
“Ron,” he shouted. His voice was elated — so full of relief that it made Ron uneasy. “The furnace worked fine. The damned bug is nothing but dust now.” When he got close to Ron he reached into the breast pocket of the sports jacket he wore under his lab coat and took out the test tube that had held the trilobite. There was nothing inside it now but grey, dusty ash.
Ron looked at the glass vial, and he looked back up at Luke’s too-cheerful face, and he said, “You’re afraid, aren’t you?” As soon as he heard himself ask the question he regretted it. It was the wrong thing to say; it was too pointed and too true and too real. Even if the damn thing was dangerous — infectious — the problem was Luke’s. It was his to cope with and his to worry about. Ron didn’t have any business making things any worse on the man than they already were.
Ron knew all that as he spoke, but still there was no way to stop himself. The damned thing worried him, too, worried him in a place that was so deep he didn’t have any control over what it did.
Luke was staring at the floor, distracted and afraid and ashamed.
“You’re worried,” Ron said, “that that bug is going to resurrect itself all over again, even though it’s nothing but a sift of ash.”
There was a long still moment where neither one of them said a thing. When Luke finally looked up and spoke his face was red with embarrassment. “Yeah. I’m afraid. I’m scared out of my goddamned mind. I’m taking this thing with me when I go out of town so that I can keep an eye on it. What in the hell am I supposed to be, happy? I didn’t ask for this thing to get out of hand. I didn’t ask for this kind of trouble.”
“I guess you didn’t,” Ron said. He was thinking that it was just the kind of can of worms Luke should have expected.
Luke tucked the test tube back into his breast pocket. “Yeah. Well. Look — I’ve got to get a move on. Plane leaves in an hour; I’m already pushing my luck as it is, as far as time goes.”
Ron nodded and looked away; two bags of trash later he heard Luke’s footsteps pacing away in the corridor, and looked up to see him heading toward the elevator, his briefcase in one hand, his suitcase in the other. By the time he had the cart loaded the elevator had come and Luke was gone. It was about then that the guilt began to sink in. What was he doing? Why was he saying things to make a man — a man who was clearly and truly his friend — so miserable? Even if he was right, even if Luke was being irresponsible with things almost
Not that there was any choice; the stuff had to be burned.
Ralph wasn’t anywhere to be seen when Ron got to the incinerator; he left the bags standing by the incinerator door and rolled the cart back inside for the next run. He had it parked in the hall outside Phil Johnson’s lab and half refilled when he heard Luke calling him from the far end of the corridor.
“Ron,” he shouted. His voice was elated — so full of relief that it made Ron uneasy. “The furnace worked fine. The damned bug is nothing but dust now.” When he got close to Ron he reached into the breast pocket of the sports jacket he wore under his lab coat and took out the test tube that had held the trilobite. There was nothing inside it now but grey, dusty ash.
Ron looked at the glass vial, and he looked back up at Luke’s too-cheerful face, and he said, “You’re afraid, aren’t you?” As soon as he heard himself ask the question he regretted it. It was the wrong thing to say; it was too pointed and too true and too real. Even if the damn thing was dangerous — infectious — the problem was Luke’s. It was his to cope with and his to worry about. Ron didn’t have any business making things any worse on the man than they already were.
Ron knew all that as he spoke, but still there was no way to stop himself. The damned thing worried him, too, worried him in a place that was so deep he didn’t have any control over what it did.
Luke was staring at the floor, distracted and afraid and ashamed.
“You’re worried,” Ron said, “that that bug is going to resurrect itself all over again, even though it’s nothing but a sift of ash.”
There was a long still moment where neither one of them said a thing. When Luke finally looked up and spoke his face was red with embarrassment. “Yeah. I’m afraid. I’m scared out of my goddamned mind. I’m taking this thing with me when I go out of town so that I can keep an eye on it. What in the hell am I supposed to be, happy? I didn’t ask for this thing to get out of hand. I didn’t ask for this kind of trouble.”
“I guess you didn’t,” Ron said. He was thinking that it was just the kind of can of worms Luke should have expected.
Luke tucked the test tube back into his breast pocket. “Yeah. Well. Look — I’ve got to get a move on. Plane leaves in an hour; I’m already pushing my luck as it is, as far as time goes.”
Ron nodded and looked away; two bags of trash later he heard Luke’s footsteps pacing away in the corridor, and looked up to see him heading toward the elevator, his briefcase in one hand, his suitcase in the other. By the time he had the cart loaded the elevator had come and Luke was gone. It was about then that the guilt began to sink in. What was he doing? Why was he saying things to make a man — a man who was clearly and truly his friend — so miserable? Even if he was right, even if Luke was being irresponsible with things almost
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