injection with the cancer cells, the tumors were bulging, swollen knobs of flesh unbalancing the nudes' pink bodies. Cliff recorded the tumor sizes in his lab notebook. Carefully, more carefully than he ever had before, he kept and copied his records. He still scrawled notes and numbers on scratch paper, but his lab book was sacrosanct. He lined up his figures in neat columns, printing every number with the utmost care. His previous experiments had been rehearsals; his trials and errors just dry runs. Now he checked his animals night and day. He placed his cages on certain shelves of the isolator rack and posted signs: DO NOT MOVE! These were his mice, his proprietary tumors swelling just under the skin of the busy, unknowing animals.
“Good. Good. Good,” he whispered as he examined the tumor-burdened mice, lifting up the creatures by their tails.
He would buy a box of powdered donuts and a quart of chocolate milk, and that was dinner. The sudden blue sky between the trees, a glimpse of messy shrubs, the wafer-thin tombstones in the cemetery on Garden Street as they poked at rakish angles through the snow—that was all he had of daylight. A few hours' rest on the couch in the lounge or, sometimes, in his own tangled, stale sheets served as a night's sleep.
Waking up one morning, he was half surprised to find himself in Robin's apartment. She lay face down with her pillow over her head, her hair streaming over her bare back and shoulders.
“Robin,” he whispered.
She stirred and sighed.
“Are you sleeping?”
“Yes, obviously I'm sleeping,” she groused, even as she turned toward him. He closed his eyes again and wrapped his arms around her bare body. She was deliciously warm; he felt as though he were sinking underground, escaping chilly air, wind, and all the work on land. But such work! What work awaited him! He was injecting his mice that morning with R-7. The virus was prepared, the animals ready, their tumors developed. This was the day. He kicked off the blanket.
“You aren't really getting up.”
“I have to hurry.”
“Don't be ridiculous.” She pulled him back down and curled up next to him with her head on his shoulder.
“I'm injecting today.”
“Saving lives, huh?” Her voice was muffled.
“Yeah, saving mice, anyway.”
She looked at him, sleepy and satirical. “Small lives.”
“Small for now.” He was entirely awake and eager, tense with the possibilities of the day's experiments, already begrudging himself the night's sleep.
“Today the mouse, tomorrow the world,” she said.
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Just so you don't become a complete asshole,” she explained.
“Prophylactic teasing?”
“Right. I have to inoculate you.” She lifted her head and kissed him on the lips. “So stay.”
He slipped out from under her. Absentmindedly, almost reminiscently, he touched her face.
“It's not even six.” She sat up with the sheet covering her and pulled her knees up to her chin. “Why don't we have breakfast and go in together?”
“No, you don't understand . . .”
“Right, how could I?” she shot back, offended.
“I'm sorry. I'm sorry,” he murmured, even as he pulled on his clothes. “Please, Robin.” But, unspoken, the facts forced their way between them. He had results and she didn't. His experiments were like Christmas; every morning he had new questions to unwrap, but Robin had no new world to conquer.
“I'll see you soon?” he asked her.
“Just go,” she said.
“Don't be that way.”
“I'm not that way. I'm fine.”
He hesitated. He understood, even as she pretended otherwise, that she was angry with him. Chasing his results, he had left her far behind, and she feared she would never catch up. He felt her watching him as he hunted for his old gray sweater, first one balled-up sock and then another. He knelt on the bed and kissed her good-bye, but she was no longer warm. “Let's go out tonight to the worst movie we can find,” he
“Good. Good. Good,” he whispered as he examined the tumor-burdened mice, lifting up the creatures by their tails.
He would buy a box of powdered donuts and a quart of chocolate milk, and that was dinner. The sudden blue sky between the trees, a glimpse of messy shrubs, the wafer-thin tombstones in the cemetery on Garden Street as they poked at rakish angles through the snow—that was all he had of daylight. A few hours' rest on the couch in the lounge or, sometimes, in his own tangled, stale sheets served as a night's sleep.
Waking up one morning, he was half surprised to find himself in Robin's apartment. She lay face down with her pillow over her head, her hair streaming over her bare back and shoulders.
“Robin,” he whispered.
She stirred and sighed.
“Are you sleeping?”
“Yes, obviously I'm sleeping,” she groused, even as she turned toward him. He closed his eyes again and wrapped his arms around her bare body. She was deliciously warm; he felt as though he were sinking underground, escaping chilly air, wind, and all the work on land. But such work! What work awaited him! He was injecting his mice that morning with R-7. The virus was prepared, the animals ready, their tumors developed. This was the day. He kicked off the blanket.
“You aren't really getting up.”
“I have to hurry.”
“Don't be ridiculous.” She pulled him back down and curled up next to him with her head on his shoulder.
“I'm injecting today.”
“Saving lives, huh?” Her voice was muffled.
“Yeah, saving mice, anyway.”
She looked at him, sleepy and satirical. “Small lives.”
“Small for now.” He was entirely awake and eager, tense with the possibilities of the day's experiments, already begrudging himself the night's sleep.
“Today the mouse, tomorrow the world,” she said.
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Just so you don't become a complete asshole,” she explained.
“Prophylactic teasing?”
“Right. I have to inoculate you.” She lifted her head and kissed him on the lips. “So stay.”
He slipped out from under her. Absentmindedly, almost reminiscently, he touched her face.
“It's not even six.” She sat up with the sheet covering her and pulled her knees up to her chin. “Why don't we have breakfast and go in together?”
“No, you don't understand . . .”
“Right, how could I?” she shot back, offended.
“I'm sorry. I'm sorry,” he murmured, even as he pulled on his clothes. “Please, Robin.” But, unspoken, the facts forced their way between them. He had results and she didn't. His experiments were like Christmas; every morning he had new questions to unwrap, but Robin had no new world to conquer.
“I'll see you soon?” he asked her.
“Just go,” she said.
“Don't be that way.”
“I'm not that way. I'm fine.”
He hesitated. He understood, even as she pretended otherwise, that she was angry with him. Chasing his results, he had left her far behind, and she feared she would never catch up. He felt her watching him as he hunted for his old gray sweater, first one balled-up sock and then another. He knelt on the bed and kissed her good-bye, but she was no longer warm. “Let's go out tonight to the worst movie we can find,” he
Similar Books
