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Authors: Allegra Goodman
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said.
“You're working tonight,” she reminded him.
“I'm not. I'm not,” he said as he ran out the door. But he was working that night, and every night. “We'll make the time,” he called. He just didn't know what else to say.
As soon as Feng got to the institute, he hurried down to the animal facility to meet Cliff.
“Are you ready to inject?” Feng asked.
Cliff looked up from the stainless steel table. He'd already replaced his cages on the rack, gathered his syringes, cleaned out the anesthetic jar. “I'm just packing up.”
Feng stood for a moment in silence, astonished that Cliff had come in so early and worked so fast. The plan had been for Feng to help with these crucial injections, and especially with the record keeping. Marion liked Feng to keep an independent record of dates, procedures, and deaths in the colony. But Cliff had already recorded the injections in his own lab book; he'd noted the date of R-7 injections on the cage cards in black pen. As Cliff took a proprietary interest in his virus and his mice, he'd appropriated more and more of the record keeping as well. Marion had questioned this at the last lab meeting, but neither she nor Glass had directly told Cliff to ease up. No one chastised him for sprinting forward alone, now that there was a chance he was running in the right direction.
Still, as he threw his used syringes into the plastic biohazard containers, Cliff felt a twinge of guilt to see Feng standing there empty-handed. Cliff could have waited two hours and allowed Feng to inject the mice with him. Being a team player, or a friend, for that matter—these were things Cliff valued. Most days, he tried to show a certain generosity of spirit.
All around them, inside their orderly clear plastic isolators, the pink mice scurried. The injections had gone well. Cliff should have been able to share that with Feng. It was just that Cliff held possible results so tantalizing and so precious that he couldn't, even for an instant, open his hand.
Feng looked for a moment as though he might turn on his heel and go. Instead he walked over to the isolator racks and examined Cliff's mice. He scanned the rows of cages and observed a group on which he and Cliff had tested the potency of the cell line they planned to use in their experiments. Feng and Cliff had injected these mice with cancer cells several weeks before they began their official experiments, and so the tumors on these were much more advanced. These mice had already demonstrated that Cliff's cancer cells were alive and well, dividing viciously. Feng was surprised Cliff had let them linger.
“These guys from the test group,” Feng said. “They should be sac'ed.”
“Yeah, I'm planning to do that,” said Cliff.
“I'll do it for you,” Feng said.
“You don't have to.” They all hated sacrificing the animals. Euthanizing the mice with CO 2 was clean and relatively easy, as was lethal injection. However, Marion disliked both these methods. She felt that gassing mice caused unnecessary suffering by prolonging death and making the animals frantic. She did not allow injections because the barbiturates used could infiltrate blood and tissue, and compromise later analysis. Instead, Marion hewed to the Philpott veterinarian's guidelines for decapitating experimental mice. The method was messy; but it was the quickest and therefore, she felt, most humane. Robin and Feng were fairly adept. Prithwish managed well with the nude mice, but couldn't bring himself to break the necks of mice with fur. “They are like real animals,” he said. “I can't explain it.” But Cliff had a real phobia. “I'll do it later,” he told Feng.
“No, it's okay.” Feng took out the cages and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Bad form, he thought, to keep these mice around. On humans their tumors would have been unimaginable in scale, the size of cantaloupes.
Cliff's stomach lurched as Feng plucked the first mouse from its
“You're working tonight,” she reminded him.
“I'm not. I'm not,” he said as he ran out the door. But he was working that night, and every night. “We'll make the time,” he called. He just didn't know what else to say.
As soon as Feng got to the institute, he hurried down to the animal facility to meet Cliff.
“Are you ready to inject?” Feng asked.
Cliff looked up from the stainless steel table. He'd already replaced his cages on the rack, gathered his syringes, cleaned out the anesthetic jar. “I'm just packing up.”
Feng stood for a moment in silence, astonished that Cliff had come in so early and worked so fast. The plan had been for Feng to help with these crucial injections, and especially with the record keeping. Marion liked Feng to keep an independent record of dates, procedures, and deaths in the colony. But Cliff had already recorded the injections in his own lab book; he'd noted the date of R-7 injections on the cage cards in black pen. As Cliff took a proprietary interest in his virus and his mice, he'd appropriated more and more of the record keeping as well. Marion had questioned this at the last lab meeting, but neither she nor Glass had directly told Cliff to ease up. No one chastised him for sprinting forward alone, now that there was a chance he was running in the right direction.
Still, as he threw his used syringes into the plastic biohazard containers, Cliff felt a twinge of guilt to see Feng standing there empty-handed. Cliff could have waited two hours and allowed Feng to inject the mice with him. Being a team player, or a friend, for that matter—these were things Cliff valued. Most days, he tried to show a certain generosity of spirit.
All around them, inside their orderly clear plastic isolators, the pink mice scurried. The injections had gone well. Cliff should have been able to share that with Feng. It was just that Cliff held possible results so tantalizing and so precious that he couldn't, even for an instant, open his hand.
Feng looked for a moment as though he might turn on his heel and go. Instead he walked over to the isolator racks and examined Cliff's mice. He scanned the rows of cages and observed a group on which he and Cliff had tested the potency of the cell line they planned to use in their experiments. Feng and Cliff had injected these mice with cancer cells several weeks before they began their official experiments, and so the tumors on these were much more advanced. These mice had already demonstrated that Cliff's cancer cells were alive and well, dividing viciously. Feng was surprised Cliff had let them linger.
“These guys from the test group,” Feng said. “They should be sac'ed.”
“Yeah, I'm planning to do that,” said Cliff.
“I'll do it for you,” Feng said.
“You don't have to.” They all hated sacrificing the animals. Euthanizing the mice with CO 2 was clean and relatively easy, as was lethal injection. However, Marion disliked both these methods. She felt that gassing mice caused unnecessary suffering by prolonging death and making the animals frantic. She did not allow injections because the barbiturates used could infiltrate blood and tissue, and compromise later analysis. Instead, Marion hewed to the Philpott veterinarian's guidelines for decapitating experimental mice. The method was messy; but it was the quickest and therefore, she felt, most humane. Robin and Feng were fairly adept. Prithwish managed well with the nude mice, but couldn't bring himself to break the necks of mice with fur. “They are like real animals,” he said. “I can't explain it.” But Cliff had a real phobia. “I'll do it later,” he told Feng.
“No, it's okay.” Feng took out the cages and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Bad form, he thought, to keep these mice around. On humans their tumors would have been unimaginable in scale, the size of cantaloupes.
Cliff's stomach lurched as Feng plucked the first mouse from its
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