Read Online Intuition by Allegra Goodman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Allegra Goodman
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cage. Still, he was too proud and too possessive of his animals to leave the room.
Feng held the mouse just above the fine metal bars of the isolator's water bottle and food pellet holder. Instinctively, the mouse's feet opened and the creature clutched the bars with its pink toes. Feng took a pencil from his pocket and placed it on the back of the mouse's neck. Then, with a sharp pull, he tugged the animal's tail. In one clean jerk, the mouse's head snapped back against the pencil. Small, heavy, lifeless, the head fell forward, limp. Feng laid the body on a clean paper towel.
Swallowing, Cliff forced himself to look as Feng picked up the next mouse by the tail. For a moment, irrationally, frantically, Cliff felt that Feng was getting back at him, pointing up and preying on his weakness. At the same time, Cliff felt ashamed. He felt the reproach in Feng's actions—the suggestion that he had been careless with his animals, the aggressive humility in Feng's insistence on doing Cliff's dirty work.
The room was clean but close, stinking faintly of food pellets, urine, and turds—a smell like overripe granola. Already a small row of nudes lay on the counter. In death their heads had wilted; their delicate sense organs had collapsed. Where their necks were broken, right through their pink translucent skin, Cliff could see the dark blood pooling.
Mouth set, hands quick, Feng worked intently. Once, just as he was about to sacrifice a mouse, his glasses slipped a little down his nose. Still, he did not flinch or break his rhythm.
“I've been a selfish jerk,” said Cliff.
Feng laid out the mouse's body and plucked the next one by the tail.
“Look, it's a collaboration,” Cliff said. “We're working together, and you deserve a share in whatever comes out of this as much as me.”
“As much as
I,
” Feng corrected.
Cliff grinned hopefully. Feng loved to correct Cliff's English. Feng had studied grammar seriously in school, and knew all the parts of speech by their proper names.
The top of Feng's blue cap was all Cliff could see as Feng bent down again for the next animal.
“I'm sorry,” Cliff said.
Feng had emptied two cages now of their inhabitants. He stuck the plastic lids back on, and placed the empty cages just outside the door to be picked up for autoclaving.
“I'm sorry,” Cliff said again. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Feng said calmly.
For a moment, Cliff was confused enough to wonder if he'd actually invented this whole conflict. Was Feng's silent anger just some figment of Cliff's imagination? His surge of energy on waking had now dissipated, and sleep, the black nothingness of sleep, attacked Cliff from every side.
“Why don't you go get some sleep?” Feng said, echoing Cliff's own thought.
He sighed with relief. “Thanks, Feng.” He picked up his bucket of supplies and ice. “Listen,” Cliff mumbled, contradicting what he'd said before about collaboration. “I owe you, and I promise I'll sac the next group myself.”
2
S ERENE IN the midst of the lunch rush at Harvest restaurant in Harvard Square, Sandy sat at his table with a glass of ice water. He was skimming
The New England Journal of Medicine
as Louisa rushed in, coat unbuttoned, backpack hanging off one shoulder. She was the rare mythical graduate student who enjoyed her work, took required courses cheerfully, and prepared for area exams by covering three-by-five cards with copious notes. Sandy's daughter loved to learn, and he couldn't have been prouder of her—except that she was studying the history of science! That entirely descriptive field. Why would anyone want to read about discoveries instead of making them? Why would anyone as capable as Louisa write about other people's inventions? Glass fervently hoped this doctoral program of hers was just a passing fancy.
“Where are the menus?” she asked.
“I already ordered.”
“You ordered for me too?”
“You were late,” he pointed out.
“Just five minutes!”
He
Feng held the mouse just above the fine metal bars of the isolator's water bottle and food pellet holder. Instinctively, the mouse's feet opened and the creature clutched the bars with its pink toes. Feng took a pencil from his pocket and placed it on the back of the mouse's neck. Then, with a sharp pull, he tugged the animal's tail. In one clean jerk, the mouse's head snapped back against the pencil. Small, heavy, lifeless, the head fell forward, limp. Feng laid the body on a clean paper towel.
Swallowing, Cliff forced himself to look as Feng picked up the next mouse by the tail. For a moment, irrationally, frantically, Cliff felt that Feng was getting back at him, pointing up and preying on his weakness. At the same time, Cliff felt ashamed. He felt the reproach in Feng's actions—the suggestion that he had been careless with his animals, the aggressive humility in Feng's insistence on doing Cliff's dirty work.
The room was clean but close, stinking faintly of food pellets, urine, and turds—a smell like overripe granola. Already a small row of nudes lay on the counter. In death their heads had wilted; their delicate sense organs had collapsed. Where their necks were broken, right through their pink translucent skin, Cliff could see the dark blood pooling.
Mouth set, hands quick, Feng worked intently. Once, just as he was about to sacrifice a mouse, his glasses slipped a little down his nose. Still, he did not flinch or break his rhythm.
“I've been a selfish jerk,” said Cliff.
Feng laid out the mouse's body and plucked the next one by the tail.
“Look, it's a collaboration,” Cliff said. “We're working together, and you deserve a share in whatever comes out of this as much as me.”
“As much as
I,
” Feng corrected.
Cliff grinned hopefully. Feng loved to correct Cliff's English. Feng had studied grammar seriously in school, and knew all the parts of speech by their proper names.
The top of Feng's blue cap was all Cliff could see as Feng bent down again for the next animal.
“I'm sorry,” Cliff said.
Feng had emptied two cages now of their inhabitants. He stuck the plastic lids back on, and placed the empty cages just outside the door to be picked up for autoclaving.
“I'm sorry,” Cliff said again. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Feng said calmly.
For a moment, Cliff was confused enough to wonder if he'd actually invented this whole conflict. Was Feng's silent anger just some figment of Cliff's imagination? His surge of energy on waking had now dissipated, and sleep, the black nothingness of sleep, attacked Cliff from every side.
“Why don't you go get some sleep?” Feng said, echoing Cliff's own thought.
He sighed with relief. “Thanks, Feng.” He picked up his bucket of supplies and ice. “Listen,” Cliff mumbled, contradicting what he'd said before about collaboration. “I owe you, and I promise I'll sac the next group myself.”
2
S ERENE IN the midst of the lunch rush at Harvest restaurant in Harvard Square, Sandy sat at his table with a glass of ice water. He was skimming
The New England Journal of Medicine
as Louisa rushed in, coat unbuttoned, backpack hanging off one shoulder. She was the rare mythical graduate student who enjoyed her work, took required courses cheerfully, and prepared for area exams by covering three-by-five cards with copious notes. Sandy's daughter loved to learn, and he couldn't have been prouder of her—except that she was studying the history of science! That entirely descriptive field. Why would anyone want to read about discoveries instead of making them? Why would anyone as capable as Louisa write about other people's inventions? Glass fervently hoped this doctoral program of hers was just a passing fancy.
“Where are the menus?” she asked.
“I already ordered.”
“You ordered for me too?”
“You were late,” he pointed out.
“Just five minutes!”
He
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