sense, but whom was he avenging?
He’d worked with Gruber, so that was the likely choice.
Hill considered the possibility. Much depended on how much West knew about what had gone on in Switzerland. The young man was aware that he’d worked with Gruber, that he’d used the late scientist’s ideas as a springboard. But in his single-minded devotion to Gruber, did he know how much farther he’d gone with those ideas? Did West know of the computer program he and Scott had written to scan the human brain and ignore all electrical activity save that generated by the cerebral cortex? Was he aware of the surges he’d measured whenever the subjects were presented with a moral dilemma? Did he know that he’d spent years on his own expanding on Gruber’s very simplistic notions?
Probably not. West wasn’t the type to see gray areas. His world was black and white.
He wondered, though, if West might also be here for Nancy.
West had to know about her dying when the program had shut down her brain instead of merely ignoring superfluous readings. Gruber or someone else at the school had to have mentioned it. But did he also know that the brain death of Nancy Joseph had not been the sole reason for his dismissal? That his problems did not stem from that or from literally having burned the student’s brain inside her skull while he had hastily tried to write a program to reactivate it? That he was dismissed not for his experiments, for she’d signed all the appropriate releases, but because it was expressly against school policy for professors and students to be lovers?
Perhaps one of Nancy’s relatives had gotten to him. Perhaps they’d seen, in West, an ideal means to strike back.
Perhaps.
Or maybe it was Willett who had sent West here. Although Hill had gone to Switzerland in 1978 with a title equal to Gruber’s, it was understood that he was technically the elder scientist’s assistant. That relationship had ended when Gruber petitioned Dr. Willett to prevent Hill from conducting research on humans. Willett delighted in playing scientists against one another in an endless quest for greater productivity and more Nobel winners, and saw the friction as healthy. That philosophy dissipated when Nancy died. He was sent packing, Gruber was given all the power—the trustees had demanded both—and normalcy was restored.
Now that Gruber was gone, Willett had no one to collect honors . . . or grants. He might very well have encouraged West to seek him out.
Hill considered it all, then asked himself if it mattered. Short of satisfying his curiosity, would the knowledge help to forestall another confrontation? Would it leave him calm enough so that West’s taunts would roll off his back?
“Planning to operate on my Drexel, Carl?”
The scientist looked up. Dean Halsey was smiling stupidly, pointing toward his plate. Hill glanced down. The knife handle was gripped tightly in his fist, the tip of the blade pressed to the tablecloth. Chuckling uncomfortably, Hill lay the knife aside.
“Sorry, Allan. Unwillingness to see the meal ended, you know.”
Halsey laughed. “I understand. My daughter is a superb cook.”
Hill held her bright eyes with his. “She is indeed . . . superb.”
Megan shifted uneasily in her seat as her father lifted his glass.
“Before the others arrive for the meeting—and I know how this sort of thing embarrasses you, Carl, but, dammit, you’re going to sit through it—I would like to propose a toast: to the National Science Foundation, for recognizing the genius of Dr. Carl Hill and for awarding the Miskatonic Medical School its largest grant ever. Carl, your new laser drill is going to revolutionize neurosurgery.”
Megan looked down, and Hill’s eyes rolled from hers to those of her father.
“To the Foundation. And to Miskatonic.”
The men drank deeply, but Megan took only a sip, then played absently with the stem of her glass. Her father smiled benignly.
“That’s all right,
He’d worked with Gruber, so that was the likely choice.
Hill considered the possibility. Much depended on how much West knew about what had gone on in Switzerland. The young man was aware that he’d worked with Gruber, that he’d used the late scientist’s ideas as a springboard. But in his single-minded devotion to Gruber, did he know how much farther he’d gone with those ideas? Did West know of the computer program he and Scott had written to scan the human brain and ignore all electrical activity save that generated by the cerebral cortex? Was he aware of the surges he’d measured whenever the subjects were presented with a moral dilemma? Did he know that he’d spent years on his own expanding on Gruber’s very simplistic notions?
Probably not. West wasn’t the type to see gray areas. His world was black and white.
He wondered, though, if West might also be here for Nancy.
West had to know about her dying when the program had shut down her brain instead of merely ignoring superfluous readings. Gruber or someone else at the school had to have mentioned it. But did he also know that the brain death of Nancy Joseph had not been the sole reason for his dismissal? That his problems did not stem from that or from literally having burned the student’s brain inside her skull while he had hastily tried to write a program to reactivate it? That he was dismissed not for his experiments, for she’d signed all the appropriate releases, but because it was expressly against school policy for professors and students to be lovers?
Perhaps one of Nancy’s relatives had gotten to him. Perhaps they’d seen, in West, an ideal means to strike back.
Perhaps.
Or maybe it was Willett who had sent West here. Although Hill had gone to Switzerland in 1978 with a title equal to Gruber’s, it was understood that he was technically the elder scientist’s assistant. That relationship had ended when Gruber petitioned Dr. Willett to prevent Hill from conducting research on humans. Willett delighted in playing scientists against one another in an endless quest for greater productivity and more Nobel winners, and saw the friction as healthy. That philosophy dissipated when Nancy died. He was sent packing, Gruber was given all the power—the trustees had demanded both—and normalcy was restored.
Now that Gruber was gone, Willett had no one to collect honors . . . or grants. He might very well have encouraged West to seek him out.
Hill considered it all, then asked himself if it mattered. Short of satisfying his curiosity, would the knowledge help to forestall another confrontation? Would it leave him calm enough so that West’s taunts would roll off his back?
“Planning to operate on my Drexel, Carl?”
The scientist looked up. Dean Halsey was smiling stupidly, pointing toward his plate. Hill glanced down. The knife handle was gripped tightly in his fist, the tip of the blade pressed to the tablecloth. Chuckling uncomfortably, Hill lay the knife aside.
“Sorry, Allan. Unwillingness to see the meal ended, you know.”
Halsey laughed. “I understand. My daughter is a superb cook.”
Hill held her bright eyes with his. “She is indeed . . . superb.”
Megan shifted uneasily in her seat as her father lifted his glass.
“Before the others arrive for the meeting—and I know how this sort of thing embarrasses you, Carl, but, dammit, you’re going to sit through it—I would like to propose a toast: to the National Science Foundation, for recognizing the genius of Dr. Carl Hill and for awarding the Miskatonic Medical School its largest grant ever. Carl, your new laser drill is going to revolutionize neurosurgery.”
Megan looked down, and Hill’s eyes rolled from hers to those of her father.
“To the Foundation. And to Miskatonic.”
The men drank deeply, but Megan took only a sip, then played absently with the stem of her glass. Her father smiled benignly.
“That’s all right,
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