people now. They only die within set parameters.
The foyer has a barbaric efficiency to it; a Cold War atomic bunker vibe that no amount of smiling photographs can quash. I’m not big on family portraits and torn and tearstained images of long-dead children are seldom ‘jaunty’, no matter what a grieving parent might tell you.
It’s mistrust at first sight for Malmot and Holubec; combative eye contact and a conversational tone that veers from professional to the downright hostile and back. Meanwhile, the idiot Ceesal emits methane and Holubec makes a mental note to inject him with something unpleasant before the day’s out.
Malmot looks up. Something strikes him strange: a model railway track – suspended roughly a foot and a half below ceiling level and disappearing into the ventilation shafts either side of the foyer. Ceesal just stares, his eyes wide with childish wonderment as a miniature Wild West steam train peeps in above his head, towing six little wagons full of human fingers. He turns, open mouthed, to Holubec.
“Waste not want not, yes?” says the doctor. The receptionist, called Michelle, shrugs.
“Oh, yeh!” comes an inexplicably excited voice from the depths of the ventilation system. Holubec shudders.
“You will be signing the visitor’s book,” he says, producing a massive, dust-encrusted, leather-bound tome full of blank pages.
“I think not,” says Malmot, shaking his head. “Hush hush, you know,” he adds, tapping his nose.
“ I said , you will be signing the visitor’s book!” Holubec repeats.
“And I said ...” starts Malmot.
“You are illiterate?” Holubec interrupts.
“Why, er, no. No, I’m not.”
“Then why do you not sign your name? If you wish, you may put down an ‘X’ and I will write in the time and date for you.”
“I am not illiterate.”
“What about your idiot friend? Can he write his language?”
“I’ve seen him draw a pig in a top hat.”
“Then you will sign and he will draw his animal with its headgear. I have crayons. Then you may proceed into the facility. Not before.”
Malmot reluctantly snatches a pen and gouges something angular into the pristine white page.
“I don’t think you know who you’re dealing with.”
“You are right,” Holubec answers. “But you do not offer me money so I will not engage the emotion of caring. I will show you round, answer your stupid questions, but that is all. Offer me financial assistance, however, and I will be your finest friend. I will call you Sir. I will give you tea and I will not point out the extent of your ignorance.”
Malmot’s non-uniform persona is perfect for secretive excursions but hinders as much as it helps. And in situations where violence isn’t appropriate, well, it’s back to good, old-fashioned diplomacy.
“I’m a firm believer in scientific progress, Doctor Holubec. And I have no ethical objections to buying your friendship. Two hundred million is a nice number, don’t you think?”
“Ach! Hyperinflation is making my wallet too heavy to carry, yes? The Scottish have a stable economy. Ten thousand of their dollars will suffice. I am not a greedy man.”
“You’re a sharp operator, Doctor.”
“We have the agreement?”
“Indeed. We have the agreement.”
“Then welcome, Sir , to Stemset. And how may I be your assistant?”
“Can I count on your discretion?” Holubec nods with a wry laugh.
“If it were not for the simple virtue of lying by omission, I would not be where I am today!” And he gestures toward a set of heavily-barred steel doors. When the infrared fingerprint scanner fails to work, he unlocks them with a rusty old key. “We shall enter through there. But the fool must stay here, for all our safety. He is drunk and his tongue is like a wobbling eel. I do not wish to see it.”
“I was hoping you could take a look at him, Doctor. You see my problem is … is him.”
“We can observe him via surveillance camera. I have them
The foyer has a barbaric efficiency to it; a Cold War atomic bunker vibe that no amount of smiling photographs can quash. I’m not big on family portraits and torn and tearstained images of long-dead children are seldom ‘jaunty’, no matter what a grieving parent might tell you.
It’s mistrust at first sight for Malmot and Holubec; combative eye contact and a conversational tone that veers from professional to the downright hostile and back. Meanwhile, the idiot Ceesal emits methane and Holubec makes a mental note to inject him with something unpleasant before the day’s out.
Malmot looks up. Something strikes him strange: a model railway track – suspended roughly a foot and a half below ceiling level and disappearing into the ventilation shafts either side of the foyer. Ceesal just stares, his eyes wide with childish wonderment as a miniature Wild West steam train peeps in above his head, towing six little wagons full of human fingers. He turns, open mouthed, to Holubec.
“Waste not want not, yes?” says the doctor. The receptionist, called Michelle, shrugs.
“Oh, yeh!” comes an inexplicably excited voice from the depths of the ventilation system. Holubec shudders.
“You will be signing the visitor’s book,” he says, producing a massive, dust-encrusted, leather-bound tome full of blank pages.
“I think not,” says Malmot, shaking his head. “Hush hush, you know,” he adds, tapping his nose.
“ I said , you will be signing the visitor’s book!” Holubec repeats.
“And I said ...” starts Malmot.
“You are illiterate?” Holubec interrupts.
“Why, er, no. No, I’m not.”
“Then why do you not sign your name? If you wish, you may put down an ‘X’ and I will write in the time and date for you.”
“I am not illiterate.”
“What about your idiot friend? Can he write his language?”
“I’ve seen him draw a pig in a top hat.”
“Then you will sign and he will draw his animal with its headgear. I have crayons. Then you may proceed into the facility. Not before.”
Malmot reluctantly snatches a pen and gouges something angular into the pristine white page.
“I don’t think you know who you’re dealing with.”
“You are right,” Holubec answers. “But you do not offer me money so I will not engage the emotion of caring. I will show you round, answer your stupid questions, but that is all. Offer me financial assistance, however, and I will be your finest friend. I will call you Sir. I will give you tea and I will not point out the extent of your ignorance.”
Malmot’s non-uniform persona is perfect for secretive excursions but hinders as much as it helps. And in situations where violence isn’t appropriate, well, it’s back to good, old-fashioned diplomacy.
“I’m a firm believer in scientific progress, Doctor Holubec. And I have no ethical objections to buying your friendship. Two hundred million is a nice number, don’t you think?”
“Ach! Hyperinflation is making my wallet too heavy to carry, yes? The Scottish have a stable economy. Ten thousand of their dollars will suffice. I am not a greedy man.”
“You’re a sharp operator, Doctor.”
“We have the agreement?”
“Indeed. We have the agreement.”
“Then welcome, Sir , to Stemset. And how may I be your assistant?”
“Can I count on your discretion?” Holubec nods with a wry laugh.
“If it were not for the simple virtue of lying by omission, I would not be where I am today!” And he gestures toward a set of heavily-barred steel doors. When the infrared fingerprint scanner fails to work, he unlocks them with a rusty old key. “We shall enter through there. But the fool must stay here, for all our safety. He is drunk and his tongue is like a wobbling eel. I do not wish to see it.”
“I was hoping you could take a look at him, Doctor. You see my problem is … is him.”
“We can observe him via surveillance camera. I have them
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