had drifted just within Peter's earshot, and just outside of Mary Jane's, and he said very softly, "I thought they managed that when you were born, Parker." He guffawed to himself and stepped back just before M. J. noticed that he'd said anything. Once again Peter felt a sharp stinging in his face as the blood rushed to it. He didn't know which was worse: Flash making jokes at his expense, or the knowledge that Mary Jane was Flash's and Peter was left with nothing. "In this recombination lab," the guide said, gesturing with one hand to take in the entirety of the amazing complex, "we use synthesized transfer RNA to encode an entirely new genome combining genetic information from all three spi ders into these fifteen genetically designed superspiders, the first mankind has ever produced."
Just ahead of them was a glass tank. The aforementioned mutated spiders were crawling along the walls. Peter noted with wry amusement that something had finally presented it self which fully captured the students' attention. They were staring with fascination at the disgusting creatures creeping along the glass.
They seemed to be congregating in one area. Peter de cided that if he could manage to get a shot with all fifteen of them in it at once, that would be extraordinarily cool. Mary Jane had already positioned herself near "spider central." If he could get her in the shot, so much the better. Harry was also drawing near, but Peter held back a bit in order to get the wider angle and make sure that the fifteen were in the shot.
"Disgusting," said Mary Jane, but she didn't sound espe cially repulsed. Indeed she seemed almost enthused, as if they were beautiful in their sheer nauseating appearance.
Harry, however, misread her tone of voice. "Hateful little things," he said, thinking he was agreeing with her. "I love it," said M. J.
Quickly realizing his error, Harry amended, "Really? Me, too."
It was all Peter could do not to laugh. Certainly the last thing he wanted to do was start enjoying himself at his friend's expense. He didn't exactly have an abundance of friends, and he sure didn't want to alienate the very few he had.
"Just imagine," said the tour guide, "if one day we can isolate the strengths, powers, and immunities in human be ings, and transfer that DNA code among ourselves. All known disease could be wiped out. Of course we're nowhere near ready to start experimenting with humans, so for the moment we're concentrating on these fifteen spiders. Any questions?"
"Fourteen," M. J. said abruptly. All eyes went to her, and Mr. Sullivan laughed nervously in a "why is she doing this?" manner.
"I beg your pardon?" called the tour guide.
Undaunted by the challenging looks from the others, and the clear chagrin from the teacher, M. J. said, "There's only fourteen spiders."
"No," the guide said firmly, "there's fifteen." And then, a little less firmly, she asked, "Aren't there?"
The smallest of the small didn't have the strongest of memories when it came to events. The things that it did, it did as a result of instinct, hardwired into it by century upon century of evolution.
So the smallest, having departed the case that had been its home, had no recollection of ever having resided there. The only home it now knew was the web that it had delicately spun for itself, up among the recesses of the ceiling.
Nor did it have a clear recollection that, once upon a time, it had been given food by a mysterious benefactor that
was the closest to the concept of God that the creature could come to. All it knew now was that food was no longer forth coming, and that it had to forage for itself. The craving in its belly was growing by the hour, and it hadn't been able to spin its web fast enough to gather sustenance for itself.
The gossamer web it had spun was indeed quite a beauty, and the smallest of the small was now waiting in the middle of it. Waiting for the unwary, waiting for its prey, waiting for something it could trap and cocoon
Just ahead of them was a glass tank. The aforementioned mutated spiders were crawling along the walls. Peter noted with wry amusement that something had finally presented it self which fully captured the students' attention. They were staring with fascination at the disgusting creatures creeping along the glass.
They seemed to be congregating in one area. Peter de cided that if he could manage to get a shot with all fifteen of them in it at once, that would be extraordinarily cool. Mary Jane had already positioned herself near "spider central." If he could get her in the shot, so much the better. Harry was also drawing near, but Peter held back a bit in order to get the wider angle and make sure that the fifteen were in the shot.
"Disgusting," said Mary Jane, but she didn't sound espe cially repulsed. Indeed she seemed almost enthused, as if they were beautiful in their sheer nauseating appearance.
Harry, however, misread her tone of voice. "Hateful little things," he said, thinking he was agreeing with her. "I love it," said M. J.
Quickly realizing his error, Harry amended, "Really? Me, too."
It was all Peter could do not to laugh. Certainly the last thing he wanted to do was start enjoying himself at his friend's expense. He didn't exactly have an abundance of friends, and he sure didn't want to alienate the very few he had.
"Just imagine," said the tour guide, "if one day we can isolate the strengths, powers, and immunities in human be ings, and transfer that DNA code among ourselves. All known disease could be wiped out. Of course we're nowhere near ready to start experimenting with humans, so for the moment we're concentrating on these fifteen spiders. Any questions?"
"Fourteen," M. J. said abruptly. All eyes went to her, and Mr. Sullivan laughed nervously in a "why is she doing this?" manner.
"I beg your pardon?" called the tour guide.
Undaunted by the challenging looks from the others, and the clear chagrin from the teacher, M. J. said, "There's only fourteen spiders."
"No," the guide said firmly, "there's fifteen." And then, a little less firmly, she asked, "Aren't there?"
The smallest of the small didn't have the strongest of memories when it came to events. The things that it did, it did as a result of instinct, hardwired into it by century upon century of evolution.
So the smallest, having departed the case that had been its home, had no recollection of ever having resided there. The only home it now knew was the web that it had delicately spun for itself, up among the recesses of the ceiling.
Nor did it have a clear recollection that, once upon a time, it had been given food by a mysterious benefactor that
was the closest to the concept of God that the creature could come to. All it knew now was that food was no longer forth coming, and that it had to forage for itself. The craving in its belly was growing by the hour, and it hadn't been able to spin its web fast enough to gather sustenance for itself.
The gossamer web it had spun was indeed quite a beauty, and the smallest of the small was now waiting in the middle of it. Waiting for the unwary, waiting for its prey, waiting for something it could trap and cocoon
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