and shaking
him. “Spit
the mush out, man! Speak English! Speak English!”
Caudill had flinched a bit, then walked
away mumbling something with the tone of an apology.
Randy Bare was a youngish type who
fortunately didn’t live up to his name. Though he was only
twenty-five, he had already lost most of his hair. Ingrid knew male
pattern baldness was hereditary, but she was discovering that the
deprecation “egghead” was fitting.
Bare was the boss of the synthesizing
lab, a room full of machines that looked like kitchen appliances.
But the brews they cooked up here were beyond the most avid
culinary artist. The Helix Depolarization Chamber resembled a
washing machine, and the Protein/Peptide sequencer (sometimes
called the Gene Machine) looked like a set of bar taps that
dispensed their contents into a Lazy Susan. Planted in one corner
of the room was a vast video screen which interfaced directly with
the facility’s private mainframe. Also in the room was a laser
crystallography chamber which magnified the chromosomes and showed
them on a screen to facilitate working with them.
There were pieces in the facility
figuratively gathering dust that Ingrid would have killed to have
had at the university. There was not one, but six Cray computers,
any one of which her small university could never have afforded in
eight centuries. There were culture incubators from six cubic
inches to two thousand cubic feet. Ingrid was taken aback by the
scary reverence she felt when she looked at the huge incubator. It
came from knowing its ultimate use. The facility’s infirmary was
complemented with a fully equipped surgical theater with
state-of-the-art optics, graphics, and computer feeds.
And there was Clifton. The first time
Ingrid had seen him in any role other than pacifier was on her
second day at the Alamo. She had been jotting down notes, trying to
decide whether to use synthetic chromosomes to create the special
traits she sought, or to recombine existing genes with superior
traits onto chromosomes.
Rejection would be no problem at the
molecular level, providing that the terminal end of each protein
chain that formed a gene was bonded to its corresponding base:
Adenine to Thymine, Cytosine to Guanine, etc. Ingrid rarely thought
in terms much more complicated than the lay person. She left the
tedious business of templating, tertiary structure of
macromolecules, or non-superimposable mirror images to the organic
chemists.
She was so busy she didn’t notice
Clifton as he stood in her open doorway, lit from behind by the
hallway lights. She was bent over her desk, a pencil in one hand,
scribbling away. Her desk lamp made strangely yellow shadows on the
scatter of papers flowing over her work station. Clifton felt a
spooky sense of nostalgia, as if he recalled himself hunched over
just such a desk in the days when he was still an idealist instead
of just another working Joe.
“ How goes it,” he asked.
Ingrid turned in her seat and did the
most natural thing. She smiled. Clifton still wore the white,
plastic baggies over his shoes that were required apparel. His lab
coat had lost its starch and it hung listlessly on his slightly
drooping frame, as if it were tired after its own long
day.
“ Tiring,” Ingrid said. “There’s so
much to do.”
“ Nothing compared to what it’s going
to be. Things will move too fast for comfort now that you’re
actually here.”
He arched his back with obvious relief.
“Mind if I drag up a rock?”
“ Please,” Ingrid said. “Come
in.”
Clifton sat in one of Ingrid’s chairs
The nibs had plush chairs with lots of padding and slanted
backs.
“ You’re still in your work clothes,”
Ingrid said.
“ I just finished some work with the
wringer.”
“ The wringer?”
“ The helix depolarization chamber. We
call it the wringer because it looks like a washing
machine.”
“ I’ve heard they were
dangerous.”
“ They can be, if you’re careless. The
flywheel spins at
him. “Spit
the mush out, man! Speak English! Speak English!”
Caudill had flinched a bit, then walked
away mumbling something with the tone of an apology.
Randy Bare was a youngish type who
fortunately didn’t live up to his name. Though he was only
twenty-five, he had already lost most of his hair. Ingrid knew male
pattern baldness was hereditary, but she was discovering that the
deprecation “egghead” was fitting.
Bare was the boss of the synthesizing
lab, a room full of machines that looked like kitchen appliances.
But the brews they cooked up here were beyond the most avid
culinary artist. The Helix Depolarization Chamber resembled a
washing machine, and the Protein/Peptide sequencer (sometimes
called the Gene Machine) looked like a set of bar taps that
dispensed their contents into a Lazy Susan. Planted in one corner
of the room was a vast video screen which interfaced directly with
the facility’s private mainframe. Also in the room was a laser
crystallography chamber which magnified the chromosomes and showed
them on a screen to facilitate working with them.
There were pieces in the facility
figuratively gathering dust that Ingrid would have killed to have
had at the university. There was not one, but six Cray computers,
any one of which her small university could never have afforded in
eight centuries. There were culture incubators from six cubic
inches to two thousand cubic feet. Ingrid was taken aback by the
scary reverence she felt when she looked at the huge incubator. It
came from knowing its ultimate use. The facility’s infirmary was
complemented with a fully equipped surgical theater with
state-of-the-art optics, graphics, and computer feeds.
And there was Clifton. The first time
Ingrid had seen him in any role other than pacifier was on her
second day at the Alamo. She had been jotting down notes, trying to
decide whether to use synthetic chromosomes to create the special
traits she sought, or to recombine existing genes with superior
traits onto chromosomes.
Rejection would be no problem at the
molecular level, providing that the terminal end of each protein
chain that formed a gene was bonded to its corresponding base:
Adenine to Thymine, Cytosine to Guanine, etc. Ingrid rarely thought
in terms much more complicated than the lay person. She left the
tedious business of templating, tertiary structure of
macromolecules, or non-superimposable mirror images to the organic
chemists.
She was so busy she didn’t notice
Clifton as he stood in her open doorway, lit from behind by the
hallway lights. She was bent over her desk, a pencil in one hand,
scribbling away. Her desk lamp made strangely yellow shadows on the
scatter of papers flowing over her work station. Clifton felt a
spooky sense of nostalgia, as if he recalled himself hunched over
just such a desk in the days when he was still an idealist instead
of just another working Joe.
“ How goes it,” he asked.
Ingrid turned in her seat and did the
most natural thing. She smiled. Clifton still wore the white,
plastic baggies over his shoes that were required apparel. His lab
coat had lost its starch and it hung listlessly on his slightly
drooping frame, as if it were tired after its own long
day.
“ Tiring,” Ingrid said. “There’s so
much to do.”
“ Nothing compared to what it’s going
to be. Things will move too fast for comfort now that you’re
actually here.”
He arched his back with obvious relief.
“Mind if I drag up a rock?”
“ Please,” Ingrid said. “Come
in.”
Clifton sat in one of Ingrid’s chairs
The nibs had plush chairs with lots of padding and slanted
backs.
“ You’re still in your work clothes,”
Ingrid said.
“ I just finished some work with the
wringer.”
“ The wringer?”
“ The helix depolarization chamber. We
call it the wringer because it looks like a washing
machine.”
“ I’ve heard they were
dangerous.”
“ They can be, if you’re careless. The
flywheel spins at
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