Fatal Reaction

that Stephen wants me to use for the Japanese inquisition.”
    “Oh stop whining about the Japanese,” chided Borland. “Takisawa won’t be any more painful than an NIH site visit and you’ve survived your share of those.”
    “Yeah, but the reason I took a leave of absence from Yale was so that I wouldn’t have to suck up for money anymore.”
    “I have news for you, Dr. Remminger. It’s the same in the real world as it is in the ivory tower. If you don’t pay, you can’t play.”
    “Yeah, but instead of playing with my chemistry set I’m running around chasing down slides and preparing presentations,” she complained, “and now Michelle has disappeared with my slides.”
    “The last time I saw her she was in the modeling room.”
    “I just checked there. His royal pain in the highness was the only one in there, which is, of course, why Michelle is nowhere to be found.”
    “I take it Michelle and Childress don’t get along,” I remarked.
    “It’s only because Childress is such a complete dick,” offered Remminger.
    “You’ve got it all wrong,” Borland chimed in. “It’s not because he is a dick, it’s because he has a dick.”
    “Oh would you cool it,” Remminger shot back. “I know it makes you feel better to think so, but not every woman who won’t hop into bed with you is a lesbian.”
    “You’d still better take a look in the animal labs,” said Borland. “I heard that Lisa’s dissecting beagles today. Michelle sometimes likes to go and watch.”
    “You dissect dogs?” I asked, horrified.
    “What do you think we try out new drugs on, hairdressers?” replied Borland, clearly enjoying himself. “They start out with rodents, and if things look good, they work their way up—you know, guinea pigs, rabbits, dogs.... I’m an animal rights activist myself,” confided Borland conspiratorially. “I think they should abolish animal testing altogether and instead just try the stuff out on crystallographers. Much more efficient.”
    “What is it with you guys and crystallographers?” I demanded.
    “Crystallographers have the highest PITA quotient of any scientific subspecialty,” said Remminger.
    “What, pray tell, is that?” I asked.
    “Pain in the ass.”
    “Shall I tell her the joke about crystallographers?” Borland asked Remminger.
    “Sure,” replied Remminger, pulling out the stool beside me and making herself comfortable.
    “A very famous chemist dies and goes to heaven,” began Borland, “and St. Peter is showing him around. The chemist is very happy. Not only is heaven a very beautiful place with rolling hills and big, fluffy clouds, but he’s getting a chance to see his colleagues who’ve preceded him through the pearly gates. Finally, as they are finishing up the tour he tells St. Peter that there’s something bothering him. St. Peter seems very concerned. ‘Please,’ he says, ‘it’s my job to make sure you are perfectly happy. Tell me what’s on your mind.’ The chemist explains that while he’s seen any number of his old friends—chemists, physicists, biologists, even mathematicians—he hasn’t seen a single crystallographer. At that, St. Peter leads him up to the top of a tall hill from which they can see another, identical heaven populated entirely by crystallographers. ‘I don’t understand,’ says the chemist. ‘You see,’ explains St. Peter, ‘our job in heaven is to make sure everyone is perfectly happy and the only way to make the crystallographers happy is to make them think they are the only ones who can get in.’ ”
    We all laughed. I decided that if I had taken a job in Katmandu it would have been less foreign than coming to work at Azor. Compared to the earthy reality of grinding spleens and autopsying dogs, lawyering seemed like little more than spinning words in the air.
    Dave Borland turned his attention back to the lab bench and Lou Remminger went off to search the animal labs for Michelle Goodwin. The protein chemist began decanting the frozen pieces of spleen into a large industrial-size blender. He pushed a button, and the blender sprang to life with a high, metallic shriek. Borland switched off the machine and added purified water from a graduated cylinder, then he poured the sickly, salmon-colored broth into a large beaker.
    “This is where the fun really begins,” he assured me with a piratical grin, and motioned me to follow him down the hall. We stopped in front of what looked like a large commercial