Fatal Reaction

meat locker. “We have two cold rooms,” he explained, yanking the long, stainless-steel handle. “One that’s kept at zero degrees Fahrenheit and one that’s kept right at thirty-four degrees. We do most of our protein work at just above freezing.”
    I followed him inside. The cold room was as big as my office. Naked lightbulbs hung from the ceiling at three-foot intervals, casting harsh shadows. The walls were lined with metal racks. Against the far wall was another lab bench identical to the one we’d just left. Borland went up to it and made a notation in the lab notebook that lay open off to one side. In science, where priority, not possession, is nine-tenths of the law, the importance of documenting one’s work was ingrained in everyone who worked at Azor.
    “There’s a parka over there on that hook if you want to put it on,” the protein chemist offered over his shoulder. “It’s Michelle’s, but she won’t mind if you borrow it.”
    I took his suggestion and slipped it on gratefully. “What about you?” I asked. “Don’t you get cold?”
    “Sure I get cold, but this protein is so tricky to work with that I don’t have time to get in and out of a coat— it’d just slow me down. Proteins, as a rule, are a bitch to work with, but this one must be the devil’s favorite.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “Proteins are held together with the molecular equivalent of spit. That’s what makes them so temperamental. Heat them up and they cook like eggs, rough ’em up too much and they fly apart. They’ll only do what you want if you talk to them nicely and baby them every step of the way.” Borland poured the contents of the beaker into a large centrifuge and touched the switch that sent it spinning.
    “We know that ZKBP is a relatively short protein, so what we’re doing here is first spinning out some of the larger, heavier proteins. After that we filter the liquid through cheesecloth and then centrifuge it again, this time at two hundred thousand times the force of gravity. Then the clump of membranes is washed through a set of solvents, filtered again, and then centrifuged. You get the picture.”
    “How many steps are there in total?”
    “Twenty-seven,” replied Borland, folding his hands across his broad chest. His eyes were dark in their deep sockets and glittered like a bird’s. “I’d like to see Michael Childress freeze his pansy ass off in here.”
    “What do you guys have against Childress?” I asked.
    “Oh, I’ve had my belly full of Childress for a long time. He and I were both at Baxter together,” replied Borland, turning to switch off the centrifuge. “Everybody who’s ever worked with him hates him.”
    “Why?”
    “Because he’s a self-serving, egomaniacal, preening bastard who’d stop at nothing—up to and including stabbing colleagues in the back—to get the credit. Michael’s great gift isn’t crystallography, it’s using people.” Borland spoke so bitterly that I was sure there was some personal history between the two men. “Childress has a talent for making himself look better than he really is. He’s been using the same M.O. since graduate school. He surrounds himself with ambitious young scientists who are aching to prove themselves and gets them to do all the dirty work, to endure the heartbreaking dead ends and the frustrating trial and error you go through at the beginning of any project. Then, as soon as they get close, Childress shoves the young guy aside, takes it to the obvious next step, and gathers up all the glory. I’ll guarantee you that’s what he’s got planned for Michelle Goodwin. You just wait and see. Childress has been working the same scam for years.”
    “So how does he get away with it?” I asked.
    “Science is a blood sport, Miss Millholland. The only thing that matters is being first. Nobody gives a shit what you did to get there.”
     
    When I finished with Borland I went back to Stephen’s office to see whether he was free of the pharmacologists yet. I found him sitting behind his desk, his back turned to the door, apparently staring out the window at the half-empty parking lot.
    “Are you okay?” I asked from the doorway. Stephen was always doing seven things at once, talking on the phone, opening his mail, punching up something on the computer... there was something almost disturbing about seeing him idle.
    He swiveled his chair around to face me, his face a mask of suppressed emotion. “I just got off the