Weiss moved slowly toward Skillen’s office, which, as with the other two lab modules, was located in an aft corner. Pretending to be intensely interested in the colored vials hanging from the inert centrifuge’s spindly arms, Weiss strained his ears toward Skillen’s closed office. Through the accordion door he could barely make out snatches of conversation. He edged past the centrifuge and peered intently into a humming microwave oven.
“His presence is very disrupting,” said Skillen. Her voice sounded like fingernails on sandpaper.
“I do not like his presence any more than you do,” Bianco replied.
Weiss felt a chill crawl up his spine. Were they talking about him?
“Can’t you do anything about him?” Skillen asked.
“There is nothing I can do. It was all arranged without my knowledge.”
“But you’re the CEO.”
“I am not omnipotent. The arrangement was made with Trikon NA. It is legitimate. We may not like it, but we must live with it.”
“You read my memo.”
“I did,” said Bianco. “That is how O’Donnell came to my attention.”
“Then you understand how disruptive he has been.”
“Dr. Skillen,” said Bianco, “I appreciate your ardent commitment to the project, but I do not appreciate your attempts to brand O’Donnell a scapegoat. The fact remains that you have fallen behind the research pace set by the other groups. O’Donnell cannot be the sole reason.”
Weiss relaxed when he realized that Skillen wasn’t bitching about his presence. As he listened to her defend the honor of The Bakery, he matched the faces he could see with the names he had memorized from the list of Trikon personnel. Only one was absent: Hugh O’Donnell.
A high-pitched whistle suddenly burst out of the microwave oven. Startled, Weiss kicked himself flat against the aft bulkhead. He was certain that the oven would blow, but no one paid any mind to the shrieking sound. Finally, a lanky young man glided over from a nearby workstation. He had a pale face and a mess of red hair tenuously held to his skull by a net.
“Shit,” he said as he peered through the glass front of the oven. He opened the door and pulled out a miniature carousel, which he sent spinning in midair a scant three feet from Weiss’s face.
“Keep your eye on that,” he called over his shoulder to Weiss. Then he looked back into the oven. “Shit.”
Weiss could see that one of the vials had exploded. The young man used a hand-held vacuum cleaner to suck up globules of colored liquid and shards of tempered glass from the interior of the oven.
“How did that happen?” he asked.
“Bum vial. They get a hairline fracture, sometimes even a speck of dirt and they blow.”
“You must be Stu Roberts.”
“Crazy, man,” said Roberts. He caught the spinning carousel and carefully slid it back into the oven. “How’d you know?”
“I do my homework,” said Weiss. “Why didn’t anyone react to that alarm?”
“Shit happens all the time.”
“But what about those microbes? You just vacuumed them up.”
“What’d you expect me to do? Leave that crap floating around the oven?”
“But isn’t it important?”
“Mister, we have more of that stuff than anyone knows what to do with.”
“Aaron Weiss is the name. Couldn’t those microbes be dangerous?”
“They could, but they probably aren’t. No one’s died yet, anyway.”
“Comforting thought,” said Weiss. “Say, would you mind answering some questions?”
“You mean like an interview?” said Roberts. “Sure. I mean, no, I don’t mind.”
“Why is everyone so security conscious?” Weiss asked.
“Beats me. Seems pretty stupid to have everyone working up here if nobody trusts anybody else.”
A woman scientist at the next workstation shot Roberts an angry look.
“That doesn’t answer my question,” said Weiss.
“People work hard,” Roberts said, one eye on the eavesdropping scientist. He slammed the oven door. “I guess they don’t want anyone taking advantage of their effort.”
“But aren’t you all working for the common good?”
“Hey, man, you don’t need to convince me,” said Roberts. “But I’m just a tech.”
“You’re right, Stu. Sorry. All this backbiting’s thrown me. By the way, who is Hugh O’Donnell? Doesn’t he work in here?”