Distraction - Bruce Sterling [36]
“Are you sure you’re not making this up? It’s such a compelling story. Do you really have an elevated body-core temperature? Have you ever had a PET-scan done?”
He looked at her meditatively. “You know, you’re really taking this very well. I mean, most people who hear this story have to go through a certain shock period.…”
“I’m not a medical doctor, and genetic expression isn’t really my field. But I’m not shocked by that story. I’m astonished by it, of course, and I’d really like to confirm some details in my lab, but …” She considered it, then found the word. “Mostly, I’m very intrigued.”
“Really?”
“That was truly a profound abdication of scientific ethics. It violated the Declaration of Helsinki, plus at least eight standards of conduct with human subjects. You’re obviously a very brave and capable man, to have overcome that childhood tragedy, and achieved the success that you have.”
Oscar said nothing. Suddenly, his eyes were stinging. He’d seen a wide variety of reactions to his personal background confession. Mostly, reactions from women—because he rarely had to confess it at all, except to women. A business relationship could be begun and concluded without outing himself; a sexual relationship, never. He’d seen a full gamut of reactions. Shock, horror, amusement, sympathy; even a shrug and shake of the head. Indifference. Almost always, the truth gnawed at them over the long term.
But he’d never seen a reaction like Greta Penninger’s.
Oscar and his secretary Lana Ramachandran were walking through the garden behind the sloping white walls of the Genetic Fragmentation Clinic. The garden bordered one of the staff housing sections, so there were children around. The constant piercing screams of young children meant that this was a good place to talk privately.
“Stop sending the flowers to her dorm residence,” Oscar told her. “She never goes there. Basically, she never sleeps.”
“Where should I have them delivered, then?”
“Into her laboratory. That’s more or less where she lives. And let’s turn up the heat on those bouquets—move off the pansies and zinnias, and right into tuberoses.”
Lana was shocked. “Not tuberoses already!”
“Well, you know what I mean. Also, we’re going to start feeding her soon. She doesn’t eat properly—I can tell that. And later, we’ll style her and dress her. But we’ll have to work our way up to that.”
“How are we even supposed to reach her? Dr. Penninger works inside the Hot Zone,” Lana said. “That’s a full-scale Code 4 biohazard facility. It’s got its own airlocks, and the walls are eight feet thick.”
He shrugged. “Dip the flowers into liquid nitrogen. Get ’em sealed in plastic. Whatever.”
His secretary groaned. “Oscar, what is it with you? Have you lost your mind? You can’t really be making a play for that woman. I know your type really well by now, and she’s definitely not your type. In fact, I’ve asked around some—and Dr. Penninger is not anybody’s type. You’re gonna do yourself an injury.”
“Okay, maybe I have a sudden aberrant sweet tooth.”
Lana was genuinely pained. She wanted the best for him. She was quite humorless, but she was very efficient. “You shouldn’t act like this. It’s just not smart. She’s on the board of directors, she’s someone who’s officially in charge around here. And you’re a staffer for her Senate oversight committee. That’s a definite conflict of interest.”
“I don’t care.”
Lana was in despair. “You’re always doing this. Why? I can’t believe you got away with shacking up with that journalist. She was covering the campaign! Somebody could have made a huge ethics stink about that. And before that, there was that crazy architecture girl … and before that, there was that worthless Boston city management girl.… You can’t keep getting away with this, cutting things close this way. It’s like some kind of compulsion.”
“Look, Lana, you knew my romantic life was a problem