Machine Man - Max Barry [16]
Jason’s and Elaine’s eyes followed me across the floor. I landed in my office chair. Elaine said, “Welcome back, Dr. Neumann.”
“Thank you.”
Elaine looked at Jason. Jason said nothing. Elaine said, “We’re glad you’re okay.”
I turned on my computer. This thing took forever to boot. I fingered my pants pocket, seeking my phone.
“We had counseling.”
I looked at her. “Why?”
“To deal with it. The accident. It was pretty gruesome. Very gruesome. I have nightmares.” She hesitated. Across Elaine’s forehead marched a parade of acne. She had violent skin. She wore her hair in thick bangs but you could still see it. “It was good. The counseling. They encouraged us to talk. They said we should share our feelings with you, if you were comfortable with that.”
I looked at Jason. He was very upright, his face stiff. His head moved left, right, left, very slightly. I felt grateful to Jason. If everybody were like him we could just move on and pretend nothing ever happened.
Elaine said, “So I don’t know if … if you are comfortable. With talking about it. If not—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Oh. Okay. No problem.” She turned away. Her shoulders hunched. I had consigned her to nightmares, I guess. But I wasn’t responsible for her brain. I didn’t control what she thought. She was a human being. She should take ownership of what occurred between her ears.
“Welcome back, Dr. Neumann,” said Jason. He had visibly relaxed. He swiveled back to his desk and we got to work.
I LEFT the Glass Room for lunch. The corridors were busy and my ski foot attracted attention. People stared without shame. We were a company of engineers: they were interested in how things worked. I kept moving, but when I reached the Building A cafeteria there was a line. The man ahead of me turned and saw my leg. “Hey. Are you that guy?”
“Which …” I said. “Yes.”
“You chopped off your leg?” He bent down and peered at it. “In the lab?”
“Crushed.”
“Do you mind if I touch?”
“Uh …” Two more people in the line turned. A bearded guy got up from his table and headed toward me, trailing lab assistants. “Okay.”
“Interesting shape,” said a woman behind me.
“Let me just roll up the pants here.” The man glanced up. “Is that okay? I can’t see.”
“I’ll do it.” I pulled up the pant leg. There was a murmur of appreciation. I flushed.
“Look at the knee,” said the beard.
“It’s moving with the piston here,” said the man, now on his hands and knees, peering up. “That, what, makes it more comfortable to walk?”
“And his leg fits into that plastic bit.”
“The socket.”
“What holds that on?”
“Straps,” I said. “Just cloth straps.”
There was silence. The blue-shirt guy peered around for another few moments, but didn’t see anything else that caught his attention. “Well, that’s really amazing.”
“Incredible,” said the beard. “Just fantastic, what they’re doing.”
“Very smart,” said the woman.
These people’s ID tags said AERONAUTICAL DEVELOPMENT and MOLECULAR REENGINEERING and BIOMATERIALS. To the average scientist, stupid was failing to account for behavioral changes exhibited by magnetohydrodynamics when accelerated to supersonic speeds. It was being uncomfortable with Gödel numbering. A few months ago I had attended a presentation on living gels, and when a man in the audience said something was smart, he was referring to a process for tricking living cells into fusing with carbon molecules for the first time in human history. And he said it grudgingly. We did not use the word smart lightly. We did not use it about a hinge.
“Very nice.” Someone patted me lightly on the shoulder. “Very nice.” I rolled down my pants, ashamed.
I CARRIED my lunch to a bathroom and locked myself in a stall. As I picked my sandwich out of the plastic wrap, I remembered what Lola Shanks had said: that things would be tough, and that would make me a better person. She said it was about how you respond to the challenge. I was glad she wasn’t here to see this.
I RECEIVED an e-mail from Cassandra