Page 119 - Labelle Gramercy, Detective

Airtight

puff up the importance of the experiment; in fact, since we had been
in touch with them constantly and they had a doctor in the house,
none of it was necessary. But it wouldn’t do to interrupt the program
now and blow our credibility. That left me alone out in the parking
lot next to the dome. I decided not to let the press go trampling
through our high-tech playpen—against all my journalistic instincts, I
might add. The last person out had closed the door and locked up,
and that was fine with me.
The media people departed, glutted with information but hungry
for more. They would be back, and I would have to be ready for
them. I went back to my office, searching in vain for Ben Schmarker
along the way. He would have to put the proper spin on events,
something aimed at the skittish venture capitalists who had sunk
millions into Cyborganics on the strength of preliminary test results
not much better than Semotech’s. A final report clearly establishing
the viability of our product would have to come out ahead of
schedule. One more thing to bird-dog. I had been wearing a lot of
hats during this project, taking on one-time responsibility for a lot of
functions Ben couldn’t afford to hire another person to carry out.
What I really wanted to do was talk with Waldo and Toro and Ray
and Blanche and Larry, talk to them and find out the gory details of
Laurel’s demise. I guess I’m no better than the reporters I solemnly
rebuffed, hypocritically asking for respect and mourning. The phones
on my desk were alight with incoming messages. They had to be dealt
with, one at a time, but I couldn’t face that task. Not yet. One of
them would be Dr. Reath’s next-of-kin, an older brother somewhere
in Kansas. He would have his own ideas about funeral arrangements,
and I would have to enter into some delicate negotiations with him in
order to arrive at just the right level of Cyborganics participation.
Unknown quantities awaited me on the answering machine tape. I
sat down and opened the desk drawer in which a small bottle of
scotch is tucked behind some very inactive folders. I was carving out
a tiny island of calm before the storm broke; I knew it and relished it,
kicking off my shoes and putting my feet up on the desk. My
pantyhose immediately snagged on a scale model of the Ecodome I
used as a paperweight, but I didn’t care. A long day was getting
longer, and I needed a drink.

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