"Ah, Miss Marks," a voice said. Simultaneously there was a tap on Deborah's shoulder. She looked up, and although she was sitting, she found herself eye to eye with Dr. Paul Saunders. "I'm glad to see you, and you look as lovely as you did yesterday."
Deborah managed a smile.
"How are you finding the lab work?"
"Interesting," Deborah said.
"I understand Miss Jefferson has been showing you the ropes," Paul said. "She's certainly one of our best technicians, so you are in almost as good hands had I had the opportunity to come over first -Jung this morning as I had originally planned."
Deborah nodded. Such conceit reminded her of Spencer, and she found herself wondering if it were a universal character trait of infertility specialists.
I suppose," Paul continued, "I don't have to explain to you how important this work is to our clients and the future of medicine in general."
"Miss Jefferson told me the eggs on which we'd done nuclear transfer were human eggs," Deborah said. "Needless to say I was shocked, knowing how scarce human eggs are."
“Did she say she was certain?" Paul asked. His pale face darkened.
"I think her words were pretty sure," Deborah said.
"They are swine eggs!" Paul said. Absently he ran his fingers through his hair. "We're doing a lot of work with pigs lately. Do you know what the major thrust of our research is these days?"
"Miss Jefferson mentioned stem cells," Deborah said.
"That's part of it," Paul agreed. "Very definitely an important part, but not necessarily the most important. Right now my major focus involves how the oocyte cytoplasm reprograms an adult cell nucleus. That's the basis for current animal cloning techniques. You know, the way Dolly the sheep had been cloned."
"I'm aware of Dolly," Deborah said. She leaned back. As Paul spoke, his ardor magnified as evidenced by a suffusion of color in his otherwise pale cheeks. Progressively, he thrust his face toward Deborah so that she could feel the wind as he pronounced hard consonants.
"We are at a fantastic crossroads in biological science," Paul said, lowering his voice as if imparting a trade secret. "You're in luck, Miss Marks! You've joined us at a most exciting, revolutionary time. We're on the brink of a number of huge breakthroughs. Tell me! Did Helen Masterson explain our employee stock-option plan?"
"I don't think so," Deborah said. She was now leaning back as far as she dared without jeopardizing her balance on the lab stool she was sitting on.
"We in management want everybody to benefit from the coming gold mine this area of research is about to be," Paul said. "So we're offering stock options to all our valued employees, particularly those on the laboratory side of the operation. As soon as the first breakthrough occurs, and we announce, probably in Nature, we'll go public. Wingate Clinic will go from a narrowly held private company to a publicly traded one. I suppose you can guess what that will do to the value of the stock options."
"I guess they'll go up," Deborah offered. Paul was now so close she could see directly into the black depths of his pupils. It occurred to her why his eyes looked so strange. Not only were the irises slightly different colors, but his inner canthi covered enough of the white sclera to make him appear mildly cross-eyed.
"Through the roof!" Paul said, slowly pronouncing each word separately. "Which will mean everybody will be a millionaire; everybody, that is, with stock options. So the important thing is that it all stays quiet." Paul put a finger to his lips in the classic gesture for silence to emphasize his point. "Secrecy is of paramount importance. That's why we encourage our people, particularly our lab personnel, to live on the premises, and why we discourage loose talk with anyone outside the organization. We liken this effort to the Manhattan project when the atomic bomb was created. Am I making myself clear?"
Deborah nodded. Paul had moved back slightly although he still had her locked in his unwavering, unblinking stare. She was able to right herself on the stool.
"We're trusting you not to talk with anyone about what we are doing here," Paul continued. "It's for your own benefit." He hesitated.
"I'm a very trustworthy person," Deborah said when she sensed he was waiting for her to respond.
"We don't want another organization to beat us out," Paul continued. "Not after all this work. And there are a number of institutions working on the same problems right here in the Boston area."
Deborah nodded. She was well aware of the local biotech industry, especially since she was scheduled for an imminent interview with Genzyme.
"Can I ask a question?" Deborah said.
"By all means," Paul said. He put his hands on his hips and rocked back on his heels. The pose, combined with his shock of dark hair, reminded Deborah of Helen Masterson's nickname for him: Napoleon.
"I'm curious about the Nicaraguan workers. They all look pregnant to the same degree. What's the story?"
"Let's just say for now that they are helping," Paul said. "It's not that big a deal, and I'll be happy to explain it in more detail at a later date."
Paul broke off from staring into Deborah's eyes to cast a quick look around the lab. Reassured that no one was paying them any heed, he returned his attention to her. This time his line of sight rapidly scanned the long, hosiery-clad legs and the plunging neckline before snapping back to Deborah's face. It was a fleeting visual inquisition not lost on Deborah.
"I'm glad we've had the opportunity for this little chat," Paul said, lowering his voice. "I enjoy talking with someone with whom I feel equivalent intelligence and with whom I have strong common interests."
Deborah suppressed a sardonic laugh. Distinctly she remembered the same inane common interests comment from Spencer, and intuitively she sensed it was going to lead to the same end. She wasn't disappointed. In the next breath Paul said: "I'd love to have the opportunity to describe to you all the exciting research I'm doing, including the contribution from the Nicaraguans, but it would be best in private. Perhaps you'd like to have dinner tonight. Although the Wingate is unfortunately out here in the sticks, there is a fairly good restaurant you might enjoy."
"That wouldn't be the Barn, would it?" Deborah asked wryly.
If Paul was surprised Deborah knew the name of the restaurant, he didn't let on. Instead he launched into a glowing description of its food and romantic decor and how he'd enjoy sharing it with Deborah. He then went on to suggest that after dinner they could return to his house where he'd show her the protocols for some of the major breakthrough experiments he currently had underway at the Wingate.
Deborah suppressed another laugh. Being asked to Paul's house to see research protocols sounded like a variation on the come-see-my-etchings ploy. Deborah had no interest in going out with the nerd, despite her keen curiosity about the Wingate's research. She declined his invitation using Joanna as an excuse just as she'd done with Spencer the day before. To her surprise Paul's reaction was almost identical to Spencer's with the same suggestion about Joanna entertaining herself while they dined. Deborah now wondered if megalomania was a requirement to be an infertility specialist or if the job evoked it. Emphatically she declined again.
"What about later in the week?" Paul pleaded. "Or even over the weekend. I could drive into Boston."
Mare's return saved Deborah from Paul's deepening desperation. She brought a petri dish over to the lab bench and set it in on the microscope's stage before deferentially acknowledging Dr. Saunders's presence.
"So how is our new employee doing?" Paul asked, reverting with surprising agility to his usual condescending manner.