pink silk campshirt and pink jeans and a friendly smile. The jeans and camp shirt meant she was following HiTek’s dressing-down edict. I had no idea what the smile meant.
“Dr. Foster,” she said, turning it on me full force, “just the person I wanted to see.”
“If you’re looking for a package, Dr. Turnbull,” I said warily, “Flip hasn’t been here yet.”
She laughed, a merry, tinkling laugh I wouldn’t have thought she was capable of. “Call me Alicia,” she said. “No package. I just thought I’d drop by and chat with you. You know, so we could get to know each other better. We’ve really only talked a couple of times.”
Once, I thought, and you yelled at me. What are you really here for?
“So,” she said, sitting on one of the lab tables and crossing her legs. “Where did you go to school?”
“Getting to know you” at HiTek usually consists of “So, are you dating anybody?” or, in the case of Elaine, “Are you into high-impact aerobics?” but maybe this was Alicia’s idea of small talk. “I got my doctorate at Baylor.”
She smiled yet more brightly. “It was in sociology, wasn’t it?”
“And stats,” I said.
“A double major,” she said approvingly. “Was that where you did your undergrad work?”
She couldn’t be an industry spy. We worked for the same industry. And all this was up in Personnel’s records anyway. “No,” I said. “Where’d you do your graduate work?”
End of conversation. “Indiana,” she said, as if I’d asked for something that was none of my business, and slid her pink rear off the table, but she didn’t leave. She stood looking around the lab at the piles of data.
“You have so much stuff in here,” she said, examining one of the untidy piles.
Maybe Management had sent her to spy on Workplace Organization. “I plan to get things straightened up as soon as I finish my funding forms,” I said.
She wandered over to look at the flagpole-sitting piles. “I’ve already turned mine in.”
Of course.
“And messiness is good. Susan Holyrood and Dan Twofeathers’s labs were both messy. R. C. Mendez says it’s a creativity indicator.”
I had no idea who any of these people were or what was going on here. Something, obviously. Maybe Management had sent her to look for signs of smoking. Alicia had forgotten all about the friendly smile and was circling the lab like a shark.
“Bennett told me you’re working on fads source analysis. Why did you decide to work with fads?”
“Everybody else was doing it,”
“Really?” she said eagerly. “Who are the other scientists?”
“That was a joke,” I said lamely, and set about the hopeless task of trying to explain it, “You know, fads, something people do just because everybody else is doing it?”
“Oh, I get it,” she said, which meant she didn’t, but she seemed more bemused than offended. “Wittiness can be a creativity indicator, too, can’t it? What do you think the most important quality for a scientist k?”
“Luck,” I said.
Now she did look offended. “Lack?”
“And good assistants,” I said. “Look at Roy Plunkett. His assistant’s using a silver gasket on the tank of chlorofluorocarbons was what led to the discovery of Teflon. Or Becquerel. He had the good luck to hire a young Polish girl to help him with his radiation therapy. Her name was Marie Curie.”
“That’s very interesting,” she said. “Where did you say you did your undergrad work?”
“University of Oregon,” I said.
“How old were you when you got your doctorate?”
We were back to the third degree. “Twenty-six.”
“How old are you now?”
“Thirty-one,” I said, and that was apparently the right answer because she turned the brights back on. “Did you grow up in Oregon?”
“No,” I said. “Nebraska.”
This, on the other hand, was not Alicia switched off the smile, said, “I have a lot of work to do,” and left without a backward glance. Whatever she’d
“Dr. Foster,” she said, turning it on me full force, “just the person I wanted to see.”
“If you’re looking for a package, Dr. Turnbull,” I said warily, “Flip hasn’t been here yet.”
She laughed, a merry, tinkling laugh I wouldn’t have thought she was capable of. “Call me Alicia,” she said. “No package. I just thought I’d drop by and chat with you. You know, so we could get to know each other better. We’ve really only talked a couple of times.”
Once, I thought, and you yelled at me. What are you really here for?
“So,” she said, sitting on one of the lab tables and crossing her legs. “Where did you go to school?”
“Getting to know you” at HiTek usually consists of “So, are you dating anybody?” or, in the case of Elaine, “Are you into high-impact aerobics?” but maybe this was Alicia’s idea of small talk. “I got my doctorate at Baylor.”
She smiled yet more brightly. “It was in sociology, wasn’t it?”
“And stats,” I said.
“A double major,” she said approvingly. “Was that where you did your undergrad work?”
She couldn’t be an industry spy. We worked for the same industry. And all this was up in Personnel’s records anyway. “No,” I said. “Where’d you do your graduate work?”
End of conversation. “Indiana,” she said, as if I’d asked for something that was none of my business, and slid her pink rear off the table, but she didn’t leave. She stood looking around the lab at the piles of data.
“You have so much stuff in here,” she said, examining one of the untidy piles.
Maybe Management had sent her to spy on Workplace Organization. “I plan to get things straightened up as soon as I finish my funding forms,” I said.
She wandered over to look at the flagpole-sitting piles. “I’ve already turned mine in.”
Of course.
“And messiness is good. Susan Holyrood and Dan Twofeathers’s labs were both messy. R. C. Mendez says it’s a creativity indicator.”
I had no idea who any of these people were or what was going on here. Something, obviously. Maybe Management had sent her to look for signs of smoking. Alicia had forgotten all about the friendly smile and was circling the lab like a shark.
“Bennett told me you’re working on fads source analysis. Why did you decide to work with fads?”
“Everybody else was doing it,”
“Really?” she said eagerly. “Who are the other scientists?”
“That was a joke,” I said lamely, and set about the hopeless task of trying to explain it, “You know, fads, something people do just because everybody else is doing it?”
“Oh, I get it,” she said, which meant she didn’t, but she seemed more bemused than offended. “Wittiness can be a creativity indicator, too, can’t it? What do you think the most important quality for a scientist k?”
“Luck,” I said.
Now she did look offended. “Lack?”
“And good assistants,” I said. “Look at Roy Plunkett. His assistant’s using a silver gasket on the tank of chlorofluorocarbons was what led to the discovery of Teflon. Or Becquerel. He had the good luck to hire a young Polish girl to help him with his radiation therapy. Her name was Marie Curie.”
“That’s very interesting,” she said. “Where did you say you did your undergrad work?”
“University of Oregon,” I said.
“How old were you when you got your doctorate?”
We were back to the third degree. “Twenty-six.”
“How old are you now?”
“Thirty-one,” I said, and that was apparently the right answer because she turned the brights back on. “Did you grow up in Oregon?”
“No,” I said. “Nebraska.”
This, on the other hand, was not Alicia switched off the smile, said, “I have a lot of work to do,” and left without a backward glance. Whatever she’d
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