didn’t live ten million years ago. It’s an Allosaurus, and it lived 150 million years ago.” But whatever the reason, Christine Dorati hated signage that conveyed information.
I wish we had the money to redo the Dinosaur Gallery again; I’d inherited it in its current condition. But money was scarce these days; the axing of the planetarium was hardly the only cutback.
Still, I wondered how many kids we were inspiring these days.
I wondered—
It wouldn’t be my Ricky; that would be too much to ask. Besides, he was still at the stage where he wanted to be a firefighter or a police officer and had evinced no particular interest in science.
Still, when I looked at the tens of thousands of school-aged children who came on field trips to the museum each year, I wondered which if any of them would grow up to follow in my footsteps.
Hollus and I were at an impasse over the interpretation of the game of Life, and so I excused myself, and went to the washroom. As I always did, I opened the faucets on all three sinks, to make some background noise; the public washrooms at the ROM all had faucets controlled by electric eyes, but we didn’t have to put up with that indignity in the staff facilities. The running water drowned out the sound as I crouched down in front of one of the toilets and vomited; I tossed my cookies about once a week, thanks to the chemo drugs. It was hard on me; my chest and lungs were already strained. I took a few moments, kneeling there, just to regain my strength, then I stood up, flushed the toilet, and headed to the sinks, washing my hand and turning off all the taps. I kept a bottle of mouthwash at the museum and had brought it in with me; I gargled, trying to kill the foul taste. And, then, at last, I returned to the paleobiology department, smiling at Bruiser as if nothing unusual had happened. I opened the door to my office and went back inside.
To my astonishment, Hollus was reading the newspaper when I came in. He’d picked up my copy of the tabloid Toronto Sun from my desk and was holding it in his two six-fingered hands. His eyestalks moved left to right in unison as he read along. I’d expected him to be aware of my presence at once, but maybe the simulacrum wasn’t that sensitive. I cleared my throat, tasting a little more unpleasantness as I did so.
“Wel” “come” “back,” said Hollus, his eyes now looking at me. He closed the newspaper and faced the front page toward me. The sole headline taking up most of the front page, declared, “Abortion Doc Killed.” “I have seen many references to abortion in your media,” said Hollus, “but confess to not understanding precisely what it is; the term is bandied about, but never defined—even in the article that apparently relates to this title.”
I moved to my chair and took a deep breath, gathering my thoughts, wondering where to begin. I’d read the story myself on the way into work this morning. “Well, um, sometimes human women get pregnant unintentionally. There is a procedure that can be done to terminate the fetus, putting an end to the pregnancy; it’s called an abortion. It’s, ah, somewhat controversial, and because of that it’s often done in special clinics rather than at regular hospitals. Religious fundamentalists disapprove strongly of abortion—they consider it a form of murder—and some extremists have taken to using bombs to blow up abortion clinics. Last week, a clinic was blown up in Buffalo—that’s a city just over the border in New York State. And yesterday, one was blown up in Etobicoke, which is part of Toronto. The doctor who owned the clinic was inside at the time, and he was killed.”
Hollus looked at me for the longest time. “These—what did you call them? Fundamentalist extremists? These fundamentalist extremists believe it is wrong to kill even an unborn child?”
“Yes.”
It was hard to discern tone in Hollus’s speech, what with his voice bouncing between two
I wish we had the money to redo the Dinosaur Gallery again; I’d inherited it in its current condition. But money was scarce these days; the axing of the planetarium was hardly the only cutback.
Still, I wondered how many kids we were inspiring these days.
I wondered—
It wouldn’t be my Ricky; that would be too much to ask. Besides, he was still at the stage where he wanted to be a firefighter or a police officer and had evinced no particular interest in science.
Still, when I looked at the tens of thousands of school-aged children who came on field trips to the museum each year, I wondered which if any of them would grow up to follow in my footsteps.
Hollus and I were at an impasse over the interpretation of the game of Life, and so I excused myself, and went to the washroom. As I always did, I opened the faucets on all three sinks, to make some background noise; the public washrooms at the ROM all had faucets controlled by electric eyes, but we didn’t have to put up with that indignity in the staff facilities. The running water drowned out the sound as I crouched down in front of one of the toilets and vomited; I tossed my cookies about once a week, thanks to the chemo drugs. It was hard on me; my chest and lungs were already strained. I took a few moments, kneeling there, just to regain my strength, then I stood up, flushed the toilet, and headed to the sinks, washing my hand and turning off all the taps. I kept a bottle of mouthwash at the museum and had brought it in with me; I gargled, trying to kill the foul taste. And, then, at last, I returned to the paleobiology department, smiling at Bruiser as if nothing unusual had happened. I opened the door to my office and went back inside.
To my astonishment, Hollus was reading the newspaper when I came in. He’d picked up my copy of the tabloid Toronto Sun from my desk and was holding it in his two six-fingered hands. His eyestalks moved left to right in unison as he read along. I’d expected him to be aware of my presence at once, but maybe the simulacrum wasn’t that sensitive. I cleared my throat, tasting a little more unpleasantness as I did so.
“Wel” “come” “back,” said Hollus, his eyes now looking at me. He closed the newspaper and faced the front page toward me. The sole headline taking up most of the front page, declared, “Abortion Doc Killed.” “I have seen many references to abortion in your media,” said Hollus, “but confess to not understanding precisely what it is; the term is bandied about, but never defined—even in the article that apparently relates to this title.”
I moved to my chair and took a deep breath, gathering my thoughts, wondering where to begin. I’d read the story myself on the way into work this morning. “Well, um, sometimes human women get pregnant unintentionally. There is a procedure that can be done to terminate the fetus, putting an end to the pregnancy; it’s called an abortion. It’s, ah, somewhat controversial, and because of that it’s often done in special clinics rather than at regular hospitals. Religious fundamentalists disapprove strongly of abortion—they consider it a form of murder—and some extremists have taken to using bombs to blow up abortion clinics. Last week, a clinic was blown up in Buffalo—that’s a city just over the border in New York State. And yesterday, one was blown up in Etobicoke, which is part of Toronto. The doctor who owned the clinic was inside at the time, and he was killed.”
Hollus looked at me for the longest time. “These—what did you call them? Fundamentalist extremists? These fundamentalist extremists believe it is wrong to kill even an unborn child?”
“Yes.”
It was hard to discern tone in Hollus’s speech, what with his voice bouncing between two
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