Hulk (12 page)

Not in this case, though. There was no hesitation to his movements as, with practiced confidence, he placed the hair onto a glass plate and chopped it into tiny pieces with a razor.

He then pulled out a small test tube from a nearby rack. The tube was filled partway with a milky substance, and he dropped several pieces of the hair into it, saving the rest for possible future use.

He allowed them to soak for a few moments, then put the test tube inside a device that he called a DNA splitter. It had taken him ages to develop it from assorted parts he’d been able to scrounge, but its crude and humble roots didn’t limit his confidence that it would work. He checked the connections to his computer to make certain it was plugged into the correct data port, and then turned on the splitter. The apparatus hummed and vibrated. A wire ran to the superthin notebook computer.

The night was still save for his tapping upon the keyboard, and the occasional sound of dogs snarling outside.

accident . . . or fate?

Bruce Krenzler was reminded of the old gag about the elderly man complaining that when he was a kid, his life had been so harsh that he had to make a five-mile journey to school that was uphill both ways. It was a cute joke, but a lot less amusing to him now, considering that the bike ride he undertook to get
to
work was no less daunting than the one
from
work, since he did indeed have to go uphill once again in order to get there. Granted, it was a different uphill, but his legs didn’t know or care about the difference.

And because he hadn’t slept particularly well, his endurance wasn’t exactly up to snuff. By the time he made it to the lab, he’d developed a stiff pain in his right rib cage and felt as if the very act of taking a breath was a huge hardship. He parked the bike, locked it, then stood for a few minutes pulling himself together.

When he entered the lab, he saw something that didn’t exactly cause his heart to take flight. There were Talbot and Betty, talking and appearing to be awfully damned chummy. He wondered, not for the first time, just how late their casual dinner had gone. Not that it was any of his business, of course, but still . . .

“Bruce,” said Betty, “Glen stopped by—”

“What’s he doing here?” Bruce blurted out, and promptly hated the way that sounded. So accusatory, so . . . juvenile. But he couldn’t help himself.

. . .
And why
should
you help yourself?
. . . The voice within was bubbling with barely restrained anger and resentment.
She likely keeps comparing you to him. She probably thinks he’s superior to you because he lets himself get worked up over every damned thing or another, whereas you, the adult, you keep control of yourself . . . and she resents you. Is that fair? It most certainly is not. Why do you tolerate it? And why in the world do you tolerate him? He has no business here. . . .

“You know, Dr. Krenzler, we’ve never had the chance to get to know each other properly,” said Glen affably.

Bruce felt a pounding behind his eyes. . . .
Leave. Make him leave. Show him who’s boss in this facility. This is your place, not his. Make him leave
. . .

“That’s because I don’t want to get to know you, properly or improperly. Leave,” Bruce said with a great formality that was in sharp contrast to the rage he kept buried within.

He could see from Betty’s expression that she was startled by the sharpness of his tone. “Bruce . . .” she began.

. . .
Now. Now, damn it. Make him leave now
.
. .

“Now,” said Bruce.

Talbot didn’t look the least put out. “Hey, no worries,” he said, affecting a faux Australian accent that he doubtlessly thought was clever. He approached the doorway where Bruce had been standing like a statue. Bruce moved slightly to allow Talbot room to pass, and then Talbot turned so that they were almost nose-to-nose, safely out of Betty’s hearing. He kept a smile plastered on his face, this self-proclaimed “big fan” of Bruce Krenzler, but he spoke in a rush, the words tumbling one over the other as he said in a low voice, “But let me give you a little heads up. There’s a hairbreadth between a friendly offer and a hostile takeover. . . .
Kill him
.
. . I’ve done my homework. The stuff you’re doing here is dynamite. .
.
.
Smash his face in.
Smash him
. . . Think: GI’s embedded with technology that makes them instantly repairable on the battlefield, in our sole possession. That’s a hell of a business.” . . .
Puny bastard. Show him who’s in charge. Smash him, destroy him, rip him limb from . . .

With Herculean mental effort, Bruce resisted the insistent voice that rattled through his mind with such force that it almost made him strike out at Talbot, even though Talbot would likely have been able to break him in half. “That’s not what we’re doing here,” said Banner, focusing with effort. “We’re doing the basic science, for everyone—”

Talbot shook his head. He acted as if he were looking at some form of lower organism instead of one of the most well-established and respected researchers on the West Coast. “You know,” he mused, “I’m going to write a book. I’m going to call it ‘When Stupid Ideals Happen to Smart, Penniless Scientists.’. . .
You don’t have to take that! Smash him! Now! Put your damned fist through his face, you pathetic loser!
. . . In the meantime, Bruce, you’ll be hearing from me.” . . .
And you’ll be hearing from me, you vomitous little slug!
. . .

He felt a slight pain in his right arm and took several deep breaths, calming himself. Although he wasn’t certain why, he was convinced that if he didn’t do so, there would be a good deal more pain, and . . . and far worse things. Far worse. His vision clouded over for a moment, as if he were fighting a massive migraine. When it cleared, Talbot was gone . . . and Betty was in his field of vision, staring at him with a mixture of confusion and amazement.

“That went well, don’t you think?” he said, slapped his hands together briskly, and added, “Who’s for making history today?”

The helicopter was waiting for Talbot at the small, private airport, just as General Ross had said it would be. A soldier was standing there waiting for him. Talbot saluted him, snapping off the kind of professional gesture that indicated an army man, even if he was clad in civilian garb.
You can take the man out of the army
, thought Talbot as he clambered into the chopper.

The pilot nodded to him, indicated that Talbot should strap in, and, the moment that was done, the blade speed increased and the chopper rose skyward. Moments later it was angling off toward Desert Base. Talbot knew that Thunderbolt Ross was angry. That didn’t bother Talbot at all. He knew the old man all too well, and knew how to manipulate him as easily as he did anyone else. Ross had his agenda and Talbot had his, and Talbot knew whose was going to come out on top.

Betty couldn’t believe that she was jealous of Glen Talbot
again
, but apparently such was the case. Not enough that she felt he had more of a connection with her father than she did. Now she was confronted with the fact that, in all her time, all her involvement with Bruce, he had always remained on such an infuriatingly even keel that she often wondered if he were fully human. Yet here, after merely his second meeting with Talbot, Bruce had almost looked ready to punch the guy in the face. Not that she had any doubts about who would win a fistfight. Glen Talbot, civilian or no, was trained in combat and self-defense. Bruce Krenzler was trained in science and the arts. If it came to a witty repartee contest, or a competition to name all the elements on the periodic table, Bruce was a lock. Hand-to-hand, it was a very different story.

In any event, as ludicrous as it seemed, she was a bit envious that Glen Talbot was able to inspire such emotional reactions from Bruce when she herself could only prompt passive detachment at best.

She tried to put it from her mind as she made preparations for the next experiment. A new frog—named Rick by the hopelessly attached Harper—sat in the gammasphere place of honor that had seen so many of his brethren go
splat
. The readings were steady. She glanced across the room at Bruce, and saw that he was totally focused. . . .

No. No, he wasn’t. He seemed distracted, and kept glancing toward the door that Talbot had left through. Betty didn’t need to be a mind reader to see just what, or who, Bruce was concerned about. She didn’t just want to let it hang there. She cared about Bruce too much. Plus, having one’s head scientist not paying attention to what was going on in such a delicate environment could lead to fairly nasty consequences.

Still, maybe there wasn’t time . . .

Then the time factor became moot as Harper, at his monitoring station, called out, “Okay, fifteen seconds. We’re set for doubled exposure,” only to mutter a curse a moment later, followed by a frustrated, “um . . . hmm . . . well.”

Betty headed over toward Harper and saw a blinking message on a monitor screen that read “Interlock Negative.” Well, she certainly knew what that meant: Among other things, they were going to have a brief delay before matters proceeded any further. That being the case, she had no reason not to take a few moments to speak to Bruce and get a handle on the situation.

“Hey, Harper, there a problem?” asked Bruce.

Harper sighed as Betty walked past him. “The interlock switch flaked again. It’ll just be a sec.”

Getting the interlock in order was certainly a priority. It was the device that automatically sealed the sphere when gamma radiation was released. It was a fail-safe device, and the prospect of having something go wrong with it was simply unthinkable.

As Harper grabbed a respirator mask and entered the airlock gammasphere chamber, Betty sidled over to Bruce, who was seated at his monitor station and watching everything occurring with hawklike intensity. “Bruce, I thought we should talk. About Glen.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” said Bruce. He still sounded angry. Amazing that Glen could bring that out in him. Then again, perhaps not. Glen had certainly brought it out in her enough times.

As gently as she could, she said, “Hey, Bruce. It’s me.”

Bruce was watching Harper through the glass window. Harper was wedged in the center of the gammasphere, testing the interlock switch. But he took the time to look at Betty and smile. He had a lovely smile.
He should do it more
.

“Sorry,” said Bruce.

“Don’t worry about him, okay? I’ll handle it.”

Bruce looked at her warily. “How?”

She knew the answer before he asked, but even so she couldn’t quite believe she was saying it. “I’ll call my father. He can exert some pressure.”

Slowly Bruce shifted the whole of his attention to her. If she’d just informed him she’d been impregnated by the shade of Elvis while pumping gas, she couldn’t have been subjected to a more cautious look of bewilderment.

“Last I heard,” said Bruce, “you and your father weren’t speaking.”

Betty shrugged, trying to sound offhand about it, as if the concept was the most routine matter in the world. “All the more reason I should call him.”

The thought of doing so wasn’t exactly on Betty’s top ten list of things she’d like to do. In fact, it didn’t even place in the top one hundred. But her thoughts on Bruce’s reaction to Talbot had caused her to reassess her feelings. Obviously she had completely misjudged the depth of feeling that Bruce had for Talbot, and she’d exacerbated it by going out to dinner with him. That had been very, very foolish. Not only had it upset Bruce, but it had also given Talbot an inflated sense of self-confidence. There was nothing to do for it now but try to make things right, and if that meant swallowing some pride and asking her father’s help, so be it.

The problem was that she had no way of knowing for sure if Thunderbolt Ross would even agree to help. Her father didn’t know Bruce from Shinola, so it was unlikely he would intervene just to keep Dr. Bruce Krenzler happy in his work. In fact, considering the track record of their relationship, the one that Thunderbolt Ross would most likely be worried about was Glen Talbot. Still, she felt as if she had to do something, and her father seemed the best way to go.

At that moment, Harper called out through the intercom. “Um, I think the circuit kind of fried, or—I don’t know. Maybe you want to take a look.”

“Okay, hold on,” said Bruce.

Bruce went into the experiment area, picking up a respirator mask. He entered the clean room, mask in hand, and Betty was watching Harper’s continued efforts with the interlock switch when it suddenly shorted out. Sparks jumped from it, and Harper let out a high-pitched, shrill, and startled scream. Lights began to flash and a quiet, firm recorded female voice began reciting a countdown to what would most assuredly be total disaster.

The sound of Harper’s scream briefly froze Bruce in the clean room, his mask still dangling from his hand. Then Bruce saw the flashing lights, heard the commencement of the countdown, and still couldn’t quite process what had just happened.
So this is how it starts
, he thought as the lights flashed as though the lab were some theater announcing to its patrons that intermission was nearing its end. He heard the countdown heading down from twenty, still figured that there was time to avert a complete and total disaster, as long as Harper got clear of the gammasphere. . . .

And it was at that instant, of course, that the panicking Harper, trying to back out of the gammasphere, snagged his mask on one of the protruding alignment rods. Such was his state of dismay that he obviously had no clear idea of what he’d just done. All he knew was that, all of a sudden, he couldn’t move his head. He yanked it from one side to the other and flailed his arms, looking like a demented radiation scientist trying to hail a fleet of cabs.

Bruce didn’t panic in the slightest. His heartbeat never even sped up. He did, however, allow himself to reflect on the irony of Betty’s frustration with his perpetual equanimity. Harper most certainly allowed himself to be governed by his emotions, and look where it had gotten him: snagged like a hooked fish inside a chamber that was about to go hot with enough rads to flash-fry a mastodon. Three cheers for emotions, while they’re busy getting you killed.