Alchemist by Peter James

temper.
    â€˜Happily,’ Crowe said. ‘We are so convinced by the figures that we are installing artificial daylight environments in our new hospitals, and we believe they’ll cut a substantial percentage off recovery times.’
    The innovative ethos of Bendix Schere excited Monty. She was experiencing, in this rather futuristic building, in the presence of these enormously powerful and influential men, the sensation of being a privileged insider at the very cutting edge of science.
    Rorke led them into a vast lab that left Monty speechless with envy. She had simply never seen any laboratory, anywhere, so well equipped and so orderly: rows and rows of white work surfaces brimming with state-of-the-art lab technology. The staff, all wearing white coats, seemed to have a luxurious amount of space and through the air of concentratedefficiency Monty could almost feel the progress that was being made.
    Her father pointed to a television camera above the door. ‘What’s that for?’ he said suspiciously.
    â€˜Safety,’ Crowe replied. ‘If someone’s working here on their own late at night or over a weekend, and they have an accident, they might need help. This way Security can keep an eye on all the labs in use and act swiftly.’
    Rorke led them on through more labs, some even larger, some much smaller, all equally well equipped. Monty compared all this to their own dingy Victorian premises. They could have fitted Bannerman Research Laboratories into a single floor of this building a dozen times over, and as she thought of their hopeless struggle to survive she began to feel increasingly angry. Angry at governments which had ignored the importance of scientific research for decades, angry at all the organizations and foundations which had made her father beg like a dog for every scrap of money. She looked at him now, hoping against hope that some of the excitement of this place was rubbing off on him also.
    â€˜Ah, Mr Seals!’ Crowe said, raising his voice suddenly to hail a long-haired man in a white coat who had just emerged from one door and was about to go through another. When he realized it was Crowe and Rorke, he straightened his shoulders and immediately walked up to them.
    â€˜Mr Seals is Chief Lab Technician for our genetics department. This is Dr Bannerman and his daughter, Miss Bannerman.’
    Monty watched Seals’ face as he gave her father a look of recognition and admiration, and then said politely: ‘Very pleased to meet you both.’
    He was in his mid-thirties, with lank brown hair that tumbled across his forehead and rested on his shoulders. When he tossed it back with a practised motion a single stud was revealed in his left ear. He would have been very good-looking if it wasn’t for the ravages of teenage acne that had left his skin slightly pockmarked.
    â€˜You have quite a set-up here,’ Dick Bannerman said.
    â€˜Thank you. I’m afraid a lot of the techniques we’reemploying are based on your own work in your published papers.’
    â€˜Nothing to apologize for,’ Bannerman said. ‘That’s why I publish them – to share knowledge. Do
you
share it too?’ he asked pointedly.
    Seals reddened. ‘I’m afraid that’s not my decision.’
    â€˜I guess you have a lot of bricks and mortar to pay for here.’
    â€˜Modern equipment
is
very expensive, Dr Bannerman, as I’m sure you appreciate.’
    Monty admired the way the young man first held his ground, and then became increasingly animated as he explained the new generations of gene-sequencing machines they had just got up to speed. She saw in him a lot of youthful energy and a sense of purpose, of mission. Without realizing it, she found herself comparing him to their elderly plodder of a Chief Lab Technician, Walter Hoggin, for whom computers continued to remain a mystery, and anything hi-tech was something to be regarded with