Hulk by Peter David Page A

been any exposure to open air from the chamber, there would doubtless have been the faint smell of burning meat. Certainly the sound would have been unpleasant. But instead Bruce and Harper were conveniently isolated, and the only thing they were able to observe was the ugly gash the frog had acquired on its chest.
    Freddie was still stumbling about, looking disoriented. The frog blinked furiously, probably wondering if this was the first step toward prepping it to become an entrée; perhaps it was about to lose its legs to some gourmand.
    For a moment there was nothing. Bruce watched. And then slowly, miraculously, the wound began to close up. As it closed, it left a zone of throbbing, almost fluorescent green in its wake, the freshly produced tissue saturated with color.
    Bruce couldn’t believe it. Next to him, Harper was chortling with pleasure and triumph, and then he heard a female voice, so close to him that she was practically breathing in his ear, whisper,
“Yes!”
    He turned to see, to his surprise, that Betty Ross was standing there. He had no clue how long she’d been there, but obviously it had been long enough to observe the results of the experiment. He hadn’t even been aware that she was in the lab, or else he would have held the tests up. He had thought she was out at a conference, and yet here she was in the flesh. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised at that. Betty routinely blew off national gatherings, claiming the work she and Bruce were doing was so evolved past anyone else’s that hanging around with other scientists, looking for tips and clues and guidance, was a waste of time.
    She was so close that he could smell her perfume. He never quite understood why women tried to make themselves smell like flowers or palm trees or an evening rain rather than just smelling like women.
    Still, it wasn’t a bad scent. . . .
    He caught her glance, smiled involuntarily, then went back to the issue at hand and studied the readings from the scanners mounted directly under the frog. The frog was trembling slightly, but that could be due to a dozen things, most likely sympathetic vibrations to—
    The frog exploded.
    Harper let out a tragedy-soaked cry as the amphibian’s little innards splashed all over the inside of the container. Betty emitted a frustrated,
“Oh!”
Bruce, as was his habit, didn’t let any of his disappointment show on his face, but he felt his shoulder muscles bunching up as they tended to do whenever he was faced with a tense situation. He forced himself to relax, but he could practically taste the feeling of disappointment. Other frogs had suffered “grievous setbacks,” that is, died horribly, far faster, leading him to think that maybe Freddie—
Number Eleven, dammit
—was going to beat the odds.
    He looked at the others in the lab, sighed, and said, “Lunch break.”
    “Oh, good,” Harper said, sounding queasy as he surveyed the frog’s remains trickling down the sides of the container, “because, y’know, strapping on the feed bag is exactly what I feel like doing right now.”
     
    There was a lab cafeteria and also some decent restaurants in the area, but Bruce usually chose to eat at his desk. Knowing this, Betty fell into step behind him as he headed toward the lab refrigerator.
    “Saw my father in the news,” she said.
    “Oh?” The comment surprised him. Betty very rarely made any mention of her father.
    “Uh-huh. Getting some medal or something from the president.” She shrugged. “He’s got so many hanging on his uniform already, I’m not sure where he’ll put it.”
    “Are you going to call and congratulate him?”
    “I was thinking about it.”
    That stopped him for a moment as he turned and saw an impish expression on her face. “Really? That would be unusual.”
    “Well, you know, he
is
my father, and since I actually know that, I figured maybe I might be able to lead by example.”
    At first Bruce had no idea what she was talking about,