Hulk by Peter David Page B

but then he understood. He sighed and reached into the refrigerator, pulling out a small paper bag. “Are we back on that subject again?” he asked with a tired playfulness in his voice as they walked back toward his desk.
    “Yes, that subject again,” she replied with a fair imitation of his voice. “Just give it some thought. Don’t you want to know about your birth parents, where you come from? It’s not that hard to unseal adoption papers these days. It might open you up to more feelings.”
    “And do I want more feelings?” asked Bruce, feeling like the tin woodsman from
The Wizard of Oz
.
    Betty’s response, in a surprisingly serious tone, caught him off guard. “I can wish, can’t I?”
    He felt a flicker of guilt when she said that, and some of that must have shown through on his face despite his best efforts, because she looked immediately contrite, as if sorry that she’d said anything at all. He wanted very much to ignore it, but it had been said, and it was out there, which meant it was going to be like the proverbial elephant seated at the table that no one could pretend wasn’t there.
    With great sadness and feeling more wistful than he would have thought himself capable of, he said gently, “I do wish I were someone who could feel more, express more. If I were, we’d still be together, wouldn’t we?”
    “I don’t know,” said Betty. She looked down, leaning against his desk. “I guess it’s none of my business anymore. I’m just having a hard time, us being apart but still seeing you every day, working together. It makes me feel more lonely than ever.” She sighed. “But what can you do?”
    “I can still appreciate you,” said Bruce, “admire you, be a friend—” Then he paused, thinking,
My God, you’re giving her the “We’ll always be friends” speech. How pathetic is that?
    Betty didn’t seem put off by it; just a bit sadder. “I wish I could say it’s enough,” she said.
    Never had Bruce felt a greater, more gaping emptiness in himself than he did at that moment. He wanted to reach over to her, to hold her, to tell her all manner of things and share feelings and emotions with her. The problem was he didn’t truly know if he’d be saying things he actually felt . . . or just uttering the things he thought she wanted to hear.
    Instead, he forced a smile and said, in as light a manner as he could, “Well, there is one thing.”
    She raised an eyebrow questioningly as, with a flourish, he opened the paper bag and pulled out a container. “Chocolate, chocolate chip,” said Bruce.
    Betty smiled, a smile as radiant as gamma rays . . .
    As gamma rays? Good Lord, can I ever turn off being a scientist?
    The problem was he knew the answer to that as soon as he thought it.
     
    Betty hated the dog and pony show.
    That’s what she called the semiannual gatherings of the board of directors, when she and Bruce and whoever was working for the lab would be forced to try to explain in words of one syllable just what it was they were doing, and all the “practical applications.” That was the phrase that drove her the most insane, the one she heard so often she had occasionally been known to mutter it in her sleep. They always wanted to know about “practical applications,” which of course translated to, “How can we make some fast money off this latest experiment?”
    They didn’t understand that it wasn’t that easy. Many of the most significant advances in science, the most “practical” and useful developments in the history of mankind, had been incidental discoveries that were offshoots of other studies. Experimentation was about possibilities, discovery was about “what if.” While opponents of the space program were howling about the waste of money entailed in landing a man on the moon, they were utterly oblivious to the many practical aspects of everyday life that had their origins in technology developed while putting men into space. Everything from