his lips brushed her ear as he whispered, “Please be happy for me.”
Part II
Mice
1
T HAT WINTER Cliff worked longer hours than anyone. Even Feng went home by eight or nine o'clock so he could eat dinner with Mei. Cliff would dash out to Store 24.
Ambition, long dormant, had awakened in him, and where he had been weak from lack of hope, now his appetite for science revived. Was Feng's observation significant? Cliff knew this was his question to address. These were his experiments, his years of preparation yielding a possible bonanza. This was the crucial moment. If he was lazy or lost focus, someone else would take up the charge and seize the credit. Now, in the darkest season of the year, he lived and breathed and dreamed about his new batch of three dozen hairless mice.
“Unfortunately,” said Feng one January night, “I think this will all turn out to be an artifact, and the virus will have no effect.”
Cliff looked up, hurt. He knew Feng always spoke that way, but the dark logic wounded him nonetheless.
The two of them were working side by side in the animal facility, injecting human cancer cells into the new mice. The work was tricky and tedious, and it was late. Cliff and Feng were both exhausted. They didn't use the laminar flow hood, because Marion wasn't around to see them. She would have been horrified, but they injected the mice on paper towels spread right on the stainless steel table. None of the postdocs really believed in Marion's extra precautions with the animals. Experience showed them the nudes were not nearly as fragile as she assumed. Peculiar as they appeared, the creatures were surprisingly hardy. In fact, Cliff had irradiated these mice the day before so that the cancer cells would have a better chance to thrive. Even when they were supposed to sicken and die, nude mice did not drop dead as easily as everyone supposed.
They were trying to work quickly. Feng had carried the cells downstairs in orange-capped tubes stuck into a plastic bucket full of ice. Seven tubes of cancerous cells, and two tubes of normal cells for the controls. To all the cells, Feng added a special gel that promoted tumor growth.
As Feng prepared the syringes, Cliff wadded up a paper towel, stuffed it in a mason jar, then poured in a capful of anesthetic from a brown bottle. Anesthesia ready, Cliff moved two cages from their rack to the tabletop. He removed the lid of the first, sloshing water from the animals' water bottle. Suddenly uncovered, the mice stood up on their hind legs and strained upward, noses swelling, bodies swaying. Cliff plucked up the first mouse by its tail and placed it in the mason jar. The tail kept popping out, so Cliff didn't screw the lid on all the way. The lid jiggled as the mouse tried to escape, but in a few seconds the little animal succumbed and slept. Cliff laid out the mouse on its belly, nose down, tail loose, utterly limp except for the ears, which fanned out, rigid and erect on top of the head.
Even now, after all these years, the mice sometimes spooked Cliff. The anesthetic was intense, but brief. Thirty seconds in the jar yielded just about thirty seconds' time for the injections. Occasionally an animal woke up, twitching. Startled, Cliff could misdirect his needle, poke all the way through the skin, or hit an organ. A big mouse might need a second dose of anesthetic, or even a third.
This animal lay still, however. Cliff took his syringe, and in three different places he inserted the needle just under the skin, gently depressed the plunger, and then drew back. The skin swelled and bubbled up where the cells and gel went in. In one place, as Cliff withdrew the needle, a drop of blood emerged. Just one drop, the size and color of the animal's own red eyes. Then it was over. Cliff restored the mouse to its cage and crushed corncob bedding. The three injections oozed like nasty insect bites, and the animal lay still for a few seconds, but after a few pokes with Cliff's gloved
Part II
Mice
1
T HAT WINTER Cliff worked longer hours than anyone. Even Feng went home by eight or nine o'clock so he could eat dinner with Mei. Cliff would dash out to Store 24.
Ambition, long dormant, had awakened in him, and where he had been weak from lack of hope, now his appetite for science revived. Was Feng's observation significant? Cliff knew this was his question to address. These were his experiments, his years of preparation yielding a possible bonanza. This was the crucial moment. If he was lazy or lost focus, someone else would take up the charge and seize the credit. Now, in the darkest season of the year, he lived and breathed and dreamed about his new batch of three dozen hairless mice.
“Unfortunately,” said Feng one January night, “I think this will all turn out to be an artifact, and the virus will have no effect.”
Cliff looked up, hurt. He knew Feng always spoke that way, but the dark logic wounded him nonetheless.
The two of them were working side by side in the animal facility, injecting human cancer cells into the new mice. The work was tricky and tedious, and it was late. Cliff and Feng were both exhausted. They didn't use the laminar flow hood, because Marion wasn't around to see them. She would have been horrified, but they injected the mice on paper towels spread right on the stainless steel table. None of the postdocs really believed in Marion's extra precautions with the animals. Experience showed them the nudes were not nearly as fragile as she assumed. Peculiar as they appeared, the creatures were surprisingly hardy. In fact, Cliff had irradiated these mice the day before so that the cancer cells would have a better chance to thrive. Even when they were supposed to sicken and die, nude mice did not drop dead as easily as everyone supposed.
They were trying to work quickly. Feng had carried the cells downstairs in orange-capped tubes stuck into a plastic bucket full of ice. Seven tubes of cancerous cells, and two tubes of normal cells for the controls. To all the cells, Feng added a special gel that promoted tumor growth.
As Feng prepared the syringes, Cliff wadded up a paper towel, stuffed it in a mason jar, then poured in a capful of anesthetic from a brown bottle. Anesthesia ready, Cliff moved two cages from their rack to the tabletop. He removed the lid of the first, sloshing water from the animals' water bottle. Suddenly uncovered, the mice stood up on their hind legs and strained upward, noses swelling, bodies swaying. Cliff plucked up the first mouse by its tail and placed it in the mason jar. The tail kept popping out, so Cliff didn't screw the lid on all the way. The lid jiggled as the mouse tried to escape, but in a few seconds the little animal succumbed and slept. Cliff laid out the mouse on its belly, nose down, tail loose, utterly limp except for the ears, which fanned out, rigid and erect on top of the head.
Even now, after all these years, the mice sometimes spooked Cliff. The anesthetic was intense, but brief. Thirty seconds in the jar yielded just about thirty seconds' time for the injections. Occasionally an animal woke up, twitching. Startled, Cliff could misdirect his needle, poke all the way through the skin, or hit an organ. A big mouse might need a second dose of anesthetic, or even a third.
This animal lay still, however. Cliff took his syringe, and in three different places he inserted the needle just under the skin, gently depressed the plunger, and then drew back. The skin swelled and bubbled up where the cells and gel went in. In one place, as Cliff withdrew the needle, a drop of blood emerged. Just one drop, the size and color of the animal's own red eyes. Then it was over. Cliff restored the mouse to its cage and crushed corncob bedding. The three injections oozed like nasty insect bites, and the animal lay still for a few seconds, but after a few pokes with Cliff's gloved
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