Tom Hyman by Jupiter's Daughter Page B

of clinics around the world. I could set up my own biogenetics company and sell stock in it. Let’s face it, gentlemen. I could get rich overnight.”
    “Suppose one of us was willing to put up the money,” Yamamoto said.
    “What share of the eventual profits would you offer?”
    “Half,” Goth replied. “Fifty percent, minus operating expenses, to be shared equally.”
    “Not enough,” Baroness von Hauser interjected.
    “Why not?” Goth shot back. He appeared stunned. Stewart smiled.
    Goth obviously thought his fifty-percent offer was more than magnammous.
    “You haven’t thought it through,” the baroness informed him.
    “When you finish your research, the money isn’t just going to start rolling in. There’ll be substantial development costs. Setting up clinics, for example. Hiring qualified doctors and training biotechnicians. Who’s going to pay for all of that? Obviously it’ll have to be your backers.”
    Goth frowned. “Well, what do you consider fair?”
    The baroness scratched her bare knee as she thought about it.
    Stewart watched the lazy movement of her red-painted fingernails along the tanned surface of flesh and felt a warm tingling sensation in his groin.
    “Ninety percent,” she said.
    Goth’s face turned from its pasty white to a mottled purple.
    Stewart chuckled. The baroness was beginning to show a little of the steel under her luxurious exterior.
    “I could never agree to anything like that,” Goth protested, when he had found his tongue again. “That’s not profit sharing —that’s exploitation.”
    The baroness made no effort to defend her offer. She just shrugged and flicked her fingers in a gesture of dismissal.
    The room grew very still. Stewart looked around. No one else had any questions. They all appeared ready to leave.
    “I’m amenable to discuss percentages,” Goth said, attempting to resuscitate the discussion. “I’m not interested in personal enrichment. I just want to get on with my work. You must understand that. My work is everything to me. Please think about what I’ve said.
    My discoveries are real. Jupiter is real. If any of you wish to pursue this further, you can find me in my lab.”
    With a tight-lipped grimace of defeat Goth picked up the catalogue he had shown them earlier and prepared to depart. “If I don’t hear from any of you in a couple of days, I’ll seek help elsewhere.”
    Harry Fairfield raised a hand. A mischievous grin lit his ruddy face.
    “I have another question, Doctor.”
    Goth glared at Fairfield with obvious distaste. “What is it?”
    “Can this Jupiter program of yours do anything about cock size?”
    Everyone laughed except Harold Goth. He jammed the catalogue under his arm and stormed out of the room, the veins in his forehead pulsing with fury.
    Anne Stewart walked unsteadily across the mansion’s dimly lit entrance hall to the enormous winding staircase. She grabbed the banister railing as if it were a lifeline, and hauled herself up the interminably long flight of stairs, consciously placing each foot as she went.
    How she hated this house—so large and cold and intimidating.
    Nothing in it had anything to do with her. Not one piece of rare antique furniture, not one bit of hand-painted wallpaper or linen drapery. Not one painting or mirror or candlestick holder. Not even the piano. It had all been here when she arrived, and would probably all be here when she left. Most of the rooms never saw anyone for weeks at a time, save an occasional domestic with a vacuum cleaner and a dust rag. It didn’t feel like home at all. It felt like an institution. It reminded her of one of those mansions that had once belonged to some long-dead famous person and were now open for public tours. All it lacked were the brass stands with velvet-covered ropes and a few signs admonishing visitors not to touch anything. How was she ever going to go on living here?
    She reached the safe harbor of her bedroom at the end of the