"Will you ... ?"
"I still won't wear a kimono," Remo said.
Gloria Muswasser's ear was getting tired. She cradled the telephone between her head and her shoulder while on a piece of blue paper she crossed out another set of television call letters.
She dialed another number.
"WZRO newsroom," a male voice said.
"I am the spokesman for the Species Liberation Alliance," Gloria said in her most menacing terrorist voice.
"So?"
"I am calling to claim credit for the near-holocaust at the IHAEO labs tonight."
"What holocaust? What near-holocaust? The biggest news tonight is that the President's sleeping soundly with no bad dreams."
"It was nearly a holocaust," Gloria insisted.
"Nearly doesn't count."
"What are you talking about? We almost blew the Eastern Seaboard back to the Stone Age."
"Almost doesn't count either," the bored voice on the telephone said.
"Now you listen, you military industrial pig sympathizer," Gloria shouted. "We are the SLA and we mean to claim credit for an atomic blast that would have made Hiroshima look like a fart in a bottle. The holocaustal potential for this is staggering."
"I don't care if you're the SLA, the A.F. of L. of the S-H-I-T-S," the newsman said. "Nothing happened tonight, so there's no news."
"Jesus," Gloria sighed. "Nothing happened. Always you want action. You're sensationalist scandalmongers."
"That's about it," the newsman said.
"Disgusting."
"If you say so," he agreed.
"Doesn't intent count for anything?"
"Lady," the newsman said tiredly. "If malicious intent were the basis for a story, the evening news would be forty hours long."
"But this was a freaking atomic bomb, you asshole," Gloria screamed.
"And this is a dial tone," the newsman said as he hung up on her.
Gloria lit a cigarette from the butt of Nathan's. "We've got to come up with a new plan," she said.
"They didn't buy it?"
"Pigs. The guy said malicious intent wasn't enough."
"It was enough in Vietnam," Nathan said in his most self-righteous tone.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Gloria asked.
"I don't know," Nathan said mildly. "Talking about Vietnam is usually safe."
"Vietnam isn't in anymore," Gloria said, "so stop jerking around. This is important. Perriweather's going to hit the ceiling when he finds out the bomb didn't go off. He must have spent a fortune on this."
"A fortune," Nathan said. Agreeing with Gloria was almost always safe.
"Maybe we can come up with something just as good. Something sensational that the media would be interested in," Gloria said.
"WIMP wasn't interested?" Nathan asked.
"They said they sent a crew but everybody went home."
"And WACK?" Nathan asked.
"They sent a crew too and got assaulted by some people watching flowers bloom. So we've got to come up with something good."
"Like what?"
"Think," Gloria demanded.
Nathan pressed his eyebrows together. "How's this?"
"That's real good," she said.
"I'm thinking. How about a protest?"
"Protests are out," she said. "It's got to be big."
"We used to liberate banks," Nathan said.
"No good. Banks are out too."
"What's in?"
"Schools and supermarkets," Gloria said. "Stuff like that. Murdering children is always good."
"How about a hospital," Nathan said. "Or is that too gross?"
"A hospital?" Gloria said sharply.
"Yeah. Really, I didn't mean it the way it sounded."
"That's brilliant. A hospital. A children's ward. And we'll do it on those days when they bring pets to play with kids. We'll show them to let the little bastards mistreat animals."
"Real good," Nathan said. "Right on."
"Don't say that. 'Right on' is out."
"Sorry, Gloria. I meant your idea is really the bottom line."
"It's the max," she said.
"Real max, Gloria," said Nathan.
"Good. Now we can call Perriweather and tell him what we're planning," Gloria said. "I was never too hot on that atomic-bomb idea anyway."
"Too destructive?" Nathan said.
"Naaah, but who'd be around to notice the blood?" Gloria asked.
Chapter 11
Dr. Dexter Morley was sitting on a high stool, his pudgy cheeks flushed, his fat little fingers clasped together in his lap, when Perriweather entered the lab. The little scientist's lips curved into a prideful quick grin when he saw his employer.
"Well?" Perriweather asked impatiently.
"The experiment is complete," Morley said. His voice quivered with excitement and accomplishment.
"Where is it?" Perriweather asked, brushing past the scientist and heading for the lab tables.
"There are two of them," Morley said, trying frantically and futilely to keep Perriweather's hands off the sterile surfaces in the lab. "If you'll just wait a moment . . ."
"I've waited enough moments," Perriweather snapped. "Where?"
Dr. Morley stiffened at the rebuke but went to get a small cheesecloth-covered box on a shelf. As his hands touched it, they trembled. "Here," he said, his voice hushed and filled with awe as he removed the cloth.
Beneath it was a Plexiglas cube. Inside the cube was a piece of rotting meat. Sitting on top of the meat, feeding and lazily twitching, were two red-winged flies.
"A breeding pair?" Perriweather asked. "You got a breeding pair?"
"Yes, Mr. Perriweather."
Involuntarily, Perriweather gasped at the sight of the flies. He lifted the plastic cube with hands so gentle that the flies never moved from the piece of meat. He watched them from every angle, turning the cube this way and that, observing them from below and above and eye-to-eye, marveling at the stained-glass redness of their wings.
"Their wings are exactly the color of fresh human blood," he whispered.
As he watched, the two flies rose from the meat and briefly coupled in the air before settling back down. Almost to himself, Perriweather said, "If I could only find a woman who could do that."
For some reason, Dr. Dexter Morley felt vaguely embarrassed, like a Peeping Tom caught in the act. He cleared his throat and said, "Actually, the two flies are exactly like ordinary houseflies, except for the color of the wings. Musca domestica of the order Diptera."
"They're not exactly like houseflies," said Perriweather, casting a sharp glance at the scientist. "You didn't change that, did you?"
"No. No, I didn't."
"Then it's the ultimate life form," Perriweather said slowly, rotating the plastic cube as if it were a flawless blue-white diamond that he had just found in his backyard.
"Well, I wouldn't go that far," Dr. Morley said, fluttering his eyelids and attempting a weak smile.
"What would you know?" Perriweather hissed.
"Uh. Yes, sir. What I was about to say was that in most respects the species is an ordinary housefly. Shape and structure. Its eating habits are the same, which unfortunately makes it a disease bearer, although I believe that in time we could eliminate-"
"Why would you want to eliminate that?" Perriweather said.
"What? Its disease-bearing properties?" Perriweather nodded.
"Why . . ." The scientist shook his head. "Perhaps we are not communicating, Mr. Ferriweather. Flies do bear disease."
"Of course. If they didn't, there would be even more humans on earth today than we've already got."
"I ... er, I guess I see your point," Morley said. "I think. But still, Musca morleyalis is still a disease bearer and therefore dangerous."
"Musca morteyalis?" Perriweather asked. His face was expressionless.
Morley flushed. "Well, generally, discoveries such as these are attributed to the scientist who . . ."
Perriweather's face still showed no expression as he said, "Try Musca Perriweatheralis." Finally his face broke into a small smile.