“What you and I have done will help make other people, millions of them, aware of what is happening to our environment and who is to blame for it. I know it isn’t easy. You and I are going to have to be strong and love each other and always remember how important the work is that we’re doing.”
Eddie chewed on his lip as he digested Roanne’s words.
“Poor darling. They’re putting you through a lot, aren’t they.” She touched his flat stomach. Her fingers moved down over his belt buckle and found the bulge of his penis. She squeezed him gently, rhythmically. “Let’s go home. I’ll make you feel better.”
All the anxiety and tension that had been building in Eddie throughout the afternoon drained into his crotch. He let Roanne take his hand and lead him to the van.
Chapter 6
While Dr. Kitzmiller talked to Eddie Gault that afternoon, Dena Falkner sat impatiently in the Biotron parking lot drumming her fingers on the Datsun’s steering wheel. Waiting was not a thing she did well. She had never in her life gone to a movie where there was a line waiting to get in. If her reservation in a restaurant was not instantly honored, she would walk out. Some allowances, however, had to be made for the man you worked for, so that afternoon Dena was waiting.
At least waiting out there in her car was preferable to the kitschy reception room outside Dr. Kitzmiller’s “friendly” office. The office itself was a joke to Biotron people. They all knew Dr. K was about as comfortable in it as he would be wearing a cowboy hat. The reception room, presided over by sturdy Mrs. Quail, was a horrid jumble of chrome, vinyl, and glass, with paintings of crying clowns. So that visitors could pass the time while waiting, there were back issues of the biochemical industry’s trade magazines.
Without thinking, Dena reached into the glove box for the pack of Carltons she kept there. As she took the pack out, she caught her own eye in the rearview mirror. Feeling absurdly guilty, she put the cigarettes back.
She looked around for something to occupy her attention, and her eye fell on the folded newspaper lying on the seat beside her. It was Saturday’s edition of the Milwaukee Herald. She picked it up and read again the story about Hank Stransky, the construction worker who had gone berserk in a Milwaukee tavern and slashed several people with a broken bottle before dropping dead of unknown causes. There was a photo of Stransky, apparently from his employment ID, and, on the inside pages, several graphic shots of the devastated tavern and the wounded patrons.
Why the story intrigued her, Dena could not say. The Herald was not even her regular newspaper. Much too sensational for her taste and much too insensitive to the human condition. She had the Journal delivered to the bungalow in Wheeler where she lived but on impulse had picked up the Herald Saturday night after driving to Appleton to see a movie. She looked once more at the square, good-natured face of Hank Stransky, then tossed the paper aside as Eddie Gault came through the gate.
She had been mildly surprised to hear that Dr. Kitzmiller’s appointment was with Eddie. What business could the head of product research and development have with the foreman of the disposal crew? Kitzmiller was not the type of manager who associated with the hired hands.
Dena knew Eddie Gault only slightly. He seemed to her to be a quiet, rather awkward man who did his job efficiently and with a minimum of fuss.
She got out of the Datsun and stood beside it for a moment to watch a strikingly beautiful girl run from the van to meet Eddie. An oddly mismatched couple, Dena thought. Balding, serious Eddie with this hippie-dressed young beauty.
None of your business, she told herself sternly. She recognized the twinge she felt as envy, and it annoyed her. Everybody, it seemed, had somebody. Everybody but Dena Falkner. But that was by choice, she reminded herself. She planned to be at the top of her field by the time she was thirty-five. Possibly in a university post somewhere. That left her six more years, but there would be little time for serious romantic involvements.
Three years earlier, working for a chemical company in Chicago, she had forgotten her no-involvements rule with painful results. You would think a bright young woman with a Ph. D. from Northwestern would know better than to fall for a married man. But Phil had been so charming, so warm….
The hell with that line of thinking. Dena watched Eddie Gault get into the van with his girl friend. Good for him. Good for her. May you both be very happy.
She spun away and marched through the guard gate, across the lawn, and into the main building of the Biotron complex. She turned into the east wing, and walked down the hall to the end where Dr. K’s office was. Mrs. Quail was arranging the pens and papers on the reception desk into neat geometric patterns.
“Is Dr. Kitzmiller free now?” she said.
Mrs. Quail looked uncomfortable. “I’m not sure. Let me buzz him.”
As she reached for the button, Dr. Kitzmiller came out of the office. When he saw Dena, he stopped, looking as though he’d like to go back in, but he sighed and closed the door behind him. He did some unconvincing business of looking at his watch.
“I’m terribly sorry, Dr. Falkner,” he said, “but I’m afraid we will have to reschedule our appointment. I have to supervise an experiment in the laboratory, and already I am ten minutes late.”
“I won’t take much of your time, doctor. How about if I walk back to biochem with you?”
“Very well, if you wish.” He locked the office door, nodded brusquely to Mrs. Quail, and headed for the rear exit of the building. Dena hurried after him.
The biochemistry building, where Dena had her own office, was at the rear of the complex, near the barn where the experimental animals were kept. Beyond the fence was the rolling green pastureland owned by Biotron. In addition to staff offices, the building housed several laboratories and Dr. Kitzmiller’s spartan living quarters. He liked to live close to his work, he said. It was generally felt that to Dr. K life and work were one and the same.
Dena matched her stride to Kitzmiller’s as they crossed the campuslike grounds. The carefully tended shrubs and flowers gave the place an air of ordered serenity. For her part, Dena would have liked a bit more informality in the surroundings.
“What is on your mind, Dr. Falkner?” he asked, keeping his eyes straight ahead as they walked. “I hope it is not a problem. I have problems enough. A solution, perhaps? That would be a novelty.”
“I was wondering if you’d had any word from Stuart Anderson,” Dena said.
“There is no reason for us to be in contact,” said Kitzmiller.
“I thought you might have heard something.”
“I have heard nothing.”
“This project he’s working on in Brazil — ” Dena began.
Kitzmiller cut her off. “I’m sorry, but there is nothing I can tell you about that.”
“I called Stu’s sister in California last week,” Dena persisted. “She hasn’t heard from him, either.”
“This is really not my concern, doctor. If you consider the matter important, I suggest you go through personnel.”
“I have. Personnel told me his files were closed.”
“I see.” Kitzmiller stopped suddenly, startling her. “May I give you a bit of advice?”
Dena faced him, disconcerted by question. “Advice?”
“Leave this matter alone. Pursuing it will not lead you anywhere you want to go. Please believe that. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to make my appointment.”
Dena was left standing on the walk outside biochem wondering what Dr. Kitzmiller was trying to tell her. After a minute or so she turned and walked thoughtfully back to the parking lot.