Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 62262 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 311(@200wpm)___ 249(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62262 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 311(@200wpm)___ 249(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
“Right, but this is when I’d normally take my fifteen-minute break. Usually, I go up to the sixth floor for a cup of coffee, but since we’re already going to be out—”
“Fine. We can do that on the way back, as long as it doesn’t take too long.”
Sam perked up when we got outside. He took a deep breath and flung his arms to the sides as he announced, “The fresh air feels fan-fucking-tastic after being trapped in that windowless prison.”
“You could always transfer out of the archives if you hate it that much.”
“I don’t hate it. But you have to admit, it can feel stifling down there with the recirculating air and the total absence of daylight.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” That wasn’t true, but I felt protective of the archives and didn’t like hearing them criticized. He shot me a look but let the subject drop.
SPAM’s west coast science division was housed in a 1980s-era building at the edge of the business district. We went into the modest lobby, and I told the woman at the reception desk that we were here to see Dr. Silverton. As she typed something into the computer, Sam asked me, “Who’s that?”
“He’s the head of the genetics research department. I did a search online before I tried calling, and he sounded like someone who’d be familiar with Dr. Mercanti’s work.”
The receptionist told me flatly, “I’m sorry, but there’s no record of your appointment.”
“I don’t have one. I work in SPAM’s archives and just have a quick question for him.” I held up my employee ID, in case that made a difference.
“Perhaps you should try calling him.”
“I did, but I kept getting put on hold.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll need an appointment if you want to see Dr. Silverton.”
Sam leaned on the desk and flashed her a smile. “But we’ve come all this way.” It was only three blocks, but sure. “Maybe if you tell him we’re here, he can pop out to the lobby. It’ll take two minutes of his time, no more.”
Her resolve waivered a bit, and she admitted, “Actually, he’s off-site with some of his colleagues, but he should be back any minute.”
“Mind if we wait?” Sam was still piling on the charm, and she actually grinned a little.
“Sure, feel free to—oh, there he is. The one in the green sweater vest.”
She indicated a group of six men and women who’d just entered the lobby. I hurried over with Sam right behind me and called, “Dr. Silverton? Could I please have a moment of your time?” He looked annoyed, but he and his group stopped walking and turned to me. “I’m Anderson Chen, head librarian in SPAM’s archives. I’m hoping you can help me authenticate a document.”
He had thick, bushy eyebrows, and they knit above his glasses as he snapped, “I’m a busy man. Schedule an appointment, and I’ll try to fit you in sometime next week.”
I didn’t want to look spineless in front of Sam, so I kept pushing. As I pulled the photocopied pages from the envelope, I explained, “This is part of a journal recovered three years ago from the lab of Dr. Frank Mercanti. All I need is confirmation as to whether these are his notes, or his handwriting.”
All of a sudden, everyone was interested. Silverton handed his briefcase to one of his colleagues and took the pages from me as he murmured, “I thought all his work was lost in the fire.” As he flipped through the photocopies, his coworkers clustered around him and tried to read over his shoulder.
“Everything but a leatherbound journal,” I said.
“These notes aren’t very useful. They’re just random musings, and I have no idea whether it’s his handwriting.” Silverton turned another page. “Mercanti was a diva who insisted on working alone. The only person he ever allowed in his lab was that grad student, what was his name? Heffington? Hennington? Brilliant kid. He worked in our department for a while, until Mercanti pulled him. SPAM always gave my colleague anything he wanted.” He sounded jealous.
“His name was Arden Harington,” a blonde woman said. “Remember? His family was a big deal in Oregon, they made a fortune in timber. Apparently something rattled him when he was working for Mercanti, because he dropped out of school and returned to the Pacific Northwest in the middle of the semester. That was four or five years ago.”
“Right, now I remember.” Silverton scanned another page. “This certainly sounds like Mercanti. He had these ridiculous theories.”
“Like what?” That question came from Sam, who’d been hanging back but paying close attention to the conversation.
“He believed it was possible to strip superpowers from one person and give them to someone else.” Silverton scoffed. “Can you imagine?”
Sam asked, “You don’t think he could find a way to do that?”
“It’s not impossible, just incredibly complex. If he ever actually achieved it, we’d be talking about the scientific breakthrough of the century,” the blonde said. “It would be light years ahead of our work here at SPAM, and the scientific community as a whole.”