Shock

ELEVEN

IT WAS ANOTHER GORGEOUS, bright spring morning as the women sped northwest, heading back toward Bookford, which they'd left only nine hours previously. Both were exhausted. Contrary to the morning before, they'd not awakened spontaneously and had had to be dragged out of their beds by their respective alarms.

When they'd gotten home the night before, neither went to bed, much as they'd longed to. Deborah had felt impelled to clean her shoes, which had gotten muddy in Spencer's basement. She also spent some time accessorizing her outfit for the next day; she'd realized belatedly that she'd have to wear the same dress since all her other clothes were a completely different style, a fact which she felt would have suggested she wasn't whom she said she was.

Joanna had gotten on the phone with David Washburn to rehash exactly what she would do once she got into the Wingate's server room. At his insistence she even had to go over to his apartment to get some of his brute-force cracking software. He'd told her that the more he'd thought about it, the more he believed that even the server room console would require a password to get the keyboard to function. He showed her how to use the software and had her try it several times until he was confident she was familiar with it. By the time she got home it was well past midnight, and Deborah was already fast asleep.

As fatigued as they were, they drove in silence while listening mindlessly to morning talk radio. When they got to the Wingate entrance, Deborah, whose turn it was to drive, used her swipe card. The gate opened without a hitch, and in they drove. Since they were some of the first employees to arrive that morning, there were any number of parking spaces available. Deborah took one close to the front door.

"Are you worried about running into Spencer?" Joanna asked.

"Not really. With the hangover he's undoubtedly going to have, I don't think anybody is going to be seeing much of him today."

"You're probably right. Besides, he's probably not going to remember much about last night anyway."

"Well, good luck, partner," Deborah said.

"Same to you," Joanna said.

"I forgot to ask if you remembered your cell phone."

"I certainly did. And you?"

"Yup! And I even remembered to charge the battery. So let's do it!"

With a sense of purpose and not a small amount of anxiety, the two women alighted from the car and entered the building. According to instructions they'd gotten the previous day they went first to Helen Masterson's cubicle, where they completed a bit more paperwork. They were relieved that no problems with their fake Social Security numbers had emerged overnight.

From Helen's office space they split up, with Joanna heading to Christine Parham's cubicle only three down from Helen's and Deborah crossing the main hall to find Megan Finnigan's office.

Joanna wasn't sure how to get Christine's attention. The woman was at her desk, facing away from the cubicle's doorless entrance. First Joanna rapped on the partition wall, but since it was composed of a sound-absorbent material, the meager noise was not enough to rouse the office manager. Joanna resorted to calling the woman's name.

Christine had remembered Joanna from the introduction the previous day in the dining room. She also had a copy of Joanna's employment questionnaire sitting on the corner of her desk.

"Come right it and sit down, Prudence!" Christine said. She removed some folders from the chair pressed up against the side of her desk. "Welcome to the Wingate."

Joanna sat as requested and eyed the office manager. She was a woman cast from a similar mold as Helen Masterson, with the same solid build and broad, spadelike hands suggesting her immediate forebears could have been farmers. She had a kind face with natural florid patches that appeared like dabs of rouge on her broad cheekbones.

In a no-nonsense manner Christine informed Joanna what would be expected of her and what her initial duties would be. As Joanna had anticipated, she would be doing data entry for billing purposes for the clinic side of the Wingate operation. She was told that her duties and responsibilities would be expanded in the near future if working at the Wingate continued to be mutually satisfactory.

"Any questions?" Christine asked.

"What is the office policy on coffee breaks?" Joanna asked. She smiled. "I suppose that sounds like asking about vacation on the first day, but I should know."

"It's a very reasonable question," Christine said. "We're not strict about coffee breaks, and we encourage people to do what's best for them. The important thing is to get your work done. Generally speaking, most people take a half hour in the morning and another half hour in the afternoon, either at one time or broken into several shorter periods. Lunch is also a half hour, but again, we're not sticklers for that."

Joanna nodded. She liked the idea of being able to take a half hour, especially if she were able to coordinate it with Deborah. That was when she'd try to get into the server room. If that didn't work, then she'd have to use the lunch period.

"I should remind you there is no smoking," Christine said. "If you do smoke, you have to go out to your car."

"I don't smoke," Joanna said. "No problem there."

"In your application it says you have a lot of computer experience," Christine said. "So I suppose we don't have to go over anything about our system. It is rather straightforward, and I know you. have spoken with Randy Porter."

"I think I'll be fine in that regard," Joanna said.

"Well, let's get you started," Christine said. "I've got a clear cubicle for you and a full in-basket."

Christine led Joanna to a work space pressed up against the common wall with the main hall. The cubicle was as far from the windows as possible. It had a standard metal desk, a file cabinet, a desk chair, a side chair, and a wastebasket. On the desk was an in-basket which was brimming, an out-basket, a keyboard with a monitor and a mouse, and a telephone. The partition walls were completely bare.

"I'm afraid it's not very cozy, Prudence," Christine admitted.

"But you are welcome to bring in any decorative items you wish to personalize the space."

"It's fine," Joanna said. She put her purse on the desk and smiled back at the office manager.

Christine then introduced Joanna to the other workers who occupied the immediately adjacent cubicles. They seemed a pleasant and hospitable group who readily reached over the chest-height dividers to shake Joanna's hand.

"Well, then," Christine said. "I think that covers the basics. Remember! I'm here to help, so just give a yell."

Joanna said she would and waved as Christine took her leave. Turning to the desk, Joanna took her cell phone out of her purse and immediately dialed Deborah's number. She got Deborah's voice mail and assumed Deborah was still going through her introduction. She left a message for Deborah to call her back whenever she had a free moment.

Next, Joanna sat down at the keyboard. After swiping her blue card through the slot, she got a window on the monitor requesting her to set up a new password. Joanna used the word Anago; it was her favorite Boston restaurant. Once on the network, Joanna spent a quarter hour checking what kind of access she had. As she had expected, it was very limited, and the donor files in which she was interested were unavailable.

At that point Joanna turned her attention to the in-basket. It was her intent to get as much of the required busywork out of the way as possible so that when she had the opportunity to get into the server room, no one would be looking for her for mundane, work-related reasons.

Joanna hadn't been working very long before she was concretely aware of how much money the clinic was able to generate, and she was looking at only a small portion of a single morning's receipts. Even without knowledge of costs, she gathered the infertility business was an enormously appealing investment.

DEBORAH NODDED EVERY SO OFTEN TO MAKE IT SEEM LIKE she was listening. She was sitting in Megan Finnigan's postage-stamp-sized office just off the main laboratory room. Shelves lined all four walls and were filled with manuals, laboratory source books, and loose stacks of papers. The laboratory supervisor was a rail of a woman with gray-streaked, mousy-colored hair that continually fell into her line of sight. Every minute and a half, with metronomic regularity, she tossed her head to whip the errant strands away from her face. The tic made it hard for Deborah to keep her eyes on the woman without reaching out, grabbing her by the shoulders, and telling her to stop.

Deborah's mind couldn't help but wander as the woman gave her a canned lecture about laboratory techniques. Deborah wondered how Joanna was making out.

"Do you have any questions?" Megan asked suddenly.

As if having been caught napping, Deborah sat up straighter. "I don't think so," she said quickly.

"Good," Megan said. "If any occur to you, you know where I am. Now I'll turn you over to one of our more experienced technicians. Her name is Maureen Jefferson. She'll be training you in nuclear transfer."

"Sounds good to me," Deborah said.

"As a final point," Megan said, "I'd like to suggest you wear more sensible shoes."

"Oh?" Deborah asked innocently. She glanced down at her high heels, which looked good despite the previous day's rigors. "You have a problem with these?"

"Let's just say they are inappropriate," Megan said. "I don't want you slipping on the tile and breaking a leg."

"I wouldn't want that either," Deborah said.

"As long as we understand each other," Megan said. She glanced briefly at Deborah's skirt, which was revealing a lot of leg, but didn't say anything. Instead she stood up, and Deborah did the same.

Maureen Jefferson was a twenty-two-year-old African American woman whose color was like coffee with a lot of cream. There was a sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of her nose. She wore her hair bobbed, which showed off to maximum advantage an impressive collection of pierced earrings. Her eyebrows were quite arched, giving her an expression of continual amazement.

With the introductions complete, Megan took her leave. At first Maureen didn't say anything but merely shook her head as Megan walked back down the central aisle. It wasn't until Megan disappeared into her office that Maureen turned to Deborah: "She's a piece of work, wouldn't you say?"

"She is a bit rote," Deborah said.

"My guess is she gave you her stock lecture on laboratory cleanliness."

"I'm not sure," Deborah said. "I didn't listen to too much of it."

Maureen laughed. "I think you and I are going to get along just fine, girl. What do you go by Georgina or what?"

"Georgina," Deborah said. Using the alias always made her pulse quicken.

"My friends call me Mare, like a female horse," Maureen said.

"Then Mare it is," Deborah said. "Thank you."

"Let's get down to business. I've got a double-headed dissecting microscope set up here so we can be looking at the same field. Let me get some eggs from the incubator."

While Mare was on her errand, Deborah pulled out her cell phone and turned it on. She saw she had a message, but rather than listen to it, she dialed Joanna's number. Joanna picked up right away.

"Did you call?" Deborah asked.

"I did, but the message was just to call me."

"How's it going?"

"Boring but tolerable," Joanna said. "The first thing that I did was try to access the donor files, but no go."

"That's not surprising."

"The plan is, I'll be taking a half-hour break at eleven. Can you meet me?"

"Where?"

"Let's say that water fountain in the main hall near the door to the server room."

"I'll be there," Deborah said. She ended the call and slipped the phone back into her shoulder bag. While she'd been talking she'd looked around the lab. There were only five other people visible in a work space that could have supported fifty. It was obvious the Wingate anticipated growing exponentially.

Mare returned carrying a covered petri dish that contained a small amount of fluid. To the naked eye the fluid was clear and uniform but in actuality it was layered. On top was a film of mineral oil and beneath was an aliquot of culture fluid containing sixty or so female eggs.

Mare sat on one side of the double-headed microscope and motioned for Deborah to take the stool on the other side. She turned on the source light and the ultraviolet light. Then both women leaned forward to peer through the eyepieces.

For the next hour Deborah was treated to a hands-on demonstration of nuclear transfer using micropipettes. The first part involved removing the nuclei from the eggs. The second part involved putting much smaller, adult cells just under the eggs' outer covering. The process involved a certain amount of finesse but Deborah caught on quickly and by the end of the hour was doing it almost as well as Mare.

"That finishes that batch," Mare said. She leaned back from the scope and stretched her tight shoulder muscles. "I have to say, you've caught onto this more quickly than I expected."

"Thanks to an excellent instructor," Deborah said. She stretched as well. The delicate operating of the micro-pipettes required such strict control that all muscles were kept tense.

"I'll get you another petri dish that's been set up when I take this group we've done to the fusion people," Mare said. "I don't see any reason you can't be on your own already. Usually it takes a day or two, but you're already doing it like a pro."

"I think you are being overly generous," Deborah said. "But tell me! What kind of eggs are we working with here? Are they bovine or swine?" Deborah had seen a few female gametes of different species either in photomicrographs or in actuality in the lab at Harvard. She knew they looked strikingly similar except for size, which could vary considerably. From the size of the eggs she was working with she guessed they were swine since it was her impression that bovine eggs were larger, but it was truly a guess.

"Neither," Mare said. "These are all human eggs."

Although Mare had answered Deborah's question matter-of-factly, the information hit Deborah like a sledgehammer. In the entire hour she'd been working with the cells, the idea that she was working with human eggs had never even occurred to her. It made her tremble to think about it, especially since she'd been paid forty-five thousand dollars for one egg!

"Are you sure these are human eggs?" Deborah managed.

"I'm pretty sure," Mare said. "At least that is my understanding."

"But what are we doing here?" Deborah stammered. "Whose eggs are these?"

"That's not for us to question," Mare said. "This is one busy infertility clinic. We're helping to get the clients pregnant." She shrugged. "They're clients' eggs and clients' cells."

"But by doing nuclear transfer, we are cloning," Deborah said. "If these are human cells, we're cloning human beings!"

"Technically, perhaps," Mare said. "But it's part of the embryonic stem-cell protocol. In private clinics like the Wingate, we're allowed to do stem-cell research on extra material not used for the infertility treatment and otherwise destined to be destroyed. We're not getting any government funding, so anybody who is against this kind of work doesn't have to feel they are paying for it through their taxes. And remember: These are extra gametes, and the clients who've produced these gametes have agreed for them to be used. And most importantly, the fused cells are not allowed to become actual embryos. The stem cells are harvested in the blastocyst stage before any cellular differentiation."

"I see," Deborah said with a nod, but she wasn't sure she did. It was a situation she was not prepared for, and she was troubled.

"Hey, calm down!" Mare urged. "This is no big deal. We've been doing this for several years. It's okay! Trust me!"

Deborah nodded again, although she wasn't sure how she felt about all this.

"You're not one of those religious nuts, are you?" Mare asked. She leaned forward to look Deborah in the eye.

Deborah shook her head. At least she was certain of that.

"Thank goodness," Mare said. "Because this stem-cell research is the future of medicine. But I'm confident I don't have to tell you that." She slid off her stool. "Let me go get some more eggs," she added. "If you'd like we can talk more about it when 1 get back."

"Fine," Deborah said, thankful for a moment to think. With her elbows on the lab bench, Deborah cradled her head. Keeping her eyes closed, she tried to imagine how the Wingate Clinic could produce so many extra eggs. She estimated that she and Mare had already gone through four or five dozen, and the morning was young. Knowing what she did about ovarian hyperstimulation, ending up with that many eggs for research was extraordinary. Usually only ten or so eggs resulted from a stimulated cycle and most of those were used for in-vitro fertilization.

"Ah, Miss Marks," a voice said. Simultaneously there was a tap on Deborah's shoulder. She looked up, and although she was sitting, she found herself eye to eye with Dr. Paul Saunders. "I'm glad to see you, and you look as lovely as you did yesterday."

Deborah managed a smile.

"How are you finding the lab work?"

"Interesting," Deborah said.

"I understand Miss Jefferson has been showing you the ropes," Paul said. "She's certainly one of our best technicians, so you are in almost as good hands had I had the opportunity to come over first -Jung this morning as I had originally planned."

Deborah nodded. Such conceit reminded her of Spencer, and she found herself wondering if it were a universal character trait of infertility specialists.

I suppose," Paul continued, "I don't have to explain to you how important this work is to our clients and the future of medicine in general."

"Miss Jefferson told me the eggs on which we'd done nuclear transfer were human eggs," Deborah said. "Needless to say I was shocked, knowing how scarce human eggs are."

“Did she say she was certain?" Paul asked. His pale face darkened.

"I think her words were pretty sure," Deborah said.

"They are swine eggs!" Paul said. Absently he ran his fingers through his hair. "We're doing a lot of work with pigs lately. Do you know what the major thrust of our research is these days?"

"Miss Jefferson mentioned stem cells," Deborah said.

"That's part of it," Paul agreed. "Very definitely an important part, but not necessarily the most important. Right now my major focus involves how the oocyte cytoplasm reprograms an adult cell nucleus. That's the basis for current animal cloning techniques. You know, the way Dolly the sheep had been cloned."

"I'm aware of Dolly," Deborah said. She leaned back. As Paul spoke, his ardor magnified as evidenced by a suffusion of color in his otherwise pale cheeks. Progressively, he thrust his face toward Deborah so that she could feel the wind as he pronounced hard consonants.

"We are at a fantastic crossroads in biological science," Paul said, lowering his voice as if imparting a trade secret. "You're in luck, Miss Marks! You've joined us at a most exciting, revolutionary time. We're on the brink of a number of huge breakthroughs. Tell me! Did Helen Masterson explain our employee stock-option plan?"

"I don't think so," Deborah said. She was now leaning back as far as she dared without jeopardizing her balance on the lab stool she was sitting on.

"We in management want everybody to benefit from the coming gold mine this area of research is about to be," Paul said. "So we're offering stock options to all our valued employees, particularly those on the laboratory side of the operation. As soon as the first breakthrough occurs, and we announce, probably in Nature, we'll go public. Wingate Clinic will go from a narrowly held private company to a publicly traded one. I suppose you can guess what that will do to the value of the stock options."

"I guess they'll go up," Deborah offered. Paul was now so close she could see directly into the black depths of his pupils. It occurred to her why his eyes looked so strange. Not only were the irises slightly different colors, but his inner canthi covered enough of the white sclera to make him appear mildly cross-eyed.

"Through the roof!" Paul said, slowly pronouncing each word separately. "Which will mean everybody will be a millionaire; everybody, that is, with stock options. So the important thing is that it all stays quiet." Paul put a finger to his lips in the classic gesture for silence to emphasize his point. "Secrecy is of paramount importance. That's why we encourage our people, particularly our lab personnel, to live on the premises, and why we discourage loose talk with anyone outside the organization. We liken this effort to the Manhattan project when the atomic bomb was created. Am I making myself clear?"

Deborah nodded. Paul had moved back slightly although he still had her locked in his unwavering, unblinking stare. She was able to right herself on the stool.

"We're trusting you not to talk with anyone about what we are doing here," Paul continued. "It's for your own benefit." He hesitated.

"I'm a very trustworthy person," Deborah said when she sensed he was waiting for her to respond.

"We don't want another organization to beat us out," Paul continued. "Not after all this work. And there are a number of institutions working on the same problems right here in the Boston area."

Deborah nodded. She was well aware of the local biotech industry, especially since she was scheduled for an imminent interview with Genzyme.

"Can I ask a question?" Deborah said.

"By all means," Paul said. He put his hands on his hips and rocked back on his heels. The pose, combined with his shock of dark hair, reminded Deborah of Helen Masterson's nickname for him: Napoleon.

"I'm curious about the Nicaraguan workers. They all look pregnant to the same degree. What's the story?"

"Let's just say for now that they are helping," Paul said. "It's not that big a deal, and I'll be happy to explain it in more detail at a later date."

Paul broke off from staring into Deborah's eyes to cast a quick look around the lab. Reassured that no one was paying them any heed, he returned his attention to her. This time his line of sight rapidly scanned the long, hosiery-clad legs and the plunging neckline before snapping back to Deborah's face. It was a fleeting visual inquisition not lost on Deborah.

"I'm glad we've had the opportunity for this little chat," Paul said, lowering his voice. "I enjoy talking with someone with whom I feel equivalent intelligence and with whom I have strong common interests."

Deborah suppressed a sardonic laugh. Distinctly she remembered the same inane common interests comment from Spencer, and intuitively she sensed it was going to lead to the same end. She wasn't disappointed. In the next breath Paul said: "I'd love to have the opportunity to describe to you all the exciting research I'm doing, including the contribution from the Nicaraguans, but it would be best in private. Perhaps you'd like to have dinner tonight. Although the Wingate is unfortunately out here in the sticks, there is a fairly good restaurant you might enjoy."

"That wouldn't be the Barn, would it?" Deborah asked wryly.

If Paul was surprised Deborah knew the name of the restaurant, he didn't let on. Instead he launched into a glowing description of its food and romantic decor and how he'd enjoy sharing it with Deborah. He then went on to suggest that after dinner they could return to his house where he'd show her the protocols for some of the major breakthrough experiments he currently had underway at the Wingate.

Deborah suppressed another laugh. Being asked to Paul's house to see research protocols sounded like a variation on the come-see-my-etchings ploy. Deborah had no interest in going out with the nerd, despite her keen curiosity about the Wingate's research. She declined his invitation using Joanna as an excuse just as she'd done with Spencer the day before. To her surprise Paul's reaction was almost identical to Spencer's with the same suggestion about Joanna entertaining herself while they dined. Deborah now wondered if megalomania was a requirement to be an infertility specialist or if the job evoked it. Emphatically she declined again.

"What about later in the week?" Paul pleaded. "Or even over the weekend. I could drive into Boston."

Mare's return saved Deborah from Paul's deepening desperation. She brought a petri dish over to the lab bench and set it in on the microscope's stage before deferentially acknowledging Dr. Saunders's presence.

"So how is our new employee doing?" Paul asked, reverting with surprising agility to his usual condescending manner.

"She's doing terrific," Mare said. "She's a natural. She's ready to be on her own as far as I'm concerned."

"That's good news," Paul said. He then asked Mare if he could have a word with her in private. Mare agreed and the two withdrew several lab benches to be out of Deborah's earshot.

Deborah pretended to be interested in the fresh petri dish but watched Paul and Mare converse out of the corner of her eye. Paul did all the talking. He was obviously agitated as evidenced by his emphatic gesticulations.

The monologue lasted less than a minute after which they returned to Deborah.

"I will talk to you later, Miss Marks," Paul said stiffly prior to leaving. "In the meantime, carry on!"

"I'll get you started with this new group," Mare said, taking the seat opposite Deborah.

Deborah put her eyes to the microscope, and for the next few minutes the women worked in tandem organizing the oocytes for Deborah to begin extracting the DNA. Moving all the eggs to one side had been the way they'd begun with the first group. Earlier Mare had explained it was to avoid missing any. When it was finished, Mare leaned back.

"There you go," Mare said, uttering the first words since Paul's departure. "Good luck! If you have any questions just yell. I'll be over on the next bench doing another batch."

Deborah couldn't help but notice the new coolness in the way Mare treated her. As the lab tech stood up to leave, Deborah cleared her throat: "Excuse me. I don't know how best to say this…"

"Then maybe you shouldn't," Mare said. "I've got to get to work." She started for the neighboring lab bench.

"Have I somehow put you in an awkward position?" Deborah called after her. "Because if I have, I'm sorry."

Mare turned around. Her face softened to a degree. "It's not your fault. I was just wrong."

"Wrong about what?"

"These eggs," Mare said. "They're pig oocytes."

"Oh, right," Deborah said. "Dr. Saunders already told me."

"Good! Well, I've got to get to work." Mare pointed toward the other microscope she'd set up earlier. She smiled weakly, then continued on.

Deborah watched the woman for a moment as she settled herself in preparation for work. Deborah then leaned her face forward to her own microscope's eyepieces. She peered in at the field, whose left side was chock-full of tiny, granular circles each containing a fluorescing clump of DNA, but for the moment her mind wasn't on the task at hand. Instead she was thinking about the eggs' species. Despite Paul and Mare's allegations to the contrary, Deborah believed she was looking at a mass of human oocytes.

A half hour later Deborah had enucleated more than half the eggs beneath her microscope's objective. Needing a rest from the intensity of the work, she leaned back and rubbed her eyes forcibly. When she opened them, she started. With her degree of concentration she'd not heard anyone approach and was surprised to find herself staring up into the contrite face of Spencer Wingate. In the background she could see that Mare had looked up as well, and her face registered similar surprise.

"Good morning, Miss Marks," Spencer said. His voice was more gravelly than it had been the day before. He was dressed in a professorial long white doctor's coat, a crisp white dress shirt, and a demure silk tie. The only outward evidence of the previous night's inebriation was red, road-map eyes.

"Could I speak with you for a moment?" Spencer asked. "Certainly," Deborah said with a degree of uneasiness. Her first concern was that he'd come to ask about his blue card, but she instantly dismissed the idea as unlikely. She slid off the stool, assuming that Spencer meant for them to step away. A glance in Mare's direction revealed the woman was watching them with rapt attention.

Spencer pointed toward one of the windows, and Deborah walked over to it. Spencer followed.

"I want to apologize for last night," Spencer said. "I hope I wasn't too much of a bore. I'm afraid I don't remember too much after we got to my home."

"You certainly weren't a bore," Deborah said with a forced laugh, trying to make light of the situation. "You were very entertaining."

"I'm not sure that's a compliment," Spencer said. "Of course, the worst part from my perspective is the lost opportunity." "I'm not sure I follow."

"You know," Spencer said lowering his voice even more, "with you and your roommate, Penelope." He winked suggestively.

"Oh, right!" Deborah said, realizing he was making reference to the ridiculous menage a trois fantasy. All at once she felt as put-off with Spencer as she'd felt earlier with Paul, but she held her tongue. Instead she said: "Her name is Prudence."

"Of course," Spencer said while tapping his forehead with the palm of his hand. "I don't know why I have so much trouble remembering her name."

"I don't know either," Deborah said. "But thank you for the apology for last night, even though it wasn't necessary. Now, I better get back to work." Deborah took a step back to her seat, but Spencer moved into her path blocking her progress.

"I thought we could try again tonight," he said. "I promise to be more sensible with the wine. How about it?"

Deborah looked up into the man's blue eyes. She sought for an appropriate response, which was difficult to find given the lack of respect she had developed for him. Considering the disagreement she'd witnessed the day before between Spencer and Paul, she had a sudden desire to say she'd just been asked out by his apparent rival in an attempt to fan intramural disord. Under the circumstances she thought it would be the quintessential putdown. But she held herself back. In view of what she and Joanna were trying to do, making an enemy of the founder was hardly prudent.

"No sense in taking two cars," Spencer added when Deborah hesitated responding. "We could all meet in the parking lot around five-fifteen."

"Not tonight, Spencer," Deborah said in as sweet a voice as she could force herself to assume.

"Tomorrow then?" Spencer suggested.

"Let me get back to you on it," Deborah said. "Joanna… I mean Prudence and I need to catch up on our sleep." Deborah felt a warmth wash over her and knew that she was blushing. It had been her only name slip, but it was a bad one in front of the clinic's founder.

"Maybe on the weekend," Spencer suggested, apparently unaware of Deborah's blunder. "What do you think?"

"That's a distinct possibility," Deborah added quickly, trying to sound positive. "Partying for us is far better on a night when we don't have to get up early the next morning."

"I couldn't agree more," Spencer said. "Then we could all sleep in."

"Sleeping late sounds heavenly," Deborah agreed generically.

"My direct dial number is triple eight," Spencer said with another lascivious wink. "I'll wait to hear from you."

"I'll be in touch," Deborah responded, although she had no intention of actually doing so.

Spencer walked out of the lab. Deborah watched him go, then switching her attention to Mare, noticed the lab technician was still staring at her. Deborah shrugged as if to say there's no accounting for the management's behavior. Reclaiming her stool, she checked her watch. Thank goodness there wasn't long to wait before she'd be meeting up with Joanna, and they could get on with what they were there for.