2.
 Lipski looked down at the rich, intricate Persian carpeting. "I can't say, Portney. Hell, euthanasia is out of the question since neither an arrested Tyler's nor a plain-out Lampert's is proven to be a nonrecoverable disease. All we can do is proceed to point C, and from there to point D, and so on, now that we've gone from point A, Tyler's, to point B, Lampert's."
Portney nodded. "Of course. Don't mind me. It's a Sunday afternoon affliction of mine. Introspection. Day of rest after a horrible, sleepless night full of tortured dreams. Maybe a new diagnosis of an old disease."
Lipski chuckled. He set the glass down on the orchestral controls and dialed something soothing to listen to. The study filled with thrilling violin music, cascading piano jazz, moody trumpets. The music somehow seemed to fit the innocuous summery controlled climate inside, masking the Earth's terminal cloudiness outside.
Lipski said: "I wonder if she really…"
In answer to the hanging question, Portney carefully placed his glass on a gleaming wood shelf. He answered with deliberation. "Lipski, I won't say yes and I won’t say no. There simply has to be a massive research effort. Come over into my lab for a moment. I want to show you something."
Meanwhile, in the lower regions of the hundred-million inhabitant city, a little thirteen-year-old entity which had known much suffering was rebelling.
Cara is a very beautiful girl.
So her mother used to tell her, croon to her, when she was about six years old—a grinning, scrubbed little thing dressed up for church, with no idea of the madness starting to spin its darkly gleaming, fractal geometries in her marrow and on her neural freeways.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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