CHAPTER 9
An angry man stirs up
dissension, and a hot-tempered one commits many sins.
- Proverbs 29:22
Branard entered the chemistry lab where Bob
Campbell was waiting for him. As he
passed through the door, he caught sight of his reflection in a stainless steel
towel dispenser hanging on the wall.
The right side of his head was almost completely hidden by bandages,
which in turn hid a complex maze of stitches that held in place the flesh the
lizard alien had all but removed five days earlier. They were not able to save his ear. He could feel his blood pulsing in the jagged wounds. He could hear it pulsing where his ear once
was.
Before now, Branard had been
considered handsome by most women and had little trouble attracting them. Usually, once they had gotten to know what
he was really like, they found excuses to stop calling. That arrangement suited Branard fine,
especially if he had already gotten from them the one and only thing he really
wanted. He frowned at the bandaged
monster in the reflection and the scowl pained the torn muscles of his tattered
face, making him grimace even more. His
days as a lady's man were over forever, he realized. That damn reptile bitch would pay dearly for this. If Campbell would ever let him near it
again, that was.
The older doctor was seated at the
main lab table, hunched over his journal, writing notes with his typical
meticulous printing. His reading
glasses were perched at the end of his nose, as usual when he read or
wrote. He was surrounded on all sides
by neatly arranged jars, flasks and beakers with different colored substances,
both liquid and solid, which covered the big, black tabletop. There were various scientific and medical
implements about; a pair of tongs, a rack of test tubes, a tray of hypodermic
needles.
Campbell had the noisy exhaust fan
running in the metal ventilation hood overhead, which hung from the ceiling
over the lab table like a giant, inverted funnel. It struck Branard as odd that it was running, because the elderly
scientist was not working with any chemicals that might emit dangerous
fumes. In fact, he wasn't working with
any chemicals at all. Maybe the old man
had finally lost it, he thought.
Branard stopped a few paces from his
mentor, but said nothing. The old man
kept writing. It was obvious he was aware
of his apprentice's arrival, but seemed to ignore him. After almost a minute of uncomfortable
silence, Branard felt compelled to speak.
"You asked to see
me?" His voice was distorted by
the damage to his face, compounded by the restriction of the bandages.
Campbell completed the sentence he
was writing and put down his pen. He
then took off his glasses and laid them atop the journal, while rubbing his
eyes. He looked very tired.
"I wanted to talk here because
I know that with the exhaust fan running, they can't listen in on conversations
in this room," said Campbell, without looking up at Branard, "I don't
want anyone to hear this." The old
man sighed, "I have a problem, Jim."
"And that is?" asked
Branard, knowing where this was going.
"I'm going to be sixty-five
years old in less than a year. I had
planned to retire; or at least start a semi-retirement. Now it looks like I'll have to put that off
for a while." He shook his head,
"A long while."
"Oh?" replied Branard,
trying to sound impassive.
"For over ten years now, I've
been training you to take over my job as caretaker to Siverelle," the old
man went on, not looking at the younger man, "You’ve done so well, in many
ways, Jim. You've learned her language
like it's your own. You've come to know
her physiological and medical needs. I
was beginning to feel I could entrust her to your care entirely. I guess I was deluding myself." The old man trailed off.
Branard didn't wait for the
accusation he knew was coming.
"Look, I told you already Bob, she attacked me. Look at my face, damn it! You think I cut myself shaving? I think it's pretty obvious that I'm the
victim here!"
Campbell finally looked up at
Branard, but quickly looked away again, shaking his head. "I should have seen this coming,"
the old man said, "it's my fault, really.
I guess I just wanted so badly to believe that you were a changed
person. That you finally grew up and
left behind the troubles of your youth.
It seems I was wrong."
"Come on, Bob," persisted
the bandaged man, "what do I have to do to prove..."
"Oh, just shut up, Jim,"
Campbell cut him off in disgust, while rubbing his temples like he had a
headache, "you're just making it worse.
I've talked with Siverelle. She
told me all about what happened here while I was at the conference."
Branard was incensed. He didn't like being caught in a lie and if
composed denials couldn't get him out of it, maybe a little emotional
stonewalling would. "Do you mean to
tell me that you're going to take the word of that reptile thing over a fellow
human being? ...A human being you've
known your whole life?" he demanded, "Like I told you, I was just
trying to convince it to try and think of any small details about the saucer it
might not have yet told us. Then it
freaked out and attacked me."
Now Campbell was openly angry. "Oh come on, Jim, get real! I found your damn booze bottle in there, and
your cigarette, and the scalpel with Siverelle's blood on it. And do you know what else, Jim? I'd believe her word over yours, even if
there was no physical evidence. I've
known Siverelle for just about the same amount of years as I've known you and
in all honesty, I think she's a better human being than you are. You may look the part, but she's a far
better person inside."
Campbell paused to catch his
breath. Decades of smoking didn't leave
much lungpower left for shouting.
"Now I have to start over
again," he continued, "Find and train someone else to care for
Siverelle."
"What are you saying?"
asked Branard, "You're going to replace me?"
"What choice have I got,
Jim? Do you hear yourself talk about
her? You call her 'thing' and
'it.' How can I leave her in the care
of someone who doesn't even consider her a fellow sentient being?"
"Well at least I don't treat
her like she's my god damn daughter!" retorted Branard, bitterly,
"I'm surprised you don't dress her up in dresses and bows, for Christ's
sake! You've had over thirty years to
let this obviously very advanced alien hand you the secrets of the universe,
but all you do is let it sit around, watch TV and make sardine and jelly
sandwiches. What a waste! Come on, Bob! You know it's holding back information! You can't be that stupid.
We can work on it together. We
can convince it to talk. I know we
can."
Campbell was angry, but tried to
calm himself. "I don't want to
shout anymore, Jim," he said with an edgy calm, "but I've made up my
mind. I'm going to tell them to take
you off the list as my replacement and remove you from the project
altogether. I won't give them the real
reason, so you can go back to whatever you were doing before, if you want. As you know, you'll be expected to keep this
entire assignment under your hat for the rest of your life. I don't have to tell you what the agency
does to people who go public."
"You can't do this, Bob,"
shouted Branard, not in the mood for calm, "I've spent ten fucking years
sucking up to that green abomination, waiting for the chance to finally learn
its secrets and you're not gonna yank the rug out from under me when I'm so
damn close! No way... no how!"
"Christ man! Listen to yourself!" Campbell replied, raising his voice again,
"I'm going to talk to the director now.
I expect you to have your stuff cleaned out when I get back. In addition, I expect to find your signed
affidavit of silence on my desk. I've
changed the locks to Siverelle's quarters, so don't bother trying to get in
there."
Campbell started for the door, but
Branard grabbed him by the arm, stopping him.
"Bob, don't do this."
Campbell yanked his arm out of
Branard's grip, "I'm sorry Jim, but you brought this upon yourself. I have no choice now. I have to do this," He started for the
exit again, "...for Siverelle."
Branard's mind raced crazily. He had to stop Campbell now... somehow...
before he left the silent seclusion of the lab. With hardly any thought, Branard found his
hand touching the tray of empty hypodermic needles. In an instant, he had one tight in his grip. A second later, it was sticking out the back
of Campbell's neck, the plunger depressed as far as it would go.
The old man staggered and gurgled
softly. He dropped his notebook and his
arm flailed spastically behind him.
Searching. Grasping. The hand found the needle, grasped it and
pulled it out. He turned drunkenly and
gaped at Branard with a look of disbelief, as the air bubble in his bloodstream
made its way to his brain and lodged there.
The clear, blue eyes glazed over, then rolled back. Slowly, the big man sunk to his knees and
flopped face first to the floor, right at his assassin's feet.
Branard staggered backwards, in shock as to what he had just done. He bumped into the chair in which Campbell had been sitting and sunk down into it. For several long minutes, he stared at the corpse of his mentor, wondering what he should do. He couldn't sit here forever. Eventually, someone would come. He noticed that Campbell's cigarettes had fallen out of his pocket when he hit the floor and were lying beside him.
Branard picked up the pack and lit
one. He watched the smoke coil
languidly upwards, rising faster as it drew near the gaping maw of the rattling
ventilation hood. Once it got close
enough to the suction, the wispy vapors were pulled into vertical strands, which
were sucked up, out of sight, vanishing into the darkness. The terrified animal in Branard wished it
flee this place so easily.
He took a long drag on the
cigarette, letting the soothing smoke fill his lungs. After a few moments, he felt a little more collected. He still needed a plan. He stared at the smoldering ember of the
cigarette for inspiration and he found it in the miniature blaze. He looked around himself. The chemistry lab was jam packed with
inflammable substances and Campbell had long ago covered the smoke detectors
with tape so he could illicitly puff away in the lab without setting them off.
It was an accident just waiting to
happen. Branard rolled his blue plastic
Bic lighter around in his fingers. It
seemed now that the wait was over.