Weed

  Chapter 46

  Douglas Henderson stayed for two days during which time we talked about genetic alteration, cocoonization, the curious behaviour of the Chockli and Penny. He took samples of her hair, placing them carefully in a plastic baggie for DNA analysis back at the lab. He was convinced that the result of reactivation of dormant genes depended upon the evolutionary history of the individual and that small differences in evolutionary history could result in widely varying consequences. Chaos theory, he had said. I hadn't the faintest idea what he was talking about. Mostly, I listened. He was a fascinating man and I learned a lot. In fact, I even attempted to get him into bed, but he seemed impervious to my obvious charms.

  It was the second night. It was also after midnight. We had spent several hours sipping a sweet white wine and munching grilled bacon and cheddar sandwiches which Charles had made up before he retired. I had said goodnight to Dr. Henderson, then slipped into my most provocative nightgown and, soon after, knocked on his bedroom door.

  "Please come in," I could hear him say.

  I opened the door, it squeeked, and I imagined the rest of the household rising from their bed to witness the white goddess at work.

  Douglas was sitting up in bed, reading. "Do come in, Miss Fleetsmith," he said, placing his book carefully on the night table. "I was reading Manchester's Genetic Engineering and its Ramifications. Have you read it?" he asked.

  I had never heard of the book. "Not recently," I said in a sultry voice, slinking to his bed, my nightgown slipping slightly from my shoulders just enough to infer the existence of perfect boobs.

  "He suggests," Dougie said, "that natural, random gene mutations have resulted in the current genetic state of affairs and that controlled gene manipulation may hasten the achievement of … can I say gomorashu?"

  "Please do," I whispered, sliding my hand over the bedsheet, along his thigh.

  "He argues that the scientific community can, in concert and with measured gait, accomplish a great deal in a single lifetime were it given the opportunity to …"

  I wasn't listening. Something about a measured gait. I slid my hand beneath the bedsheet.

  "… and we could, in fact, practise … can I say apa-noshu?"

  "Please do," I whispered, rubbing my hand across his chest.

  "… not exactly as the Chokli did, of course. Nobody is suggesting that those who do not achieve gomorashu should be sacrificed …"

  Something about sacrifices. I slid my hand down his belly. It was hard—his belly. I watched his eyes. They were flashing with excitement. His little moustache was twitching. I was getting to him.

  "… miracle cures, not always, of course, but enough lives saved to justify the negligible dangers involved …"

  Miracles and neglible danger. I was getting hot. I could feel the sweat beading on my forehead. My hands were actually trembling. I slowly pulled the sheet back to expose his chest, smooth and white as snow. I bent to kiss his left nipple.

  "… except that a world government agency must be established to oversee the genetic engineering …"

  Government agency.

  Government agency? What the shit was he talking about? I looked at his face. It was shining with delight. His cheeks were shining. His eyes were shining. His moustache danced. His blue eyes gleamed in the dim light.

  Government agency? He was being stimulated … not by me. By some asshole named Manchester!

  "That's it," I grunted, rising from the bed. "See you for breakfast." I strode to the door, pulling my nightgown up over my shoulders.

  "Thanks for coming by," he said. "Being able to talk about these things make them clearer in my own mind."

  "Yeah," I snorted. Now I know why his wife was screwing the carpenter.