Title: Personal Delivery by Celiouan
Author: celiouan (celiouan@terra.cl)
Date: Thu, 21 Sep 2000
Once again, this is not a Mitai-fic.  This is a Celiouan fic, and she's
brand new, and I think she's just the niftiest thing around. =)   So you
will like her, and feedback her muchly, because she cooks REALLY well and
she made me this studel the other day . . .

=)
Mitai

* * * * * * *

Personal Delivery (by celiouan)

Description: A student gets to deliver a parcel to an outstanding
scientist in Westchester, NY... Guess who.

Disclaimer: the Universe is Marvel's, as are any recognizable
characters. I'm using them without permission for entertainment
purposes only, I make no money with this nor, unfortunately, with
anything else, so don't sue me, please. Professor J. is my own
creation, but he is named after and inspired in a real-life
character. Yamoto is mine, too, I wish he'd exist, I started to
like him while writing this fic. This is kind of a self-insertion.
Although I *wish* I was that open-minded. I started out as my
parent's creation, I guess, but a lot has happened since, so I
think I own myself. Don't you *dare* use me without permission!
And: please feedback! All colors, races, creeds of it. As this is
my very first fic to be posted: if you don't like it, blame my
beta-reader, Jaya Mitai (grin). If you DO like it: thank her
10.000 times for talking me into posting this. I know I do!
Do not archive without notifying me, please.

Part I
I seldom get that much attention when I step into a room. Except
once, when I shaved my head over the weekend. I don't quite recall
what possessed me to do that, I was a little over twenty, and
still trying to find myself, and maybe my hair got in the way.
Maybe my brother's razor was just too handy, and I wanted to see
how it worked. And by the way find out what my skull looked like.
I've always been curious to my fault. Whatever it was, on Monday
morning my then boss actually suffered a short-term amnesia out of
pure shock, and I won a lifelong friend, a lab assistant that was
being roughened up for mistaking nanograms for miligrams. A deadly
mistake... for a billion innocent culture-cells.

The sight of that gaping yaw must have engraved some lasting
associations into my brain, for years later I immediately grabbed
my head with both hands when I found myself suddenly pierced by a
dozen pairs of eyes. I was certain my hair had somehow been blown
off my skull without me noticing it. The gesture turned into a
defensive shield when a dozen index fingers snapped out to point at
me.

For my life, I don't get this country. I understand perfectly why
the most recent grad students get to do all the dirty work in a
lab, that's just the way it is in every lab of this whole wide
world. I myself am eagerly looking forward to having my own lab
back home, with my own students to kick around. If I manage to get
my PhD, that is. I also understand why the *foreign* students get
to do stuff that the *local* students wouldn't touch with a fire-
poker. Even the academic sector isn't quite free of a tiny touch of
chauvinism.

What I absolutely don't get at all was why any of my more deserving
colleagues would refuse to make a *paid* trip over the weekend to
NY to deliver a box, *and* get the chance to visit the lab of,
maybe even *talk* to, one of the most *brilliant* researchers in
biochemistry and human physiology of the country. Who also happened
to be the least public one. Geez, my first day in this lab I was
handed eleven papers to read for the next day. Five of those papers
where co-authored by this guy, and all but one cited his work, but
when I asked about him, no one had even met him at a scientific
meeting. And they didn't *jump* at this chance?

Thinking he might share some insight to this quite strange, and,
as I thought, nationally restricted behavior, I asked Yamoto, one
of the senior students and quite a nice, open-minded guy, why he
had not claimed the privilege for himself. You know, back home at
the Lightning Lab, the senior researchers would have gotten into a
fistfight to sort it out. We humble students would have never
gotten half a shot. His nervous answer astonished me even more. A
mutant? So what? Don't tell me you'd suspend experiments on a
Friday 13th.

He didn't find words to reply, but his expression said it all.
Maybe he had been in the States too long, and there might be an
infectious property to all this anti-mutant paranoia, or maybe I'm
just a dumb third-world-equals-village girl. I didn't pursue the
topic any further, lest they come to their senses and I find myself
without the assignment.

Well, they almost did. I spent the next seventy-two hours being
coached by researchers from our neighboring labs as well as our
own, so I wouldn't embarrass our institute too much, plus all the
students who came to show me highlighted passages of his papers
like I myself was the author. I filled sixty-odd pages of notes and
remarks and question marks in those three days, and if it hadn't
been for my own enthusiasm, I would surely have called in sick. As
it was, after the first five hours or so of the first day I just
smiled and penned everything down and swore I wouldn't forget to
ask, if I got a chance. Which I probably wouldn't. I was, after
all, just a delivery girl.

On the last day, Professor J. himself granted me half an hour of
his valuable time, a great honor for a puny first-year PhD student.
I could have dispensed of that honor, though. I've never sat
through such a dragging, boring monologue in my entire life. At the
end, he handed me a wooden case that looked suspiciously like a box
of cigars, and launched a series of instructions on how to handle
it. He seemed to be particularly worried that it might be stolen.
Well, I don't come from the South end of the continent for nothing.
I'd just stick the case into the back of my belt, wear a baggy
pullover and a jacket, and carry a thick wallet in my side pocket.
I've "lost" five wallets that way in three years back home, cheap
things, stuffed with toilet paper to make them more appealing. It's
a pretty neat trick to keep one's money safe. He seemed quite
relieved, and I was so eager to be dismissed, I didn't even ask
what was in the box. Professor J. might be a genius, but he is a
bore, and he speaks at a rate of about one word a second. Thank God
he wasn't my immediate superior, his research field being Molecular
Biology. I'd go crazy if I had to deal with him every day.

By Friday, the day of my departure, I swear that at least two out
of ten were actually envying me. I know Yamoto was, he must have
been kicking his own rear end real hard for not speaking up before,
but I already said he is a nice, decent guy, and I guess he
acknowledged my right to be the one. He even drove me to the
airport. I expected him to stuff me with instructions, too, he had
been the only one not to do so, and he was writing his thesis, so
he must have had quite a few questions. But he just told me stories
about his home and his family and his girl-friend, and when I was
about to check in, he gave me a shy hug and told me to take care of
myself, and to make the best out of my time in Westchester. From
the way he smiled, I guess he knew that the question-filled
notebook was in my black jeans jacket. The one I "accidentally"
left at the lab.

His reassuring words kept me from going stark raving crazy during
the flight. Had I been into the nail-chewing habit, I'd been
bleeding out of all ten fingers before we actually landed at the
New York airport. OK, *one* of the NY airports. Don't ask me which.
I was far too nervous to mind such little details. I didn't even
enjoy the journey like I usually do, though I had a window-seat. I
stared at the clouds and munched my pencil and cursed myself for
getting into these bellyaching situations. But at the same time I
knew I would probably have cursed myself much more if I had refused
to make the trip. Thank God I had had no choice in the matter. Some
things we are forced to do really turn out to be for our own good.

I had been given a printout of an email directed to Professor J.,
containing precise instruction in the sparse, pragmatic style of
experimental notes. Of course, I knew it by hard before the plane
even got off, still I clung to the paper like a drowning wretch to
a life-saving vest. When I got off the plane, I was to rent a car
and drive to Westchester. A very neatly hand-sketched map, scanned
and attached to the email, described the landmarks to reach the
Institute where I was to deliver my burden. I guess they recognized
me by that map, when I was studying it for the zillionth time in
the line for the car rental.

"Hi", yelled a young voice right into my ear. I jumped almost a
foot high. A teenage girl in a bright yellow coat grinned into my
face, obviously satisfied by the impression she had caused. A
carefully dressed, beautiful red-haired woman shoved her gently
aside and shook her head at her. Then she offered me her hand.

"I am glad we arrived in time. My name is Jean Grey", she said, and
then introduced the girl as what sounded like "jubilationly" to my
dazzled ears.

What else could I do? I shook the hand of this perfect stranger. I
told her my name, convinced she would now apologize for the
misunderstanding and search on for whoever she was looking for. Far
from it.

"Nice to meet you", she smiled. "Hank was concerned you might have
difficulties finding the place."

It took me a moment to make the mental connection. Dr. H. McCoy.
Hank must be his first name. I was so surprised, I actually
blushed. The girl with the festive name grinned like the fabled
Cheshire Cat. Fortunately, her mother was so nice as to ignore my
ketchup-colored face, guiding me out of the building and towards
the parking lots, politely inquiring about my journey and telling
me that people tended to get lost on their way to Xavier's
Institute.

"The drawbacks of a retired location. But our gardens make up for
it, and it is better for the students. You brought the samples,
didn't you? Hank is quite looking forward to examine them."

I blushed again, right up to the roots of my hair, while I
frantically searched myself for the box of treasures. There it was,
thank the Gods, safely strapped to my belt as it was supposed to
be. A small girlish giggle at my back told me that neither my blush
nor my panic reaction had gone unnoticed. Gosh, this was
embarrassing.

The third blush occurred when we were discussing sitting
arrangements in the car. The girl wanted to sit in front, her
mother wanted to relegate her to the back seat. Only, Mrs. Grey
-Ms. Grey!- wasn't her mother. Uh-oh. The girl was by now almost
choking with laughter. Had I not been utterly confused at that
time, I would have seriously considered strangling her. Of course,
had I not been so confused, I wouldn't have screwed up like that in
the first place. Or maybe I would have. I'm not a terribly
observational person. Otherwise, I would have noticed right away
that Ms. Grey couldn't possible be the girl's mom, unless she'd
given birth to her at about age thirteen. In the end, though, I was
forgiven, the relationship was set straight, and I settled into the
back seat with my small travel pack and my cigar box.

The next minutes passed by in quiet conversation, mostly between
Ms. Grey and me, and I relaxed. I asked myself if she might be one
of Dr. McCoy's co-workers, and whether it would be impolite to
inquire about him. Like on key, she asked me whether I had ever met
a mutant before.

"Not really, I... Yes. In my former lab, we had an encounter with a
spider once..." I had almost forgotten about that Friggin'-Spider
incident last year.

"And what happened? A mutant showed up and blast it to pieces?" The
girl snapped out of deep boredom and regarded me almost excitedly,
as if she'd expect a bedtime story.

"Jubilee!", warned Ms. Grey.

"Of course not", I said. "It was quite harmless, unless you...
upset it." I almost said "pissed it off", but that might not be
language Ms. Grey would approve of. She looked like a woman who
gave great importance to correct behavior, even though she was one
of the most welcoming persons I had met since I arrived in the
States. That girl could count herself lucky to be one of *her*
students. "Of course it was poisonous, like most spiders, but it
wasn't really dangerous unless you were stupid enough to take a nap
on the floor in front of it. It mutated from a kind of spiders that
can only attack something that is right below them, you know? They
jump on the prey, poison it and eat it."

Suck it up, really, and they prey on water bugs the size of fat
fleas, unless we are talking about a mutant spider like this one,
grown to the size of a ripe watermelon with legs twice as long as
my arm. I learned a lot about spiders during that encounter. Enough
for some very educational nightmares.

"A mutant spider", shuddered Jubilee. She probably wasn't much into
spiders, either.

"What about mutant persons?"

I shrugged. Where I come from, mutants aren't much of an issue. One
in ten thousand is, after all, a very low fraction. In fifteen
millions of humans, it makes a total mutant population of about
thousand five hundred, most of them with very "weak powers". As for
my year in the States: well, I don't watch much TV, not having one
of my own and spending most of my spare time in the Internet or in
libraries. I automatically skip sensationalistic articles in the
newspapers, and I'm not much of an observer when I walk the
streets. Usually my mind is on anything but the fear of being
assaulted, by either mutants or non-mutants. I must have walked by
dozens of mutants without noticing. I explained that to Ms. Grey,
before it occurred to me that I really shouldn't be so honest to
people I didn't know. I had heard about the FoH fanatics, after
all, and *they* where much more dangerous than mutants, at least in
my opinion. Much more numerous, too, unfortunately. And devious.
One of the students of the lab had landed in the hospital after
getting too confident with "undercover" FoH members in a bar. But
Ms. Grey smiled at me through the review mirror, and I knew there
was no way in hell this woman could be an anti-mutant fanatic.

"Call me Jean", she said. And then: "I can't quite place your
accent. It sounds more European than South American."

"It *is* European. I spent my childhood in Austria. My English
teacher claimed to talk Oxford English, but I guess that was
wishful thinking. He sounded terribly 'Schwarzenegger', even to
me."

"You speak German, really? Neat! You know some neat curses you
could teach me?"

"Jubilee!"

"*You* always say one can never learn enough", pouted the girl.

I grinned inside, fighting to keep a straight face. I liked this
Jubilee. At her age, and in the same situation, I would probably
have asked the same thing. Actually, I *did*, once. A Turkish
classmate, who, unfortunately, had very strict parents, so her
vocabulary was quite restricted on that particular area. I made a
mental note to pen down a few mild, easy-to-pronounce phrases and
secretly hand them to her, if I got the chance. "Scheiss mit Reis",
for instance, or "Donnerfurz". Ms. Grey -Jean- shot me a glance
through the review mirror that made me wonder whether I had
actually mumbled the words out loud.

Then another explanation popped up in my head, and was promptly
confirmed by another look at the review mirror by a pair of knowing
green eyes. I leaned back, speechless, and suddenly felt that
excitement tingling in my fingertips, like when I was young, and
just about to open my birthday presents. This was going to be a
*very* interesting experience.

**********

Part II

I had *no* idea. Looking back at that day, they treated me like a
raw egg, feeding me information only bit by bit, which was a lucky
decision, because despite of all the precautions my head was
spinning before I even reached the door of Dr. McCoy's lab at
Xavier's Institute. Remember, I was completely ignorant, and I was
no mutant. I understand that future students get a much more
straightforward introduction. On me, they went really easy.

I had thought that Xavier's Institute was a private research
center. After Jean set me right, my first reaction was: Dr. H.
McCoy working on a boarding school for teenagers? Make that mutant
teenagers, okay, but even so... That guy co-authored half a dozen
revolutionary publications a year without so much as a PhD student
to help him in his research? And worked as the School's medic on
top of that?

Well, as I said, I had *no* idea.

I would learn later that most of his publications resulted from
collaborations with other researchers. Our Professor J. was
considering such a collaboration. Desirable as it was from a
scientific point of view, it was a personal and professional
hazard. A few years ago in Massachusetts, a postal bomb had
crippled one of McCoy's long-time friends and injured two
assistants. Dozens of other co-workers had been threatened, at work
as well as in their homes. FoH, of course, although they were never
caught. A few labs had suddenly lost their financial support,
although that was rare, and usually reversible, as McCoy had too
much of a reputation to be ignored as a scientist, whatever the
color of his skin. Those were the very good reasons why Professor
J. would not make personal contact with Dr. McCoy nor use postal
services, only heavily coded email. Of course there were times in
which the information exchange required a personal delivery.

Of course, Professor J. had not found it necessary to explain these
things to me, a mere pawn in this chess-game of science vs.
politics. Some well-meaning colleagues had dropped a few warnings,
Yamoto one of them, but I had shrugged them off as paranoid. But
now that I know everything, I still think it was worth the risk. I
guess I would have made that trip even if I had believed the
warnings. I don't know if that makes me a typical absent-minded
scientist, or a person that really loves her job, or, as someone
would later say, just plain stupid. I do know this: if there's
danger, I'm not really aware of it. I'm walking blind through the
streets of life, my mind on anything but the possibility of being
assaulted. You know what? My mind's too damn busy to get stuck on
that thought. I could, after all, get rolled over by a car
tomorrow, or be shot by accident by a drug addict assaulting the
store around the corner, for no other reason than being at the
wrong place at the wrong time. We all meet our death sometime
sooner of later. If living in fear buys me a few more years, I'll
gladly decline, thank you very much.

But this is what I'd say now. When Jean pulled up at that great
mansion that was Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters on that
Friday night, I knew not even one tenth of what I know now,
although I had just learned more about mutants than in my entire
foregoing life. Suddenly I had just plain forgotten everything
about famous Dr. McCoy and his friggin' samples. Let me explain: I
spent ten minutes watching fireworks of every imaginable color
exploding all around me *inside a moving car*, until Jean got fed
up and stopped the fun, because, she claimed, she couldn't drive
when she was in the middle of a 4th of July celebration. Then I
spent another ten minutes examining the fingers of that not even
grown-up, quicksilvery girl that was the unlikely source of all
that energy bursts, while she answered my questions about the
abilities of her co-students at Xavier's, colorful, but as matter-
of-factly as any teenager might describe the hair color or the
clothes of her high-school classmates. The rest of the journey I
just looked out of the window, barely registering the sunset, my
mind completely blank. I didn't hear the conversation going on in
the front part of the car. If they talked at all, I'm not sure
about that. Have you ever eaten so much so fast, you had to sit
back and just breathe and do your best to not even think about the
*word* food? Then you know what I felt.

I am an intellectual glutton, though. By the time we turned into
that driveway, my nose was glued against the window, and screw the
grown-up dignified attitude I should have shown to make honor to my
lab and to Professor J. I had forgotten he existed. Heck, I had
forgotten about the samples, and Jean had to remind me to gather my
stuff when I jumped out of the car to look at that three stores of
illuminated windows, full of walking, talking wonders of nature.
Suddenly, just bandaging those kids' bruised knees seemed enough to
fill a lifetime. Suddenly I could not only understand Dr. McCoy's
decision to recluse himself in this remote location, but I'd've
made the selfsame choice myself. Jubilee was laughing herself silly
again at my bedazzled expression. I couldn't care less.

A woman was there to great me at the door. An old woman, at first
look, in the dim light of the evening. Then I saw she was younger
than Jean, maybe my age, despite her ebony white hair. Together
with her dark skin, that hair color created an astounding effect of
a warrior goddess, enhanced by her beautiful features and her
smooth feline movements. She was dressed much less formal than
Jean, and her name was something like a prolonged cat's purr, which
would take me quite some time to learn. "Just call her 'Ro", said
Jubilee, and shot her a glance that probably meant I was a bit
thick. I grinned my agreement. As I said before, I had completely
given up on appearing a worthy messenger of Prof. J's. There was no
question as to this woman being mutant. The question was: what were
her specialties. I didn't ask, though. I wasn't in the zoo, after
all. And guessing was much more fun.

"You must be tired and hungry", said 'Ro, smiling even more warmly
than Jean, if that was any possible. Tired, me? I wouldn't have
felt tired even if I had been about to keel over from exhaustion.
"I could use some coffee", I admitted, "and a bathroom. But I'd
like to deliver these first", and tapped my belt. The white-haired
woman stretched out her hand, and I started unbuckling the box
without thinking about it. There was some quality in her that just
made you obey. She must have been a heck of a leader. Or teacher,
for that matter. "Jubes", she said, "bring these to Hank. Don't
dawdle. And be careful."

I was almost immediately sorry. This was not a mission I wanted to
get over with quickly. Once I delivered these samples, I'd have no
further reason to stay, and to leave now would have driven me
crazy. I needn't have worried, though.

The girl took the box and nodded, then winked at me and lifted her
hand. Half a dozen sparks crashed against the wall behind me, in
ear-shattering explosions. I jumped, but then I applauded after her
as she vanished around a corner, narrowly escaping Jean's scolding.

"I'm sorry", sighed 'Ro.

"Don't", I grinned. "If *I* had that gift, and her age, I couldn't
resist it either."

"Mutant powers can be dangerous", frowned Jean, "if the person
wielding them doesn't take responsibility." If she hadn't been a
mutant herself, and teacher of a school for mutants, I'd have
accused her of being simplistic.

"That applies to *any* power, however insignificant", I shrugged.

_Just like any substance can be a poison, depending on the
quantity. Even water._

I was just about to say that I had been thinking the same thing,
when I realized that the voice had been neither Jean's nor 'Ro's.
Was there an echo in my head?

'Ro suddenly had an intent expression, as if she was listening to
something. Jean had the same look in her eyes. I listened hard, and
heard nothing. But there *was* something. Then it was gone, and the
two women exchanged glances.

"We'll bring you to your room, to freshen up a little. If you are
not too tired, there's someone who would like to meet you", said
'Ro.

*My room*. I was invited to stay? Wow. I would probably be unable
to close an eye in the entire night. "Not tired at all", I assured
her.

Inside, the mansion was beautiful, with a slightly ancient feeling
about it. Wide halls and intricate corridors, quite deserted,
although I could hear voices whispering behind the carved, dark
wooden doors and footsteps around the corners, muffled by the thick
carpets, almost as if haunted by mischievous teenage spirits. I
thought I heard Jubilee laugh somewhere in front of us. Then, I
thought I saw a bony face emerging from a door to my left, staring
at me. I stopped and took a good look. A perfectly normal door.
"Just a student's prank", said Jean reassuringly, urging me on. 'Ro
stayed a little behind and hissed a name in a scolding tone. So the
students were curious just as I was. "_Scheiss mit Reis_", I
whispered. Snickering ensued behind us. 'Ro turned again, but I
stopped her. "They're kids", I pleaded. "They are brats", she
answered. But she smiled.

**********

The cold water was icy, like a fountain at the feet of a glacier. I
gasped, but it sure woke me up. I had made the mistake to sit down
on the bed to change my socks and shoes, as I expected to do quite
a bit of walking tonight. I also changed into more comfortable
pants, grateful I had decided to bring them along. In a boarding
school I might be forgiven if I walked around in black jeans and my
beloved, outworn black sneakers. The house was huge, and I was
starting to feel the exhaustion of three tense days. I'd've sworn
that mattress actually tried to coax me into a short nap. No flesh
is too weak, though, to be dragged along by my mind when I'm set on
something. After a dip into melted ice, I felt ready for action.
Brushing back my hair with still wet fingers, I stepped out into
the corridor, where I found Jean and 'Ro in the presence of a tall,
handsome man with a pair of sunglasses under a shock of brown hair.
*Red* sunglasses, that covered his entire field of view. "Scott
Summers", he said, holding out his hand for me to shake it. My
knees went weak. I might be a bad observer, but this guy definitely
was Jean's boyfriend, and his sunglasses were definitely not just a
fashionable accessory. Underneath their cover, he seemed to eye me
quite curiously. I was glad I wasn't alone with him. This guy was
just a bit too dashing for my peace of mind. And judging from the
smile lurking around the corner of his lips, he had a great sense
of humor.

Luckily, he was just passing by. After a loving squeeze of Jean's
elbow and a nod for 'Ro and me he walked down the corridor in
swift, long strides. I stared after him until he bent the corner,
then found myself back in reality, and in the presence of a very
amused 'Ro and a not-so-amused Jean. Uh-oh, screwed up again. Only
complete honesty could save me in this situation. "You're *soooo*
lucky", I told her. It worked. "Oh, he has his faults", she
giggled. She giggled like a lady, but she looked like a girl,
almost as young as Jubilee. Love does that to a woman. "Sure he has
faults, he is a *man*", said 'Ro and started dragging me in the
opposite direction. "Noooo", I went in mock surprise. "He is?
Really?"

'Ro went along with me. "Could have fooled me too."

"Hush", said Jean, "you're just jealous."

"Not me, Red. Remember, I *know* the guy."

I hadn't felt so much at home for years.

**********

Part III

The coffee was delicious, even if a bit hot. I glanced at the
coffeepot on the table and wondered whether I could have some more.

"Of course", said the Professor. "But it will interfere with your
night's rest."That's one of the advantages of coffee, I thought, pouring
myself
another cup. I had to make the most out of my time here.

"You are welcome to stay for the weekend", said the Professor.

I had thought of visiting New York City, which I didn't know yet.
But of course, this mansion was infinitely more appealing.

"Dr. McCoy will be glad to hear it. He misses the academic
environment."

Cautiously blowing on the brown, fragrant liquid and watching the
ripples before I took another sip, I thought that the Professor
probably knew more of Dr. McCoy's research than I ever would. He
seemed to know an awful lot about everything.

"Not everything, I'm afraid. Not even half as much as I would wish
to."

Sophocles. 'I only know...'

"Socrates", he corrected.

...see?

He laughed. "I admit, my interests are quite widespread. But in
this I am afraid I am not a satisfying interlocutor for Dr. McCoy.
I lack his passion for the details of his research activities,
which you share. I am more interested in the results."

My mother was like that. Always in a hurry to solve problems, and
no time to cherish the process that led her to the solution. I was
more of a seize-the-journey person.

"The world needs both", smiled the Professor.

I completely agreed.

There was a moment of silence. One advantage of this kind of
communication was that I didn't even need to modulate the words,
hence could use my mouth just to cool and sip coffee. Still, I
decided myself against a fourth cup. My stomach wouldn't take that
too kind.

"You seem very accepting about me reading your mind, even if it is
new to you. Can you tell me why?"

Can't you read it in my mind?

"I sense no nervousness in you. To find out more I have to dig
deeper, and I would rather not. And your own perception might be
more revealing."

Now he sounded like a shrink. ...sorry. I meant no... He smiled and
shook his head.

"None taken", he said.

I thought about it for a while, chewing on my knuckles and
rummaging around in my own messy mind. I only found a question: why
*should* I be afraid? It was new, sure, and took a while to get
used to, but it was exciting, and useful -I could enjoy my coffee-,
it saved time -Professor J's victims would really profit from it-,
and didn't hurt. Why should I feel threatened by someone picking
the words from my mind before I could modulate them? He was bound
to hear them anyway. But I was looking for answers, not questions.

"I think you found quite a few", said the Professor.

Then again, I thought on, if I didn't want to talk to someone, and
he could just wrench the information out of me? In the hands of the
wrong person, such a power... Have *you* ever...?

The Professor rested his chin on his folded hands. His expression
was grave, but his clear eyes looked straight into mine.

"Hurt someone? Yes. Invaded someone's mind without his or her
permission? At times, I have done that, too."

Regrets? Afterwards?

"Every time. But in general, I think the harm I prevent is greater
than the harm I do. It still gives me no right to do it, of
course."

Ethical dilemma.

"Very much so."

And self-possession.

"*That* comes with age."

I laughed. His dry humor reminded me of my brother. Of course, I
thought, it had to be harder for younger people, whose blood runs
hotter. Jean popped into my mind. Although I guessed she wasn't as
powerful as the Professor.

"Oh, Jean. She is very gifted. Psionic powers often emerge very
slowly, and require years of training to enhance them. She will
become very powerful in time. Maybe more than me."

She seemed so serious. All that responsibility, perhaps... It made
her seem older.

"She is about your own age."

I guessed. I rather liked her.

"She was very surprised to sense your thoughts so near to the
surface. She thought you might be a mutant yourself."

Really?

"I'm afraid you are not. Just a trusting person. An even rarer sort
of human, in these troubled times."

May I ask a question?

"Of course."

When I entered the mansion...

_Even water..._

WOOOOW!

_I am sorry..._

WOW!

_I didn't mean to startle you._

Are you kidding? Be my guest! This is cool! Must come in handy...
save you a lot of money in cell-phone bills...

_<smile>. It has advantages..._

Does it work with everyone?

_It is *very* easy with you._

Trust?

_It seems to be a factor. I have never considered it before. I knew
it was easier with people who are close to me._

You were surprised I could hear you... back at the door.

_Indeed. How could you tell?_

I can tell now, looking back. I was startled. No, I was startled,
because I *felt* startled without *being* startled... does that
make any sense?

_I think I understand._

You got curious.

_<smile> Yes. Very. I'm afraid I have been trying Dr. McCoy's
patience by keeping you here. Are you too tired to meet him now?_

Tired? TIRED?

_It must be the coffee... You are both very excited and very
exhausted. It has been a long week for you. Please be honest with
yourself. He is a very kind person, and will understand. Otherwise,
he might keep you up all night. When Dr. McCoy gets carried
away with his research, he looses track of time._

I grinned. Don't we all. No, I won't go to sleep, unless you
mesmerize me and walk me to my room like a zombie. And you wouldn't
do that, would you?

He smiled and raised his hands.

_Of course not._

Checkmate.

**********

Of course, I didn't get to fabled Dr. McCoy's lab that night. I had
been naive to think I could checkmate an old fox like Professor
Xavier. He made me promise I would eat something before plunging
into science, which was fine with me, since my stomach was quite
irritated with that much caffeine and desperately needed solids to
sponge it up. I wasn't at all surprised to see Jean turning around
the corner just as I stepped out of the Professor's office. I
thought a bright "Hi" for her, and she smirked. We used normal
speech, though, on our way to the kitchen. She did most of the
talking. And at the kitchen, a small, but cozy room with a solid
wooden table in the center, the first thing I got was a white pill
and a glass of water.

"Aspirin", she answered to my unspoken question, and that was when
I noticed I had a splitting headache. She smiled knowingly. "I
still remember my first telepathic conversations. Yours was long
for being your first." It had to be involuntary muscle
contractions, I thought, tension from the unaccustomed mental
exercise. The other explanation would have been dilation of minute
blood vessels in my brain, and I didn't think the Professor would
have put me through that.

Aspirin in hand, I kneaded my brows trying to decide which would
kill me first, my head or my stomach.

"It actually works better when you swallow it", I heard Jean say.

That settled it. The ensuing attack of hilarity threatened to crack
my head in two, so I washed the blasted thing down and hoped there
would be food soon enough to calm the volcano in my belly.

I needn't worry. In her own efficient way, Jean prepared an entire
meal in a few minutes, warming up leftovers from the fridge and
apologizing for it. I was only allowed to help set the table, and
only because I refused to sit down and watch her work. I was
folding the napkins and putting them under the knives, when a blue
mountain filled the doorframe.

I looked up...

He was blue. He was big. He was furry. He was dressed in a very...
hum... unconventional way. He didn't walk, he hopped on strong legs
that ended in clawed feet, one arm on the floor, like a gorilla. He
had very sharp, very white teeth, canines a good three inches long,
and pointed ears like a German shepherd. His brows were thick and
long and danced when he frowned. And he was frowning. Through
broad-brimmed spectacles. At a printout. I didn't need Jean to tell
me who it was. That frown is universal. Almost a professional
trademark.

"... please meet Dr. McCoy. Hank, this is your guest."

Guess what.

I blushed.

**********
Part IV

He was very surprised to meet me in the kitchen. In fact, the
Professor had told him to get something to eat, as it would be a
while before I made my way to the lab. Checkmate.

At Jean's inquiry, Dr. McCoy admitted he hadn't eaten since lunch.
Jean set about further looting the refrigerator, and we sat down to
talk.

It was awkward. For me, at least. A mind who'd well be worth
a Nobel or two, or three, sitting at a kitchen table in front
of me. I felt about ant-sized in comparison. To know that he'd
never get one, a Nobel I mean, because his color wasn't considered
befitting for a human, and because he happened to be furry rather
than hairy, didn't make it any easier. I couldn't quite tell him
that all the guys of the Institute had been smacked flat by his
last two papers, because that would have aroused the inevitable
question of why the Institute's most puny student would be the one
to actually pay him a visit. He didn't say a word either, just sat
there and, to his credit, didn't continue to study his printouts.
*That* would have dwarfed me to the size of a microbe.

Now, looking back, I think he was nervous, too. He never told me,
but I guess he must have had some very disappointing experiences
with other visitors. "Normal" men and women, who probably tried to
avoid looking at him. Who might have gotten distracted by such an
obvious mutant to a point of not listening to the scientist, or who
might have gotten their own ideas all mixed up, and ended up
leaving in a hurry. With a very plausible reason for it, of course.
I wonder now how much of the physical distance between him and his
co-workers is due to their instinctive need to separate, in *their*
mind, *his* mind from his appearance. Maybe more than the very real
danger of turning themselves into targets for FoH harassment. It
takes a unique personality like Dr. McCoy's not to bear them a
grudge.

To tell the truth, after sitting through my own personal
pyrotechnics and, thanks to my very first mind-link experience, two
hours worth of conversation in fifteen minutes, I'd have been
almost disappointed if he'd been any more "normal"-looking. I
stared at his hands, cupping a pint-sized, steaming mug that Jean
had set in front of him, dwarfing it, stared at his strong clawed
nails and desperately sought for a way of starting a conversation.
Other than comment on the difficulties of handling "human-sized"
keyboards and mouses with those hands. Maybe he had custom-made
ones.

"Those were very interesting samples you brought."

Right, the samples.

"Yes, well... They were OK, weren't they? I mean, nothing broken?"
Which reminded me I didn't even have a clue what they had been. Or
if they were actually breakable material.

He raised an eyebrow, a fascinating sight. His eyes looked outright
grandfatherly with those spectacles.

"No, they arrived unharmed."

Uhm, okay... Silence.

Oh, what the heck.

"Ahm... Sir?"

"Hank."

Blush.

"Yes, hum... Thank you." I suppose that didn't fit in, but well,
you know... I was nervous. "Uhm... what kind of samples were they
exactly?"

The eyebrow danced skywards again, but he smiled, and his canines
flashed in the light of the bulb.

"I take it you are not one of Richard's students?"

Richard was Professor J's first name. Heck no, thank God. He just
happened to be the director of the Institute that owned my ass for
the next four, five years.

"Actually no, I work under Dr. Kirklane, in the Cardiophysiology
lab..."

He nodded.

"I was wondering how you might have gotten into molecular biology.
You are making your PhD, right? Signal Processing?"

Blush. How did he *know* that?

"I read your paper, two years ago. The other author was a known
physiologist, so you had to be the one responsible for the
processing algorithm."

He read our *paper*?

"Uhm... Yes. If you found any mistake in the Introduction and
Methods-section, I'm the one to blame."

"No mistake... a comment, though. Do you mind?"

Mind? Do I MIND?

"Oh, no, please..."

Blush.

He grinned again, eyes flashing, snatched a pencil somewhere out of
the thick fur around his ears and turned over the printouts to use
them as a blackboard.

The next hours took us through linear analysis, clustering methods,
neurophysiology, cardiorespiratory physiology, and plunged us right
into mutant physiology, evolutionary pathways, inter-species
compatibility...

At some point, Jean left the kitchen, probably after wishing us a
"Good Night" neither of us heard, and urging us to eat, which we
did, as the food was right there on the table and neither of us
minded leaving grease-prints on the paper. At some point, a man
came in, short and dark and forbidding, if I recall him correctly,
whose name and presence were literally erased from my mind as soon
as Dr. McCoy resumed his explanation about the assessment of
amplitude and frequency modulation in physiological systems, and
their relationship with causality. At some point we were hunting
for a blank spot of paper and found none, and realized we had
covered thirteen A4 sheets on both sides with small-print formulas,
sketches and diagrams. The original printout was unreadable. Dr.
McCoy looked at it with a contrite expression that told me they
were irreplaceable originals.

"I'll have to repeat those tests..." he mumbled.

I straightened. "May I..."

He looked at me over the brims of his spectacles that had migrated
-again- to the point of his (very broad, very short) nose. "Of
course, I'd be delighted. It isn't quite your area, though."

I grinned. As if that had ever stopped me.

"I won't distract you with questions, I promise."

At least not *too* many questions. Say, a dozen or so. It was about
three a.m.

But then Dr. McCoy's face went blank, just as 'Ro's and Jean's a
few hours ago, and I knew time was up, even before an apologetic
smile spread over the Doctor's kind, broad face.

Meddling old...

... Professor.

But I guess he was right -again-, because I don't even remember how
I got into bed. I only know I woke up in the morning, bright
sunlight pouring into the room, me wrapped into the top blanket
like a pancake, a taste of Christmas in my mouth. And swollen feet,
because I hadn't even bothered to take off my shoes.

**********

Author's Note for Part V:

Sorry this took me so long to write. And sorry, Hank McCoy won't
appear until the very end of Part VI, he's busy somewhere being a
Beast, but of course *I* (the 'I' in the story) doesn't
know that... so poor *me* has got to wait a bit longer, and hence,
so does the reader - I'm a big fan of the immortal slogan of the
French revolution. You know, the part that comes right after
"Liberté-Freedom". You might skip this part if you want to
step into McCoy's lab right away, and skip Part VI, too, if you
are absolutely starved for Hank's *physical* presence... but
remember, I'm a seize-the-journey person, and the process is
often more important than the end result, at least to me.

This story takes place in a strongly movieverse-contaminated
comicverse, or maybe the other way round. Sorry, I made a
terrible mistake and assumed the Westchester Mansion was the
actual seat of the school in the comic too, and now it's too late
to change the story's outline in my head. So just pretend the
Massachusetts School hasn't yet opened, or else that it had to be
painted or fumigated or exorcised or something and the kids went
a-visiting state of NY for a while. And Jubes is still adjusting
to the fact that she doesn't belong to the X-men anymore. And
no, Emma isn't around because I can't *stand* her, and that
might prove fatal for my character who can so easily be 'read',
for as you know Ol'Icicle has about as much sense of humor as a
frozen trout. And if you miss another of the X-men (Bobby, Rogue,
Gambit...), please forgive me, just pretend they are at the
Bahamas. As you see, I'm completely messing up the 'true facts'.
But I'm not sorry, I'm having too good a time writing this.

That said... here we go, it's a beautiful Saturday morning in
spring, and I just woke up in the Westchester mansion, and I'm
gonna visit Hank's lab today, and life has hardly ever looked this
bright...

**********

It must have been that mattress. If I ever get to stay over at
Xavier's Institute again in my life, I swear I'll sleep on the
floor. Or on a chair. Or I'll bring one of those outdated
mechanical alarm clocks that can raise the dead, even from
devilishly comfortable mattresses like the one I had the
misfortune to spend that night on. Instead of taking my obligatory
shower at seven as I usually do, by the time I finally rolled
myself out of the bed my wristwatch marked an ungodly half past
nine, and I *swear* that friggin' mattress squeaked in triumph.
All in all I was lucky: if it had been a clouded day, I might have
slept until noon. Nine-thirty is late enough to get up, though,
especially since there was a pretty good chance Dr. McCoy might
have forgotten last night's promise to let me watch as he repeated
his analysis of Professor J's samples. I showered in a record
time, but then I got lost in those corridors. As was to be
expected. The day I don't get lost someplace new I'll suffer an
identity crisis. So by the time I stumbled into the kitchen,
rubbing my rumbling stomach and my still sticky eyes, it was
almost ten o'clock.

I shouldn't have worried. McCoy had left on some urgent business
over an hour ago. He would return soon, I was told by a gloomy,
coat-less, but still colorfully clad Jubilee who had apparently
been charged with the task of the hostess, for she hopped from the
table were she had been brooding and set out to make breakfast. I
asked about the others I had met so far, but she answered, in a
funeral voice, that "they all" had gone. She didn't say who "all"
or where to or why, and I didn't ask, as she obviously felt she
should have been included in the "all", and I didn't want to upset
her any further. So I cautiously inquired whether there had been
an accident. I was fairly sure that a few hours ago, McCoy had not
known about this urgent business, whatever it was, and I feared
some cosmic tragedy. The ensuing diatribe against grown-ups in
general and one "Wolvie" in particular calmed my worries on that
behalf, although I understood very little else. But then, who but
a teen can really understand a teen. I was almost a decade late
for it.

As I had nothing to do but wait, and in an attempt to win back her
grace as a representative of the adult fraction of the species, I
got her started in the noble art of German Cursing. PG-13, of
course, I wouldn't want any trouble with Jean. Then we made a few
experiments with coffee beans and Jubilee's mutant abilities. The
result tasted a bit burned, but absolutely drinkable provided you
added enough milk and sugar. Afterwards, though, we had to remove
coffee-powder from every crack and corner in the kitchen, a
welcome chance for Jubilee to practice her German pronunciation.

We were hardly done cleaning up when I was summoned to the
Professor. Jubilee immediately offered to lead me to his office.
Maybe she just wanted to skip classes for a few more minutes.
Anyway, I was grateful, for that house was *huge*. By the time we
reached the Professor's office, Jubilee had learned half a dozen
new words, it was past eleven, and I was more than ready for some
real work. Hence I had a hard time swallowing my disappointment
when the Professor told me that McCoy would take a while longer,
and offered to show me around.

One advantage of communicating with a telepath is that you don't
need to waste your time with pleasantries like "Oh, that isn't
necessary" or "I don't want to cause any trouble", you can just
think in the general direction and the message gets along. Most of
my feminine ancestors on both sides of the family always come up
with a miraculously exact phrase for every such situation, but
they somehow failed to pass that gift on to me, which is a pity
for I could really use it sometimes. I always feel slightly stupid
trying to find what to say, and even more stupid after I say it.
But the Professor just smiled and answered, "My pleasure" before I
could even stutter the first word, and that was it. Of course he
knew what I *really* wanted to do, and why. That's another
advantage of communicating with a telepath. Correction: for a
frequently incomprehensible weirdo like me, it is the very queen
of advantages.

You see...

... *most people* have never listened to single cells. Their
voices, cracks in cracking noise, their peculiar firing
patterns... Most people have never played deaf for the narrow-
minded colleague whose radio speaker they might just have
confiscated for this sole purpose, for how can Jazz concerts be
more important, more wonderful to listen to, than microscopic
cells calling out to you... And anyway, it wasn't like I didn't
leave him without speakers, he still had the other one...

... most people would *never* get so obsessed with their most
recent project they'd stumble over the same cable for weeks,
without picking it up... And they'd never lose their concentration
because a well-meaning soul lined that very cable against the
wall, and there was that irritating, unknown little something
missing in their everyday environment and they just couldn't
figure out what it was...

... most people *know* how to play the solitaire, or handle a
photo editor, or listen to Internet Radio... but would *never*
spend their weekends learning how to access the interruption that
allows the CPU to read the keyboard or the friggin' serial port,
and for no particular reason, but just because...

... most people have never even *touched* an instrument rack, and
if they have, they don't indulge in the peculiar custom of
brushing their thumb across the smooth black heads of sleeping
LEDs, before reaching for the main power switch that marks the
beginning and the end of the day... and have you ever smiled in
knowing anticipation as the LEDs stir like lidless eyes, drawing
an intricate code of primary colors on smooth, clean, hard silver
and black surfaces?

And that familiar shiver, almost like a long-time lover's caress,
every time I brush against the pulse generator; would you know it?
That small current-leak of the power source that has slipped
undetected through every tech support and raises the fine,
translucent hairs on my forearm...

So how could you possibly understand that I would spend most of my
waking time surrounded by a chaos of blinking panels and wires and
connectors and computer screens and printouts and reprints and
data disks, and still crave for yet more of all that pandemonium
of biomedical data acquisition and signal analysis in my *spare*
time? How could I make you understand that an a- few-hours-visit
at another lab would constitute my all-time favorite weekend
entertainment? And how could I explain that spending those hours
in the lab of a scientist of Dr. H. McCoy's caliber would be like
all my past, present and future birthday and Christmas presents
all packed together into one giant parcel, and that even a tour
around the world's probably only boarding school for teen mutants,
however fascinating, couldn't quite distract me from wanting to
dig into that parcel, right there and right then?

I have long since given up explaining my motivations, I don't even
try anymore. Xavier, though, could surely read them in my mind.
And he knew McCoy quite well, who must be even worse than me,
because he's a friggin' all-round genius on top of all his passion
for research, as I had confirmed the night before. And finally,
after decades reading people's minds, the Professor is probably
one of the world's greatest connoisseurs of human nature. So I
hope he didn't take it too hard if my mind was cringing in
expectation of the rooms he most assuredly wasn't going to show me
on this tour, so that most of his words just lingered in my short-
time memory for a coffee-break before vanishing into oblivion.

Yes, I do confess: I forgot most of what he told me as we walked
around that huge building. That is, *I* walked, he rolled. I do
recall a bit of family history. I recall a bit of how he first got
the idea that mutants could be taught to handle their powers and
be at ease about them, and with themselves. I recall the name of
some Erik or Erich Lehnsherr, maybe because the Professor
pronounced it like he knew German, maybe because I sensed a deep
sorrow associated with it, like for a very dear friend, forever
beloved, and forever lost.

But then, I do also remember the basketball field and the echo of
the player's laughter, hitting me from behind after reflecting at
the mansion's walls. I remember the dark pines that summoned long-
forgotten childhood memories, when all trees had seemed so
incredibly tall little me feared they could accidentally brush the
stars from the sky on a windy night. I remember the classrooms,
quite deserted as it was noon and the students were having their
lunch in a diner we both agreed would not be wise to visit. I
remember the small number of desks, and I remember touching one
table's dripping corner, and wondering what could cause dry wood
to freeze on a spring morning inside a closed room. A student's
prank, of course. What else?

I remember a thick carpet that swallowed my footsteps,
imperceptibly worn in the middle by countless young feet and the
wheels of this one man's chair. And half a dozen girls and boys,
chasing along the corridors and slowing down abruptly as they
spotted the Professor, greeting him as best suited their
personality, solemnly, or respectfully, or with a half guilty,
half mischievous grin, and resuming their race scarcely ten feet
passed us, their suppressed laughter lingering behind like a scent
around us old-timers, left to smile indulgently after them. I
remember the Professor's calm, quiet voice vibrating from the
walls and the ceiling and from behind me, making the hair in my
neck stand in an unconscious, animal reaction; and then again
welling up within my brain, like hearing it inside out, words and
sentences I would be so quick to forget. And yet they must have
stayed in my brain at least long enough to understand, not with my
intellect but with some sixth or seventh sense, that the Professor
was the source of the life that pulsed through this school, just
as this school was the heart of his own. He seemed ancient to me,
this man, older than his years, and yet, like the building, he
seemed strangely ageless. And I remember marveling at the depth of
their relationship, anchored and thriving on a secret they both
shared and I wouldn't learn, not that day and maybe not ever. I
don't think I wanted to know it either. I didn't feel ready for
all of it.

Maybe I remember enough, after all. Maybe all that matters.

And then, finally, we stopped in an empty corridor at a
nondescript white door somewhere on the lower floors and the
Professor had fallen silent, and was just watching my face, a hint
of a smile on his thin lips, a hint of amusement in his clear
eyes. I looked around, disoriented, then embarrassed, wondering
whether I had missed something crucial he might have said, and
eventually understanding. And I stared at that door and surely it
didn't take a telepath to read my mind, it must have been written
all over my face.

"You can wait inside, if you wish. He shouldn't be long now."

**********

Author's Note for Part VI:

The following scenario is completely made up. This is how *I*
believe the scientist Hank McCoy, backed up by Prof. Xavier's
unlimited financial resources, would design his working
environment. As the saying goes... tell me how you run your lab,
and I'll tell you what kind of scientist you are... I just
couldn't resist making up all the tiny little details, but I
realize they might bore you to death. So just skip to the last
paragraph, or read the entire thing and then flame me all you
want, or else tell me what's missing, what you might change, what
doesn't fit into McCoy's character as you know him... and I myself
am but a fledgling researcher, so I might have gotten some of the
equipment wrong. And I'm bound to get some translations wrong, my
dictionary has given up on me. Please, feedback, especially the
constructive-criticism-type 'coz me wanna get betta @ this!

Ah... hum... the author's names are completely made up. If you dig
them up on Medline, it's pure coincidence.

**********

I stepped through the door like a five-year-old into the toy
section of a big warehouse. Better still, like a five-year-old
whose adult accompanying person had decided to go and get some of
that adult stuff done and leave her alone in Wonderland, with the
promise that some older buddy would come and play with her in a
few hours so why wouldn't she go and take a good look until then?
And no 'adult supervision', and no "Behave nicely".

Of course, Professor Xavier knew I would behave. I'm a little over
five, you see. Still, I wondered whether Dr. McCoy knew I'd be
wandering around alone in his territory.

_He knows. He left you something to read on the table to your
left, next to the computer screen._

I heard the elevator humming some fifty feet to my left, carrying
the Professor back to the upper levels. No supervision, hum? But I
didn't mind at all. Which was strange, considering I had led a
petty war against my mother even setting a foot into my room since
I was about twelve. Somehow, the Professor's voice in my head was
very reassuring in this situation. It felt like someone was
looking after me. And it wasn't like he was prying, I *had* asked,
after all. Sort of.

So I felt safe to go in, carefully, almost tiptoeing. Awed. The
lab seemed so very quiet. There were no windows, the walls were
white and bare, lacking the usual mess of posters and printouts
pinned or taped all over the place. Solid metal bars hung here and
there from the roof like railway fragments, and I couldn't guess
what they were for, except perhaps to hang something up, cameras,
maybe, although it didn't make much sense. The illumination seemed
to come from everywhere, as it cast almost no shadows. Actually,
it originated in carefully placed halogen spotlights on the
ceiling, covered with a metallic grid. I remembered the metallic
doorframe. The entire room was a big Faraday's cage. Spacious,
well designed, functional. And tidier than any lab I had ever
seen. And yet I was sure McCoy hadn't just cleaned up because he'd
be getting a visitor. He was just one of those rare individuals
who were above a certain corollary of the second law of
thermodynamics, the one that states that increasing order in the
intellectual realm always wreaks a reactive havoc in the physical
realm.

I picked up the papers, five in all, scanned the titles and the
authors. Methodological papers; Gossamer, Lewis, Richards,
Gennaro, Pascoletti. I knew two of them. Something to read, hum?
How long intended Dr. McCoy to be gone? Gennaro's paper had taken
me five hours to halfway understand it, Lewis' a little longer.
Richards I had never heard of, and Pascoletti... I wasn't sure.
Gossamer, of course... he was Yamoto's favorite author after you-
guess-who. But Yamoto was a genius, somewhere near McCoy's
caliber, whereas I would have needed a brain-transplant to be able
to follow Gossamer's reasoning. I usually got lost after a few
paragraphs into the introduction, and ended up needing
professional translation. McCoy's papers were just as intense,
information-wise, but his writing style was much more enjoyable,
he didn't stuff the Discussion with information you wouldn't
really need, and his references were always well picked and worth
reading. I wondered why there were no papers from McCoy himself,
and decided he either

(a) was too humble to promote himself that way; or
(b) guessed I probably knew most of them already, at least the
abstracts; or
(c) preferred to have a nice long personal chat about the stuff he
was working in; or
(d) figured I'd be busy enough sightseeing and had left the papers
just in the unlikely case I needed to rest my feet; or
(e) all of the above.

I ticked (e). And as my feet felt quite ready to rock despite the
foregoing sightseeing tour, I set out to explore the environments.
And that included everything, for the Professor hadn't warned me
to stay in this very room, and I've always liked to start with the
general outline. And there were a couple of very interesting-
looking doors at either sides.

As I was to find out, there were four main rooms in a row,
connected to each other and to the corridor by heavy, well-oiled,
very broad doors. The rooms were big enough to accommodate all the
instruments and furniture and computer terminals and still leave
space to move comfortably, even considering McCoy's massive shape.
Judging by the equipment, the one Professor Xavier had left me in
was an electrophysiology lab. There was some gym equipment
confirming what I already knew, that McCoy specialized in
locomotor and cardiovascular system. Four huge wheeled instrument
racks held all kinds of hardware; amps, filters, multi-channel
oscilloscopes, function and pulse-train generators. Most were new
and obviously acquired on the general market, but some looked
self-made, switches and buttons and indicators unlabeled, or
identified by nothing but a few cryptic signs scribbled in their
general neighborhood with black or green marker, and protected by
transparent tape so they wouldn't rub off. And then there were
quite a few analog voltmeters, thermometers, amperemeters and
other sensors I recognized as belonging to that famous generation
of German production of the seventies, heavy, solid, voluminous
instruments that after decades of hard labor still did their job
with unsurpassed accuracy. They all looked quite clean except for
a dark fluff stuck at the screws that fixed the instruments to the
racks. I plucked some of that stuff and recognized the owner's
signature, left to catch the dust of the years, and I smiled.

Then there were a couple of dedicated DAQ computers on wheeled
tables, plus another couple that stood on a table near the
entrance, looking like the numbercrunching ones to me. The
computers were all turned off, and I wouldn't try and switch them
on, much as I wished to. That's considered very bad manners in a
strange lab. But peeping into closets isn't, and so I found about
every kind of wires and cables, including a small treasure of
Kinar cables in five different colors, and shelves loaded with a
mess of small handmade instruments, waiting to be of use again,
and a tool collection I'd be proud of. There was a workbench that
held a giant protoboard and an equally giant multiple power
supply, and dozens of tiny drawers with about every kind of
resistors and connectors you could come up with, including, to my
delight, isolated BNCs. I made a mental note to ask him where he
got them from, and maybe to ask him (very nicely) for a couple of
them. A shelf held a small collection of handbooks and data
sheets, including a first-edition Horowitz I greeted like an old
friend.

The door at the right wall led to a biochemistry lab with a U-
shaped table in its center, loaded with familiar-looking equipment
and then some I couldn't guess the function of. The left wall held
an entire wall of shelves behind glass doors, accommodating the
obligatory seven feet of company catalogues and all kinds of
indexes, and scores of neatly arranged white boxes and plastic
containers and glass bottles of all sizes and forms. The opposite
wall was occupied by a door leading to the main corridor, a giant,
full colored Table of Elements, an equally huge Map of Radioactive
Isotopes and an apparently hand-drawn, 6x6 feet Map of Metabolic
Pathways and Inborn Errors of Metabolism. Professor J. would be
dumb-struck with envy. I studied it for at least half an hour and
didn't even start to cover all the interconnections. Recalling my
struggle with biochemistry and endocrinology a few years ago, I
wished I'd had a copy of this map back then. I'm sure I'd've
gotten an outstanding at the finals.

Next door was the histology lab, with a center table and, at first
glance, three fridges, three freezers, and five different
microscopes, four of them sitting beside computers with twenty-
seven-inch screens. Then there was a workbench with a beautiful,
unique ceramic cover, and on top of it half a dozen small
rectangular glass containers filled with cobalt blue liquid of
decreasing intensity. McCoy must have been working here this very
morning, for there were some dye spots on the creamy-white
ceramic, and they hadn't dried up yet. Then I recognized the cigar
box I had brought, sitting to the left, open and empty, and
realized the samples I had brought were probably immersed in the
blue dye. I wondered if they shouldn't be rinsed anytime soon, as
far as I knew dying is a very time-sensitive procedure. But it was
wiser not to touch anything. Especially since I knew very little
of histology. So I took a glimpse behind the couple of smaller
doors at the far end. One led to a comparatively small cell-
culture room with the neatest sterile workbench I had ever seen,
and a huge humming incubator I was very tempted to open, although
I knew enough about growing cultures to resist the urge. The other
small door led to a liquid nitrogen freezer. After a last glance
at the dyes (histology isn't really my thing, but they sure work
with beautiful colors) I went back to the room I had started in.

Back at the EPh lab I recalled the other door I had seen on
entrance, and headed right to it. At first I thought I had stepped
into another dimension, until I remembered that McCoy jobbed as
medic for the school. But I would have expected some kind of
first-aid room, or maybe standard ambulatory care equipment.
*This* was a full-blown private clinic, including a fully equipped
two-bed intensive care section behind a glass window that could
probably also be used as isolation unit for infectious diseases,
and a set of doors that looked suspiciously like the entrance to
an OP room. Then there was a door that read "CT". I couldn't
believe it, computer tomographs are usually much too expensive for
small private institutions. But there it was, a real-life scanner,
white and shiny and ready to use, and looking very much like the
most recent model on the market. How much *money* did the
Professor have? Or did they receive donations? Maybe there were a
few Rockefeller offsprings among the students?

I shook my head and decided I had done more than enough
reconnaissance for the time being. I returned to the main medical
attention room, ignored another couple of lesser doors, and made a
beeline for the biggest one, just to make sure I had grasped the
outline of this huge medical-care-and-research-facility. Indeed,
it led to the corridor. I walked to the unmarked door at the
right, away from the elevator. The EPh lab, as I had expected. The
entire complex was so well designed I could imagine a versatile
man like McCoy running it all, and yet big enough to accommodate a
dozen biologists, biochemists and MDs, plus another two dozen
students and lab assistants, and maybe one or two computer
engineers. I had once worked in an institute that had held that
many people in about two thirds of the space. There was only one
thing I expected to find yet, something that no self-respecting
research facility of this size could lack. And I found it, it's
entrance a comparatively small door in a corner of the EPh lab,
almost hidden behind a huge instrument rack.

It was the only room with natural light, pouring through a high
shaft in the ceiling that ended in a thick milky white glass
window, protected by what looked like thick iron bars. Tiny flakes
of dust started to dance like microscopic fireflies in the oblique
column of early afternoon sun as I entered. It was the only room
of the complex that had a wooden floor, darkened by age and
scarred by use, yet waxed and polished to a soft glow. There were
five rows of bookcases of the same dark hardwood, reaching up to
the ceiling and containing neatly arranged journals and books,
classified by topics, covered with just enough dust to give them a
cozy appearance. There was an old-fashioned metal filing cabinet,
containing, as I found out when I opened the topmost drawer, an
indexed, somewhat messy collection of reprints and papers and
notes. There was a huge armchair in the corner opposite the door,
with a worn leather coat that spoke of hours of lonely reading in
the light of the tiny halogen reading lamp fixed to the left
corner with masking tape, and of little naps between experiments,
or at dawn, after a full night's work, when exhaustion set in and
the bedroom seemed just too far away. A tiny table at its right
held a stack of books and papers, a pair of slightly bent reading
glasses, and a crumpled candy-bar wrapper. More wrappers were in
the waste bin on the other side of the chair. The only concession
to modern technology was the computer humming on a table behind
the door, probably the server of the lab's intranet, as it was the
only one that was turned on. I moved the mouse, and a login window
appeared, username already typed in: administrator. QED.

I stood a long time in the door of this room that seemed to house
the very soul of Henry McCoy. It was a warm room, and cozy, and a
sharp contrast to the neat efficiency of the research facility.
But it also spoke of a loneliness I could hardly comprehend. I
felt my throat tighten. I turned around, leaned against the
doorframe and scanned the libraries' counterpart, a huge lab room,
yet empty for all its instrument racks and tables and screens and
wires, waiting for voices and footsteps that would never come. For
the chief researcher of this facility was a mutant, and to come
here and work with him meant to tattoo the mark of leprosy on
one's forehead, invisible and yet shunned by anyone within the
trade, and forever.

Who but a mutant would work for a mutant?

I am a loner, you see. As signal processor I have to work very
closely with those who generate the data and interpret them, based
on my analysis. Yet I have always liked to do the actual number-
crunching alone by myself, going to the lab on weekends, or
arriving at mid-afternoon and staying up the entire night,
listening to the same CD over and over again and turning off all
lamps but the one on my desk, alone in a cone of light and music
and work. But even then there are always traces of the presence of
other human beings, maybe the muffled sounds of one or two loonies
like me working a couple of doors away, or maybe nothing more than
some notes written by another hand, and somebody else's coffee mug
sitting on the table next to me. And on regular working days, on
my many trips to the coffee-room, I'd always encounter people
sitting at the small table, reading, or just staring into the air
cupping a steaming mug, and they would look up and acknowledge my
presence with a nod and a little smile, and I'd be free to join
their silence or start a conversation about this or that trivia.
Or there might be a heady discussion going on, to which I could
listen more or less attentively as I mixed my favorite brew, a
real-life discussion in which I was free to join if I felt that I
had something to say. There was always someone to beam at when
something went exactly the way I had expected to, or to exchange
depressed sighs with when something went wrong. The absence of
people while I worked was always temporarily, an exceptional
situation I sought out and enjoyed, but never a permanent state. I
couldn't even begin to imagine the solitude this man was enduring.

I could feel the Professor somewhere at the edge of my mind, but
for once I really didn't feel like talking, and he understood and
backed off. Anyway, I knew what he would have said. That McCoy
wasn't alone. That he had friends here, and tons of support. That
he guest-lectured all over the country, that he worked with some
of the most famous scientists all over the world, and that the
students of this school loved him, for they surely did.

But that means nothing. Eager high-school kids don't replace a PhD
student, no matter how many and how enthusiastic they might be. A
bunch of dear friends don't replace a colleague, no matter how
patiently they might listen, unless they were scientist
themselves. And nothing makes up for your footsteps being the only
ones to echo off the far walls, or for your coffee-cup to be the
only one to leave stains on the tables, or for your everyday
pitfalls and little achievements to drown inside your own mind,
for lack of a genuinely comprehensive soul nearby.

And then I did what I do when I just don't know how to handle
something. I fetched the papers from the table across the lab, and
snuggled into the most comfortable spot I could find, and started
to read. Nothing like reading methodology papers to prevent
depression. And as I was particularly affected, I started out with
Gossamer. That way I made sure my entire population of brain cells
would be too busy to...

...

... and then I woke up, and the sunlight had wandered across the
room, and had reached the door, bathing blue fur with a dark
golden glow.

"I should have put a warning sign on that chair", said McCoy,
smiling apologetically for waking me up, but beaming, and eager,
and behind his broad back the lab had suddenly come alive with
light and sound.

**********
Part VII

Author's Note for Part VII: In this one, Christopher is mine. Hank
McCoy is, for the time being, mine too because I'm sure not even
Sinister could lure him out of his lab for the next hours <grin>.
Although his Twinkie-obsession is Maelstroms (at least that's my
source). I won't be able to imitate his particular vocabulary and
phrasing and I'm not even trying, but I'm open to any suggestions,
as long as they come soon, before my archivists (*s*!!) <proudly
beaming> upload the stuff. And all the author's names are just
made up. Any similitude to any living or deceased scientist is
purely coincidental and... well... hum... almost unintended.
<grin>

**********

Twenty-one hours. Mother Earth had completed almost an entire
pirouette since I had first set foot in Xavier's Institute. I'm a
seize-the-journey person, remember? I don't consider those hours a
waste of time. Quite on the contrary, they prepared me for the
following ones, made me stretch them and cherish them down to the
last second. Encouraged me to fight back exhaustion, when it set
in sometime around dawn, and then again on early Sunday afternoon
when time was beginning to run short, as my plane was to leave at
20:00 and I still had to get to the airport. Strengthened me even
more than the coffee and the huge amount of chocolate from McCoy's
vast reserve. I don't remember eating that much candy since age
15, when I finished off a pound of chocolate in thirty minutes
time, to win a bet. I tolerated it quite well, back then, but back
then I didn't torture my gastric epithelium with coffee on a
regular basis, and I sure ate healthier food than I do now. I
still don't know how I managed not to throw up on the plane back.
All that energy must have gone straight into my brain, releasing
showers of neurotransmitters and activating all that sleeping
synapses we're supposed to carry through life without ever using
them. Well, it seems I kicked them all wide awake in that twenty-
odd hour intellectual marathon, and probably burned quite a few of
them, too, because I slept some eighteen hours straight when I
finally got home, and didn't even hear the phone ringing, and woke
up Monday evening as some guys from the lab broke into my
apartment, fearing I might be sick or worse. I shooed them away
and slept another entire night, and was groggy for days after.

But that was two days into the future. *Now* was Saturday
afternoon, the marathon had just started, and I was running, even
if I didn't know yet, and I was wide awake after that refreshing
little nap in McCoy's leather armchair. And ravenously hungry. And
blushing. Yes, *again*. Don't laugh. You'd sure have blushed, too,
if *your* belly had made that obscenely loud grumbling noise in
the presence of the world's greatest scientist.

Well, the world's greatest scientist was no more than human
himself, for his dismay was almost comical to behold, although he
immediately and politely inquired whether I wanted to get
something to eat first. "No", I said, and grinned. Eat? Like in
chewing and swallowing? "Thanks. Not unless it be some crunchy
data." He laughed and introduced me to his secret reserve, which
we were to mercilessly decimate in the following hours, leaving a
trace of sticky wrappers in all the rainbow colors behind us, and
to the coffee machine, which was to provide the necessary liquid
to wash the sweet stuff down. If my stomach didn't kill me during
those hours, it was probably because I refused to spare enough
time to die.

Even the Professor didn't interrupt us. Jean showed up a few times
to bring us something to eat and make halfhearted attempts to
convince us to get some rest. Yes, we'd say, soon, just a minute,
wolfing down whatever was on the tray, our minds already back at
work. Once I looked up and saw Ororo, half-frowning, half-smiling,
at the door of the MedLab. Hank went over and they exchanged a few
sentences, and then 'Ro vanished. I can't tell how relieved I was.
For a minute it had looked like another 'urgent business'.

Sometime during the following hours I overcame my rigid Viennese
education and started calling him just plain Hank. Sometime during
the following hours he overcame his mutant self-consciousness and
demonstrated what those rails on the ceiling were for. Honestly, I
wouldn't have guessed. But then it was very obvious such a massive
body wasn't exactly built for standing around or slumping in a
seat in front of a computer screen for hours; and no feet, however
strong, could endure that full weight for too long in a static
position. Especially his, with their long, mobile digits, built
rather for grasping a branch (or a metal rail) than for walking
upright. I saw him hanging from the ceiling, typing upside down,
and it made perfect sense, although his lab coat hung from his
broad shoulders like a slightly ridiculous bride's veil, and his
glasses kept clattering to the floor. Luckily they were sturdy
glasses, as I found out when I stepped on them. After that he
fixed them to his head with masking tape.

Masking tape is a wonderful invention. For me, its everyday
importance ranks somewhere between toilet paper and the wheel. We
ripped off tiny arrowheads of that white tape and sticked them all
over a twenty-seven inch screen, and scribbled on them with
colored markers as we analyzed the fluorescence images of
Professor J's samples. I used that tape to repair the wooden
cigar-box that had held the samples after I had accidentally
brushed it from the table, empty, luckily. Then I used a bit to
fix the repaired box on the table, and Hank commented: "Splendid
idea", and handed me another Mars bar, probably to keep the ideas
coming. Then he decided we should change over to a more familiar
environment, familiar to me, that is, and showed me a marvelously
simple and yet extraordinarily powerful method to analyze dynamic
electromyographs. The secret was in the acquisition, he said, so I
rolled up my sleeve and had electrodes masking-taped all over my
arm. We acquired for an hour, and spent the next three or four
hours attacking the data with any kind of analysis we could come
up with. We even downloaded a trial version of the program I
usually used for more advanced numbercrunching, because there was
a toolkit I wanted to show him. Then he introduced me to a program
some friend had sent him, a gamma-version that was to be
commercially launched in a couple of years. He made a copy for me,
right on spot.

"Try it out", he said, "and tell me what you think. You know more
about signal processing programs than me." I doubted that very
much, but thanked him anyway. That was only the first of a dozen
disks I was to bring home from that weekend trip.

We made a break at that point, as it was about two a.m. and we had
a visitor, and we soothed Jean as we munched our steaks and told
her we'd go to sleep, yes, of course, just give us ten minutes to
wrap it up... And the ten minutes stretched to two hours as we
went to the library and plunged into a bibliographic search about
fractal analysis of single point processes, him in books, me in
the net. Then he gave me a full version of the lecture on
amplitude and frequency modulation of physiologic systems he had
hinted upon the night before in the kitchen, using the back of the
door as a blackboard, me crouching in the armchair, my chin on my
knees. Then I repeated my Master degree's dissertation for him,
and it was his turn to slump in the chair, munching chocolate and
coming up with more intelligent questions than the entire
commission back then. Then it was his turn again, and he explained
Gossamer's last paper to me in about fifteen minutes, and as he
was at it, gave me a few tips which I penned down under the title:
"How to read Gossamer and not go bananas. A comprehensive
tutorial, by H. McCoy". He laughed, a deep rumbling laugh, and
stated that Gossamer wasn't that bad. And started rummaging in the
middle drawer of the cabinet.

"Have you ever read Bernhard Kirsk? No, of course you wouldn't. He
was one of the dinosaurs in immunohistochemistry during my student
years. He used to analyze his entire set of references in the
Introduction. Hence the Discussions usually consisted of only a
few paragraphs, as he had already said it all before. To make it
up, his Conclusions were rarely less than three pages long."

He handed me some thirty photocopied pages, crumpled and yellow
with age, scores of faded remarks and diagrams scribbled at the
margins in what seemed to be an early McCoy handwriting. I scanned
through the pages, carefully, lest the cheap, withered paper
ripped.

"And he got this..." I searched in vain for a ladylike expression,
"*this* published?"

"Of course. This one and everything he submitted. In *his*
generation," he winked, "no one expected pedagogic skills in a
scientist. And he was a brilliant man, he just didn't know how to
write. I learned many things reading his work."

"Like how *not* to write?"

He smirked and winked again.

Then it was almost seven o'clock, and I craved for my shower.
Luckily, there was one next door, in the MedLab. I refused to go
fetch a change of clothes from my luggage upstairs because that
meant getting a bit too close to that devilish mattress, and
anyway, I was bound to get lost again in the corridors. Which
might attract the Professor's attention and unwanted intervention
'for my own good'. So I borrowed a pale green cotton outfit that
belonged to Jean, when she helped out with surgery. Luckily it was
too wide for her, as surgical clothes often are, so it fit me just
fine. I had to roll up the sleeves and legs, though. In the
meantime, Hank took a fifteen-minute nap in his chair, and we
emerged refreshed, me from the shower and him from the library,
just in time for breakfast. Jean gave Hank a stern look and shook
her head at my probably very unconventional guise, but we were
much too excited to heed as all that Gossamer discussion, combined
with the short rest, had fed Hank a brilliant idea about how to
prove a statement he had hypothesized about in his one-but-last
paper. We just needed a 128-electrode net, a 128-channel amplifier
and an epileptic, about to have a seizure. I must admit, he
thoroughly lost me in the theoretical analysis of the problem, but
I was more than enthusiastic about trying it out, right then.
Only, we would need that amplifier... he had a 512 channel modular
amplifier, software-regulated. And the net... we could fabricate
one ourselves in no time, he had those tiny electrode buttons...
and we needed some nylons. Or a rubber swimming-cap, I suggested,
remembering a visit to a neurophysiology lab in Paris a few years
ago... But where were we to find an epileptic, I cried out after
him as he vanished through the door, to catch up with Jean. One
sandwich and one cup of coffee later he returned with a red-white
rubber cap and a pale adolescent.

"This is Christopher", he presented, "and he is willing to
sacrifice his hair for this noble cause."

The kid behaved admirably, helped us counting the electrodes and
plugging in the connectors, and dug into our chocolate treasure
with the healthy appetite of a seventeen-year-old. His paleness
was probably constitutional, for he couldn't appear any calmer. He
even seemed enthusiastic to be turned into a younger version of
the Professor. And although he wasn't an epileptic, he presented,
according to Hank, EEG wavelets very similar to a Petit Mal
seizure whenever he activated his mutant powers, which consisted
in an uncanny ability to inflict acoustic torture to nearby
people. But we endured it in the name of science, and were
relieved when the acquisition was over. At least, I was relieved.
So relieved I didn't protest when Christopher snatched the last
two Mars-bars on his way out, slightly dizzy it seems from the
effort, but happy to show off his cool new haircut to his friends.
I suspect Hank didn't even notice those awful shrieks, he was too
intent hitting on the keyboard and mesmerizing the computer
screen, dangling from the ceiling like a giant blue bat. Maybe
*his* ears were protected by all that fur.

So I went to hold my head under ice-cold running water in the huge
basin in the BioChem lab, until my ears ached with cold rather
than with... well, I'd rather not remember, and then we struggled
with those data for a couple of hours, and dug into biomedical
databases until we arrived at the inevitable conclusion that this
experiment would never work unless we used a perfectly symmetric
net, and individually blinded wires for the electrodes. And that
meant commercial fabrication. And *that* meant a couple of days of
shipping time. Unless we were willing to adapt another swimming
cap and wrap 128 individual wires with aluminum-foil. We glanced
at each other, questioningly.

"Naaah", I said and made a face, at the same time as he said "I
think we'd rather leave it for another time."

**********

Exhaustion was setting in. It was early Sunday afternoon, and Hank
had slept some five or six hours since Friday morning. And he
started to look like it, eyes sunk in and dark rings under them,
and his movements growing increasingly erratic and shaky. I was
hardly better off, even if I had had about twice as much sleep.
Still, wasting the rest of the afternoon with napping was out of
the question. So we agreed to do something light and fun in the
last few hours we had left before I was to leave for the airport,
and he said he had exactly the right thing for us. He fetched an
empty disk and hopped over to the MedLab, and asked over his
shoulder if I would please be so kind as to bring some Twinkies
and a bit of coffee. Which was fine with me. I was feeling
strangely lightheaded, and brewing a fresh pot of coffee was about
as much intellectual effort as I could muster right then.

I met him in the MedLab, hunched in a chair that looked awfully
small for him, absently staring at the green bar that indicated
data transmission and decompression from the hard disk to the
backup disk. He had explained his method of compressing acquired
data immediately before saving it to the local disk, and
decompressing it to portable disks for analysis. I had wondered
why he didn't just share the data folders and decompress and read
them from any computer in the lab, until I realized how many
password windows he used. This was highly restricted information,
and wisely so. I was quite sure Hank McCoy had a complete medical
file on every soul in this building. And who knows what some
pervert mind might want to use this information for. Of course I
had no idea, at that point, the atrocities some so-called
scientists were capable of when it came to mutants, to whom the
ethical restrictions of experiments on human subjects would
apparently not apply. Well, I was about to find out.

I watched him rip the wrapping from his Twinkie as if he hadn't
had any in years, and savor the coffee like it was a genuine
Florentine cappuccino. The sole idea of sipping that brew myself
made me gag.

"You wouldn't have some tea somewhere, would you?"

He scratched the thick fur that surrounded his ears. Almost
everyone I know has a very personal tick to stimulate his or her
higher brain functions, and that one was his. Mine was rubbing my
belly, which I was doing now, although it wasn't exactly aimed to
get my brain to work.

"There should be a can of English Breakfast in the bottom drawer
of the..."

I raised my palms and cut him off. "No way", I moaned. "I'm not
going anywhere near that armchair."

Truth was, I was in dire danger of falling asleep as I was, just
leaning against a table. He nodded and sighed heavily. Apparently,
he felt the same. But he was the world's best host and a
thoroughly sweet guy, for he heaved himself to an upright position
and headed for the door. I felt immediately guilty.

"Do you need my moral support?", I called after him.

"I would appreciate it", he called back, already from the EPh lab.
I was just turning to follow him, when I saw something black and
flat that had slipped under the table. In most of the labs I've
ever worked in, I might not have noticed it. But a certain amount
of neatness somehow grows on you. So I bent to pick it up.

If he took a nap, it was a short one. If he didn't, that can must
have been really well hidden. By the time he showed up again,
carrying two steaming mugs of fragrant tea, I had studied the
X-ray at every distance between three inches and arm's length,
and at every angle from 20 to 90 degrees.

Tilting X-rays is a neat trick to bring out density changes the
naked eye would otherwise miss. Especially untrained,
shortsighted, astigmatic eyes like mine. Tilting that particular,
very "hard" (i.e. overexposed) X-ray convinced me this wasn't a
model or a robot or a skeleton's hand, but a real, a
flesh-covered one. An adult, sturdy, most likely male hand. A
short male, for his fingers were hardly longer than mine,
although much broader.

A very normal, strong, healthy-looking hand... if it hadn't been
for the dense layers of something on every single bone.

**********

Author's Note for end of Part VII: Yes, I know. I'm being
predictable. But hey, I'm tired and burnt out, I've been working
on this almost non-stop... and I just couldn't resist that X-ray.
Tell me, could you?

**********
Personal Delivery (by celiouan)

Part VIII

Author's Notes for Part VIII: this story will turn disturbingly
dark for a dozen or so paragraphs. Dunno why, it jus' kinda
steered that way. Sorry. And: I'm assuming Logan's bones are
*coated* in adamantium. Movie-version, I know. I've read somewhere
-and Jaya confirms it- that according to the comic-canon, the
adamantium was *bonded* into the bone tissue itself. As I find
the first explanation more plausible, I used that one. Please
feedback, any color, and feel free to lecture me. Actually,
lecture me all you want, I'm a bit tired of research (strange,
isn't it?) and could use some tutoring.

Disclaimer: see Parts I and V.
Daubechies, Mallat and Meyer do really and truly exist and are
the Founding Parents of Wavelet Analysis, and I hope they don't
take it too bad if I sing their praise in a non-sci writing...
Heck, every Sci-Fi writer cites Einstein, so why not add some
contemporary names to the general pool of information? Ah, Fourier
was real and a genius, too, but he's long dead. I don't think
he'll mind, his name has appeared in much worse and even less
scientific context <shudder>...

Rating: Occasional use of the f-word, and probably disturbing
imagery about Logan's past. Does that merit for a PG-13 rating?

**********

If I got my anatomy right, there are 19 bones in a human hand,
8 in the wrist, two in the forearm. Makes a total of twenty-nine
bones covered in what I correctly assumed could be metal,
sparing only the articulations. Of course, I could only assume
it would cover both radius and cubit up to the elbow. The X-ray
showed only the distal third of the forearm. And then there
were three sharp-looking dense spikes that ran parallel to the
forearm bones and up to the wrist, and didn't belong to the
skeleton. Keeping a broken bone in place, maybe? Though, how
could such enforced bones break?

Innocent me admired the minuscule windows of uncovered bone and
finely rugged structure of the metal on the places of the muscle
insertions, when I saw Hank's face. Oops. I wasn't supposed to see
this. Of course, tired as he was, even he could make mistakes. I
smiled and handed it back to him, making some stupid comment on
what incredible variety of phenotypes a simple twist in the DNA
could produce, and how much we could learn from Mother Nature. Or
some stupid comment in that direction. Now I understand why Hank
wouldn't let me just think that.

I couldn't believe his words. I'm afraid I even laughed.

"Impossible. No-one could survive something like that..."

I actually thought he was joking. Although Hank wouldn't strike me
like the kind of guy who'd make up such jokes. And... he looked
so very grave.

"And he consented to that?" I whispered as his rather grim further
explanation sunk into my tired brain.

The answer to *that* question sunk in *really* slow. Then I had to
sit down.

"I forgot you had medical training," said Hank, and grabbed my
shoulder to prevent me from keeling over. His voice sounded
hoarse, and very far away.

Medical training. What did I need *that* for. I had a brain and a
heart. And a bit too much of an imagination, for next thing I
knew, blue fur filled my horizon, and a giant hand forced
disgustingly sweet tea down my throat.

"Feeling better?"

I nodded. I wasn't, but at least the world had stopped spinning,
and my heart was beating again.

Hank, bless him, wouldn't let go of my shoulder for the next half
hour, heard me out, and didn't insist in giving me a sedative. I
dreaded the nightmares I'd surely have, and I guess he understood,
he must have had them himself. I think the Professor was somewhere
lurking around at the edge of my consciousness, but he kept out of
it. He let Hank handle the situation. You can't begin to
understand how grateful I am for it.

I needed to think about it. It sounded so impossible... and yet...
There *are* sick people in research. The kind of people who as
kids ripped the wings off flies, or operated on stray cats,
removing their kidneys or their liver and then kept them around to
see them die, penning down every detail of their slow and painful
decay.

The kind of people who, as they grow up, might go to Med-
school, might stand at a patient's bed and coolly describe the
long, deadly evolution of a sclerodermia, ignoring that scared
woman's eyes grow wider and wider, while her sickly smooth,
leather-skinned hand goes ice-cold in your hand.

The kind of people who would actually tell you that sometimes
it's necessary to hurt people in order to make them well, or even
to learn how to make them well, so you'd be wise to grow a thick
fat healthy callus on that ridiculously sensitive soul of yours.
The kind of people who do research in Medicine and Biology with
that very convincing altruistic argumentation about helping
humanity, and don't have the slightest clue of what the essence
of humanity is all about.

Who, knowing when and how to apply the word 'sentient', simply
forget that others might have feelings, as they have no feelings
themselves. Who might even be proud of that absence. Who end up
trespassing all the limits of ethics and compassion, and never
even notice it.

Those of us who bounce against those limits
every other day, who strengthen them and shift them and evaluate
them every other day of our life, should fear those kind of people
more than anyone else. They might end up as our doctors,
our hospital directors, and the directors of our research
institutes. Members of the committees that decide which scientific
projects get financial support. Politicians who run our
universities and our health system. Scientific advisors of our
governments.

I had thought I'd be able to avoid them, going into
signal processing, choosing very carefully where to apply for my
PhD. Choosing a humble, but dignified future rather than a
possibly bright and famous one, choosing to put ethics over
career. I had thought I could enclose myself into a bubble those
people would be unable or unwilling to penetrate. How very stupid
I am, sometimes. How very naive. They caught up with me, so
easily, through an X-ray of one of their victims.

So my mother's inheritance kicked in, as always when I confront
something I'm emotionally unable to handle, and my brain started
working full speed. Processing information on an intellectual
level. Thinking the emotions down. And the more I thought about
it, the more sickening details I discovered. And the sicker it all
got, the more I had to think, because the only alternative was to
*feel* and I couldn't open the door to my emotions at that point.

Not with Hank there. Not with one, no, two telepaths in the
vicinity. I thought and thought and voiced my thoughts. And Hank
stayed. He actually stayed. And held my shoulder, and he didn't
even know me, nor owe me anything. I was nothing to him, he knew
me about 40 hours, I didn't even know if he fucking *liked* me,
and *he* had far more reason to be upset about this kind of stuff
being done than me, and yet he stayed and helped me through. Talk
about contrast.

What did I think? How about this: Twenty-nine bones, in one hand
and forearm alone. How many in the entire body? Even if they
spared the inner bones of the skull... or had they sliced his
brain, open, too?

"It must have taken them years to develop that... the procedure."
That skill. This wasn't a skill. Coating a living, sentient
being's bones with metal is an aberration. And yet... the tendon
insertions, the preservation of the bone's innervation and
irrigation, the sparing of the articulations... and how would they
have achieved such a perfect molding? They must have opened... his
limbs, his chest, his head, stripped the living bone clean,
measured it down to the last crack, the last furrow, the last
creak, for no imaging method has that kind of resolution. They
must have let him heal, and rest, while the metal coating was
manufactured somewhere, then dragged him to surgery again, tried
it on, checking where it didn't fit... sending the coating back to
the workshop or maybe fixing it right on spot, with this man on
the table, waiting, bleeding on the table for hours, his flesh
trying to close, to heal, yet pulled apart and injured again and
again to keep the surgical field clear... God. Two, three, four
major surgical procedures for every single bone. They must have
had years of experience on this kind of procedures to pull it
through on *all* his bones in a... reasonable time.

I voiced that thought. Hank looked grim.

And then the pain. "They must have handled the pain with..." I
couldn't come up with anything strong enough to handle that kind
of pain. Short of morphine. Which would have gotten him addicted
in a very short time. Bone itself is insensitive, but the
periostium, the connective tissue covering it, is sensitive like
the roots of the nails. Just stand yourself up to your knees in
icy water and wait 'till the cold seeps through to your shinbones.
Can a healing factor help you out of a morphine addiction?

I voiced that thought. Hank just clenched his jaw.

"They must have developed the procedure on animals..." Doing this
to an animal, over and over again, was pretty much as sick as
doing it to a human. But there had to be a considerable shortage
of mammals with that specific kind of mutation that would allow
them to recover from such a surgery in a few day's time.

I voiced that thought. Hank was staring at the walls, or through
the walls, and his hand squeezed my shoulder, just a bit. Stop it,
I thought it meant. I couldn't.

Unless there were others, other humans, same mutation, earlier...
stages of... the development of the... procedure... People with
some of their bones covered in metal... a tougher, a less perfect
coating...

I voiced that thought. At that point, Hank sat down. He shook his
head. There weren't any, or maybe they hadn't been found. Maybe
they hadn't been allowed to survive.

Or maybe this man had been his own guinea pig.

And they must have tried over and over again to get it right, to
get it perfect. Over and over again, for months, maybe for years.
The X-ray showed perfection. It wasn't just the shape of the
coating, the way it smoothly adjusted to the bone's contours. It
was the fucking functionality. The exact thickness, the exact
weight, the careful preservation of the complex dynamics of the
locomotor system... the way it looked almost natural, almost like
it had grown on the bone by itself. Whoever had done this, had had
high standards. Very sick, very high standards. And a hell of an
experience in biomechanics and engineering.

I voiced that thought. He managed a smile that belied the sadness
in his eyes.

"I never considered that kind of detail. You might be right."

Of course he wouldn't. Considering those fucking details was
almost as sick as coming up with the idea in the first place. I
had to stop thinking.

And then, finally, that stupid question, that childish, whining,
idiotic, inevitable question just popped out of me.

"Who would *do* something like that?"

Which actually meant: how is it possible that anyone walking and
breathing under the bright blue sky could do such a monstrous
thing. Please tell me it was someone sick. A bunch of schizos,
some multiple personalities, some seriously clinically disturbed
mental patients that somehow escaped from their high-security
ward. Hank didn't answer. I hadn't really expected him to. Or
maybe I had. Hoped to be told they had been caught and put to a
horrible death. And I'm against death penalty, mind you.

I had to stop thinking. I had to think about something else.

"Where's that data you promised?"

Hank looked at me, unbelievingly.

"Please," I pleaded. "Let's get something done." I need to work.
Make me think, hard, force me to wring out my brain to try to
catch up with your most casual comment, so I won't keep thinking
on how or why they did it. Just say something brilliant and let me
ponder it for the next five days. You can do it, Dr. McCoy. Just
open your mouth and say anything. Recite Shakespeare for all I
care.

And to show I really meant it, I hit the eject button of the disk
drive.

**********

So for the next hour or so we just worked. Electromyogram,
acquired during repetitive flexion of the forearm. Simple enough.
What made it interesting was that there were fifteen electrodes,
mapping the space along the biceps. We filtered, plotted
histograms and correlations, ran 2-d Fourier and wavelet analysis,
calculated the embedding dimension in phase space. Ran routine
after routine and printed graph after graph. Until I found myself
sitting cross-legged and barefoot on a table in the EPh-lab,
surrounded by colorful printouts, stirring a (very watered) tea
with a chewed-on pencil, squinting over a broad, white-clad
shoulder and past a shock of blue hair at the screen, and blinking
away the tears from my burning eyes, and actually hooked enough by
the data to be desperately wiggling my toes instead of taking a
trip to the nearest bathroom. And frantically rubbing my belly as
if there was a flea's birthday celebration going on in my navel.

I had seen that time-frequency pattern before.

I love wavelet analysis, folks. Screw windowed Fourier. Wavelet's
the gig. Vivat Daubechies & Mallat & Morlet. And I'm a fast
learner, provided I encounter a helluva teacher, like the one that
had been sitting quite motionless for the past few minutes, an
unwrapped Twinkie slowly melting in his hand.

"Ahm... Hank? Frequency modulation," I said.

"Hum," made Hank, and it sounded like a faraway thunder. Or more
like...

I leaned forward until I almost dropped off the table, and cast a
sideward glance at his face. No, his eyes were open. Very
bloodshot, very deep into their sockets, and extremely alert.

"Twelfth octave," he mumbled, stuffed the entire Twinkie into his
mouth, pushed up his spectacles and started hitting the keys. So
he had spotted it, too. Even before me. Why should I be surprised?

And twelfth octave, at two thousand samples a second, would
mean... I fished the pencil out of my tea and reached out for some
paper.

"Point one twenty-five Hertz, seven point five a minute," murmured
Hank to himself, while calling up yet another routine. Geez, how
could this guy still be computing this fast *in his head*?

"You were right," he added, "Morlet brings it out."

And behold, there it was, a crystal-clear frequency modulation in
phase with the motion. And I had seen such a pattern before.

"Injury," I breathed.

He looked at me and blinked. He hadn't?

Why should he? He was a biochemist, a microbiologist, a genetist,
even a physician and a friggin' genius, but not a full-time
electrophysiologist, and not an omniscient god. And *I* had seen
that pattern only once, in one rather puny little paper of one of
our local medical journals back home, so unimportant it wasn't
even listed in the Medline. The author had reported a very
similar-looking frequency modulation in an athlete who had a
hardly detectable bone splinter in his leg, piercing into his
muscle every time he exercised. The injury was so small it hardly
hurt the guy, but it showed in the electromyogram, provided you
crunched it with wavelet analysis. Neither I, nor anyone in my
former lab had taken that result too seriously, as the author had
badly blundered in the Method section. But maybe...

Hank listened attentively, then his eyebrows danced skywards again
and he actually beamed.

"It makes sense," he smiled.

"It does?" I grinned, proudly, and then I hopped off the table
and sprinted to the bathroom as nature imposed itself.

By the time I was back, Hank had repeated the same analysis in
another set of data and was processing the third. He looked wide
awake again.

The alteration appeared in all the data sets, with variable
amplitude. Depending on the exercise. But time-independent. Which
was quite weird in a 1-hour acquisition, unless... the test person
kept repairing the injury *during* the exercise.

The X-ray. Of course.

A tiny little flaw in the perfect design, you fucking sadists?

**********

Part IX

Author's Note for Part IX: I know some might challenge me about
the claws. I *did* do research on that one. I *do* have an answer
for that one. I'll send it to anyone who asks for it, but I won't
bore the rest of you... Don't worry, ... doo-roo-roo doo-roop doo-
roop... be happy... doo-roo-roo doo-roop.

Disclaimer: see Parts I and V.

**********

Claws grow on the outside of the body. Claws grow from the last
phalanx of fingers or toes. Claws are triple X-large versions of
fingernails.

And claws grow from the epidermis, and are made of thin layers of
horn, not of bone, and definitely not of metal. That's what I'd
understand by 'claws'.

Okay, so the man himself called them 'claws'.

Because he could 'pop' them. Between his knuckles.

'Unsheathe' them, as Hank said.

I stared at the X-rays and tried to figure out how.

They must pierce through the wrist itself. There had to be three
tunnels, acting like passageways, and probably also as anchors for
the unsheathed 'claws'. The anatomy of the carpal tunnel must have
been adapted so that the tendons and the major blood vessels and
nerves would suffer no harm during the 'unsheathing'. There had to
be a precise, unique angle at which those 'claws' would 'pop'
without shredding their owner's wrists. And that would only ensure
the bones' integrity.

The soft tissue damage had to be extensive. Even if it healed
immediately... It said everything about the people who had
designed these 'claws'. They had done a terrific job in the
engineering department. The alterations didn't even show in the X-
rays. They had screwed up, big time, in the human aspect. They
couldn't have cared less if the guy hurt every time he would
decide to use them.

And it had to be invalidating, to carry a set of razor-sharp
knifes in both forearms. Considering Mother Nature's compact
design, almost every twist and move would cut into flesh, cause
some injury. The man might not even be conscious of the pain,
after decades of enduring it. He had probably figured out long
since what movements hurt less, and restricted himself to them.
But it sure showed in the EMG.

Sick. Those people had been seriously sick. I could only hope some
God of Justice had stricken them with galloping Altzheimer. Or
with an especially mean bowel cancer. Somehow, I feared they'd
escaped human justice. Somehow I feared there might be some human
powers that would be very interested in perpetrating this kind
of... research. I prayed they were at least brain-dead.

Yet, according to Hank, he led a normal life now. Was it just me,
or did he slightly hesitate before using the word 'normal'?

"Actually," he added, "Logan has adapted himself quite thoroughly
to those claws. And they... have proven useful in certain
situations."

Like which? Peeling potatoes? Harvesting grapes?

Shaving?

I know, my parent's should have christened me 'Tomasa'. The
Unbeliever amongst the Christian Saints is credulous compared to
me. And *I* would have at least checked Jesus' pulse. So of course
I wouldn't believe Hank unless I actually saw the man with my very
own...

I *had* seen him.

?????

Thirty-six hours ago.

?????

In the kitchen. That first night, while we were discussing n-
dimensional clustering algorithms.

?????

...

Of course I remembered the clustering algorithms. I didn't
remember any man. Or did I?

Hank smiled indulgently. And congratulated me for my extraordinary
capacity to concentrate. And wasn't even being ironic.

I loved that guy.

And then we just sat there and smiled at each other and knew our
time was up. I don't know how he felt about it. I only know I
would have moved heaven and earth to stay for another twenty-four
hours, if I hadn't been so numb, all of the sudden. Actually, I
staggered to my backpack someone had dropped off at the MedLab
during the morning, and stared at it, and just plain couldn't
recall what I had come to fetch. So I picked it up and stumbled
back to the table with it. I'd remember, eventually. Hank watched
me, his spectacles dangling dangerously close to the tip of his
nose, and his eyes just kept closing. But he was more awake than I
was.

"Your contact lenses," he said.

I made a "huh?" face.

"I assume," he explained, "you wanted to remove your contact
lenses. In fact I would strongly advise you to do it. You might
develop an infection."

Well, the way my eyes felt, I already had one. Bilateral. And I
would have gotten one, alright, if he hadn't reminded me to wash
my hands before poking my fingers into my eyes. And while I was
effectively blinding myself (but oh, it felt good to get them out,
I hadn't realized how badly my eyes were hurting), he went for
some eye drops.

I must admit, the guy made a great doctor. Physician-doctor, I
mean. Medical doctor. Well, who cares, every kind of doctor.
Although I wonder how he could handle that tiny dispenser. I
couldn't see a thing. Too bad.

And then we sat around again, and I knew I had to go and change
clothes sometime soon, but it was so darn peaceful and I didn't
want to move. I couldn't make out much, due to my eye's
shortsightedness and the strain, and the drops on top of them,
slowly doing their job. Just a huge blue mass framed in white, and
I could hear a faint rustling. He couldn't possibly still be
eating?

He wasn't. He was idly picking up the wrappers within his reach
and crumpling them into one ball and tossing it into the waste-
bin, some ten feet away, and I didn't need my eyes, nor my ears,
to know he hit the target.

And I was just about to tell him what a great experience this had
been and how I looked forward to repeat it, well I wouldn't want
to take his time away but I would probably show up regularly in my
job as Professor J's delivery girl...

Hank cleared his throat.

Hank sighed.

"I... I am going to ask Robert to send someone else next time."

.....

.....

.....

.....

.....

(What?)

**********
**********

I was dumbfounded. No, that's doesn't cover it... how does that
cute English expression go again? Flabbergast. That sums it up
quite well. I felt flabby, and I was aghast. Let's see: dizzy from
lack of sleep, jumpy from caffeine excess, stomach on fire, eyes
rubbed raw, no contact lenses which meant the world looked like a
surrealistic patchwork of blurry-edged colors... And this
incredible human being with whom I'd just spent the best 24 hours
of my professional life, in which I had learned more than in the
past half year; this awesome rare individual who just happened to
be the most multifaceted genius, and a born teacher on top of it,
just tells me he doesn't want me to show up in his lab again. And
me not knowing what the heck I'd done wrong. Apart from trying to
remove contact lenses with dirty fingers, maybe. Yep, flabbergast
sums it up real nice.

Lucky I was so tired. Otherwise I might have had the strength to
fall off the chair.

Real lucky I was so tired.

Because I hadn't heard him out yet.

Still I had to describe that one moment, that instant of
misunderstanding, because it made me see how much this journey,
this one-weekend-experience, meant to me. That's the thing about
losing something: you get to realize how much you cherished it.
And I know, and knew right then, that I'll treasure those hours
for years to come. Even if it *was* a misunderstanding. He didn't
want me to come back, true. But he didn't say "ever again".

Hank noticed, of course. I mean, even under normal conditions I'm
not exactly poker-faced. And *he* was wearing his glasses. And I
bet that if he hadn't been so tired, he might have come up with a
way to break the news to me in a way I'd understand right from the
beginning.

So he apologized and started to explain. And by and by the words
that oozed into my brain started to make sense and I shut my eyes
to listen better, and then I was starting to keel over so I opened
my eyes again and squinted. Which didn't help much since his
features are blue in blue, except the white of his eyes and his
teeth, and those items don't exactly contribute much to a man's
mimic. And he didn't gesticulate much. But I was sure he meant it.
I was positive he actually meant it.

"... and if you are still interested by the time you earn your
degree, we could talk about a post-doc."

*If* I'm interested. Dr. H. McCoy offering me a post-doc in four
years' time, but of course, only *if* I was still interested by
then. Whoa. Take a breath, lungs, this is not a good time to choke
to death.

"There are quite a few topics I have been postponing for lack of
time and help. I could use a skilled assistant," his teeth flashed
up, which probably meant he was smiling, "even one that doesn't
know genetics and seems to have an aversion against molecular
biology. Which she might overcome, with a little good will." There
was no edge in his voice, rather a good-humored grumbling. No
condition, just a suggestion.

But there was something else, too, something he hadn't said
explicitly. If I ever were to work for him, or work *with* him, I
would have to become a broad-spectrum expert. Electrophysiology of
every system that generates electric signals. Acquisition,
Analysis, Interpretation. From the newest state of the art down to
the very basics, as I would probably not even have a tech. Hell,
maybe I'd even have to clean up behind me, empty the waste bins,
scrub the floor! And if I really wanted to be of any use, I'd have
to know at least *something* about image processing, basic
histology, cell culture, and -I shudder- molecular biology.
Because *his* main field of research was genetics, and if that was
not enough, he had dragged me through three of the four labs in
less than 24 hours, and for anyone working with him that would be
just a normal day. No wonder he thought it would take me at least
four years to be ready for it, the four years I'd need to earn my
degree. It was almost frightening. But then... what a challenge.

There are scientists who for some reason or the other choose a
topic and stick with it forever. They might end up hardly more
than technicians, repeating the same procedures over and over
again for the rest of their professional life, feeling safe in
what they know, shunning new developments. Or they might get good
at it, even brilliant; they might take the problems into
unsuspected depths of analysis, end up writing half a dozen
textbooks, and even win a Nobel.

Then there are those who avoid digging too deep, but rather try
out different things, wandering through related fields with more
or less ease, applying the experience won in one topic on another
problem, more or less successfully. Such people rarely win an
award, but are considered the backbone of multidisciplinary
research, and hence never have trouble finding a job.

And then there are those who get the really big picture. Those who
consider whatever problem they study as a whole, who find at least
half a dozen completely different, but complementary ways to
approach it and are able to choose to pursue any, or most, or all
of them. Those who are able to knit information from various
analysis together into one big pattern, and see the patterns
within the pattern. I had always wondered why McCoy would do
research in so many seemingly unrelated topics at a time. I had
thought it was part of his genius, to be able to simultaneously
process multiple independent lines of study. Now I understood that
he saw them all as one big, broad stream, and he strove to sail it
by learning how to master its currents, at least most of them. I
understood it because he was offering me to plunge into that
stream myself, and he was telling me to learn how to swim first.

Get your degree. Then we'll talk.

Of course, at that moment I didn't do all this analyzing. I'm
doing it now, now that I'm writing it all down. At that time I
just understood I would have to work off my behind in the years to
come, and it would hardly be enough. But he offered me the chance.
*If* I still was interested in four years from now, we would
*talk*. Four years in which I wasn't to set foot in his lab, nor
contact him openly. I wondered about that condition. Well, I've
had some time to think about it, and I'm pretty sure I know the
reason.

I've got some growing up to do.

In some situations, in some places, naivetT could be forgiven and
maybe even considered a charming character trait. A world in which
you could be mailed a bomb in a Christmas card for inviting a
blue-furred colleague into your lab is no such place. And McCoy is
not the man to let anyone walk blindfolded into a war-zone.

I have to strip myself from my safety-bubble, and face the reality
beyond. If I succeed, and if, after earning my degree and being
pretty much able to choose my future, I am still willing to take a
position with McCoy and become a potential target for any sick
FoH, I have to do so knowingly. I'm not a mutant myself, but
history's full of what happened to "Judenfreunde," to
"niggerlovers," and recently, to "mutie-lovers".

And just in case I forget how sick people can get, I can always
close my eyes and see the lingering image of metal coating on
human bone, designed with the loving care of seriously cracked
individuals convinced they're doing the world a favor, and who
sleep the night away like babes, while I wake drenched in sweat.

But again, this is now; then I could only have wished to at least
lie down on the floor, and to wake from nightmares, because that
would have meant I had slept at least a few minutes. Yet time was
definitely up and worse, it was up for years to come.

I cursed myself for not bringing along my rarely used pair of
glasses... or maybe I did? I rummaged in my backpack and
effectively found them in one of the side pockets, crushed under
the calculator and the pen-case and the keys and bus tickets and
coins and fluff, and I fished them out and rubbed them back into
their transparent state on the green cotton of the surgeon's
outfit I was still wearing. And put them on, and looked at Hank,
at Dr. McCoy, again hunched on a chair that must be really
uncomfortable for one his size, and he had a nose again, and
eyebrows, and cheeks, and a chin. And that patient look in his
eyes, and a hint of a smile in his eyebrows. Yes, his eyebrows. A
smile that infected the corner of his lips.

Shit, this was Dr. Henry McCoy! Placing a long-time bet on me! No,
I'm not so naive to think I'd be the only one ever to have gotten
the offer. But hell, there can't be too many, either, otherwise
this place would flow over with people!

"Excuse me," I mumbled, staggered to my feet and stumbled towards
the door.

"Two doors to the left," he called out after me, but I waved my
hand, I wasn't aiming for the bathroom. I pushed open the heavy
door with my weight, marched by the instrument racks and stroke
them with my fingertips on the pass, memorizing the smooth
surface. I touched the screen of one of the DAQ computers as I
walked by.

Another door, and I beelined to the Map of Metabolic
Pathways and winked at it: if I ever worked here, I'd probably
spend a lot of time studying it, so it was only wise to start a
nice friendship, and if I didn't, it was my favorite in that
particular lab.

I stuck my tongue at the equipment on the U-formed
table and at the scores of shelved containers, as I pushed my back
into yet another heavy door and turned to face the workbench with
its ceramic cover. I drummed my fingernails on the smooth
cool surface, stuck my head into the culture room again, took in
the sweetly acrid smell of that pink-red medium, and hummed back
at the incubator. Paid a visit to the liquid nitrogen freezer,
too, and as I marched back I was pretty sure those memories would
stay in my head for as long as I would need them. I didn't go into
the library. I didn't need to refresh my memory of *that* room.

I marched back into the MedLab and found Hank, pretty much in the
same position, but a bit too serious for my liking, so I grinned
at him as I heaved my behind on a nearby table and settled there,
elbows on my knees, heels drumming into the metal feet of the
table. His bushy eyebrows danced skywards again, and inwardly I
thanked him for granting me another show of *that*, and for the
broad smile that revealed a formidable set of ivory teeth,
horrifying for anyone so stupid and blind to ignore his gentle
eyes.

"Deal," I said.

**********
Author's Note for end of Part X: I used the 'n'-word up there. I
hate to even type it. But I was making a point, which is
essentially that history repeats itself. If we learn from history,
we will eventually be able to interrupt the circle of hate and
fear. And we will learn from history if we are able to face it,
down to the words we abhor. Words that carry centuries of
humiliation and pain. I apologize for typing it, but I won't cut
it out. As long as there's any kind of discrimination in this
world, that word should not be forgotten.

Yep. And don't run away yet, there's still the epilogue... You
moan? Stop whining and get on with it... <soothing> it's not long.

**********

Epilogue

As if on cue, Jean stuck her head through the door.

"Ten minutes," we cried out in a chorus. Only we knew, and she
knew, it would really be ten minutes this time. And I still had to
change.

I rubbed my stomach and sighed. He scratched his ears and sighed.

"Sorry," we began, both at the same time, and laughed.

He made a small Hank-gesture that meant 'ladies first'.

"They should have sent someone else," I mumbled. Not that I hadn't
had the time of my life. Not that I could ever, *ever* regret
having made the trip. It was *he* who would have deserved better.
But Hank, he just smiled.

"I am glad it was you," he said warmly. What could I answer to
that?  No, I didn't blush. Four years suddenly seemed like an
awfully long time, though.

**********

It's Saturday night. I slept through Monday, and the next couple
of days I was busy making up answers for the entire Institute,
from Professor J. down to Juanito, the Venezuelan janitor. I must
have some hidden talent for telling half-truths, for nobody
challenged me. If they ever do, in the future, I can always play
dumb. Serves them right for sending stupid little me to make such
an important delivery.

On Thursday, the crowds that had followed me everywhere short of
the ladies' room began to lighten, and a face showed on its edge,
a patient, not so much handsome as attractively intelligent male
Asian face, and a pair of deep set, pitch black eyes that had been
watching from afar for three days, avoiding to draw any attention
on himself, and I finally knew why. On Friday morning, after the
seminary, I declared myself sick (bellyache, and it wasn't even
too much of a lie) and went home. And pretty much glued my fingers
to the keyboard during the next hours. I guess I had to write it
down because there was real danger I could tell some of these
details to someone who might turn out to be the wrong someone, and
I just *had* to pour them out at least once. I'm new in this
undercover agent business, you see. Okay, no, that's a bad joke.
But I'm going to have to learn to watch my back, and keep my trap
shut, and that will take me some time. So I'm pouring it all into
a file I intend to erase as soon as I'm done, and I don't know if
anyone will ever read it, besides Hank, that is. I'll send him a
copy over that 'safe' communication system he came up with, I
would want him to file it, as a testimony or something... maybe
this is more important to me than it could ever be to anyone else.
Still, he might get a laugh out of it. And then there's Yamoto. I
haven't made up my mind about him yet.

He called me this morning, invited me over to his place. Asked me
if my stomach could resist green tea and raw fish. I had been
expecting his call, if not an invitation to lunch, so it didn't
come as too much of a shock. Tomorrow, I told him, I was busy
today. And yes, my stomach would very much appreciate raw fish.
And green tea. Did I mind if he invited some friends, too, he
asked. I was a little taken aback, until I remembered a few of the
older students that hung out with Yamoto. Quiet ones. Bright ones.
Discussing heady stuff whenever you got near them, like Gossamer's
last. They might be mutants, too, but I rather believe they
aren't, and my curiosity has been mounting over the day, and so
has my anxiety. Because I hadn't expected it to run so fast, and
I've got stage fright. But hey... after that weekend, I feel ready
to face just about anything. And the sooner I start, the better.

THE END

Wait, stop! Conclusions! I'm a scientist, I need to end this
properly...

CONCLUSIONS

If you ever get assigned to do a personal delivery, don't moan,
and don't delegate to an underling. Jump at the chance. You never
know what new horizons you might encounter (ref: Yovann C., 2000).

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author wishes to thank Jaya Mitai for her selfless support and
her invaluable help in the final version of this text; Poi Lass
for her wise suggestions; Kielle and the list managers of the OTL
for providing a great working environment and the means of
distribution; the anonymous geniuses at Marvel whose brains gave
birth to this universe and its characters; the fanfic writers who
are turning it into an epic, and the feedbackers who keep the
writers alive (hint hint).

REFERENCES (Outlines. Don't expect me to get into detail, please)

-  Gossamer, L (19xx - 20xx): No one but a complete masochist or a
   rare genius will stop to overhear a discussion about Gossamer,
   and rare geniuses seldomly join the FoH.
-  Kirsk, B (19xx): You always need to know how *not* to do
   something.
-  Kavafis (18xx): Viatge a Itaca. Seize the journey!
-  Chapman, T (1994): Heaven's here on earth. Universal Credo.
-  McCoy, H (19xx-20xx): All of it, and then some. Amen.