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Tim wondered if Margaret Montoya was that kind of woman in the bedroom. Or did her boudoir policies stray into the dictatorial realm? He certainly couldn’t see Clarence Otto as the kind of guy who let his lady boss him around. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe Margaret was too aggressive for Tall, Dark & Don’t Threaten My Manhood. If Margo wanted to call the shots, that wouldn’t bother Tim in the least.

If the ladies liked it, Tim liked it — a simple philosophy that opened up a world of possibilities.

Could he land Margaret? Why the f.u.c.k not? He felt on top of the world, he felt like a king. He’d isolated the hydra’s catalyst-producing gene sequence and inserted it into his fast-growing yeast, which was now happily diving away. It remained to be seen, however, if the modified yeast actually produced the catalyst, and if that catalyst actually worked.

From everything he’d seen so far, it would. Which meant — Tim Feely might very well have just saved the world.

And if that don’t get you laid, nothing will.

Tim entered the briefing room. Margaret was sitting in one of the room’s ten theater-style chairs. Clarence stood off a bit to the side. He’d lost the suit coat, thank G.o.d. He wore jeans and a black T-s.h.i.+rt. A T-s.h.i.+rt that was too tight, in Tim’s opinion. Well, maybe Margaret was tired of all those muscles. f.u.c.k but that Clarence dude was put together, though.

Margaret saw Tim enter, raised her gla.s.s of wine. “Doctor Feely. I found the liquor cabinet and helped myself. You don’t mind?”

He gave her his best seductive smile. “Don’t mind at all.”

Clarence saw the smile. He scowled.

Tim dialed the smile back a few notches, from leering to slightly-more-than-friendly.

Margaret gestured to the room, clearly hoping to change the subject. “This theater is really something.”

Tim could imagine how the room took newbies by surprise. In addition to cushy seats that faced a ten-foot screen, there was a fridge full of beer, plenty of snacks, and a liquor cabinet packed with the best liquid treats a boy could buy.

“Don’t forget there was a full staff here for years,” he said. “Uncle Sam wanted his pet scientists to be happy.”

Clarence let out a snort. “Yeah. And the people who actually do the work of running the s.h.i.+p? What do they think of your little private theater?”

Tim waggled his pointer finger side to side. “Please to no-no-no,” he said. “The entire science module is off-limits to the rank and file. I doubt people who hot-bunk would appreciate we brainiacs living in the lap of luxury.”

“Right,” Clarence said. “That doesn’t bother you at all?”

Tim walked past Clarence to the liquor cabinet. The half-empty bottle of Adderall was right on top. Correction, half-full: Tim was an optimist, after all. He opened the cabinet and pulled out the bottle of Oban 2000.

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