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lab_reports"No, Matthews. It's out of the question."
"She's becoming a meaningful player in biotech, and you could do well to cultivate an acquaintance with her."
"Oh, please. Cynthia Broadmoore is a tacky nouveau whore."
"I CAN HEAR EVERY WORD YOU'RE SAYING."
Her voice emerged from speakers in the gilded ceiling, from mobile phones and pocketed earbuds, elevator chimes and thermostat piezos, reverberating through champagne flutes, pealing out a chorus of contemptuous electronic ire. All conversation stopped. No one knew where to look; the well-heeled crowd seemed prepared to act as though they'd heard nothing.
Dartmouth resisted the urge to gaze upward; such would impart deific implication to the voice. Instead he stared ahead at Matthews, who fidgeted.
"...do you think your Wizard of Oz act frightens me?"
"YES. I DO. YOUR HEART RATE IS NOW 85 BEATS PER MINUTE, OVER SIXTY BPM A MOMENT AGO. THE GALVANIC RESPONSE OF YOUR SKIN HAS INCREASED, INDICATING PERSPIRATION, AND YOUR BOWELS HAVE LOOSENED SLIGHTLY. WOULD YOU CARE TO TRY FOR 'MORE THAN SLIGHTLY?'"
Someone laughed, then pretended they hadn't. Dartmouth riffled mentally through his collection of bon mots, nonetheless presupposing that silence would be far more effective, when Matthews spoke up. He most definitely implored the heavens.
"Ah, Doctor Broadmoore. Sorry to intrude upon your, your evening." Matthews cleared his throat. "Would you be amenable to an introductory with Mr. Kinsey, perhaps brunch, perhaps supper? At a place of your choosing, although I can recommend many suitable restaurants...."
Dartmouth glared at Matthews. Matthews endeavored to ignore it, as he often needed must, and worried his lower lip.
There was a room-swelling staticky hiss which took a moment to register as a sigh.
"FINE. MAKE ARRANGEMENTS WITH MY ASSISTANT." There was a long pause. "AND DON'T ALLOW HIM TO WEAR THAT COLOGNE. IT DOESN'T SUIT HIS BODY CHEMISTRY."
"She's becoming a meaningful player in biotech, and you could do well to cultivate an acquaintance with her."
"Oh, please. Cynthia Broadmoore is a tacky nouveau whore."
"I CAN HEAR EVERY WORD YOU'RE SAYING."
Her voice emerged from speakers in the gilded ceiling, from mobile phones and pocketed earbuds, elevator chimes and thermostat piezos, reverberating through champagne flutes, pealing out a chorus of contemptuous electronic ire. All conversation stopped. No one knew where to look; the well-heeled crowd seemed prepared to act as though they'd heard nothing.
Dartmouth resisted the urge to gaze upward; such would impart deific implication to the voice. Instead he stared ahead at Matthews, who fidgeted.
"...do you think your Wizard of Oz act frightens me?"
"YES. I DO. YOUR HEART RATE IS NOW 85 BEATS PER MINUTE, OVER SIXTY BPM A MOMENT AGO. THE GALVANIC RESPONSE OF YOUR SKIN HAS INCREASED, INDICATING PERSPIRATION, AND YOUR BOWELS HAVE LOOSENED SLIGHTLY. WOULD YOU CARE TO TRY FOR 'MORE THAN SLIGHTLY?'"
Someone laughed, then pretended they hadn't. Dartmouth riffled mentally through his collection of bon mots, nonetheless presupposing that silence would be far more effective, when Matthews spoke up. He most definitely implored the heavens.
"Ah, Doctor Broadmoore. Sorry to intrude upon your, your evening." Matthews cleared his throat. "Would you be amenable to an introductory with Mr. Kinsey, perhaps brunch, perhaps supper? At a place of your choosing, although I can recommend many suitable restaurants...."
Dartmouth glared at Matthews. Matthews endeavored to ignore it, as he often needed must, and worried his lower lip.
There was a room-swelling staticky hiss which took a moment to register as a sigh.
"FINE. MAKE ARRANGEMENTS WITH MY ASSISTANT." There was a long pause. "AND DON'T ALLOW HIM TO WEAR THAT COLOGNE. IT DOESN'T SUIT HIS BODY CHEMISTRY."
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Date: 2024-11-29 11:08 pm (UTC)