Lyle peered in. “Is this it?”
“Yep.”
Lyle stared at the vat of lotion. I should pull the plug, he thought. The product’s not ready, the marketing campaign is unethical, the entire thing is being handled wrong. He watched the white lotion swirl around, catching the light in bright, almost iridescent patterns. That doesn’t look right.… He pulled off his right glove and dipped his fingers in, scooping up some lotion and rubbing it between his thumb and forefingers.
“Actually you’re not allowed to do that anymore,” said Jerry, and held up a small, long-handled ladle. “New protocols to keep the batches clean; we just started them last month.”
“That’s good,” said Lyle, “that’s good. And I need to get out here more.” He closed his eyes, feeling the consistency. “You’re right, it’s off.” Lyle could feel it precisely: too much rice bran oil, not enough lecithin. The product would function just fine, but the wrong consistency would make it feel greasy, and that would turn off most of the end consumers. The texture had to be perfect, or the function didn’t matter.
Jerry carefully dipped the ladle in the lotion and dripped some onto his own hand. “We tried to match the viscosity by mixing in the sample you sent us from corporate, but going up to this scale changed it too much.” He examined the lotion, feeling it on his fingers. “See what I mean? Too oily.”
Lyle nodded: it was too oily, and he knew exactly how to fix it. He wiped off his hand. “Let’s get to work.”
5
Wednesday, April 4
2:00 P.M.
NewYew headquarters, Manhattan
254 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
Susan was wearing a skirt when she came into work, just barely shorter than her lab coat, and Lyle, walking behind her, had to try very hard not to imagine that the skirt had disappeared altogether. He quickened his pace to walk next to her.
“One small blob for each man in the test,” he said, pulling a plastic bottle from his shirt pocket. The bottles were simple plastic tubes, filled from the test batch at the plant; the labels were handwritten with a black marker: “14G.” “We get their thoughts, we take copious photos, and they get their money on the way out. Easy.”
Susan nodded. “Is it against the rules to fraternize with a business associate?”
Lyle stopped short. “What?”
Susan stopped and turned back to face him. “Like, if I meet someone at work and I ask them out on date—would I get in trouble for that?”
Is she coming on to me? Lyle smiled. “No, I don’t think that’s a problem at all.”
“Great,” said Susan, “because I’m going to ask test subject one for his phone number—he was way too cute to pass up.”
Lyle steadied himself with a hand on the wall, then slowly started walking again. “I see.” He walked into the testing room and stood silent for a moment before finding his voice. “Welcome … back, to the…” He paused.
Test subject one wasn’t there. Five men and one empty chair. “Where’s the other guy?”
“How should we know?” said the skinny one. Lyle couldn’t remember his name: Ronald something?
“Of course, I just…” Lyle looked at Susan. “Do you know where he is?”
Susan shook her head. “I wish. Restroom, maybe?”
One of the other subjects raised his hand. “He wasn’t here when they led us in from the lobby.”
Lyle frowned. The test results would still be valid without all six men, of course—this was only a minor test to appease his conscience, after all—but it would appease his conscience a lot more effectively if the subjects didn’t drop out halfway through. He handed the folder to Susan, pausing to pull out the ID forms the subjects had filled out last time.
“Give them the questionnaires and get started,” he said, forcing his voice to be cheerful. He still felt Susan’s unwitting rejection like a punch in the gut. “I’ll give him a call; maybe we can reschedule.”
Susan put her hand on the forms anxiously. “Oh! I can call him if you want.”
Lyle pulled the forms away gently. “Don’t worry about it; I can handle it.” He turned and left the room, flipping through the papers as he walked back down the hall. Jon Ford. Even the man’s name was handsome. Lyle grumbled and sat at the desk in the lab, picking up the phone and dialing Ford’s number.
“Hello,” said a voice, “Jon’s phone.” The voice was male and kind of goofy.
“Is this Jon?”
“No, man, this is Trav. Jon’s sick.”
Crap. “Really?” Lyle closed his eyes. Don’t let it be the lotion. “What’s wrong?”
“Flu or something—he was puking all night the other night, and crapping like a weasel. You from the shop?”
Lyle sighed in relief. It’s not his skin. He paused. Wouldn’t hurt to ask a few more questions, though. “No,” he said, “I’m not from the shop. Tell me, ‘Trav,’ do you know if Jon was experiencing any … dermatological symptoms?”
“Dude, are you the doctors? Because I told your nurse, I don’t know what kind of insurance he has.”
“Yes,” said Lyle quickly, “I’m a doctor, but I’m not looking for the insurance information. I need to know if he had any problems with his skin—a rash or a welt or a reaction of any kind.”
“No, man, nothing like that, it was just the runs and stuff. Should he be taking something?”
“We’ll have to get back to you,” said Lyle. “Thanks for your time.” He hung up without waiting for a response.
