Nothing wrong with his skin—we’re fine. He opened the files on 14G, pulling up the records for the previous product tests; Susan could finish the final test on her own, and Lyle was in no hurry to see her again. He could start the paperwork now, and plug in her results when she returned.
Susan returned about thirty minutes later. “I went ahead and finished the test,” she said, rubbing her hands. “This lotion’s great, by the way—they couldn’t stop raving about it. We could probably use some of these guys in an infomercial if we had a good stylist to clean ’em up. You call the hottie?”
“Huh?”
“Test subject one, the cute guy who didn’t show up—you called him?”
“He’s sick,” said Lyle, looking back at his screen. “Some kind of flu.”
“Gross,” said Susan, then paused. “Can I have his number?”
“No, you cannot have his number, he’s a test subject.”
“But you said that wasn’t a problem.”
“I didn’t think you meant…” He paused.
“Yes?”
He glanced at Susan, just barely, and looked back at his computer. Susan’s jaw dropped.
“Oh! You thought I meant—” She covered her mouth and stepped away. “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry, that is not what I meant at all.”
“Yes, well…” Lyle looked down at the computer. “I think we’re done here.”
“Not at ALL.”
“Thank you, Susan, I got that; not at all.” He stood up. “Start a final report for the test: five out of six subjects loved it, sixth subject unavailable.” He stopped and scowled. “Carl’s going to hate that. I’m going to have to track this guy down and get a final testimonial.”
“Are you going now?”
He walked out without speaking, down the hall to the elevator, desperate for fresh air. His one chance to tell Susan about his feelings had snuck up on him, and he wasn’t ready, and he’d blown it. She had no interest in him whatsoever, plus now she thought he was a creepy jerk. The elevator dinged, and he stepped in.
Susan’s voice floated down the hall. “I’m really sorry about the dating thing, Lyle! That’s not what I meant at all!”
The doors closed.
6
Monday, April 16
9:02 A.M.
NewYew headquarters, Manhattan
242 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
“One of our test subjects died.”
The executives stared at Lyle in shock.
“It happened last night,” Lyle continued. “Jon Ford—the same guy I told you about a few weeks ago, with the flu and the dehydration.”
Kerry rolled his eyes. “Not this guy again.”
“He died of a stroke about twelve hours ago,” said Lyle. “Try to show a little tact.”
Cynthia raised an eyebrow. “That’s terrible.” She paused. “How was his skin?”
“His skin was fine,” Lyle snapped. “This is not about his skin, this is about his life, which is over now, and about his recent activities, which include using our product.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Kerry, “obviously it wasn’t related.”
“Of course it’s not related,” said Sunny, “but this is still a very big deal for PR, and thank you, Lyle, for bringing it to our attention. All our competitors have to do is point to a dead guy in our testing history and go ‘Ah? Ah?’ and suddenly the public thinks we killed him. It doesn’t matter how stupid the connection is: if the connection is ever made at all, the damage will already be done.”
Cynthia frowned. “You say his skin was fine? No dermatological symptoms?”
“Yes, his skin was fine,” said Lyle, “great, actually, though I hope that’s not your plan for a PR strategy: ‘Man dies with great skin, story at ten.’”
“How many test subjects were there?” asked Kerry.
Lyle drummed his fingers on the table. “Six.”
“No,” said Kerry, “the full number—every test you’ve ever run.”
Lyle had the number memorized. “A hundred and twenty-eight human subjects, ranging from two to twenty applications each.”
