Pool_2

clandestine process, the picomicro drop was carefully, very very carefully pulled into the delivery tiny measurement pipette, as he had practiced it with Professor Henry, until he could do it blindly. The rest of the Amido Schwartz, he just dumped down the toilet and flushed. Disposal of the bag was made easy by the distraction of a commotion going on outside. Maybe whatever it was would help cover his walk to his mission's target. But that is why research is research. If you know how it is going to work out, if you know everything from the outset, then it isn't research. You suppose how it ought to work out, based on your assumptions, but then revise your assumptions based on how it really goes. There are no scientific failures. Scientific failures are the pointing sign posts to new knowledge. And what a pointing sign post this turned out to be! Mac never got to the filter room with his secreted pipette. The screaming of children as he left the locker room was deafening. Deafening screaming and laughing and hooting and wild enthusiasm as he looked out over the waters of Charles Darling, the black black, totally black, blacker than the darkest cavern, black waters of Charles Darling. "Oh shit!" then an awesome insight, "Shit? The goo is shit!" although nobody heard him in the commotion or noticed his dropping the micropipette and spent vial into the trash, trash that he himself carted off, later. Policing the deck - cleanup - was, after all, guards work. But now, Frank just stood there on the deck and shook his head. "The Ink Well. They called this place the Ink Well just before that ass hole.. You didn't have anything to do with this?" suddenly turning to the Marcus who just did the big eyeball thing with his hands up in wonder. But Frank was laughing, "Macaluso! You do this?"