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“Right. Jason, bring up the roof cameras.”

It took them fifteen minutes to rewind the digital storage and begin to run it forward. Rick watched his Porsche pull in. He watched himself get out and enter the building. What happened next surprised him. Within two minutes, another car pulled up, two men jumped out, broke into his car quickly, and drove it away.

“They were waiting for you,” Brad said. “Or following you.”

“Looks like it,” Rick said. “Call the police, report it, and tell Lisa I want her to drive me home.”

Brad blinked at that.

The problem, Rick reflected, as Lisa drove him home, was that Brad Gordon was an idiot, but Rick couldn’t fire him. Brad Gordon, surf bum, ski bum, travel bum, recovering alky and college dropout, was the nephew of Jack Watson, a principal investor in BioGen. Jack Watson had always looked after Brad, had always seen that he had a job. And Brad invariably got into trouble. It was even rumored that Brad had been fucking the wife of the vice president of GeneSystems up in Palo Alto—for which he was duly fired—but not without a big stink from his uncle, who saw no reason why Brad should be let go. “It’s the vice president’s own fault,” Watson famously said.

But now: No security cameras in the parking lot. For two months. It made Rick wonder what else was wrong with security at BioGen.

He glanced over at Lisa, who drove serenely. Rick had hired her to be the receptionist soon after he discovered his wife’s affair. Lisa had a beautiful profile; she could have been a model. Whoever had refined her nose and chin was a genius. And she had a lovely body, with a narrow waist and perfectly enhanced breasts. She was twenty, on her summer break from Crestview State, and she radiated healthy, all-American sexiness. Everyone in the company had the hots for her.

So it was surprising that whenever they made love, Lisa just lay there. After a few minutes she seemed to notice his frustration and would begin to move mechanically, and make little panting sounds, as if she had been told that was what people did in bed. Sometimes, when Rick was worried and preoccupied, she would talk to him, “Oh baby, yes, baby, do it, baby,” as if that was supposed to move things along. But it was only too obvious that she was unmoved.

Rick had done a little research and discovered a syndrome called anhedonia, the inability to feel pleasure. Anhedonics exhibited a flat affect, which certainly described Lisa in bed. Interestingly, anhedonia appeared to have a genetic component. It seemed to involve the limbic system of the brain. So there might be a gene for the condition. Rick intended to do a full panel on Lisa one of these days. Just to check.

Meanwhile, the nights he spent with her might have made him insecure, if it were not for Greta, the Austrian postdoc in the microbiology lab. Greta was chunky and had glasses and short, mannish hair, but she fucked like a mink, leaving them both gasping for breath and covered in sweat. Greta was a screamer and a writher and a howler. He felt great afterward.

The car pulled up at his new condo. Rick checked for his keys in his pocket. Lisa said matter-of-factly, “You want me to come up?”

She had beautiful blue eyes, with long lashes. Beautiful lush lips.

He thought, what the hell. “Sure,” he said. “Come on up.”

He called his lawyer, Barry Sindler, to report that his wife had stolen his car.

“You think so?” Sindler said. He sounded doubtful.

“Yeah, I do. She hired some guys. I have it on security tape.”

“You have her on tape?”

“No, the guys. But she’s behind it.”

“I’m not so sure,” Sindler said. “Usually women trash a husband’s car, not steal it.”

“I’m telling you—”

“Okay, I’ll check into it. But right now, there are a few things I want to go over with you. About the litigation.”

Across the room, Lisa was stepping out of her clothes. She folded each item of clothing and placed it on the back of the chair. She was wearing a pink bra and pink briefs that skimmed her pubic bone. No lace, just stretchy fabric that molded smoothly to her smooth body. She reached behind her back to release the bra.

“I’ll have to call you back,” Rick said.

BLONDES BECOMING EXTINCT

Endangered Species To “Die Out in 200 Years”

According to the BBC, “a study by experts in Germany suggests people with blonde hair are an endangered species and will become extinct by 2202.” Researchers predicted that the last truly natural blonde would be born in Finland, a country that boasts the highest proportion of blondes. But the scientists say too few people now carry the gene for blondes to last much longer. The researchers hinted that so-called bottle blondes “may be to blame for the demise of their natural rivals.”

Not every scientist agrees with the prediction of impending extinction. But a study by the World Health Organization does indicate that natural blondes are likely to become extinct within the next two centuries.

More recently, the probability of extinction was reviewed by The Times of London, in light of new data about the evolution of the MC1R gene for blondeness.

CH016

The jungle was completely silent. Not a buzzing cicada, not a hornbill cry, nor a distant chattering monkey. Utterly silent—and no wonder, Hagar thought. He shook his head as he looked at the ten camera crews from around the world now clustered in little groups on the jungle floor, protecting their lenses from the dripping moisture as they peered upward into the trees overhead. He had told them to be silent, and indeed nobody was actually talking. The French crew smoked cigarettes. Although the German crew maintained silence, the cameraman kept snapping his fingers imperiously as he gestured to his assistant to do this and that. The Japanese crew from NHK was quiet, but beside them, the CNN crew out of Singapore whispered and murmured and changed lenses, clanking metal boxes. The British Sky TV crew from Hong Kong had come inappropriately dressed. They now had their running shoes off and were plucking leeches from between their toes, swearing as they did so.