Dr Anderson certainly thought so; she stared at the door for a full ten seconds after Jesse was gone, then snapped out of it and cleared her throat, put on her glasses, and walked back to stare down at VLAD. 'Right,' she said. 'We have some work to do. First step is that we disassemble, label and scan every part of this so that we can make a virtual model. I want to be able to prototype this on the 3-D printer next time.'
'The - what?'
'3-D printer,' the professor repeated, and pointed to a big, strange-looking thing in the far corner of the lab. 'It takes a solid block of paper, plastic or metal and repeats a design. With good enough specs, you can print anything. The guys down the hall are working on 3-D printing of human organs. You remember the replicators on Star Trek that could make anything you wanted, from a roast beef sandwich to a phaser? We're working on it. And actually, we've made a daunting amount of progress.'
That was ... new. Claire thought about Myrnin, clinging to his antique microscopes and time-tested tools, and wondered what he'd think about all this. He'd probably feel it was too far from nature and the cycles of the moon and sun; that's what he always said about things that he didn't quite grasp. For all his brilliance, and he was brilliant, he just couldn't shake off the bonds of his background in alchemy.
Maybe he'd change his mind if she brought back a new, shiny, 3-D printed, working copy of VLAD. It might solve the weight problems, too, if they could machine it out of some very lightweight materials. Maybe, with enough imagination, they'd even be able to model a vampire brain and print an artificial one to fit inside Myrnin's computer, eliminating the need for anyone to die for science ever again in Morganville.
Well, she could dream, anyway.
Dr Anderson was putting out a wide selection of tools for the disassembly, and pointed Claire toward a rolling 3-D scanning device; her job, as each piece was disassembled from VLAD, was to tag it with a number and description, scan it individually, and put it in a bin. Dr Anderson was very careful; when she got to the little vials of bubbling liquid - Myrnin's addition, along with all the whirling gears - she kept the liquid as well, though she siphoned off a bit for testing. Bit by bit, the device came apart into its component pieces, and the lab began to smell like hot solder and cooling metal.
By the time it was done, Claire yawned, stretched and glanced up at the clock. It was already five o'clock. She hadn't intended to stay so long, but there was still more to be done; the scanner had to download into the mainframe, so that Dr Anderson could begin to work with the component pieces in wireframe form.
'You should go,' Dr Anderson said, and yawned. 'Sorry. I got up early, and I know it's been another long day for you. I can handle reassembly tonight.'
'Want me to put the parts away?' The bin was full now, and just as heavy as the whole device had been. Dr Anderson nodded, and Claire carried it back to the concealed panel, which was still open. She slid the bin inside and, on Anderson's instruction, pressed her hand to the panel on the side. It lit up red, and the door slid shut.
'I programmed it for your palm print,' Anderson said. 'You can open and close it on your own now. But only if there's no one else in the room but me. If someone tries to force you to open it, it'll simply stay closed, so you just tell them you don't have authorisation. Without authorisation, you wouldn't be of any use to them.'
She'd thought ahead, Claire thought, and it was a little chilling that she'd thought as far as someone holding a gun to Claire's head and forcing her to try to open the hiding place.
But that was someone from Morganville for you - always thinking of the worst-case scenario.
Claire said goodnight, and started for home.
She was walking down the street from the Mudd Building, dodging excited groups of students who were apparently headed to the Biopolymer Lab, when her phone rang - no, it hadn't, actually, because she had a voicemail, not a call. Dodgy reception in the lab, she guessed.
The call was from Liz, as were the three text messages. All were alerting her, with cheery good humour, that Liz had invited someone to dinner, and to please come home on time, before six.
Claire checked her watch. She just had time to make it.
Elizabeth met Claire at the door, which swung open before she'd even reached for the doorknob. She was wearing a fancy dress, nice shoes, earrings, a glittering necklace, and she even had on lipstick.
Claire blinked. 'I thought we were just having somebody over for dinner.'
Liz dragged her inside and closed the door. She leant closer to whisper, 'We are, but put on something nice. I want to impress him, okay? It's important!'
'Um ... okay.' Claire wasn't sure why she had to dress up to impress Elizabeth's date, but she was willing to meet her halfway for the sake of good roommate karma. Up the stairs, and into her room. She dumped her backpack on the still-unmade bed and sorted through her limited clothing choices, settling on a fitted white shirt and some black pants. Plain, but nice. Adding one of the necklaces Eve had given her - a Day of the Dead skull, enamelled in all kinds of bright colours - jazzed it up a little. Claire fluffed her hair in the mirror and decided that she wasn't going to resort to make-up; after all, it was Liz's date, not hers.
When she made her way downstairs, she heard Elizabeth laughing, and she opened the door to the kitchen and saw her in an actual apron over her fancy dress, stirring a pot. A man was sitting at the small kitchen table - not a college boy at all, a man of about forty, probably, with little grey threads at his temples and sparkling blue eyes in a suntanned face. Even sitting down, he seemed tall. He was wearing a denim work shirt with the collar open, and a sports coat, and he had a little smile on his face that Claire somehow didn't really like.
She'd rarely taken an instant dislike to anyone, but ... she might have to make an exception, she decided.
'Claire, this is Patrick,' Elizabeth said. Which caught her by surprise. Somehow, Claire had thought that she'd introduce the man as her father, which he was certainly old enough to be. Or an uncle, or something. But just plain Patrick? 'Dr Patrick Davis, I mean. He's one of my professors.'
'Really?' Claire raised her eyebrows and carefully nodded to him. 'Which class?'
'Biology,' Patrick said. 'Elizabeth's a very bright student. I hope you don't mind that she invited me over for a meal.'
Claire avoided answering that by joining Liz at the stove. 'What are you making?'
'Chicken and stuffing, peas, and carrots,' her housemate said. Her smile looked excited, but it trembled a bit in the corners. 'Sound okay?'
'Delicious. What can I do?'
'The bread? Just put it to warm in the oven.'
Claire did that, and fetched herself a glass of Coke from the fridge. She didn't ask Dr Davis if he wanted anything, because as she was putting ice in the glass she caught him staring at Liz in a way that was not very professorial. More predatory.
Oh, God. Seriously? Gross.
'Funny,' Claire said, 'but I don't think I ever invited any of my professors home for dinner. Not even the ones I liked.'
Liz gave her a pleading look. 'Well, that's too bad. You haven't had the fantastic teachers I have, I guess,' she said. 'Patrick is great.'
'I'm sure.' Claire sipped her Coke for a minute, thinking about it, and then said, 'You know what, I think I really should be studying, and-'
'Oh, no, please, don't let my presence drive you away,' Patrick said. He sounded earnest and kind, and he even had a hint of a gentle Irish accent, which threw her off her wary game. 'Liz assures me that she doesn't cook very often; I want you to share in the bounty. I'd very much like to talk; Liz tells me you're doing quite interesting work.'
'I - excuse me?' Claire paused in the act of picking up the bread tray to turn to look at him. Liz kept her gaze fixed steadily on the pot she was stirring, as if she hadn't heard a thing. 'What interesting work?'
'Well, I hear you're enrolled in an individual study programme at MIT. I don't think there's been more than a handful of people who could claim that in the entire history of the university. Tell me, how did that come about?'
Claire forced herself to move - to set the stove dial, open the door, shove the tray inside on the rack. But she knew she looked awkward and nervous. Very awkward. Her brain was scrambling to keep up with the changing scenery. She'd pegged Dr Davis as one of those teachers ... the ones who used their jobs to pick off the easy prey, like Liz, who craved acceptance and protection. She was sure he was on a quest to seduce her housemate, if he hadn't already.
So this seemed like a very sharp left turn, at best. And in a worrying direction.