I
t was, I think, Bob that first wondered if something might have been wrong at the Moose Lake Liffatorium, performing a routine examination of last month's mandatory scubala samples. He saw a pinkish tinge around the left metascapfolling parsule, noted it with 2B graphite on Page 28 of his laboratory notebook, always laboriously kept, to be checked twice monthly by the Bureau of Liffic and Lummetomic Affairs, a whole team of besotted black-tie stooges who come up from Capitopolis on an all expense paid power trip to justify their demanding bugetary allotment. Of course, nobody really thought they'd find anything wrong, or even if they did, nobody really thought they'd do anything apart from the usual rug-sweep and disappearing act, where the shredder crews descended in the middle of the night to purge the files, replacements as necessary depending on popular pertainment and IFL (Informational Freedom Level) where anything above Level Three -- "Particular/Blunt" -- is disappeared. Bob, though, didn't say anything, and if he thought then that what would happen would
Bob
happen he'd probably have walked right out the front door and kept right on, never looking back to life as a Junior Contract Liffalyzer.
Bob's thoughts at the time were filled with love. He'd gotten a new cat Thursday last, and, so far, he loved its tail-swishy whimsy and feline appetite for sensation. He'd picked it up from Alice, one of the Overnight Spineal Inspectors, a cat-lover herself, whose recent predilection for animal sheltering had gotten out of hand, and who, by odd coincidence, was in the room during the second chance happening that, in retrospect, should have raised somebody's eyebrow, on some forehead, somewhere, and could have been the clue that prevented the travesty from happening the way it did.
That night the Spineal Team was working overtime on the samples from the Omaha facility, a precursory job if ever there was, and someone, I think it was Harold, said "There's a congealment on #18" at exactly the same moment that Frank, the overnight janitor who was performing his nightly waste removal just outside the sealed workspace, accidentally backed his vacuum into the rack of Erlinmeyer flasks that someone (I think it was Ray) had stupidly left out in the floor, tucked back in the gap between Bench #4 and the wall. It came down with a crash, breaking three of the flasks, replacements for which require at least a fortnight and involve sending an acquisitionary form to the requisitions office before the supply room can send them up, and you know how suspicious they are. Lost in the commotion, the cursing and regret, was the plate of Omaha spines, and before anyone knew what had happened, they'd moved on to the next batch,
The Spineal Team
overlooking the Alphalytic Congealment on Sample #59a, by this time almost a ruby hue. You'd have thought Tannenbaum, whose mind was like analomy flypaper, ever sharp and everready, might have caught it, but even he was a little off that night, and somehow the sample slipped through unscathed.
The next step was, of course, the Infant Vats. I hesitate to relay this part of the tale, gentle reader, for it's not a pretty picture. But as Alice wes telling me just the other day, the true story behind the Moose Lake Liffatorium has too long lain in shadow. Someone had to step forward, and shed the bright light of the public eye onto this long dormant tale of woe, if not for posterity, then for the peace of mind of those involved unfortunates, now grey with years of repression and secrecy.
Vatology
After inspecting the Main Vatological Incubator as per usual, Joyce Silverstein noticed a spike in the readout and, double-checking the calibration levels, went up to check with the boys on mezmabulation level (where the plasma was mixed for injection) to make sure they weren't playing another trick on her.
If you'll allow me a bit of leeway, I'd like to mention that out that this was back in the early 60's, and the relationships between men and women in the workforce were very different than they are today, even in a place as professional and effecient as the Liffatorium. For one thing, there were strictly genedered roles within the system, and one didn't question the legitamacy of this, that the women were the infant caregivers, responsible for post-generative upkeep, life checks, and various secretarial dictation. The men were in charge
Vat Level
of the equipment operation, and all that entailed, and the Liffatorium was divided amongst them, almost as if seperate countries, territories so distinct that a map could quite easily have been drawn demarcating the chromosmal influence, male from female, organic from industrial, and a thousand like binaries.
Joyce had an unusual position in this cartography,
