"Whom? I'm working for Biotronics, that's whom."

Big deal. Biotronics was a wholly owned subsidiary of Basco. But the work was impressive.

"Genetic engineering. Not bad. You work with the actual bugs?"

"Sometimes."

Dolmacher dropped his guard the minute I started asking him about his job. No change at all since our days at B.U. He was so astounded by the coolness of Science that it acted on him like an endorphin.

"Well," I said, "remember not to pick your nose after you've had your hands in the tank, and enjoy your lunch. I've got samples to take." I turned around.

"You should come to work for Biotronics, S.T. You're far too intelligent for what you're doing."

I turned back around because I was pissed off. He had no idea how difficult... but then I noticed him looking sincere. He actually wanted me to work with him.

The old school ties, the old dormitory ties, they're resilient. We'd spent four years at B.U. talking at each other like this, and a couple years more on opposite sides of the toxic barricades. Now he wanted me to rearrange genes with him. I guess when you've come as far as he had, you feel a little lonely. Way out there on the frontiers of science, it hurts when a former classmate keeps firing rock salt into your butt.

"We're working on a process you'd be very interested in," he continued. "It's like the Holy Grail, as far as you're concerned."

"Dolmacher, party of four?" demanded the maitre d'.

"If you ever want to talk about it, I'm in the book. North Suburban. Living in Medford now." Dolmacher backed away from me and into the dining room. I just stared at him.

Up at our locker I picked up an empty picnic cooler. My deal with the cook was that he'd fill it up with free ice if I told him a dirty joke, a transaction that went smoothly. Then out and across the docks to our little grease pit.