"George...You should know that I'm carrying your baby!" Katrin's voice rang out over the din of bacterial incubators and overzealous air vents.
George's face blazed scarlet. "P-pardon me?" Papers flew out of the way as he scrambled to put his computer in sleep mode--and get to a room where six leering labmates wouldn't live-tweet the impossible accusation.
Katrin rounded the corner, cradling his newly printed thesis in her arms. His baby.
A thousand barbs leapt to George's mind. He forced a smile and silently swore vengeance...vengeance for a night he still regretted, when one-too-many vodka shots out of Falcon tubes had led to a confession. A confession and a kiss.
He would leave this lab soon, where drama was the rule, and where the tables in the cold room were perpetually getting messy (seemingly overnight). Leave the regret of a weak moment with a senior postdoc.
Vengeance. Bloodless, slow-moving, tenured scientific vengeance.
About us
- As The Centrifuge Slows
- A small team of Berkeley scientists who decided that there are too few science soap operas.
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