A Whole Lot of Love. Justine Davis

working on things that had the potential to be multifunctional, or highly useful to a smaller group of people.

      And then there were his pet projects, such as this one. Ethan made himself tune back in, as he sensed from Mark’s tone that he was finally winding down.

      “—can see, overall, things look very promising. The difference between the control group and the ones with the implant are marked.”

      “How much longer are your tests scheduled to run?” Ethan asked.

      Mark leaned back in his chair, scratched a bit at his beard, then said, “Another two months before we move on to the next phase.” He looked down at his notes, then back at Ethan. “Speaking of that, it would be so much more helpful if we could—”

      Ethan held up his hand, knowing what was coming. “Sorry. There’s got to be a better way to test this than to perform a dozen mouse lobotomies. That should be our last resort. I don’t like the idea of intentionally and permanently destroying their memory just to see if we can fix it.”

      “They’re mice,” Mark said. “And pampered ones at that. The best food, comfy cages with fresh shavings every day…my dog doesn’t live as well as these guys do.”

      “Maybe you should take better care of your dog,” Ethan said, but jokingly. “Think of another way, Mark. I know you can. Maybe…something temporary?”

      The R and D head looked at him, then sighed. “I’ll try. I’m checking on a chemical that supposedly temporarily affects that part of the brain, but I’m not sure how it might affect results for our purposes.” He shrugged. “Maybe I should just get ’em drunk.”

      Ethan grinned. “Ouch. Crabby, hungover mice. But better than psychotic ones.” He glanced down the table at Moira O’Donnell, the production manager. “You’re current, Moira?”

      The redhead nodded. She tapped at her notepad with a long, flame-red nail. “I’ve tracked the necessary changes as we go. We can go into production within seven days and have enough on the market to give us a nice head start on any deconstruction copy-catters.”

      Ethan understood her concern. With any such product, no matter how complex, you had to expect that as soon as a competitor could get his or her hands on it—legitimately or otherwise—they would be taking it apart to study its construction, then building their own. Every amount of inventory you could get on the market before that happened solidified your hold on the market. Even if it was years away, they needed to be ready.

      But in Ethan’s mind, that didn’t apply here. “Thanks, Moira. But on this one, put your focus on speed, not foiling industrial espionage. If we succeed, I’m not looking to make a fortune, I just want it available to as many people as possible as soon as possible.”

      Moira nodded, although she didn’t look happy. It was her competitive nature, Ethan guessed. But that nature was part of what made her so good at her job, and on most other projects it paid off.

      He shifted his gaze to the representative from the W.C.T. legal department. “So, how goes the war on your end, David?”

      “The FDA,” David Grayfox said with a grimace, “is the biggest pain in the—”

      Again Ethan held up a hand. “Yeah, I know. So we can expect approval for voluntary human testing in about two zillion twenty-five?”

      “About,” David mumbled.

      “Keep pushing. We have to determine if what works on our pampered, well-fed and wonderfully housed lab mice will work as well on the human brain.”

      He knew he was stating the obvious; this was, after all, the entire point of the Collins project.

      “Yeah,” Mark added offhandedly as he gathered his papers, “we may all need it someday.”

      Ethan knew Mark hadn’t meant it that way, but nevertheless, the joking rejoinder dug deep into a sore spot that had never healed.

      “Pray that you don’t,” he said, unable to stop the edge that came into his voice.

      Mark looked at him, startled, then sheepish, as if he only now realized what he’d said. “Right, boss,” he muttered, and Ethan knew that, from the generally anarchistic Mark, the title “boss” was tantamount to an apology.

      Ethan nodded and stood, indicating the meeting was over. The others exited the room, and he started back toward his office. Karen caught his eye; she already had the receiver to her ear, but gestured at the phone on her desk, and he saw that two lines were lit. She mouthed a name at him.

      Layla.

      To his amazement, since he had a perfectly reasonable question to ask her, he hesitated. He stood there, staring down at the lit phone line as if it had the power to shock him if he touched it.

      Only when he realized Karen was looking at him rather oddly did he nod and stride past her into his office. He stood behind his desk, looking down at his own phone, where the second line blinked tauntingly. He set down his notepad. Then his pen. Then himself, noticing that the creak of his leather desk chair seemed louder than usual.

      Odd, how he had no trouble saying no in a business framework, but when it came to things like this, especially for charity, it was much more difficult. He had so little time, he’d made it a habit to say no to everything that required more than a monetary donation, and even those he picked rather carefully.

      So he would say no again. Simple.

      He stared at the phone.

      He shouldn’t keep her waiting. He’d in essence called her, after all.

      He would just tell her no. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—do it.

      He cleared his throat and picked up the phone.

      “How was your meeting?” were her first words after he said hello. “Constructive?”

      Somewhat relieved at the subject, he answered, “More a case of not regressing. Not much progress, but no bad news.”

      “Sometimes that’s good news.”

      He found himself smiling. “Yes, sometimes it is.”

      “There’s a lot to be said for no forward progress, if it also means not sliding back to the bottom of the mountain.”

      It was so close to his own thoughts that he couldn’t help chuckling. “Exactly.”

      “It wasn’t by chance about the memory chip, was it?”

      His amusement vanished in a rush. The Collins project wasn’t hush-hush, but it wasn’t general knowledge, either. Certainly not outside the industry.

      She seemed to understand his sudden silence. “It’s why you were added to my list since last year, Mr. Winslow. We’re loosely affiliated with the national Alzheimer’s Association, and they track people who are doing research in the arena, even privately.”

      “Oh.” He relaxed; they had had contact with several of the leading research facilities, any of which could have mentioned the project. And it wasn’t as if she shouldn’t know, given her connection. “Sorry. Reflex.”

      “One you’ve had to develop, I imagine. It must be frustrating to put a lot of time and money into something, only to have someone else beat you to it.”

      “It is. But in this case, I’d celebrate, if theirs worked. As long as it gets done.”

      “That’s…an admirable attitude.”

      Ethan felt suddenly uncomfortable. He’d had his share—more than his share, he thought—of nominations for sainthood, and he didn’t like it. Or maybe he just didn’t like it that the world had become a place where what he did, which was only what he thought had to be done, made him so different in the eyes of many.

      “As is what you’re doing,” she added. “If your chip should work, it could become instrumental