Free Hulk by Peter David Page A

step toward her as if they were about to have an intimate chat. “I’ve been hearing interesting things about what you guys are doing here. This could have some significant applications.” His voice suddenly turned wheedling. “How’d you like to come work for Atheon, get paid ten times as much as you now earn, and own a piece of the patents?”
    If anyone else on the planet had put forward that offer, Betty might well have turned handsprings and started going over the car ads to find that perfect BMW that she knew was out there waiting for her somewhere. But because it was Glen, there was no hesitation in her response.
    “Glen, two words: the door.”
    And with supernatural timing, the door opened, and Bruce Krenzler was standing in the doorway.
     
    The three of them stared at each other for one of those delightful moments that stretched into eternity. Bruce looked from one to the other, clearly wondering if he was going to be receiving an introduction to the newcomer anytime in the immediate future.
    “Bruce Krenzler,” Betty said politely, “this is Glen Talbot. I’ve mentioned him in the past.”
    “No, you haven’t.” Bruce reached over and shook Talbot’s hand. Obviously his grasp wasn’t firm enough for Talbot; he looked down at Bruce’s hand and, although he maintained a smile, his eyes looked like those of someone who had just gotten a palm full of dead mackerel.
    “Glen,” Betty continued, “this is Bruce—”
    “Krenzler,” said Talbot. “I’m a big fan, Dr. Krenzler. And please, call me Glen. And I should call you—”
    “Dr. Krenzler,” Bruce replied. “Odd. I wasn’t aware that I was in a line of work that generally acquired fans.”
    If Talbot was annoyed at the offhand rebuff, he didn’t show it. With no abatement of enthusiasm, he said, “You’ve certainly got one here. Your studies on cellular regeneration are groundbreaking.”
    “Yes, they are.” He looked at Betty quizzically. “You’ve mentioned him?”
    “We . . . used to see each other socially,” she said as judiciously as she could.
    Bruce stared owlishly at Glen, apparently trying to place him, and then he abruptly said, “Oh! Wait. Would this be the ‘army clown’ you said you dated before you went to college?”
    Betty covered her face with her right hand. And the cold look on Talbot’s face dropped another twenty degrees.
    Meantime Bruce seemed oblivious to it all. “I’m sorry. It’s the lack of relevant costume that confused me.”
    “Well, it’s Thursday, and I tend to send my clown costume out so I can have it back nice and clean for the weekend,” Glen said gamely. But then, surprisingly—at least to Betty—he smiled, apparently amused by the whole thing. “So my understanding is that you and Betty work together.”
    “That’s right.”
    “And does she speak for you, as well?”
    Bruce stared at him in bemusement. “I like to think I’m capable of speaking for myself, thank you. What would this be about?”
    “It’s probably my fault, Dr. Krenzler,” said Talbot, but even though he was nominally addressing Bruce, he was still looking at Betty. “I spoke with Dr. Ross about Atheon, the outfit that I work for. I don’t know that you’ve heard of us . . .”
    “You’re being unduly modest . . . or inappropriately coy,” Bruce said evenly. “Anyone in just about any field of research has heard of Atheon. However, your exceedingly close ties with the military . . .”
    “We don’t have close ties with the military, Dr. Krenzler. They have close ties with us—if you see the difference.”
    “I’m sure it’s a great difference to you, Mr. Talbot,” said Bruce. “To me, it’s a mild semantic hairsplitting, but nothing beyond that.”
    “That may be, Dr. Krenzler. But if you’d like to hear the point I was trying to make . . .”
    “If making it will enable us to get back to work sooner rather than later, I’m all for it,” said Bruce.
    “The point is I invited Dr. Ross