I thought how different our conversation probably sounded, compared to that of other couples—normal couples, I meant—on their way to X-ray.
“It’s just like a regular microchip, with an integrated circuit coil,” I explained, as we turned corner after corner, avoiding the yellow triangles and green squares that would have sent us off to obstetrics or orthopedics. “The only difference is that the IC—the integrated circuit—for an identification implant would be in a container that’s biofriendly.”
“Is that a real word, ‘biofriendly’?”
“I don’t think so. I made it up just for you.”
“I’m flattered. I thought I’d been reading about this for years, though. Don’t they monitor railroad cars with the same kind of device in the track?”
“You’re right. Remote sensing of passive identification isn’t new.”
“Is that what I said? I’m smarter than I think.”
I loved Matt’s jovial mood, his normal self. I loved thinking the time he’d spend under an X-ray machine would be a tiny blip in his day, not affecting his positive outlook and his sense of humor.
I smiled and nodded. “What’s different is the miniaturization that’s possible with new materials, and also the fact that we now have sealants like biocompatible glass to encase the device. I’ll know more after I talk to Dr. Schofield.”
I’d managed to convince Berger that I was the best one to talk to Dr. Schofield since he wasn’t officially a suspect in anything—his name had come up only in the parallel constructions Matt and I had made from the horse/vet/buckyball equation we derived from the Houston transcript. I also shaded the truth a bit by letting Berger think “Scho”—the nickname Daniel Endicott used for him—and I were buddies.
When a nurse appeared and called Matt’s name, she seemed to be out of context. Weren’t we at home or in a car, at one of our usual tutorial sessions? Either from Matt to me about some new police protocol, or from me to him on one of the elements of the periodic table. I’d forgotten we were in a hospital waiting for Matt to climb into his custom-fit Styrofoam mold and be pummeled with high-energy electromagnetic radiation. Just as well.
Matt left me for what was billed as a fifteen-minute procedure, but was closer to forty minutes. I hoped the X-ray event itself took up only a small fraction of that time.
I’d left my own reading material in the car, so I flipped through out-of-date, sticky magazines. Fortunately, there was no story I cared about enough to miss the torn-out pages. I scanned a women’s publication. Better than auto racing, fishing, professional sports. At least there were interesting recipes. I read the ten best fashion tips for the long-gone summer season, a reported coupling between celebrities that had probably been dissolved by now, a review of a movie that featured famous human voices coming out of animated animal bodies, and the progress of sextuplets that arrived courtesy of a fertility drug. I wondered who subscribed to this kind of periodical at home, when there was Scientific American, Technology Review, Discover.
“Done,” Matt said, re-entering the waiting room.
“Good. We’re on our way,” I said, meaning many things.
Dr. Schofield was most accommodating, agreeing to meet me on short notice on Monday afternoon. His office had fewer animal pictures than Lorna’s, I noticed. During the few minutes I had to wait, I availed myself of yet another stack of “foreign” waiting-room magazines. Veterinary Forum, Veterinary Industry, DVM News, and Compendium—Continuing Education for the Practicing Veterinarian.
I glanced at an article on a new technique for removing a horse’s ovaries and an ad for an analyzer of what were euphemistically termed “canine, feline, and equine veterinary samples.”
I’m going to have to start carrying around Physics Today, I thought.
Dr. Schofield ushered me into his office. In his white lab coat, he could have been a spectroscopist, like me—not that he would be flattered by the comparison. What Dr. Schofield did not look like was a murderer, especially standing in front of a coffee grinder in his office, the mark of a gentleman. But I’d learned that even murderers might dress well, have nice smiles, and be fussy about their coffee.
We started on a friendly note, commending each other for our work with Revere High students, discussing how important it was to get young people interested in science. We’d both read an article about resources teachers could use to bring the science classroom to life.
“I’m interested in knowing more about your project with Daniel Endicott’s students,” I told him once we were settled with excellent espressos. “I’d like to see the microchips you use to track the coyotes.”