The late-October sun was warm, but Trisk was glad for her lab coat as she walked the long rows of sturdy tomato plants, fondly touching one here, another there. It was nearing the end of the season, and they’d grown tall in the strong summer light at Saladan Farms’ seed field just outside of Sacramento.
The leafy green stalks were almost over her head; the main trunk lines had become woody when the same hairs that gave the plant its superior drought resistance had unexpectedly matted together in a rude, keratin-like substance able to support the heavier growth. Even the simulated outside conditions of the underground labs hadn’t produced it, and she’d come out to take some final measurements before the field was razed next week. It never failed to surprise Trisk how an organism could respond unexpectedly to stimuli and do something completely wonderful.
Such as creating a summer-smelling canyon of shade, she thought as she took off her gloves and tucked them into her lab coat pocket along with her tape measure, pencil, and spiral notebook. The press conference to publicly release the patent to Saladan Industries and Farms was next week, and it felt as if she was saying good-bye.
Content, she scuffed through the ruts back to the farm’s office building. It was little more than a shack with running water and a single phone line connecting it to the outside world. She’d make her final report at Global Genetics this week and move on to a new project.
A smile crossed her face at the sound of kids in the field, and she laughed, shouting after the handful of exuberance that thumped past her in bare feet and exotic accents as they played tag in the setting sun. There was a farm-run school right on Saladan’s property, but it was patently obvious that it was only there to give the kids somewhere to go until they were old enough to work the field without the government crawling up Saladan’s back.
Trisk slowed as she saw her farm truck parked beside the rusted flatbed Fords and the decommissioned school bus waiting to take the migrant workers back to Saladan’s shantytown when the sun went down. She didn’t like bringing her little two-seater out to the fields on her rare inspections, but today, it would have been right at home beside Saladan’s black Jag and the red convertible Mustang that Kal had driven out from Florida, both now parked in the shade of the single tree hanging over the office shack. They hadn’t been here when she’d arrived, and she wasn’t eager to talk to either of them, as nice as Kal had been the last few days.
She’d first met Mr. Saladan last year when he’d bought the patent, suffering his large ego and patronizing slights as she fulfilled Global Genetics’ obligations during the patent transfer. She hadn’t liked the witch then, and she didn’t like him now.
Her faltering mood utterly soured when the door to the farm office banged open and Kal and Saladan came out, their pace and direction making it obvious they wanted to talk to her. Saladan was in slacks and a white dress shirt, his inappropriate shoes coated with dust and his hem discolored with it. His black tie was loosened, and as she watched, he took a pair of dark sunglasses out of a front pocket and put them on. Even with his eyes hidden, she could see the scowl making his few wrinkles fold into each other.
The older witch didn’t look hot, though, and was probably using a charm to keep himself cool. She’d heard the workers call him the Ice Man, and she thought he had better be careful lest the magic he used become obvious and break the silence. Seeing both men stomping toward her, she couldn’t help but wonder how many missing people were really unfortunate deaths needed to preserve the silence when some witch or vampire made a mistake.
Squinting, she brushed her hair back and tried to look professional in her slacks and white dress shirt. Kal, at least, was dressed appropriately for the field, his jeans worn and casual, and his lightweight shirt open at the neck. There was a bandanna in his pocket to mop up his sweat, and it was obvious that he’d been inspecting Saladan’s fields for most of the day; the dust was thick on his boots and had turned his fair, almost translucently white hair to brown. His quirky smile made her wonder if Kal might be responsible for Saladan’s bad mood.
Why not? Kal sure irritates me, she thought as she stepped from the field to the parking lot and wisps of her hair rose in the radiating heat. But even as she thought it, she flexed her hand, remembering how he had eased the sting of her sensory burn last Friday. She hadn’t expected that. It didn’t make up for anything he’d done to her as a kid. Neither had the coffee and dessert in his hotel room.
“Dr. Cambri!” Saladan called even before they closed the gap between them. “Did you get my memo concerning the modifications I want to next year’s crop? Those hairs must be removed. They’re getting into the workings of the washing machinery and causing trouble.”