By Connie Willis
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Extra info for Bellwether
I leaned my chin on my hand and considered Dr. O’Reilly’s tie. Ties are a lot like the rest of men’s clothes. Almost everything’s in. That wasn’t true until recently. Each era had its own fashion in ties. Striped cravats were in in the 1860s and lavender ties in the 1890s. Bow ties were big in the twenties, hand-painted hula dancers in the forties, neon daisies in the sixties, and anything that wasn’t in was out. But now all of the above are in, along with bolos, bandannas, and the ever-popular no tie at all.
Chaos theory had been big for a couple of years, in spite of Utah and cold fusion, or maybe because of it, but both of them had been replaced by genetic engineering. If Dr. O’Reilly wanted grant money, he needed to give up chaos and build a better mouse. He was stooping over the box. “I don’t have a refrigerator. ” He picked it up, grunting a little. “Jeez, it’s heavy. ” He boosted it up with his corduroy knee. “Well, on behalf of Dr. Turnbull and all of Flip’s other victims, thanks,” he said, and headed into the tangle of equipment.
Yes, well, and you were probably supposed to deliver it, I thought, which explains why I never got it. ” I said. “Employees aren’t supposed to ask interdepartmental assistants to run personal errands or make coffee,” Flip said. “Handing me a roll of tape is not a personal errand,” I said. Flip sighed. ” She tossed her hair. She had shaved her head the week before but had left a long hank along the front and down one side expressly for flipping when she feels put-upon. Flip is my punishment for having tried to get her predecessor, Desiderata, fired.
Bellwether by Connie Willis