Robert Reed - Treasure Buried

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ROBERT REED - Treasure Buried

R & D WERE UP AGAINST THE titans from Marketing, seven innings of

groin-pulling,

hamstring-shredding, take-no-prisoners slow-pitch softball, and Marketing had

stacked their team. It was obvious to Mekal.

"What do you think, Wallace? That kid in center field? He's got to play

college

ball. And their shortstop, what's her name? With the forearms? I bet if you

stuck her you'd get more testosterone than blood, I bet so. And Jesus, that

pitcher has got to have a dose of chimp genes. You haven't been moonlighting,

have you, Wallace? Arms like those. Reaching halfway to home plate before

releasing. But hey, Meiter drew a walk at least. If they don't double us up,

I'm

getting my swings. So wish me luck, Wallace. I'm planning to go downtown!"

Wallace nodded, uncertain what "downtown" meant and certainly bored with the

pageant happening around him. He was aware of Mekal rising to his feet -- a

tall

rangy man old enough not to be boyish anymore, yet not softened enough to be

middle-aged -- and then Wallace wasn't aware of anything besides the sunshine

and his own convoluted thoughts. "Chimp Genes" reminded him of a problem at

work. Not Wallace's problem, but he was the resident troubleshooter and the

Primate Division was having more troubles with their freefall monkeys. The

little critters weren't behaving themselves in orbit, either their training or

their expensive genes at fault. They were put into the space stations to help

clean and to keep the personnel company. Friendly, cuddly companions, and all

that. But the prototypes were shitting everywhere and screaming day and night.

And Wallace was wondering if it was something subtle, even stupid, overlooked

a consequence. Zero-gee, freefall . . . was it some kind of inbred panic

reaction? Maybe the monkeys had troubles with weightlessness. What if . . .

what

if they felt as if they were falling, tailoring and instinct making it seem as

if they were tumbling from some infinitely tall canopy -- a thousand mile

drop,

the poor things-- and with that sweet possibility in mind Wallace heard the

crack of a composite bat, Mekal standing at home plate, screaming:

"Go go go you ugly fuck of a ball!"

A blurring white something arced across the soft blue sky, geometric

perfection

drawing Wallace's attention; and then the center fielder jumped high against

the

back fence, ball and glove meeting, his grace casual to the point of insulting

and the inning finished. Five runs down already, and Mekal stormed back to the

dugout in the worst kind of rage -- silent -- standing without moving for a

long

moment, unable to focus his eyes or even think. It was that famous Mekal

intensity. In R&D he was feared and sucked up to, some employees openly hoping

that the man's temper would cause some vital artery to burst in his brain. Not

necessarily killing him, no. But causing a constructive kind of brain damage,

removing the most offensive portions of his personality --

-- and then there was a voice, close and almost soft. The voice said to Mekal,

"But you almost did it." A woman's voice. A girl's. Nobody Wallace knew, and

turned his head before shyness could engage, the girl watching Mekal with a

mixture of concern and wariness. "Maybe you should warm up," she continued.

Then

she added, "Dear?" with a quieter voice.

Mekal came out of the spell, finding his old resolve. He snorted and said,

"Yeah, right." His glove . . . where was it? Then he said, "Wallace? Tell you

what, since you're here and all, why don't you chart Marketing's hits? All

right? Which field and how far, that sort of data. Give us an edge next time.

Will you do that for me, pal?"

"I'll try. Sure."

"Try?" Mekal laughed and shook his head. "Do!"

"Good luck," offered the girl; and again Wallace looked at her, her pretty

face

a little too round for the current fashion, her long blonde-white hair worn

simply, blue-white eyes radiant, both hands reaching through the chain-link

and

their smoothness implying true youth, one finger adorned with a diamond-heavy

ring a gold band nestled beside it. She said, "Darling -- ?"

"You'd better get back in the stands," Mekal told her. "It's all right. I'm

fine. Fine."

She nodded, tried a smile and then tried to say, "Just do," with her husband's

intensity. That was Mekal's rallying cry in R&D. "Just do." Except it didn't

have the impact, coming from her mouth. A couple other R&D players smiled at

the

sound of her voice, and Mekal made the dramatic walk to the pitcher's mound.

much as Marketing, the R&D players were glad that the long fly ball had been

caught. Wallace could sense it, smell it. Because if Mekal won this game

single-handedly, they knew he wouldn't be bearable for at least a week. He'd

prance and grin, making life miserable in the labs, which is why some of them

giggled now, taking their warm-up throws out of the dirt and joking about the

oncoming rout.

Wallace himself didn't dislike Mekal. Not really. He assumed some kind of

insecurity fueling the man, some partly hidden weakness or flaw, and with that

in mind Mekal was bearable. Sometimes amusing. Even friendly, given the right

circumstances. But then again, Wallace was a legend for his easygoing

attitudes.

His ego genes were deleted, making room for more important talents. A

different

kind of fuel driving him. . . .

And now Mekal's wife retreated, Wallace studying her bare legs -- a little

thick

but firm -- and the way she carried herself, not with submissiveness but with

enduring patience, allowing a couple screaming children to play chase around

her

legs and then stopping to help some grandmother off the wooden bleachers. Mrs.

Mekal; a strange concept. But then Wallace was always surprised by people's

private lives . . . and now the girl took a seat up high, near the center, her

gaze steady and honest and her applause genuine whenever R&D managed to make

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Robert Reed - Treasure Buried

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