Denise heard a noise and looked toward the window; but her eyes intersected Connor's gaze on the way and the brief encounter produced a shiver. His eyes had this frightening sparkle within, a barely perceptible vibration, like energy being released by a dangerous molecular process. She couldn't rid herself of the feeling that she was losing him again.

Aaron Burr, of course you nit, he shouted, before the four choices were even put on the screen. Imagine that for a million dollars. Jesus, anyone should know that.

I didn't remember that Jefferson's Vice President?

Connor said nothing. He was recalling again, processing, connecting. Last time she admitted not knowing a fact, he had lectured her on shoddy study habits in school.

The program was over and he picked up the book he had been reading. I'll get some more wine. Then let's talk, Denise said.

Those eyes again, flashing. Shouldn't she be delighted with his progress? Just a year ago those same eyes were like a window to a gutted storefront, projecting nothing but angry questions. Blank.

Talk about what? he asked, putting down the book.

Well, going back to work on Monday. Aren't you excited about it? Frankly it's humiliating. Coming in as a contractor, just a glorified proofreader. It's like they've forgotten I was once lead scientist there. You can't blame them for being cautious. As far as they know it was a severe nervous breakdown. In a short while you'll be back on top again. Breakdown! That's humiliating too.

That's just for consumption of the masses. The bigwigs know what's going on. They sponsored it.

Why was there that one blank spot was it just denial? It was just two years ago she had been called in by Connor's boss, to soothe her husband out of his weeping rage, to fret over what could be done to bring him back. Connor had gotten lost on his way to his lab. They found him cringing behind a machine in the factory. There was no choice but the University Hospital. Doctor Wembly says that has to be the story. We certainly can't tell them what they did. It was the worst case of progressive Alzheimer's they had ever seen, the doctor told her. It was beyond just drugs and lasering brain plaque. They'd have to do something drastic, revolutionary barely legal. His was too important a mind to lose.

All right I'll live with. Get the wine. Maybe we could play some Scrabble.

And she would have to. He would beat her badly and take pleasure in it chiding her for not making the best use of her tiles.

She went into the kitchen and he followed shortly after. He wanted a drink of water also. There they were elbow to elbow at the sink when he suddenly turned his head toward her and stared, reestablishing more connections. Something terrible had happened here. It had: the first time she had screamed at him to get help. He had emptied out the dish drainer and set the table. They had just eaten and hour earlier.

Three months ago things were perfect, nearly normal again. They should have found a way to stop it there. Now the implanted cells were on a rampage, forging more and more connections, digesting facts like spewed up morsels, and voracious for more.

In spite of everything, Denise felt a swell of pride as Connor reached the podium. Scientist of the Year, they had announced. But at that moment there was the shock of agonizing silence. No one was applauding, then there was a guffaw and a barely audible wisecrack, followed by scattered clapping one could only interpret as sarcastic. Denise looked around their table for ten. Only dear Miles was there with his wife along with some young couple who seemed to be in the wrong place entirely.

While Connor gave his acceptance speech mercifully modest and short (she had written it) her tearful eyes met Miles's. He leaned over and said, I'm sorry, Denise but he's just become impossible to work with. No patience with anyone. We really need to talk.

She shouldn't have been surprised at all. The kids had said the same thing long ago. Lisa had exploded into a rage one time. No one wants to deal with a freak brain like yours juiced up by murdered babies. But Connor would just tune that out, change the channel, as if it were in a foreign tongue. He had greater things on his mind.

It was good in a way having Connor home again, although most of his time was on the computer. At least they had their time at meals, and in bed. And there was more of that with the kids both off to college now. He could still relax a bit until an idea hit him.

It was midnight when Denise entered Connor's computer room. There he sat staring at the screen eyes blank waiting for E-mail. That was his job now, consultant to countless labs and agencies, on call twenty-four/seven.