Meyer:
The graphics are accurate.
Increase the font size on the paper heading.
Format the document as a PDF and print it.
—Kramer
He savored his department head’s approval for a moment. Maybe those windows weren’t such a moonshot dream after all? Then he confirmed the number of copies required and sent his order to the Modern Physics media room. He inspected every plastic-bound report for errors as it emerged from the printer, checking for the slightest misalignment of margins or tables, but each one was right. Since Dr. Kramer’s office door was closed, he slid a copy into his supervisor’s mailbox. The report was a triumph, a clear articulation of both the theory and practice of quantum measurement, with reams of meticulous footnotes and complex, elegant graphics—but its excellence was simply meeting expectations for Dr. Kramer. It didn’t merit a closed-door interruption. Excellence should be a normal expectation for himself, too. With Dr. Kramer as his mentor, it eventually would be.
He strode back toward his desk from the Quantum mailboxes, past an intern gingerly punching codes into a cranky copy machine by the kitchenette—which was empty. So, he could spare three minutes to brew a drinkable cup of coffee, couldn’t he? As long as it was an espresso. Fifty milligrams of caffeine would speed him through the afternoon at twice his usual productivity. Thestartbutton depressed under his thumb, and—
Beep.Beeeep.Beeeeeeeep!
An angry mechanical chirp sounded. Steam whirred from a vent behind the machine. Lights blinked on its menu screen.
Beeeeeeeep! Beep.
Had Erin crossed the appliance’s wires this morning? Or registered his fingerprints to activate a security alert? His ideas for sabotage ran riot—but then ordinary espresso began to drip into his mug. The lights on the device were green; he frowned. If it wasn’t the coffee machine, then what…
“Do you need help?”
Her voice.
She wasn’t in the kitchenette. She was in the hallway, ferrying her own armload of reports past the door without even glancing inside to see him, nonplussed and holding a normal brew. And she wasn’t addressing him with a sardonic offer of assistance, either.
“Leah?”
Leah Haddad. She was one of the Modern Physics interns, wasn’t she? The one he’d passed at the copier.
“Um… sorry, it’s just… the machine—”
Beep,beep.Beeeeep.
“I think I… broke it?”
“Let’s see.”Thump, and the electronic ruckus stopped. “No, not broken. It just needed a whack. There’s probably a jam. Can you check the paper tray?”
Gliders rattled, then snagged.
“Unless you were using this—what even is that color?chartreuse?—flyer paper to make reminders for Human Resources about taping down loose cables, this wasn’t you. Someone else left the jam, and you got stuck in it. Let’s get that shredded sheet out.”
Paper squealed as it was extracted from the machine’s rollers.
“Thanks for fixing it, Dr. Monaghan. Sorry.”
“Call me Erin. But don’t be sorry for dealing with someone else’s mess. Be annoyed that they left it for you. And remember:wefixed it. Let me know if the scanner gives you grief.” Her sneakers moved on toward the bullpen.
We fixed it.
The copier hummed to life. A paper tray was filled. Its scanner chirped. When the automated stapler choked on its own teeth, the intern’stap,tap,tapgot it moving again.
We.
Taking her cue from Nadine Fong, she tossed that word and its implicit praise around so casually, while Dr. Kramer—
Ethan poured his untouched mug of espresso into the sink, squashing the thought. His supervisor was a genius, not a handholding teacher, and his rival was wasting her time coaching an intern to use outdated office equipment when she should’ve been preparing for the Department of Energy’s visit. A scientist with Dr. Erin Monaghan for a mentor would never learn independence or time management. Or excellence. With Dr. Kramer, he’d someday have it all.
