Hulk

he said, “I missed you, too.”
“At least you’ve had my father,” said Betty, matching sarcasm for sarcasm. And as with all great sarcasm, there was a very large kernel of raw emotion at its base. The simple fact was that it had never been lost on her just how much old Thunderbolt had doted on Glen Talbot. It was evident in Thunderbolt’s attentions and attitudes: Talbot was the son he’d never had.
And that was really the truth of it. Betty had never really fully been able to comprehend it, or even articulate it, for herself back when she had been closer to her father. Now, though, face-to-face with Talbot and possessing the analytical mind of a scientist and an adult, she knew what the real problem was. If Talbot was the son that Thunderbolt never had, what did that make her? Every time she looked at Talbot, she saw in him a symbol of everything she wasn’t to her father. No “Y” chromosome. No army career. Talbot was a reminder of what Thunderbolt Ross had genuinely wanted . . . and what he’d been stuck with in return.
None of which was the least bit fair to Glen Talbot. Except Betty didn’t give a damn about the fairness. All she cared about was Talbot exiting her life as quickly and unexpectedly as he’d reentered it.
Talbot, meanwhile, was feigning having been struck to the heart by her jibe. “Ouch. You don’t waste any time getting back to the old repartee, do you?”
It made her think of the old gag where one guy says. “Why do people take an instant dislike to me?” and another guy responds. “It saves time.” The thought made her smile slightly, and then she realized that Talbot might misinterpret her expression and conclude that he was amusing her. So she passed a hand over her mouth, covering the smile and frowning once more.
“You can take it,” said Betty.
“That I can,” Talbot assured her, not at all nonplussed. “But you’re too hard on the old guy. He’s a great man. It’s an honor to work with him.”
It made her want to salute. Or barf. She couldn’t decide which. Remembering her train of thought from earlier, she said, “I know. And you’re like a son to him. Which makes you,” she added with exaggeration, as if it were an afterthought, “something like my brother.”
To her surprise and discomfort, he took a step toward her. “Maybe we could make that kissing cousins,” said Talbot.
His proximity, his attitude and bearing, all shouted warnings in Betty’s head. Her immediate instinct was to back away, but she didn’t want to appear afraid of him, no matter how nervous he made her. Keep it light, keep it light, went through her head, and sounding as if it meant nothing to her, she said, “Sorry, we tried that and it might lead to inbreeding, and we don’t want any of that, do we?”
Talbot appeared to be trying to process what she’d just said in order to determine whether she was serious or not. She was beginning to think that he had comic instincts that made Bruce look like a stand-up comedian in comparison. Then he shrugged, as if dwelling on it was too much effort. “You’re the genetics expert,” he said, and then added with a barely restrained touch of impatience, “Look, I’m sorry I’m the only guy your father ever approved of. I can’t help that, can I? Why don’t we start this conversation over? Let’s focus on the present, not the past.”
He sounded sincere. Damn him. He always sounded sincere. That was how it started. Still, there was no reason to be paranoid, although the common notion was that being paranoid didn’t guarantee that someone isn’t out to get you.
“Sure,” said Betty, although she couldn’t help but feel that in trying to look relaxed when she was anything but, she just wound up appearing constipated.
“So how’s business?” asked Talbot.
She was about to try to make small talk with him, and then realized the whole game-playing thing just wasn’t working in the least. Maybe she really should endeavor to emulate Bruce. The man had a poker face that would put Mount Rushmore to shame. Giving up any pretenses, she said flatly, “Spill it. What do you want?”
He smiled ingratiatingly. That alone was enough to make her want to pop him one, but at least the games were over.
“Okay, I’ll cut to the chase,” he said, taking a step toward her as if they were about to have an intimate chat. “I’ve been hearing interesting things about what you guys are doing here. This could have some significant applications.” His voice suddenly turned wheedling. “How’d you like to come work for Atheon, get paid ten times as much as you now earn, and own a piece of the patents?”
If anyone else on the planet had put forward that offer, Betty might well have turned handsprings and started going over the car ads to find that perfect BMW that she knew was out there waiting for her somewhere. But because it was Glen, there was no hesitation in her response.
“Glen, two words: the door.”
And with supernatural timing, the door opened, and Bruce Krenzler was standing in the doorway.
The three of them stared at each other for one of those delightful moments that stretched into eternity. Bruce looked from one to the other, clearly wondering if he was going to be receiving an introduction to the newcomer anytime in the immediate future.
“Bruce Krenzler,” Betty said politely, “this is Glen Talbot. I’ve mentioned him in the past.”
“No, you haven’t.” Bruce reached over and shook Talbot’s hand. Obviously his grasp wasn’t firm enough for Talbot; he looked down at Bruce’s hand and, although he maintained a smile, his eyes looked like those of someone who had just gotten a palm full of dead mackerel.
“Glen,” Betty continued, “this is Bruce—”
“Krenzler,” said Talbot. “I’m a big fan, Dr. Krenzler. And please, call me Glen. And I should call you—”
“Dr. Krenzler,” Bruce