Pressure Drop Read Online Free PDF Page B

second line under “No: P’s, B’s, S’s.” “Does this have something to do with my qualifications for raising a child?” Nina asked.
    â€œIt’s just part of our standard interview,” Dr. Crossman replied. “Do you have a will?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWho would your heirs be if you did?”
    â€œExcuse me Dr. Crossman, but I don’t see the relevance of this.”
    â€œNo?” He leaned toward her across the desk; she expected to smell honey, but detected tooth decay instead. “What if something happened to you, for example. Who would be responsible for the child?”
    Nina hadn’t thought about that. “Is it necessary to decide now?”
    â€œNo. It’s just one of the factors. Are you a college graduate?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat’s your degree in?”
    â€œI’ve got a B.A. in French Literature.”
    â€œFrom where?”
    â€œBarnard.”
    â€œDo you remember your SAT scores?”
    â€œNot exactly.”
    â€œApproximately?”
    â€œThey were good. I don’t know the numbers.”
    â€œWe can get hold of them, I suppose. Repeat the following in reverse order—five, seventeen, thirty-six, nine, twenty-three.”
    â€œWhy?”
    He looked severe, as severe as a man could in a pointed green hat covered with silver moons. “It’s part of the interview, Ms. Kitchener.”
    â€œTwenty-three, nine, thirty-six, seventeen, five,” Nina said, before she forgot. “I don’t see that this applies.”
    He opened his desk drawer and took out a sheet of paper showing five different geometric figures. “Which one doesn’t belong?” he said.
    â€œThat one. Are you testing my IQ, Dr. Crossman?”
    â€œNot exactly, Ms. Kitchener. But perhaps Dr. Berry didn’t explain to you that all HFI sperm is donated by men of exceptional accomplishment in their fields. I’m not giving away any corporate secrets when I tell you that more than a dozen of our donors are Nobel Prize winners—and not just in physics, chemistry and medicine, we’re more broadminded than that. One of our donors won the Nobel Prize for literature.” He paused for Nina to ask who. When she didn’t, he went on. “Naturally, I’m not at liberty to reveal any names.”
    â€œIt wasn’t Henrik Pontoppidan, by any chance?”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œThe winner in 1917.” That was all Nina knew about him. Henrik Pontoppidan had been one of her father’s favorite names, along with Mongo Santamaria and Cotton Mather. He had invoked them to record surprise or disgust, the way other people swear.
    â€œThe technology did not exist at that time,” Dr. Crossman said. “But I assure you that our man is rather more celebrated than the one you refer to. My point is that while we are not really testing you, it is one of the goals of HFI, given the caliber of our donors, that their …” Dr. Crossman searched for the remainder of the subordinate clause.
    â€œThat their seed not be wasted?” Nina asked.
    â€œPrecisely.” Dr. Crossman’s long fingers moved toward the box of pastilles, reconsidered, retreated. “It says here you’re president of something called Kitchener and Best. What is that?”
    â€œWe’re publishing consultants.”
    â€œSuccessful ones?”
    â€œAre you thinking of employing us, Dr. Crossman?”
    He gave her the stern look again, then decided she was making a joke and briefly shaped his lips in the form of a smile. The rest of his face retained the stern look. “What were your personal earnings last year?”
    â€œNo concern of yours, Dr. Crossman.” Nina stood up. “I don’t think this is going to work,” she said.
    To her surprise, Dr. Crossman rose too, anxiously brushing his hair. His hand encountered the party hat. “Christ,” he said,