Chapter Eight
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE DOOR TO Bellamy’s lab swung open. He stormed in, fury buzzing in his chest like a nest of angry bees. The air hummed with the sound of the equipment, but Bellamy found no peace in the sound now. Instead, it gnawed and chewed at his nerves.
“Who does that bitch think she is? How dare she,” he muttered. He tossed his briefcase on a nearby table. “That second-rate glorified middle manager and third-rate academic wouldn’t know innovation if it bit her in the ass.”
His voice rose, echoing off the sterile lab walls. Bellamy had long since been secretly derisive of Kerrigan’s scholarly identity as a cultural sociologist.
Pacing the room, his mind raced. The inquiry would likely be filled with jealous colleagues aiming to interrupt his research. With the potential for his funding being frozen — everything was in jeopardy. It was falling apart all around him and just when he was on the verge of discovery. He could feel it in his bones, something big was about to happen. His research was just about to blossom into something that would launch him to new heights. But how could proceed without resources? Frozen funding meant no lab or teaching assistants. He’d have to go back to teaching his courses himself. No more lavish excursions to academic conferences. He’d be reduced to another mindless academic grinding away in the machine of the university.
No, this could not stand.
His thoughts were interrupted by a faint noise. He turned quickly, spotting Jason Havelock hunched against a workstation in the corner. He wore headphones and looked completely absorbed in his task.
Bellamy hadn’t realized anyone else was in the lab. His irritation roared inwardly.
“Havelock!” He barked startling Jason.
Pulling off his headphones, “Hi…hi, Dr. Bellamy.” Jason said, cautiously. He stood, the stool scrapped against the linoleum floor.
“What are you doing here?” Bellamy snapped, though he was well aware of the answer.
“Just processing survey data, sir,” Jason said his voice wary. He rubbed his eyes, fatigued from staring at a computer screen. “I’m coding the open-ended responses from the recent semi-structured interviews the doctoral students conducted.”
Bellamy shot towards the screen, there were rows of text highlighted in various colors. Jason clicked a line, dragging the mouse to assign a proper code.
“The responses are about what you expect.” He said with a hint of sarcasm.
Bellamy frowned, folding his arms. “How long is that going to take you?”
Jason’s eyes darted from the computer screen back to Bellamy, “I’m about halfway through. It’s a lot of redundant answers to code — ‘stress from school, ‘weird feelings,’ the usual.”
Bellamy’s lab had recently embarked on a research project examining the link between stress and dreams. He hypothesized that with the proper amount of stress induced on the subject, he could induce deja vu. A potential stepping stone towards retrocognition.
“Fine. Continue,” Bellamy said waiving his hand. Without another word, Bellamy stalked to his office and slammed the door. The frosted glass rattled.
Jason's eyes searched the room. He frowned and putting his headphones back, he returned to his work.