Doctor Victor Corvo held his Pyrex beaker up to the green mercury lamp, noting how the rising steam from the cured plastic wall cast distorted prisms across his knuckles.
The four laminated orderlies stood exactly two inches beyond the golden-blue sanctuary perimeter. They did not retreat.
They did not blink. Their rigid, clear plastic corneas reflected the green fluorescent glare like polished glass marbles.
“Fascinating specimen preservation,” Corvo observed in his low velvet baritone, taking a small, appreciative sip of his espresso. “The epidermal tissue has been subjected to complete cross-linking under pressure.”
“Notice the lack of carotid pulse in the lateral neck sheath. The vascular system is entirely inert, yet the autonomic motor reflexes continue to cycle with the mechanical precision of an Swiss pocket watch.”
“Don’t get too close to the glass, Doc,” Mac Cole warned, resting his brass spanner against the Vermont marble ledge. “They don’t have a heartbeat, and those fingers look like forged steel pliers. A grip like that would crush a man’s radius and ulna before he could yell for help.”
“They cannot breach the threshold, Mr. Cole,” Corvo replied with cool professional confidence. “A validated labor contract in an institutional facility carries the physical authority of a lead-lined bulkhead.”
