The meeting had gone spectacularly well. Peter was incredibly nervous at the beginning, being brief and courteous in reply to all of Doctor Connors' questions. The importance of impressing his potential mentor was foremost in his mind. (Avoiding drawing attention to the doctor's missing right arm was close behind.)
Peter certainly wasn't the type to point and laugh, but as a scientist, it was in his nature to observe and analyse. He looked at the arm on the right hand side of Doctor Connors' coat, doubled over on itself and sealed shut with a safety pin. Connors was lacking at least part of his arm, and it seemed like it wasn't just cut off at the elbow.
Thalidomide? A lab accident?
The discussion was relatively superficial at first, with Connors asking him questions hardly more advanced than those Mr Edwards would ask. Peter was actually starting to wonder if Connors was all he was cracked up to be – especially when he misquoted Doctor Xavier's Mutations and The Future of Evolution, in such a way that distorted it's central arguments. Peter couldn't let that slide, and timidly, corrected Connors. Connors argued back, but Peter stood his ground. Connors smiled, looking over Peter – he seemed to re-examine the teenager. He then threw difficult questions at him, and the pair launched into a series of enthusiastic debates about the future of genetics. Connors believed that not only was evolution happening within a single lifetime, but it could be controlled.
Though Connors was a subdued and controlled personality, with a serious military mind, there was an enthusiasm for the joy of science that ignited the same in Peter, lighting it brighter than it had ever been lit before. It was the kind of debate Peter had always wanted to have but never been able to.
Peter's first three weeks working with Doctor Connors had flown by. Though his work was more supportive than scientific, the chance to ask questions thrilled him. Connors left notes scribbled in various pads all around the lab – sketches of the fruit flies he'd experimented with, notes of when a genetic trait had been successfully passed on, and when it couldn't be seen in the next generation.
He'd found that Connors had the eccentric habit of leaving his pads wherever he was when he finished writing, and that he merely opened the nearest he could find to a blank page before jotting down his observations. The lack of light in the laboratory didn't help when a pad had to be tracked down, nor did the fact that he tended to take at least one with him to his personal office.
Still, the whole experience thrilled and energised Peter. He talked about little but genetics when he finally got home to a late supper with Aunt May and Uncle Ben. He even managed to convince Gwen and Harry that, from some perspectives, Connors' work was sort of interesting.
"There've been more complex creatures going through the gene therapy," said Connors, not looking up from his microscope. "They should be ready for laboratory observation from next week. How about you start taking down notes of your own, really get involved in the scientific process?"
Peter was stunned, he didn't know what to say. After the shock wore off, the first thing to enter his mind was worry – what if he missed something obvious, and ruined Connors' work in the process?
The scientist – middle-aged, but with a heavy look constantly in his eyes – seemed to be able to read Peter's mind.
"I'll be over your shoulder, making my own notes. It's more of a learning experience for you, and so I can see what you're capable of."
Peter felt a little disappointed that he wasn't having responsibility thrust on him as quickly as he'd thought. But this evaporated quickly, leaving him with a sense of relief – and a determination to make the best of this, lesser opportunity.
"That'd be great." The realisation of the scale of the opportunity sank in. "That'd be fantastic!"
"Well then – mice or spiders, which would you prefer?"
For Peter, there could only be one answer. He grinned boyishly at the very thought of it.
"The spiders."