“I have increased the PSI of the helium powering our gene gun, ensuring low transfection efficiency to obtain the optimum number of transfected neurons in the kernel’s targeted cells. To save time, I have preloaded the gun with pellets coated with a mix of positively charged gold particles and the MB45R DNA plasmid. In ten minutes’ time, the gun’s self-loading mechanism will transfect enough corn seed to plant a thousand acres. It would take six months to replicate this process using hybrid corn and tissue cultures, with substantially lower yield.”

Sebastian reached for a tablet PC that was secured to a concrete support post with several strips of Velcro. As he was tapping on the computer’s display, a series of machines instantly thrummed to life. The conveyor belt groaned and shook as the roller mechanisms became engaged. The corn needed to travel fifteen feet before the first batch could be blasted by the gene gun’s massive barrel.

Sebastian put on his protective earphones, anticipating the loud boom to come. The conveyor belt stopped in the expected location.

However, the gun failed to fire.

Seated feet up on his desk, across from his built-in forty-eight-inch television, Edwin Chester watched the informational video, made three months before, for perhaps the twentieth time. Each time, his research assistant behaved as stupidly as the last. Edwin held his thumb on the button of the DVD remote and considered shutting off what he knew was to follow.

Sebastian removed his earphones and rubbed his chin, perplexed. “Hmmmm,” he said as he ruminated on the problem. He sauntered over to the gene gun, where he inspected the barrel in search of the malfunction.

Stop! Edwin urged silently. For God’s sake, you stupid bastard, stop.

The scene moved on with the inexorableness of a glacier.

Sebastian could not discern the nature of the problem from an upright position, so he knelt on the concrete floor. Using a penlight, he peered into the dark aperture.

Power down. Jesus, Sebastian, cut off the fucking helium, and power down.

Sebastian turned toward the camera and smiled. “The contact points in the firing mechanism are off by a millimeter or so,” he said. “I should have it fixed in no time.”

Sebastian pulled down on a lever, which raised the barrel of the gun two feet. The repositioning allowed him access to the gun barrel’s internal mechanics.

Corn seed scattered onto the floor as Sebastian wriggled himself into a supine position on the conveyor belt. Then he reached one hand into the gun barrel and began to fiddle with the connection until there was a satisfying click.

“You stupid bastard,” Edwin said out loud. “You know better than to do this.”

As always, there was nothing he could do.

Sebastian again used his penlight to peer into the muzzle. A thin smile creased the corners of his mouth.

Success.

A second passed.

Edwin cringed and sank farther down in his chair.