Micro

by Michael Crichton

That’s the truth.” She blinked, confused. “You don’t?” “No, I don’t. I can’t stand this, Alyson. I don’t want to go through with this,” he said. “I don’t want this on my conscience.” “Then…What will we do?” she said. He allowed a look of doubt, of uncertainty, to fill his face. “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head mournfully. “Probably we never should have started this, and now…I just don’t know.” He hoped his expression of uncertainty was convincing. He knew he could be convincing. He paused, then reached down and took her hand, and held it up to the light; in her hand was the paper bag, rolled up. “They’re in there, aren’t they?” “What do you want me to do?” Her hand was shaking. “Go outside and wait for me,” he said. “I need a few minutes to think. We have to come up with a solution to this, Alyson. No more killing.” Let Alyson kill them. Even if she doesn’t know she’s killing them. She nodded silently. “I need your help, Alyson.” “I will,” she said. “I’ll help you. I will.” “Thank you.” Heartfelt. She went outside. He entered the greenhouse and went to a storage cabinet, where he found a box of nitrile safety gloves. Tough lab gloves, stronger than rubber. He pulled out two gloves and stuffed them in his pocket. Then he hurried into a side office, and turned on the surveillance monitor overlooking the parking lot. It was a night-vision camera,