Testimony of Mr. J. Stanley

Climbing down from the perch, he began to methodically devour the few suckling mice that Stanley had put in the incubator earlier.

Someone knocked on the door.

"The door is open."

With a slight rustling sound, Jason walked in, holding a wooden box in his hand, and kicked the door shut with his heel.Outside the rectangular landscape window, the setting sun was about to sink completely, and a sickly red light filled the office.Jason strolled over to the incubator, watching the lizard swallow the last of its pink pup. "Is this my illusion, or are the nachos moving slower than before?"

"The average life span of them is only seven or eight years. You should be very lucky that he can still move."

Jason put the wooden box on the table, picked up the resin heron bauble that Stanley placed on the table, and played with it. He was not wearing a tie, and his shirt was stained red by the dying sunlight, as if splashed with blood. "I heard you were harassed by the media today, welcome to my life."

"'Harassment' is a bit of an overstatement, I know that reporter."

Jason raised his eyebrows, "Really?"

"Danny Marcel, we went to the same boarding school."

Jason snorted noncommittally, and put the heron back in place.Stanley turned his laptop to show him the New Observer feature. "Did you know about this?"

The other party raised his hand impatiently, "Reporters are full of crazy theories like spy novels."

"Yes, they are."

Jason looked at him, leaning his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his intertwined fingers, "Tell me you don't believe this conspiracy theory."

Stanley closed his computer, "Tell me the Razor team isn't doing what The New Observer claims you're doing."

"we do not have."

"Then I have no reason to believe Mussel's conspiracy theory."

"And I can't believe we're having this tiring conversation," Jason opened the wooden box and took out the bottle inside, "Whisky?"

5.

Stanley quickly forgot about the piglets and the New Observer episode, and in late November an environmental group staged a massive protest against IntelGenes' vaccine program in East Africa, claiming that it was actually Illegal clinical trials; crowds holding crude placards and pennants gathered outside the R&D center day and night.Every time a car entered or exited the R&D center, the protesters pounded on the police fence and shook their fists. Even days of cold rain failed to drive them away.

Jason called early on a gray Saturday morning, when Stanley was still curled up in his blanket, secretly glad he didn't have to drive through that wall of anger and ignorance today.He doesn't often have such idle weekends, and even less since the start of the protracted protests.The drizzle on the glass was soft and gentle, the phone rang as sharp as a razor blade, Stanley reached for the receiver and knocked over the cup, the ceramic landed on the soft rug, it didn't shatter, but the leftover tea from last night was on the beige plush Spill a large stain. "This is Stanley," he muttered.

"Find me at the cabin."

"Good morning to you too," Stanley sat up, stuffed the pillow behind his back, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, "Jason, have you been drinking?"

"Just a little. I'm in Lakenston, just arrived at the cabin."

"You're still driving."

"Obviously, I'm still driving. Are you coming?"

"It was a three-hour drive and it was raining."

"Arrived just in time for lunch, I went to put the grill together."

Jason hung up the phone, and Stanley lay with his eyes closed for a while, then reluctantly got up. "House" is a literal log house, hidden in the misty forest of Leckenston, the pier behind the house stretches out like an arm to the river, the water is deep and calm, glowing with a penetrating light green, summer fishing Sometimes they would put the beer in a wicker basket and sink the whole basket into the cold water of the river.Jason was stirring the bait on the kitchen counter, a bowl of reddish-brown paste that smelled strongly of shrimp oil.

The temperature was lower than he expected, and he only wore a dark blue cardigan over his shirt, shivering from the cold.Stanley threw the handbag on the passenger seat, started the engine, and turned the heater knob.The wipers swayed from side to side, and the rain and fog mixed together, hooking on the treetops and the spiers of buildings like torn cotton wool.The road was empty, the wet asphalt turning a darker black.Stanley kept flipping the radio station, looking for a Stevie Wonder song, but on that particular November morning, the tune he wanted never came.Two morning show hosts are talking about a car accident in the mountains last night. A young couple and their car fell off a cliff. The police are mobilizing cranes and helicopters to try to drag the scrap metal that used to be a car from the rubble. come out.

He turned off the radio, and the only sound to break the silence was the sound of the wind and wipers on the glass.Jason must have set off early in the morning, so he could reach Lakenston early in the morning, and there were more than 50 miles of ill-lit mountain roads in between. It was a miracle that he could reach the cabin alive.Jason never drinks before noon, but that "never" has been broken more and more often lately.Something made him anxious, not the demonstration at the entrance of the R&D center, Jason had been like this long before this group of humanitarian hippies with painted faces came to camp holding wooden signs.Stanley turned left at the fork, and the sign for Laikenston appeared ahead, forty miles to go.

When driving up the mountain road, the short sunshine pierced through the fog, the car seemed to rush out of a barrier, and a layer of veil that he hadn't noticed before was torn from his eyes.The rain stopped, but there was a faint thunder in the distance, and the low-hanging cumulonimbus cloud moved quickly to the south.The tires slipped slightly on the steep and slippery slope, Stanley stepped on the accelerator harder, held the steering wheel tightly, and concentrated on controlling the direction of the black Land Rover.He had passed the highest point, and from here the narrow mountain road wound down into dark woods.

A quarter after one he pulled up at the end of the gravel driveway, the pine trees that surrounded the cabin rustling and shaking off water.The house itself was hidden in the shadows like a movie set in what must have been a silent movie, full of long, dark landscape shots.The door was open, the fireplace was unlit and cold, and Stanley put the handbag on the old sunken sofa and walked straight to the kitchen.

"There's coffee on the table." Jason didn't even look up at Stanley. The kitchen was full of the smell of potatoes and barbecue. He didn't wear a shirt today, and he was wearing a cotton gray top, as if he had just returned from a run. "Maybe It's getting cold."

The coffee was freezing cold, but Stanley poured himself a cup and took two sips. This was a mistake. He was already hungry, and the coffee settled in his stomach like viscous aviation kerosene.Stanley put down his cup, leaned on the cooking table, and watched Jason cut the grilled lamb ribs, and the hot fat dripped onto the dinner plate.

"Did something happen?"

Jason finally raised his head, he looked better than Stanley imagined, maybe just a little lack of sleep, the shadow of his chin was deepened by the beard that he hadn't shaved for two days, "Why do you ask?"

"Maybe it's because we spent two winters standing in an unheated log cabin."

"Look, you completely misunderstood the meaning of the cabin." Jason pushed the coffee pot away with his elbow and put the dinner plate on the table. "I just need some fresh air, and so do you."

"I can think of many ways to get fresh air that don't require a three-hour drive."

"But you came anyway."

Stanley raised his hands to signal that the opponent had won, and Jason actually won before the conversation began.They each took their seats at the table and shared ribs and a bottle of beer.The kitchen is the warmest place in the whole wooden house. A pot of potato soup is bubbling on the stove. The transom is closed, trapping the warm water vapor inside and blurring the light of the chandelier.A hulking TV sits in the corner of the kitchen counter. It's been there since Jason bought the cabin. It's an old model with a VCR attached to the bottom. Black bricks filled one of the closets.Jason changed the channel several times. A news program was reporting events in East Africa. The camera was facing the crowd gathered outside the IntelGenes R&D center and countless shaking placards. The banner in the lower left corner of the screen read "IG's usual ostrich tactics will still work Is it?", in black on a yellow background.Jason turned off the TV and set about clearing the plates and cutlery, putting the greasy utensils in the sink.

No one commented on the show, they spent the afternoon cleaning the fireplace, a disused bird's nest stuck in the brick chimney with tiny bones in it, most likely a mouse, Jason took it down, and cleaned it The coal ash that comes out is dragged outside the house together.The basement is neatly stacked with firewood and charcoal, all covered with linoleum, but the ignition gun is no longer working, and the liquefied butane gas tank is empty.They had to take the most primitive way, picking up the bird's nest from the garbage dump, lighting it, adding chopped wood chips one by one, spreading a layer of charcoal, and finally throwing large pieces of firewood into it.The coals burned red like strangely shaped dragon eggs, the wood crackled, the flames rose steadily, and the ashes and sparks drifted up the chimney with the hot air, rising until they disappeared.Jason got blankets from the upstairs bedroom. They smelled of dust and camphor, the former more than the latter, but Stanley wrapped one of the blankets around him anyway.They sat side by side before the fire, their faces lit by the flickering fire.outside the house,