Frank Flanagan walked into his lab in New York. He had converted a space


    underneath a factory he owned part of for this place under the city. He put the cares


    of the business world away while tinkering with things that drew his interest.


    He doffed his overcoat and hung it on a coat rack next to the door. He looked around.


    Everything looked ready to help him with the mysteries of the universe.


    Flanagan went to the shelf with his log books on it. He wrote down everything about


    an experiment as he did it. It saved him a lot of trouble of redoing something he had


    already done.


    He had two projects he was working on. He planned to create the next generation in


    bullet resistant cloth. The other project was trying to find a chemical mix that he


    could use to boost his physical and mental abilities.


    He admitted that both were failures at this point.


    The formulas he had tried on his rats killed them. Some became very violent and tried


    to eat their way through their cage bars. Some curled up and died. He performed


    autopsies on all of his subjects and most had their brains explode inside their skulls.


    The cloth burned up under the treatments he tried. He could not get the fiber to react


    the way he thought it should.


    He sat down at his work desk. He went over the experiments one by one. He frowned


    at the results noted in his changing script. He saw something that might be doable. He


    needed to mix the necessary things together.


    If this worked, he might be able to at least get his brain chemical to do more than


    cause gray matter to explode in their bony enclosures. If it didn’t, he would give it up


    so he didn’t have to cut up another mouse again.


    He got the bottles of chemicals from their shelves and placed them on his work table.


    He consulted the log book. He mixed together lower portions of each ingredient and


    put it in a stand over a Bunsen burner. He turned the flame up and watched as the


    chemicals started to simmer.


    The phone rang. He turned from the burner to go get it. Who would be calling him


    now?


    “Flanagan,” he said into the receiver.


    “This is Arnold Courtland, Mr. Flanagan,” said the caller. “I am calling to see if you


    thought about our offer.”


    “I thought we talked about this,” said Flanagan. “I don’t want to sell. I have


    something I’m working on. I’ll call you back when I’m done.”


    “Wait, Mr. Flanagan,” said Courtland. “I can double our offer.”


    The chemicals reached a steady boil in their container. Smoke gathered under the lid.


    The bottom of the glass turned black.


    “I have something cooking,” said Flanagan. “I will call you back, or you can call my


    office tomorrow. Good night.”


    Flanagan hung up the phone and went back to his heating set-up. He frowned at the


    bubbles roaring against the top of the flask he was using. He reached for the control


    knob on the burner. The flask shattered and covered him with the chemical mixture


    and broken glass.


    He fell to the floor. He tried to get out of his shirt and tie. Fumes put him to sleep


    while he struggled with the soggy mess.


    Flanagan woke up hours later. He didn’t know where he lay at first. He looked around


    and saw the small amount of damage to his equipment. He should not have answered


    the phone.


    He examined the log book. He had put down every chemical he had planned to use


    on the last page. He realized he had heated the mixture longer than he had intended


    because of his talk with Courtland.


    He had no way to know how many minutes the formula had boiled before it cracked


    the beaker. He figured at least two minutes, but he wasn’t sure.


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    He wondered when his brain would explode and kill him. He sat down at his desk.


    How much time did he have? What could he do with it?


    The rats had died within minutes of their injections. So he should be dead in a few


    hours. He didn’t like the thought, but he could fall over at any moment.


    How did he want to spend his time? He couldn’t do a lot in the time he expected to


    die. Maybe he could figure out what was wrong with the fiber while waiting. He


    could give the formula to his partner to create suits for the army.


    He went back to the log book. He looked at the section that he had set up for the fiber.


    He read everything in a second. He frowned as he thought about the different


    chemicals moving in harmony to do what he wanted.


    He wrote down the formula he felt would create a breed of toughened fiber. He just


    needed to create some to make sure his formula worked.


    Flanagan took off his stained shirt and tie. He threw them in the metal trash can he


    used for failed experiments and went to his spare living quarters to clean up and get


    a new shirt. He went back to his office and unplugged the phone when he had his new


    shirt on.


    Why did Courtland want his company so much? It didn’t make sense. His operation


    was small and specialized in chemical engineering to make things. Some of his


    patents had been applied to aircraft, but that was just enough to keep the business


    going.


    He supposed the patents were valuable enough if added to something else. He


    considered the implications for a few moments while gathering up some string from


    a small pulley and vat he had built. He didn’t have enough information.


    He wondered how much Courtland would lie to him if he asked him what was going


    on.


    He expected something was going that he didn’t know about yet. He should go over


    his books again. Then he should go over all the contracts his company was involved


    in. He had feeling the answer was in one of those two places.


    He had talked informally with Courtland several times about his company. The man


    refused to take no for an answer. Maybe he should ask his staff to dig into the man.


    Maybe they could find an answer for him.


    He worked on the fiber for hours. The hard part was making sure that his creation


    didn’t break apart, rot away, or become so immobile that no one could wear it. It took


    him several tries, but he thought he had it.


    He tried to cut, burn, and bend the strands. They slightly reacted, but not anything


    like they should.


    He poured more of the chemical into a mold. He went to his bedroom and got another


    shirt. He pressed that down in the mold with the mix. He closed the top on the thing.


    Sleeves and tail stuck out of the lid, but that wouldn’t affect the chest area.


    Flanagan waited for an hour before he opened the lid. He smiled. The shirt seemed


    to be stiff as a board and hard as rock.


    He tried to set fire to it, cut it, or tear it. He couldn’t do any of that. He got his chair


    and took it to the end of his lab. He placed the altered shirt in it. He got his thirty


    eight from his desk. He fired into the shirt. He whistled. The material stopped the


    slugs cold.


    Flanagan laughed at his partial success. He needed a way to turn this into something


    someone could wear. How did he do that?


    He threw the empty brass and the crushed slugs in the failed experiment trash can. He


    put the gun back in his desk. He walked back to consider the shirt and its


    bulletproofing.


    He inspected where the bullets had struck. He found indentations in the front surface.


    He pulled the thing away from the back of the chair. Nothing penetrated to the back.


    The chair was untouched.


    Flanagan considered the evidence. He could make more of the stuff to stop heavier


    caliber bullets, and knives. The weak points were going to be whatever he used to


    join the two molds together.


    He realized that if he wanted to make the stuff into something usable, he might need


    to know how drilling worked on it. He could use that to put screws in to hold two


    halves together around the wearer.


    Did he have a drill in his lab? He looked around. He frowned when he didn’t see the


    required equipment.


    There should be one upstairs. He could take the bulletproof ex-shirt upstairs to work


    on it. The night crew knew him well enough to let him work on his business without


    bothering him.


    Once he was sure that the screws would work, or not, he could think of other ways


    to make a shirt out of his mix.


    He paused to consider that he probably was going to die before he figured out the


    problem. He checked his watch and smiled that he had already outlived the first rat


    he had tested on.


    He wondered how much more time he had before he keeled over.


    He carried his burden through the factory floor until he found a drill press. He asked


    the man using it to let him have five minutes. The guy stepped back from the


    machine.


    Flanagan put on safety glasses and put his vest under the drill. He spun the machine’s


    engine up and then lowered the bit against the hardened shirt. He checked it after five


    minutes. A hole was there, but it had taken longer than what he would have thought.


    He thanked his worker and took the shirt off the drill stage. He had something really


    tough compared to normal protective suits. A knight clad in one of these could take


    as many arrows as he wanted.


    He had to get his formula really tested before he tried to patent it, and put it on the


    market. He had a game changer in his possession.


    Something crashed through a skylight. He watched it fall to the factory floor. He


    realized the object had a lit fuse. He screamed at his people to get back as he ran


    forward with the vest in front of him. He fell on the object, covering it with his new


    invention.


    The explosion sent him flying.