This one might be the cure for cancer.  Joseph Kellogg removed the stopper from the next tube of virus.  Or, it could be another failure like the rest of them.  At this rate, he would be a graduate student for the rest of his life.

            Joe inserted the pipette tip into the glass test tube and withdrew five microliters of viral solution.  There was less than a drop of fluid in the clear plastic tip, yet enough viral particles there to infect all the hundreds of cells growing in the tiny well.  He depressed the pipette's plunger, squirting the solution into the well of cells, and then ejected the pipette's plastic tip into a beaker of bleach - a mere precaution.

            Dr. Chaz Benton, his thesis advisor, insisted that one of his genetically modified viruses would work.  He just had to have patience and find it.  Then the real work would begin.      

            He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his wrist.  Only sixty more clones to plate tonight, then he could go home.

            The door to the tissue culture room opened.  Startled, Joe turned to find Chaz looking at him.  Though she looked like she'd just crawled out of bed and tossed on the cleanest thing in the hamper, she was as stunning as always.  Her chin length hair in disarray and her flawless, olive skin free of makeup, her blue eyes sparkled with their usual mischief.

            "You're here early," she said.

            "I haven't left yet."

            "It's three a.m., Joe."

            "And your point is?  You're here as well."

            "I just needed to check on something.  I'm going back home now.  Are you almost done?"

            "Probably another hour."

            "Do you want some help?"

            He shook his head.  "I've got a method going here."

            She smiled.  "Well, I'll see you tomorrow then.  Don't forget to lock up behind yourself."

            "Will do."

            He turned his attention back to the rack of tubes in the laminar flow hood, and the door clicked shut behind her.

            He sighed.  He really was tired.  He picked up the next glass tube of virus.  "Clone 213," he read aloud.  "Sounds lucky."

            The tube slipped out of his hand and he moved to catch it.  The palm of his hand smashed it against the metal surface of the hood, shattering the top of the tube.

            He drew a sharp breath between his teeth as pain snaked up his arm.  He picked up the broken tube, sighing in relief to see at least half of the viral solution was in the bottom of the tube.  He didn't want to look at his hand.  Several drops of blood littered the metal surface of the counter.