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Gil Grissom had grown a beard since Blair had first met him the previous spring. The guide with him was the same one he'd brought to the meeting about the Brackett case, even though they'd said they didn't normally work together.
"Hey," Blair said, trying to pretend the recent drama wasn't written all over his body chemistry and demeanor. "Welcome to Cascade. How was the flight?"
Introductions to Al and Rodney went smoothly enough: Rodney wasn't openly rude, and Al was charming and upbeat enough to cover Rodney's lack of enthusiasm.
Although not quite his rudeness: "So I hear your professional specialty is the bugs on corpses."
That got a laugh from the guide Sara, but Gil very innocently smiled and said, "The Los Vegas police department has the largest staff of sentinels in the country. It gives us each more of an opportunity to indulge in our specialties. Although, of course, if the case you're working requires scent tracking or refuse analysis, then that's what you do."
Al laughed. "Well, that's the last time I complain about a boring day at the clinic." He looked at Sara. "How do you stand it?"
She shrugged. "I'm also a forensic physicist. Even if I weren't a guide, I'd spend my days picking through garbage and collecting fingerprints."
"It can't be easy, finding people with the technical qualifications for both jobs," Al said. Blair squirmed inwardly, thinking of all the special training he didn't have.
"Can I ask you to speak a little more slowly?" Gil said. "I can't hear you."
Al frowned sympathetically. "Bad flight?" he guessed.
Gil grimaced. "I had surgery a couple of months ago to correct a hearing defect. It was...spectacularly unsuccessful."
Sara shifted, not quite moving protectively toward her partner. Blair couldn't keep from glancing away; he couldn't help thinking of Jim, and how impossible it would be to protect him if he were that much more vulnerable. Hell, as though being a sentinel wasn't isolating and dangerous and overwhelming enough--
Gil was watching him. Of course he was. Blair had been too surprised--and too tense to begin with--to contain his horror. He swallowed dryly. "Jim insisted in going in to work for several days when he couldn't see properly. I nearly gave my self an ulcer, I was so freaked out."
Blair had only been hoping to offer his honesty by way of apology, but Gil laughed aloud. "Most ulcers are caused by a bacterial infection. But I see your point. Especially since you go into uncleared crime scenes. That's an entirely different story. CSIs aren't police officers, not the way detective Ellison is. Most of my people are good about following policy and avoiding armed suspects."
Sara gently slapped his shoulder. "So says 'Mister-let's-go-chat-with-serial-killers.' And don't look all innocent."
They seemed...normal enough. Relaxed and confident, despite what had to have been--had to still be--a brutal adjustment.
Jim returned from the kitchen. He was carrying a tray laden with glasses of lemonade and iced tea. Blair was grateful for the distraction. Jack and the doctor were right behind him, and Blair had cause--again--to imagine what a smooth agent Jack must have been. He smiled and greeted his out of town guests as though everything were normal. If Blair hadn't have known better, he would have sworn he was happy to meet them.
Another round of introductions. As Marcia and Joel rejoined the group in the living room, the crowd became too large for a single conversation. Blair found himself facing Dr. Beckett, who smiled a little sheepishly and said, "Blair, right? Jack said you'd want to look me over yourself before I approached Detective Ellison about the study."
Blair had no intention of making any promises; if Jim wasn't interested in participating in research, Blair wasn't going to push it. "Dr. Beckett. It's nice to finally meet you. Your paper on household toxins was required reading in two of my classes." He smiled, "When my mom was looking for something really direct to read on dangerous products, I gave her yours."
Beckett froze in the middle of a slightly embarrassed smile. "Sandburg? You're not related to Naomi Sandburg? She's invited me to speak at a rally next month in Albany."
"Oh." Blair winced. "Yeah, that's Mom. There's a bill coming up before the New York State Assembly."
"I know all about it. Your mother moves very quickly."
"Well, she's hooked up with S-MoS."
"Which is suddenly getting as active in the East Coast as it's been in California for the last five years. Your mother is very ambitious."
"I dunno," Blair said, sobering. For all Sentinels-and Mothers of Sentinels had been *active* for years, they hadn't accomplished very much. "She's got enthusiasm and experience. But the business interests have lists and lists of how 'expensive' it would be to make the shift to less toxic products."
"Difficult is not the same thing as impossible."
Blair sighed. "It is worthwhile to fight for what's right, whether you're going to win or not...." It was a saying of his mother's. Usually what she said when things were hopeless.
"So, I take it you're with the camp who believe the crises last month were just the start of the beginning of the end?"
Shocked by the change in topic, Blair couldn't think of a response. 'The crises last month' when, over a period of several days, hundreds of sentinels all across the country had collapsed in waves with symptoms ranging from simple unconsciousness to wild hallucinations and grand mal seizures. "Is--is this the right place to talk about this?"
"This weekend, no one will be talking about anything else," the doctor said. "The sessions will all be on guide theory, but in the halls between, everyone will be asking, 'did you see an incident first hand?' and 'what are your theories on the cause?' And nobody has any good data, so the rumors won't have anything concrete to rest on." He sighed.
Blair swallowed. "There hasn't been an incident in weeks. We have no reason to expect it's going to happen again--"
"We have no idea why it happened in the first place, so we have no guarantee that it's over." His eyes narrowed slightly and Blair was acutely conscious that he was trying to keep secrets from a sentinel internationally famous for his powers of observation. "Jack didn't mention your partner was involved, and he's been consulting with me about a number of the sentinels here...."
This Blair did have a well-practiced answer to. "Jim was never impaired. He had some mild imperceptions, but it never interfered with his work."
"You were very lucky, then."
It was all Blair could do not to turn and look at Rodney McKay, who hadn't been particularly lucky. "Yeah," he said.
"But?" Sam prompted.
"But...medical science has never had a good understanding of sentinels. I just don't think we're going to find a simple answer there. And meanwhile, getting all wound up about this, we're just adding to their stress."
"That," Al said, leaning in to their conversation, "is what I've been saying for a while now. This can't be about biology, not with people in such different environments. It has to be cognitive."
"Um, what?" Blair asked.
"He means, *some* sentinels got upset at the same time. Hundreds of miles--thousands of miles--apart. About something. Which no one will admit to." He gave his guide a dirty look.
"So it was subconscious. Or subliminal. It wasn't sunspots or electromagnetism, and we've ruled out food additives and satellite interference."
"I refuse to believe what happened is beyond explanation. The crises happened, so they have a cause. And it's probably a little more plausible than something vague and 'cognitive.' "
Al sighed. "He winds up pretty fast, doesn't he?" he said to Blair.
"A lot of people are worried." And didn't that sound noncommittal. Blair managed not to wince at himself.
Jack rolled up, sliding easily between Sam and Blair. He touched Sam's hand and said, almost warningly, "Sam?"
Sam smiled. "No, I swear. I'm not harassing your student to participate in my research project. We were talking about the crises."
"Well, don't. I would rather not bring up the topic to Grissom in such a large group. And Rodney doesn't need to overhear everyone's speculation."
Sam frowned and shook his head. Jack gave him a dark look and murmured "It works and you know it." He turned to Blair. "And there go Marcia and Rodney into the kitchen. Go make sure they don't kill each other."
On any other day, Blair would have felt thrown to the lions with that, but by the time he reached the kitchen Marcia was already puttering around the kitchen in subdued compliance to Rodney's instructions. "What can I do to help?" he asked.
"Wash your hands and grate the cheese. No, the small-bore grater. And what part of 'wash your hands' did you not understand?"
Given what Blair had heard about how Rodney treated his graduate students, the university administration, and even his clients, it wasn't a shock to see what a martinet he was in the kitchen. He micromanaged without bothering to say 'please' once, and he regarded Blair's merely human senses with brisk contempt. Blair was permitted to tear lettuce ("Not like that. Here. Like this.") but not sort it. He could fill the tumblers with ice, but not steep the iced tea ("No, not you. Her. At least she has a descent nose"). He could stir the sauce, but not taste it for seasoning ("Get out of the way.").
Gil Grissom had grown a beard since Blair had first met him the previous spring. The guide with him was the same one he'd brought to the meeting about the Brackett case, even though they'd said they didn't normally work together.
"Hey," Blair said, trying to pretend the recent drama wasn't written all over his body chemistry and demeanor. "Welcome to Cascade. How was the flight?"
Introductions to Al and Rodney went smoothly enough: Rodney wasn't openly rude, and Al was charming and upbeat enough to cover Rodney's lack of enthusiasm.
Although not quite his rudeness: "So I hear your professional specialty is the bugs on corpses."
That got a laugh from the guide Sara, but Gil very innocently smiled and said, "The Los Vegas police department has the largest staff of sentinels in the country. It gives us each more of an opportunity to indulge in our specialties. Although, of course, if the case you're working requires scent tracking or refuse analysis, then that's what you do."
Al laughed. "Well, that's the last time I complain about a boring day at the clinic." He looked at Sara. "How do you stand it?"
She shrugged. "I'm also a forensic physicist. Even if I weren't a guide, I'd spend my days picking through garbage and collecting fingerprints."
"It can't be easy, finding people with the technical qualifications for both jobs," Al said. Blair squirmed inwardly, thinking of all the special training he didn't have.
"Can I ask you to speak a little more slowly?" Gil said. "I can't hear you."
Al frowned sympathetically. "Bad flight?" he guessed.
Gil grimaced. "I had surgery a couple of months ago to correct a hearing defect. It was...spectacularly unsuccessful."
Sara shifted, not quite moving protectively toward her partner. Blair couldn't keep from glancing away; he couldn't help thinking of Jim, and how impossible it would be to protect him if he were that much more vulnerable. Hell, as though being a sentinel wasn't isolating and dangerous and overwhelming enough--
Gil was watching him. Of course he was. Blair had been too surprised--and too tense to begin with--to contain his horror. He swallowed dryly. "Jim insisted in going in to work for several days when he couldn't see properly. I nearly gave my self an ulcer, I was so freaked out."
Blair had only been hoping to offer his honesty by way of apology, but Gil laughed aloud. "Most ulcers are caused by a bacterial infection. But I see your point. Especially since you go into uncleared crime scenes. That's an entirely different story. CSIs aren't police officers, not the way detective Ellison is. Most of my people are good about following policy and avoiding armed suspects."
Sara gently slapped his shoulder. "So says 'Mister-let's-go-chat-with-serial-killers.' And don't look all innocent."
They seemed...normal enough. Relaxed and confident, despite what had to have been--had to still be--a brutal adjustment.
Jim returned from the kitchen. He was carrying a tray laden with glasses of lemonade and iced tea. Blair was grateful for the distraction. Jack and the doctor were right behind him, and Blair had cause--again--to imagine what a smooth agent Jack must have been. He smiled and greeted his out of town guests as though everything were normal. If Blair hadn't have known better, he would have sworn he was happy to meet them.
Another round of introductions. As Marcia and Joel rejoined the group in the living room, the crowd became too large for a single conversation. Blair found himself facing Dr. Beckett, who smiled a little sheepishly and said, "Blair, right? Jack said you'd want to look me over yourself before I approached Detective Ellison about the study."
Blair had no intention of making any promises; if Jim wasn't interested in participating in research, Blair wasn't going to push it. "Dr. Beckett. It's nice to finally meet you. Your paper on household toxins was required reading in two of my classes." He smiled, "When my mom was looking for something really direct to read on dangerous products, I gave her yours."
Beckett froze in the middle of a slightly embarrassed smile. "Sandburg? You're not related to Naomi Sandburg? She's invited me to speak at a rally next month in Albany."
"Oh." Blair winced. "Yeah, that's Mom. There's a bill coming up before the New York State Assembly."
"I know all about it. Your mother moves very quickly."
"Well, she's hooked up with S-MoS."
"Which is suddenly getting as active in the East Coast as it's been in California for the last five years. Your mother is very ambitious."
"I dunno," Blair said, sobering. For all Sentinels-and Mothers of Sentinels had been *active* for years, they hadn't accomplished very much. "She's got enthusiasm and experience. But the business interests have lists and lists of how 'expensive' it would be to make the shift to less toxic products."
"Difficult is not the same thing as impossible."
Blair sighed. "It is worthwhile to fight for what's right, whether you're going to win or not...." It was a saying of his mother's. Usually what she said when things were hopeless.
"So, I take it you're with the camp who believe the crises last month were just the start of the beginning of the end?"
Shocked by the change in topic, Blair couldn't think of a response. 'The crises last month' when, over a period of several days, hundreds of sentinels all across the country had collapsed in waves with symptoms ranging from simple unconsciousness to wild hallucinations and grand mal seizures. "Is--is this the right place to talk about this?"
"This weekend, no one will be talking about anything else," the doctor said. "The sessions will all be on guide theory, but in the halls between, everyone will be asking, 'did you see an incident first hand?' and 'what are your theories on the cause?' And nobody has any good data, so the rumors won't have anything concrete to rest on." He sighed.
Blair swallowed. "There hasn't been an incident in weeks. We have no reason to expect it's going to happen again--"
"We have no idea why it happened in the first place, so we have no guarantee that it's over." His eyes narrowed slightly and Blair was acutely conscious that he was trying to keep secrets from a sentinel internationally famous for his powers of observation. "Jack didn't mention your partner was involved, and he's been consulting with me about a number of the sentinels here...."
This Blair did have a well-practiced answer to. "Jim was never impaired. He had some mild imperceptions, but it never interfered with his work."
"You were very lucky, then."
It was all Blair could do not to turn and look at Rodney McKay, who hadn't been particularly lucky. "Yeah," he said.
"But?" Sam prompted.
"But...medical science has never had a good understanding of sentinels. I just don't think we're going to find a simple answer there. And meanwhile, getting all wound up about this, we're just adding to their stress."
"That," Al said, leaning in to their conversation, "is what I've been saying for a while now. This can't be about biology, not with people in such different environments. It has to be cognitive."
"Um, what?" Blair asked.
"He means, *some* sentinels got upset at the same time. Hundreds of miles--thousands of miles--apart. About something. Which no one will admit to." He gave his guide a dirty look.
"So it was subconscious. Or subliminal. It wasn't sunspots or electromagnetism, and we've ruled out food additives and satellite interference."
"I refuse to believe what happened is beyond explanation. The crises happened, so they have a cause. And it's probably a little more plausible than something vague and 'cognitive.' "
Al sighed. "He winds up pretty fast, doesn't he?" he said to Blair.
"A lot of people are worried." And didn't that sound noncommittal. Blair managed not to wince at himself.
Jack rolled up, sliding easily between Sam and Blair. He touched Sam's hand and said, almost warningly, "Sam?"
Sam smiled. "No, I swear. I'm not harassing your student to participate in my research project. We were talking about the crises."
"Well, don't. I would rather not bring up the topic to Grissom in such a large group. And Rodney doesn't need to overhear everyone's speculation."
Sam frowned and shook his head. Jack gave him a dark look and murmured "It works and you know it." He turned to Blair. "And there go Marcia and Rodney into the kitchen. Go make sure they don't kill each other."
On any other day, Blair would have felt thrown to the lions with that, but by the time he reached the kitchen Marcia was already puttering around the kitchen in subdued compliance to Rodney's instructions. "What can I do to help?" he asked.
"Wash your hands and grate the cheese. No, the small-bore grater. And what part of 'wash your hands' did you not understand?"
Given what Blair had heard about how Rodney treated his graduate students, the university administration, and even his clients, it wasn't a shock to see what a martinet he was in the kitchen. He micromanaged without bothering to say 'please' once, and he regarded Blair's merely human senses with brisk contempt. Blair was permitted to tear lettuce ("Not like that. Here. Like this.") but not sort it. He could fill the tumblers with ice, but not steep the iced tea ("No, not you. Her. At least she has a descent nose"). He could stir the sauce, but not taste it for seasoning ("Get out of the way.").