The Saturday Serial, Part 2.

The door to the crime lab burst open as if propelled by the force of an explosion, which in a way it was.

Standing at a workbench not far away, August Fenwick did not flinch or look up at all from the microscope into which he was peering.

He knew from long practice that the burst of energy that rocked his underground layer

was actually his lovely wife,

home from an evening of solo crime patrol with something on her mind.

He fiddled unnecessarily with the focus of his microscope

because she had once told him it was terribly attractive,

though it was possible she might have been joking.

"'Hello, darling,' he said as if he were just noticing her presence. Did you have a busy day?

Don't start with me, the flying squirrel said, flipping up her goggles and pulling back her cowl.

Her hair emerged from confinement like a startled crimson sheep that had possibly been struck by lightning.

He had seen it a thousand times and it had never failed to win his full attention instantly.

He pushed back from the table slightly, placed his elbows on the table,

folded his hands before his face cross-fingered, and considered the random magnificence of it all.

She closed her eyes and seemed to be counting to ten and doing it badly.

"'I don't want to hear about my cowlhead, she warned.

Do you know what I think it is? he asked, ignoring this.

I think that back in the day, before we ever would admit to thinking such things,

removing the cowl was like getting a very little bit undressed in front of me.

"'Cast!' she scolded, scandalized, but in no way trying to make him stop.

"'It seems to have formed a permanent association,' he continued.

...