Incinerating in three, two, one.

Slate says just before he pushes the button.

We both look through the thick reinforced glass window down in the containment room as the incinerator fires up.

There's a large black and brown Grecian-style vase sitting on a raised grate in the middle of the room.

But we aren't concerned with that right now.

Instead, we're watching a small, ugly

creature scurry around, making strange noises. The clacking of its claws on the steel-grade floor

is audible over the rushing sound of the incinerator underneath the floor. Soon enough, the creature

stops moving, although it's now lost to sight, obscured by the growing

flames.

We can tell it's no longer moving because the long, razor-sharp claws at the end of each

of its four legs are no longer tapping on the floor.

The incinerator cycles off.

I sit back in my chair on my side of the control panel, leaning on the viewing window,

wondering what I'll have for dinner tonight. Slate is still leaning forward, looking down into the room,

a concerned look on his face. You get used to it, I say to him. Pretty soon it gets pretty

boring. Although those things that come out of that vase still give me the creeps.

I'm not afraid to admit it.

Uh, Blaylock, Slate says.

Is this normal?

What? I ask.

Just look, man.

...