Tilman Lipsitz walks shyly into the lab. On his left, Skinner slices the heads from rats after exposing them to shocks, pressure, and ice water, in the hope that their glandular secretions will tell him something about stress. On his right, Sheila, who's body screams desire at him every moment he sees her, shaves the hair from guinea pigs in preparation for electrode placement. Both sneer in contempt as he passes.

Further into the lab, another researcher is driving electrode spikes into a dog's shaved skull. A black Lab puppy, its vocal cords cut out, is dragging is denervated haunches along the wire mesh of the cage. And distant is the sound of a truck, bringing in a shipment of cats for experiments, packed dozens to a cage.

But Tilman has a secret. He loves his experimental "subjects", feeds them, cares for them, speaks gently to them. Unfortunately, his supervisor is after results, and so far Tilman has presented nothing of note. What's wrong with being gentle?