Jo Shapcott　　One day the technicians touched souls as they exchanged everyday noises above the pipette.

　　Then they knew that the state of molecules was not humdrum.

　　The inscriptions on the specimen jars which lined the room in racks took fire in their minds: what were yesterday mere hieroglyphs from the periodic table became today urgent proof that even here - laboratory life - writing is mystical.

　　The jars glinted under their labels: it had taken fifteen years to collect and collate them.

　　Now the pair were of one mind.

　　Quietly, methodically they removed the labels from each of the thousands of jars.

It took all night.

　　At dawn, rows of bare glass winked at their exhausted coupling against the fume cupboard.

　　Using their white coats as a disguise they took their places at the bench and waited for the morning shift.

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