Wrong answer, thought Peter. "Here." He placed the chip on the table. It was
a copy of My Cure, but one altered by a night’s work of careful errors. Brilliant errors. Pour of them, all very subtle, so subtle that they would lead
anyone off the right path and into years of wasted work. His father picked up 
the chip and placed it in his computer. Peter turned around and placed his 
finger against the chip in his right breast pocket, the P. Clarris chip, the 
last remaining copy of his work. He applied firm pressure and felt the chip 
shatter between his finger and his chest. The pressure against his chest as the 
chip shattered carried reverberations into his heart. He turned back to his 
father and said, "Look it over. You’ll get to use all of it if you go back to
Cell Works."