Distraction - Bruce Sterling [100]
“You don’t mind traveling to Texas? You don’t mind missing Christmas? We’ll be flying there right away.”
“I don’t care. Not as long as I can still log on to my own servers.”
The door chimed. Moments later, Donna arrived with an airmailed packet.
“Is that for me?” Kevin said brightly. He eviscerated the package with a massive Swiss Army knife. “Mayonnaise,” he announced unconvincingly, producing a sealed jar of unlabeled white goo. “This stuff could be really handy.” He stuffed the jar into his accordion-sided valise.
“She’s arrived,” Donna whispered.
“I have to see another guest,” Oscar told Kevin.
“Another ‘guest’?” Kevin winked. “What happened to the cute one in the bathrobe?”
“Can you get back to me in the morning with your decision?”
“No, man, I’ve made up my mind. I’m gonna do it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, it sounds like a nice change of pace. I’ll get right on the job. Clear it with your sysadmin, and I’ll see what I can do about shoring up your net.”
7
Life in the Collaboratory lacked the many attractive facilities of the Back Bay in Boston. Oscar and Greta met in a broken car in the dark parking lot behind the Vehicle Repair Facility. This assignation spot was Kevin Hamilton’s idea. Kevin was very big on secure meetings inside anonymous cars. Kevin was no Secret Service agent, but he brimmed over with rule-of-thumb street smarts.
“I’m afraid,” Greta confessed.
Oscar adjusted his jacket, tugging for elbow room. The car was so small that they were almost sitting in each other’s laps. “How could you have stage fright over such a simple thing? You gave a Nobel Prize speech in Stockholm once.”
“But then I was talking about my own work. I can always do that. This is different. You want me to stand up in front of the board of directors and tell them off to their face. In front of a big crowd of my friends and colleagues. I’m not cut out for that.”
“Actually, you are cut out for it, Greta. You’re absolutely perfect for the role. I knew it from the moment I saw you.”
Greta examined her laptop screen. It was the only light inside the dead vehicle, and it underlit their faces with a gentle glow. They were meeting at two in the morning. “If it’s really this bad here—as bad as you claim it is—then it’s really no use fighting, is it? I should just resign.”
“No, you don’t have to resign. The point of this speech is that they have to resign.” Oscar touched her hand. “You don’t have to say anything you don’t know to be true.”
“Well, I know some of these things are true, because I leaked them to you myself. But I would never have said them out loud. And I wouldn’t have said them this way. This speech, or this rant, or whatever it is—it’s a violent political attack! It’s not scholarly. It’s not objective.”
“Then let’s talk about how you should say it. After all, you’re the speaker—you’re the one who has to reach the audience, not me. Let’s go over your talking points.”
She scrolled up and down fitfully, and sighed. “All right. I guess this is the worst part, right here. This business about scientists being an oppressed class. ‘A group whose exploitation should be recognized and ended.’ Scientists rising up in solidarity to demand justice—good Lord, I can’t say that! It’s too radical, it sounds crazy!”
“But you are an oppressed class. It’s the truth, it’s the central burning truth of your existence. Science took the wrong road somewhere, the whole enterprise has been shot to hell. You’ve lost your proper niche in society. You’ve lost prestige, and your self-respect, and the high esteem that scientists once held in the eyes of the public. Demands are being made of you that you’ll never be able to fulfill. You don’t have intellectual freedom anymore. You live in intellectual bondage.”
“That doesn’t make us some kind of ‘oppressed class.’ We’re an elite cadre of highly educated experts.”
“So what? Your situation stinks! You have no power to make your own decisions about