Distraction - Bruce Sterling [128]
“What’s the catch?”
“The catch is—the Collaboratory is in a small financial bind at the moment, so you’ll have to ship us an entire year’s corporate R&D funding, up front. Given our understanding, can you clear that financial move with your people in Detroit?”
“Well, I’ll have to talk to Dad about it.”
“You have a word with the higher-ups, Ron. Tell Dad and the other board members that if they don’t accept my offer pronto, I’ll turn this entire lab’s brainpower onto that project. And we’ll be shipping sugar engines out the doors by next June. In a giant blaze of publicity.” He hung up.
“Did you really mean all that?” Kevin said. He’d been eavesdropping with great interest.
“I don’t know,” Oscar said. “I just came into some luck there. I happened to know the buttons that work on good old Ronnie, and the whole scheme just came to me in a blaze of inspiration. It’s a very weird, lateral move, but it gets us off three or four hooks at once. It wins us a nice financial breathing space. Ron’s happy, we’re happy, everyone but Chander is happy, and Chander was finished anyway. Because Chander got in my face by stealing my moves.”
“You can’t really protect the car industry from a basic scientific discovery like a new power source.”
“Kevin, wake up. You need to stop thinking like a technician. Where did that habit ever get you? Don’t you see what I just pulled here? For the first time ever, we’re getting people to pay us not to do research. That is a genuine new power source. For the first time, federal scientists have a real economic weapon—they can carry the war right to their enemy. Who cares about another damned battery? It’s probably a crock anyway. Did you ever see an atomic-powered car? Just because it’s technically possible doesn’t mean it’s practically doable.”
“People will do something with it anyway. You politicians can’t control the flow of technical knowledge. They’ll exploit it no matter what the government says.”
“Kevin, I know that. I am living proof of that phenomenon. It’s what made me what I am today.”
At two in the morning on January 20, there came a tap on Oscar’s hotel room door. It was Fred Dillen, the krewe’s janitor and launderer. Fred was drunk—the krewe had been celebrating the official and long-awaited swearing-in of Senator Bambakias, while drinking many patriotic toasts to the new Administration of President Two Feathers. Fred was accompanied by a chunky Anglo woman in her thirties, who was wearing bright orange medical-emergency gear.
“Party getting out of hand?” Oscar said.
“Oscar, this lady needs to talk to you,” Fred said.
“I didn’t know what room you were in,” the paramedic said sullenly. “Had to bust in on a whole bunch of drunks downstairs.”
“I’m glad you’re here. Is there a problem?” Oscar said.
“Yeah. We have an injured female, mid-thirties. She broke her ankle. But she says she doesn’t want to go to our clinic. She won’t even give us her name and ID. She says she wants to talk with you first.”
“What clinic are you taking her to?” Oscar said.
“Well, we want to take her to the ER in Buna. She wanted to go into the Collaboratory, but we can’t take her in there. They got all these giant airlocks and all this security crap and besides, we’re not legally cleared to do ER services inside a federal facility.”
“What happened to her? How did she have the accident?”
“Well, she says she just happened to be walkin’ over here in the middle of the road, in the middle of the night, and she tripped on something,” The paramedic looked at Oscar with distaste. “Listen, all this is way against regulations. Most people who break a leg are plenty happy to see an ambulance. But she wouldn’t shut up about it. She begged me to find some guy named Valparaiso, so now I found you. You wanna do something about it? Because if you don’t, adiós, muchacho.”
“No, please don’t be hasty, I’ll go with you. I very much want