Distraction - Bruce Sterling [65]
“Yes, I know, Etienne.”
“It’s a cryin’ shame, you fillin’ out them federal grants in quintuplicate. A woman like you needs a free hand! Let’s just say that you fancy workin’ on … blocking the uptake of methylspiropedirol in extrastriatal dopamine receptors. Might sound kinda funny to the layman, but that’s all the difference between sanity and total schizophrenia. I defy you to find a single elected federal official who can even pronounce them words! But that’s the coming thing. Digital … biological … and now cognitive. Plain as the nose on my brain. You think we’re gonna sit here in Acadiana, as the only nonnative people in America ever subjected to forced ethnic cleansing, and watch a bunch of POINTY-HEADED FAT CATS tryin’ to OUTTHINK US? Out-goddamn-THINK us? In a pig’s eye, sister!”
“I don’t do cognition, Etienne. I’m just a neural tech.”
“You won the Nobel for establishing the glial basis of attention, and you’re claiming you don’t do cognition?”
“I do neurons and glial cells. I do neurochemical wave propagation. But I don’t do consciousness. That’s not a term of art. It’s metaphysics.”
“You’re a mile deep, darlin’. But you’re an inch wide. It ain’t metaphysics when it’s sitting on a table in front of you with an apple in its mouth. Look, we known each other a long time. You know old Huey, don’t you? You’re a friend of Huey’s, you can have anything you want. Anything you want!”
“I just want to work in my lab.”
“You got it! Send me the specs! What do you want, airtight? We got sulfur and salt mines a mile down, holes bigger than downtown Baton Rouge. Do whatever the hell you want down there! Seal the doors behind you. Science, the endless frontier, darlin’! Can’t ask for better than that! Never sign an impact statement again! Just get your results and publish, that’s all I’m askin’! Just get your results and publish.”
Oscar and Greta returned to the beach house at four in the morning. They watched from the deck railings as the headlights of their six-car state police escort turned and faded into darkness.
The krewe, alerted by Fontenot, had been carefully guarding the beach house. It had not been entered or searched. That seemed like a small comfort. “I can’t believe that people came up to him and kissed his hands,” Oscar said.
“There were only three of them.”
“They kissed his hands! They were weeping, and kissing his hands!”
“He’s made a lot of difference to the local people,” Greta said, yawning. “He’s given them hope.” She stepped into the bathroom with her overnight bag, and shut the door.
Oscar went into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door. His hands were shaking. Huey hadn’t cracked him. Oscar hadn’t lost his temper or his nerve; but he was appalled at the speed of the man’s reaction and the swift price he’d had to pay for taking foolish risks in Huey’s sphere of influence. He found an apple in the fridge and picked it up absently. Then he went in and sat in the hideous armchair. He stood up again, immediately. “He had that place packed with armed goons, and those people were kissing his hands!”
“The Governor needs bodyguards, he lives a very dangerous life,” Greta said from behind the bathroom door. “Oscar, why did he call you the ‘Soap Salesman’?”
“Oh, that. That was my first company. A biotech app. We made emulsifiers for dishwashing liquid. People don’t think these things through, you know. They think biotech should be fancy and elaborate. But soap is a major consumer item. You get a five percent processing edge in a commodity market like soap, and the buyout guys will beat your doors down.…” His words trailed off. She was brushing her teeth, she wasn’t listening.
She came out in a white flannel nightgown. It was ankle-length and had a little pastel bow at the neck. She opened her overnight bag and pulled out a compact air filter.
“Allergies?” Oscar said.
“Yes. The air outside the dome … well, outside air always smells funny