stared at the three rows of fluorescent lights that ran three-quarters the length of the ceiling. Light reflected from the dirty aqua walls and ceiling and filled the room with the dull-green glow of a rainy day at the seashore.
Reedan, looking dazed, dragged a chair from under the oak table in the center of the room and sat facing Surling.
Keeping his face to the ceiling, Surling eyed his cellmate. Probably one of the contemporary replacements for the Whores of Babylon, he thought. They were everywhere. Today’s whores arrived complete with a PhD in science or engineering and called themselves research scientists, professors, and consultants. Unlike the old days when he started his career, they no longer searched for nature’s truths—science’s ultimate goal. Instead, they gladly sold their ass to the bureaucrats of the university, government, and business for whatever they could get in the way of grants. For many, their highest objective was to be a manager, to become one of the bean-counting bureaucrats that squeezed the balls of those doing the work. Then they sat around and tried to figure out why the Chinese, Japanese, and Koreans, among others, were beating the shit out of us in technology.
On the tour of the facilities, Reedan played the role of the curious scientist, full of questions about the equipment, especially the computer. With his earnest face, he could pass for a first-year grad student, overwhelmed by the fantastic work ahead. Even if Reedan wasn’t one of today’s science whores, there were definitely two of them on the job, selling their services for all they could get. There was a difference, though. As opposed to most of the whores, who just talked and excreted paper, these assholes had assembled a hell of a factory and were out to make the world’s most dangerous product.
Surling straightened up. “It’s you and me against them, huh, son?” He flipped off his glasses, set them on the arm of the couch, and massaged his naked face. “I’d say they’re Mafia. Russian Mafia, judging by the accent.”
“Mafia?” Reedan asked.
Surling studied him: A typical drudge, never thinking beyond what’s on his computer screen.
“That guy Lormes. Did you think he was one of your run-of-the-mill entrepreneurs? Did you think this was a government technology transfer of intellectual property project?”
Technology transfer and intellectual property: four of today’s favorite buzzwords of the technology bureaucrats, a new way to siphon government money into their bureaucracies.
“Who else but Mafia could steal all that nuclear material? It’s probably a new business venture for them. After drugs, what? Hire yourself a scientist with a British accent and go into the bomb-making business.”
Surling dug a cigarette package out of his shirt pocket, probed inside, and crumpled it. He tossed it across the room at the beat-up green wastebasket between the white stove and matching refrigerator on the far wall. It landed far to the right, in front of the scratched white sink. We’ve got all the comforts of home, including a microwave, he thought. “Got a cigarette?”
“I don’t smoke.”
Surling sniffed a laugh. “I’ve wanted to quit.”
“How about the facilities we saw?” Reedan asked. “That’s a powerful computer.”
“They were something, alright.” Naturally, the kid would be impressed with the computer, although the tour encompassed five rooms, each containing the latest equipment needed to process any kind of nuclear material. And they had nuclear material, most of it still in the shipping containers. How the hell did they get it?
Their tour guides, Applenu and Drafton, led them first to a chemical-processing room filled with work benches and shelves lined with chemicals and reaction vessels. He should have such equipment in his university lab. Equipment included a brand-new dry box—an atmosphere chamber used to safely handle toxic materials. And plutonium is toxic. One
Reedan, looking dazed, dragged a chair from under the oak table in the center of the room and sat facing Surling.
Keeping his face to the ceiling, Surling eyed his cellmate. Probably one of the contemporary replacements for the Whores of Babylon, he thought. They were everywhere. Today’s whores arrived complete with a PhD in science or engineering and called themselves research scientists, professors, and consultants. Unlike the old days when he started his career, they no longer searched for nature’s truths—science’s ultimate goal. Instead, they gladly sold their ass to the bureaucrats of the university, government, and business for whatever they could get in the way of grants. For many, their highest objective was to be a manager, to become one of the bean-counting bureaucrats that squeezed the balls of those doing the work. Then they sat around and tried to figure out why the Chinese, Japanese, and Koreans, among others, were beating the shit out of us in technology.
On the tour of the facilities, Reedan played the role of the curious scientist, full of questions about the equipment, especially the computer. With his earnest face, he could pass for a first-year grad student, overwhelmed by the fantastic work ahead. Even if Reedan wasn’t one of today’s science whores, there were definitely two of them on the job, selling their services for all they could get. There was a difference, though. As opposed to most of the whores, who just talked and excreted paper, these assholes had assembled a hell of a factory and were out to make the world’s most dangerous product.
Surling straightened up. “It’s you and me against them, huh, son?” He flipped off his glasses, set them on the arm of the couch, and massaged his naked face. “I’d say they’re Mafia. Russian Mafia, judging by the accent.”
“Mafia?” Reedan asked.
Surling studied him: A typical drudge, never thinking beyond what’s on his computer screen.
“That guy Lormes. Did you think he was one of your run-of-the-mill entrepreneurs? Did you think this was a government technology transfer of intellectual property project?”
Technology transfer and intellectual property: four of today’s favorite buzzwords of the technology bureaucrats, a new way to siphon government money into their bureaucracies.
“Who else but Mafia could steal all that nuclear material? It’s probably a new business venture for them. After drugs, what? Hire yourself a scientist with a British accent and go into the bomb-making business.”
Surling dug a cigarette package out of his shirt pocket, probed inside, and crumpled it. He tossed it across the room at the beat-up green wastebasket between the white stove and matching refrigerator on the far wall. It landed far to the right, in front of the scratched white sink. We’ve got all the comforts of home, including a microwave, he thought. “Got a cigarette?”
“I don’t smoke.”
Surling sniffed a laugh. “I’ve wanted to quit.”
“How about the facilities we saw?” Reedan asked. “That’s a powerful computer.”
“They were something, alright.” Naturally, the kid would be impressed with the computer, although the tour encompassed five rooms, each containing the latest equipment needed to process any kind of nuclear material. And they had nuclear material, most of it still in the shipping containers. How the hell did they get it?
Their tour guides, Applenu and Drafton, led them first to a chemical-processing room filled with work benches and shelves lined with chemicals and reaction vessels. He should have such equipment in his university lab. Equipment included a brand-new dry box—an atmosphere chamber used to safely handle toxic materials. And plutonium is toxic. One
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