“Who’ll be running this operation?” he asked.
At least Pinder had the decency not to try to pretend that he hadn’t been expecting it. It was, after all, as Corrigan could see by now, the whole point of the interview.
“Frank Tyron originated the proposal,” he reminded Corrigan. “His contacts and experience are right for this kind of work. And the Board were very insistent that a program that will involve a lot of coordination outside of CLC, and especially liaison with government departments, requires someone with his kind of background. I’m sorry, Joe. I know you’ve done some good work, but that’s the way it is.” He placed his hands palms-down on the desk and concluded briskly, before Corrigan could react, “The project will be designated COmbined Sensory and MOtor Stimulation: COSMOS. We’re at the beginning of a new year, and we want to get as much mileage out of that as possible. I’d like the current projects tidied up and loose ends cleared by the end of the week. There will be a meeting next Monday to brief everyone on the goals and tentative organizational structure for the new program.”
Even with it spelled out like that, Corrigan couldn’t bring himself to capitulating ignominiously to instant acceptance. “I’ll have to think it over,” he replied, too numbed for the moment to be capable of responding more effectively.
Pinder nodded. “I understand. Tomorrow morning will be fine.”
Corrigan left in a daze shortly after. He didn’t feel like a person at all, but more a financial statistic or a function in an organization chart, whose feelings and self-esteem faceless people in five-hundred-dollar suits and limousines could trample on at will. The indignation came later.
* * *
“Christ, Eric, they’re just sweeping the two of us aside, putting us under this outsider that we don’t even know.” Corrigan turned and flung his hands out appealingly to Shipley, who was watching from a stool at a bench in the DINS lab. Evelyn sat listening from a paper-strewn desk to one side. “I mean, if we’d nothing of any note to show after these years, I could understand it. But there wouldn’t be any plans for them to be making, without us. . . . You and I, we made this project. It’s ours. They can’t just hand it over like this.”
“A lot of things have been going on that we don’t know about,” Shipley said. “Things that go back to before Tyron even joined the company.”
“Oh? Like what?”
“I’d bet that Tyron had a lot to do with that information at SDC not being made public. He had some kind of deal worked out before he left the SDC—that he’d bring it with him into an area where it can be exploited commercially. Some people are going to make a lot of money out of this, Joe. But it won’t be us.”
It took a moment for Corrigan to see fully what Shipley was saying. “Surely not,” he protested.
Shipley shrugged. “Why do you say that? It wouldn’t exactly be the first time something like that has happened. As a matter of fact, I did some quiet checking on the side while you and Evelyn were away. There are no licenses payable for using the VIV technology that was pioneered at SDC, and I’m pretty sure the same is true for DIVAC. That means that the information can be used freely by anyone now, without restrictions. So Tyron can bring his know-how into CLC and earn himself a lot of gratitude. That’s what it’s all about.”
Evelyn sat back in her chair. “What can you do?” she said. “I guess we’re just a different kind of people. That’s the way things have always been with half the world. Probably they always will.”
Corrigan snorted. “Are you saying we should lie back and enjoy it? Well, you can if you want. But I’ll be hanged if I will.”
“What do you propose?” Shipley asked, not bothering to disguise his skepticism.
Corrigan turned away and banged the side of a steel electronics cubicle with the flat of his hand. “Right now, Eric, I don’t know,” he muttered. “But dammit, I’ll think of something.”