“Then why are you fooling around with it? How much time and resources has all this stuff taken up? What effect has all this had on the work you’re paid to be doing? Massey describes it as a hobby, but I don’t believe it’s quite as simple as that. I’ve checked the amount of computer usage you’ve logged over the past six months and I’ve checked the current status of the projects you’re supposed to be working on. They’re all way behind schedule. So, where’s all the computer time going?”
“I don’t suppose Einstein had the A-bomb in mind when he developed special relativity,” Clifford retorted, ducking the feint and walking straight into the uppercut.
“Einstein!” Corrigan repeated the word for the benefit of the jury. “He’s telling us he’s another Einstein. Is that right, Dr. Clifford—you consider yourself to be on a par with Einstein?”
“I didn’t say anything of the kind, and you damn well know I didn’t.” Clifford had recovered sufficiently to return Corrigan’s look with a glare that could only be described as murderous. He knew that he was being drawn on to Corrigan’s home ground. Somehow he didn’t really care much any more.
“You’re saying that we ought to allow you to dabble around with anything that takes your fancy and at whatever expense, simply in case you happen to hit upon something useful. Is that how we’re supposed to preserve the security of the West? Doesn’t the concept of organized professional objectivity mean anything to you people? How long do we have to protect you and the freedom that you’re always talking about before you wake up to reality?”
Edwards stared uncomfortably at the table, having joined Massey in abdication. It was all up to Corrigan now.
“This isn’t some kind of philosopher’s utopia where anybody is owed the right to any living he chooses,” Corrigan continued. “It’s a dog-eat-dog jungle; the strong survive and the weak go to the wall. To stay strong we have to get our priorities straight. Your priorities are all screwed up. Now you’re asking us to follow suit and compound the offense by approving it.”
He took a long, deep breath for effect. “No way. There’s no way I’m going to tell Professor Edwards to give a carte blanche for even more time-wasting and misuse of funds and resources.”
Actually, Corrigan couldn’t tell Edwards to do anything. His use of the word was deliberate, however, serving as a gentle reminder of his own power, if not authority, at ACRE. Edwards didn’t argue the point. He knew that Corrigan’s reports back to the Bureau would have a lot to do with whether he ever moved on to become chief at ACRE or something similar, or whether he ended up running a backwater missile test range on the northern coast of Baffin Island.
When the victim has been battered to a pulp and stripped of every shred of dignity, he becomes highly suggestible and will respond eagerly to even a slight gesture of friendship. Prison guards had been well versed in the technique throughout history. And Corrigan understood psychology well; he knew what made people tick all right.
His tone softened a fraction. “Everyone’s out of step except you, Dr. Clifford. We’re all a team here, trying to do a good job. Why make it difficult? Once you make the effort to fit in, you might find that life’s not really that bad.
“Don’t you feel you owe it to this country and all it stands for—the way of life we all believe in? Isn’t it worth a few sacrifices to protect all that? Right now half the world out there is sitting and waiting for us to ease up for just one second so they can blow us all off the face of this planet. Are you just going to sit there and let it happen? Do you want them to come walking in here without having to lift a finger?” Corrigan finished on a note that oozed all-in-it-togetherness. “Or are you gonna join the team, do your share, and help us go out there and zap those bastards?”
Clifford had turned white. Corrigan and his propaganda epitomized everything abhorrent in a world that was going insane. And now he was expecting to enlist Clifford in the ranks of the brainwashed millions who had toiled and bled and died believing that line ever since the world began. There would always be Corrigans to ride on the backs of the masses—for as long as there were willing backs to carry them. Clifford’s voice fell to a whisper as he fought to control the anger that boiled inside, churning his stomach and bubbling up into the back of his throat like waves of nausea.