Gary Lesserec looked up, stepping away from a high-resolution monitor and smiling like a real butt-kisser. Michaelson held a hand to his eyes in the bright fluorescent light, which seemed much harsher than the outside sunlight he had just seen around the employee swimming pool.
Dressed in shorts and a Spiderman t-shirt, Lesserec contrasted with Michaelson’s more formal attire of dress pants and long-sleeve shirt. Lesserec’s chubby body looked soft and white from not being out in the sun; his skin had toothbrush-paint spatters of freckles. His dark, brownish-red hair framed a face with muddy green eyes and an insincere grin, even when he meant it.
“So, are you a believer now, Hal?” Lesserec looked smug.
“It certainly works,” Michaelson admitted.
“And damn fine, too,” chuckled one of the programmers. Katie something-or-other, Michaelson thought her name was. He could never remember all the underlings and simply read their badges when he had to. Katie turned and gave a high-five slap to the person next to her. “That swimming pool is so real, it’s refreshing just to look at it.”
Though the pool scene seemed lighthearted and ordinary, Michaelson knew it was the most indicative, the most realistic use of the VR surveillance technology that had so interested the President and the Defense community.
But the scene he remembered most was the vision of himself standing up in the clouds, like a titan looming over the world. He actually longed to be back in the chamber, controlling everything that happened, tweaking reality with a twitch of his fingertips.
With the deep importance of the moment, it disappointed Michaelson that he couldn’t switch off Lesserec’s catty grin. Things had been much better in the old days when he had been surrounded with other hard-driving physicists, rather than Yuppie computer whiz-kids who were smart far beyond their social abilities. Of course, some people might have said the same about physicists — but Michaelson worked with the best raw material his budget would allow, and he wrung out results far beyond anyone’s expectations.
Michaelson pulled himself up to his full height so that he loomed over everyone there. He stepped around the fabric cubicle partitions into the control room. Every station seemed to have at least one can of Diet Coke resting uneasily in an open spot among the papers and software manuals, as if it were some sort of official team drink.
“Congratulations — but we’ve celebrated enough. The Pentagon will be slobbering to buy these chambers to replace their current inventory of airplane simulators. That’s an easy sell, so we’ll dismiss it for now.” He waved his hand. “That’s not where I want this project to be heading.”
Lesserec rocked forward in his chair, looking wary. His grin flickered once, then died. “You’re not going to change our milestones again, are you Hal? The DoD sponsored the research behind the VR chamber. I thought they were expecting new simulator technologies.”
Michaelson frowned disapprovingly at Lesserec’s Spiderman t-shirt, but the kid never seemed to catch subtleties. “Don’t worry, the Pentagon will earn their investment back tenfold, but not the way they imagined.”
Lesserec leaned back in his burnt-orange swivel chair. He rubbed his freckled hands together. “So we’ll still have a job even after we’re through with the project?” He picked up one of the pens the Livermore supply mavens had deemed to be the popular pen of the month, a Pentel ballpoint with rubberized grip, and flipped it end over end, clacking it on the table. “Give us a hint about this mysterious new direction?”
Michaelson watched his young assistant for a moment before answering. Lesserec should have known to ask that question behind a closed office door, not in this zoo with every member of the project watching. Michaelson didn’t like to burden his technical team with too many details, but lately Lesserec had been pressing him for information he should not have had to worry about.
Michaelson had kept his upcoming announcement on a “close hold” basis for long enough. It was part of his automatic habit of secrecy carried over from the way business had been conducted at the Livermore Lab throughout Michaelson’s career. He had spent his career establishing the fusion-power Laser Implosion Fusion Facility, then moved to a stint as an on-site disarmament inspector in the former Soviet Union, to the formation of T Program for virtual reality surveillance.
Even now, more than half a century since the first atomic blast out in the New Mexico desert, the detailed knowledge of the design and manufacture of nukes was highly classified. The entire Livermore Lab infrastructure, and its overlord the Department of Energy, had been predicated upon producing nuclear weapons and keeping that knowledge away from upstart nations. The poltical bosses were still warming up from the Cold War, not sure what to do with their mittens.
“You’ll need to move your sensors to a new location. That’s the only hint you get, Gary.”
Gary’s eyes widened. “Didn’t like the swimming pool? I could move the sensors to the women’s locker room if you want.”
Michaelson ignored Lesserec’s statement. “Our plutonium processing facility will give a more realistic test of how the VR chamber is ultimately going to be used. The Pentagon will want statistics on VR surveillance, reliability, and resolution. Just plan to have another demo up and running within the next few weeks.
“I’m leaving for Washington this afternoon, but I’ve already worked it out for you to have access to install the test sensors in Building 332. Our Associate Director promises his ‘fullest cooperation.’“ With a change in the tone of his voice he emphasized the last two words.
Even Lesserec snorted, and Michaelson resisted a smile at his deputy’s reaction. Everyone in T program knew how much Michaelson despised his de facto boss, Associate Director for Tech-Transfer/Defense Conversion, José Aragon.
Lesserec caught the rubber-grip pen he had been flipping and looked up with his muddy eyes. “I still think those Pentagon dudes would rather fly the jet simulator any day. What’s the rush?”
Michaelson crossed his arms over his broad chest, feeling like a schoolteacher in front of the group. Why couldn’t Lesserec just shut up and do what he was told?
“If you haven’t noticed, we are no longer in the bomb business. Defense conversion. Technology transfer.” He lowered his voice. “Scrambling like panicked chickens to find something important to do before the budget goes away entirely. Somebody’s got to look ahead. We’ve got to respond to market conditions now.” He focused on Lesserec, ignoring the others in the common area and knowing that was the best way to get them all to pay the most attention.
“Look, I’ve got the President’s ear on this. I’m not at liberty to say exactly what we’re going to be involved with, but it’ll make your little airplane simulator look like a piddly Nintendo game.”
Lesserec tossed the pen across his desk where it clattered against an empty Diet Coke can. He flashed his insincere smile again. “Don’t sell the videogame business short, Hal. The entertainment market is growing bigger than the weapons business. Maybe it’s already bigger.”
Michaelson sighed. “Just watch my news conference tomorrow afternoon. I don’t think the networks will broadcast it, but CNN carries everything. I’ll be back from Washington the day after tomorrow — by then I want you to have a plan for installing an entire suite of sensors in the plutonium building.”
The telephone in Lesserec’s private cubicle rang, giving Michaelson a chance to depart as the young deputy went to grab it. He slipped around the fabric dividers as Lesserec waved for him to wait. Got to have a reason for everything, Michaelson mumbled to himself. What ever happened to the concept of group leader?