He glanced uncertainly at Harry who smiled and nodded. “You’re doing good. Go on.”
“Mmmm…,” said Seymour, picking up where he’d left off. But he seemed stuck on the sound.
Ellis held up a hand. “All right. He can’t say his name. Whatcan he say?”
Harry turned to the sim. “Did you have breakfast?”
The sim nodded. “Eth.”
“Are you hungry now?”
A head shake. “Oh.”
Ellis waited but gathered from the look on Harry’s face that the show was over.
“That’s it? He’s your best and his entire vocabulary consists of two incomplete words and half his name?”
Ellis tried to keep the anger from his voice—none of this was Harry’s fault—but still he heard it slip through. Because damn it, hewas angry. When was he going to see some results? The sim sensed his emotion and shrank back a step.
Harry rested a reassuring hand on the creature’s shoulder. “Seymour’s doing the best that he can.”
Ellis wanted to beat his fists on his desk and scream,It’s not enough! Notnearly enough! Instead he sighed and leaned back in his swivel chair.
“You don’t work them hard enough.” Maybe Harry had been around sims too long. An inherently gentle man, maybe he was identifying with them too much, cutting them too much slack. And maybe Harry was thinking about another sim, a special long-ago sim who was gone. “You’re too easy on them.”
“What do you want me to do?” Harry said, his face darkening. “Whip them?”
“No, of course not.” What an awful thought.
“Not Seymour’s fault if his hyoid’s not up to par with the main breed’s.”
The hyoid—always the damn hyoid. The little arch of bone that supported the tongue and its muscles was crucial to human speech. Ellis’s new lines all lacked a fully developed hyoid bone.
That wasn’t the only thing not up to par. “Ever hear of evolutionary synergy, Harry?”
The big man’s brow furrowed. “I don’t recall…”
“You wouldn’t have. It’s a new theory I’ve developed as a result of my recent work. It’s the subtle, as yet unquantifiable cooperation between genes that have evolved together. It’s so subtle that I can’t prove it, but I know it’s there, I know it’s true.”
“What’s that got to do with Seymour?” Harry said.
“Everything.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know.”
He saw Harry glance at the plastic pill organizer on his desk—three compartments labeledAM ,AFT, andPM . Ellis always left it in plain sight, to maintain his image as a heavily medicated eccentric. But the pills were for show. He’d been off medication for quite some time now.
Harry led the sim to the door, signaled for the handler, then closed it after them.
“Mr. Sinclair,” he said, approaching the desk. “I work your new breeds harder than the main breed, and—”
“I know you do, Harry.” Ellis stared at his hands, bunched into fists. “It’s just that it’s so damn frustrating.”
“Youthink it’s frustrating? How about for me and my staff? We slave with these new breeds day after day and get nowhere. And we keep asking ourselveswhy …why does the company keep developing breeds that are inferior to the one we already have?”
Not the company, Ellis thought. Me. Just me.
“I can’t go into that, Harry.”
“Then can you tell me what’s wrong with the main breed that you want to correct?”
Everything!Ellis wanted to shout.Every fucking thing!
“I’m afraid I can’t go into that either.”
“It has something to do with the sealed section then.” A statement.
The sealed section…only a handful of employees in the basic research building knew it existed, and even they didn’t know that most of it was underground. No access through the main areas; the only entry and exit was through an enclosed loading dock on the northwest corner of the building. Sealed staff never mixed with other employees; they ate and slept where they worked, leaving only on weekends in enclosed trucks.
This he could answer truthfully. “No, Harry. It does not.”
Harry stood silent a moment. “Then what? I would think that I’ve proven myself loyal enough by now to be entrusted—”
“Please, Harry,” Ellis said, holding up a hand. “It’s not a question of trust. It’s a matter of…” Of what? What could he say? “A matter of deciding which way the company should go in the future. We haven’t agreed—haven’t decided on which way that will be. But when we do, I assure you, you’ll be the first to know.” Ellis noted that this seemed to salve Harry’s wounded pride.
“But until then,” he added, “bear with the frustration. I promise you, it will be well worth it in the end.”
IfI succeed.
Harry’s smile was lopsided. “I’ll trust you on that.”
Harry left and Ellis was alone with the chrome-framed faces of his children staring at him across the desktop. Robbie and Julie…God, he missed them. Somewhere along the course of his consuming monomania he’d forgotten about them. He didn’t know exactly when he’d metamorphosed from husband and father to something other, something distant…obsessed…a shadow…a ghost drifting through their lives, through his own life as well.
But Judy and the kids hadn’t been able to live with what he’d become, and so he’d lost them.
He wasn’t bitter though. Just lonely. Didn’t blame Judy. He’d deserved to lose them. But he was working toward getting them back—earningthem back.
And when he deserved to have them call him father again, he knew he’d win them back.
But not until he’d fixed SimGen.
11
MANHATTAN
The green room of theAckenbury at Large show was neither green nor roomy, but Patrick had it to himself. Half a dozen upholstered chairs surrounded a maple table that had seen better days; a small refrigerator against the wall sported a fruit bowl and a coffee maker. A wall-mounted monitor leaned from a corner near the ceiling; Patrick repeatedly glanced at it as he paced the beige carpet.
Reverend Eckert was running his line for the late-night network TV audience, but in a far lower key than on his own show. Instead of working himself into a red-faced, spittle-flecked frenzy, he was coming on as a calm, intelligent man with a mission: SimGen was doing evil by producing sims, and so it had to be shut down. Any products made by sims were the devil’s handiwork and all God-fearing people should shun them.
Not good, Patrick thought, drying his moist palms on his slacks.
That was the role Patrick had planned to play—a calm, reasonable, compassionate counterpoint to Eckert’s frenzy.
Now what?
Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea.
Upon leaving the sims this morning he’d placed a call to Ackenbury’s offices. After being shuttled around for a good ten minutes, he’d finally found himself on the line with one Catherine Tresor, assistant producer. She didn’t recognize his name, but when he explained that he was the attorney for the sims union, she jumped all over the idea of putting him on tonight’s show. She said she’d have to run it by Alan first, but she’d get back to him right away.
She wasn’t kidding. Less than five minutes later his car phone rang and he was scheduled for the show. But she told him not to trumpet the news. Alan wanted to surprise the Reverend Eckert.
As a result, Patrick had been ushered into an empty office when he’d arrived at six—the show was recorded hours before air time—and kept out of sight until the Reverend had gone on. After a quick trip to makeup, he was led to the green room and left alone.
He wished Pam were here. He’d asked her to come along but she had to work late. She was involved in some Pacific Rim deal that would tie her up till midnight. She’d promised to watch at her office, though. She sounded as though she’d recovered from this morning. Patrick was glad for that.
“Mr. Sullivan?”
Patrick looked up. In the doorway he saw a short, owlish, clipboard-toting woman with large round glasses. She extended her hand.