The thing was, he had to make it look like he was helping Crenshaw, whatever he did. As long as he thought about opposing him, the knot of icy fear in Aldrin’s stomach kept him from doing anything. He didn’t dare go over Crenshaw’s head. He didn’t know if Crenshaw’s boss knew about the plan, too, or if it had all been Crenshaw’s idea. He didn’t dare confide in any of the autists; who knew if they could understand the importance of keeping a secret?
He was sure Crenshaw hadn’t really checked this out with upstairs. Crenshaw wanted to be seen as a problem solver, a forward-thinking future executive, someone managing his own empire efficiently. He wouldn’t ask questions; he wouldn’t ask permission. This could be a nightmare of adverse publicity if it got out; someone higher up would have noticed that. But how far up? Crenshaw was counting on no publicity, no leaks, no gossip. That wasn’t reasonable, even if he did have a choke hold on everyone in his division.
And if Crenshaw went down and Aldrin was perceived as his helper, he’d lose his job then, too.
What would it take to convert Section A into a group of research subjects? They would have to have time off work: how much? Would they be expected to fold their vacation and sick leave time into it, or would the company provide leave? If extra leave was needed, what about pay? What about seniority? What about the accounting through his section — would they be paid out of this section’s operating funds or out of Research?
Had Crenshaw already made deals with someone in HR, in Accounting, in Legal, in Research? What kind of deals? He didn’t want to use Crenshaw’s name at first; he wanted to see what reaction he got without it.
Shirley was still in Accounting; Aldrin called her. “Remind me what kind of paperwork I need if someone’s being transferred to another section,” he said to start with. “Do I take it off my budget right away or what?”
“Transfers are frozen,” Shirley said. “This new management—” He could hear her take a breath. “You didn’t get the memo?”
“Don’t think so,” Aldrin said. “So — if we have an employee who wants to take part in a research protocol, we can’t just transfer their pay source to Research?”
“Good grief, no!” Shirley said. “Tim McDonough — you know, head of Research — would have your hide tacked to the wall in no time.” After a moment, she said, “What research protocol?”
“Some new drug thing,” he said.
“Oh. Well, anyway, if you have an employee who wants to get on it, they’ll have to do it as a volunteer — stipend’s fifty dollars per day for protocols that require overnight clinic residence, twenty-five dollars per day for others, with a minimum of two hundred and fifty dollars. Of course, with clinic residence they also get bed and board and all necessary medical support. You wouldn’t get me to test drugs for that, but the ethics committee says there shouldn’t be a financial incentive.”
“Well… would they still get paid their salary?”
“Only if they’re working or it’s paid vacation time,” Shirley said. She chuckled. “It would save the company money if we could make everyone into a research subject and just pay the stipends, wouldn’t it? Lot simpler accounting — no PICA or FUCA or state withholding. Thank God they can’t.”
“I guess so,” Aldrin said. So, he wondered, what was Crenshaw planning to do about pay and about research stipends? Who was funding this? And why hadn’t he thought of this before? “Thanks, Shirley,” he said belatedly.
“Good luck,” she said.
So, supposing the treatment would take, he realized he had no idea how long it might take. Was that in the stuff Crenshaw had given him? He looked it up and read it carefully, lips pursed. If Crenshaw hadn’t made some arrangement to have Research fund Section A’s salary, then he was converting technical staff with seniority to low-paid lab rats… and even if they were out of rehab in a month (the most optimistic estimate in the proposal) that would save… a lot of money. He ran the figures. It looked like a lot of money, but it wasn’t, compared to the legal risks the company would run.
He didn’t know anybody high on the tree in Research, just Marcus over in Data Support. Back to Human Resources… with Betty gone, he tried to remember other names. Paul. Debra. Paul was on the list; Debra wasn’t.
“Make it snappy,” Paul said. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Leaving?”
“One of the famous ten percent,” Paul said. Aldrin could hear the anger in his voice. “No, the company’s not losing money, no, the company’s not cutting personnel; they just happen to be no longer in need of my services.”
Icy fingers ran down his back. This could be himself next month. No, today, if Crenshaw realized what he was doing.
“Buy you coffee,” Aldrin said.
“Yeah, like I need something to keep me awake nights,” Paul said.
“Paul, listen. I need to talk to you, and not on the phone.”
A long silence, then, “Oh. You, too?”
“Not yet. Coffee?”
“Sure. Ten-thirty, snack bar?”
“No, early lunch. Eleven-thirty,” Aldrin said, and hung up. His palms were sweaty.
“So, what’s the big secret?” Paul asked. His face showed nothing; he sat hunched over a table near the middle of the snack bar.
Aldrin would have chosen a table in the corner, but now — seeing Paul out in the middle — he remembered a spy thriller he’d seen. Corner tables might be monitored. For all he knew, Paul was wearing a… a wire, they called it. He felt sick.
“C’mon, I’m not recording anything,” Paul said. He sipped his coffee. “It will be more conspicuous if you stand there gaping at me or pat me down. You must have one helluva secret.”
Aldrin sat, his coffee slopping over the edge of his mug. “You know my new division head is one of the new brooms—”
“Join the club,” Paul said, with an intonation of get on with it.
“Crenshaw,” Aldrin said.
“Lucky bastard,” Paul said. “He’s got quite a reputation, our Mr. Crenshaw.”
“Yeah, well, remember Section A?”
“The autistics, sure.” Paul’s expression sharpened. “Is he taking after them?
Aldrin nodded.
“That’s stupid,” Paul said. “Not that he’s not, but — that’s really stupid. Our Section Six-fourteen-point-eleven tax break depends on ’em. Your division is marginal anyway for Six-fourteen-point-eleven employees, and they’re worth one-point-five credits each. Besides, the publicity…”
“I know,” Aldrin said. “But he’s not listening. He says they’re too expensive.”
“He thinks everyone but himself is too expensive,” Paul said. “He thinks he’s underpaid, if you can believe it.” He sipped his coffee again. Aldrin noticed he didn’t say what Crenshaw was paid, even now. “We had a time with him when he came through our office — he knows every benefit and tax trick in the book.”
“I’m sure,” Aldrin said.
“So what’s he want to do, fire them? Dock their pay?”
“Threaten them into volunteering for a human-trials research protocol,” Aldrin said.
Paul’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding! He can’t do that!”
“He is.” Aldrin paused, then went on. “He says there’s not a law the company can’t get around.”
“Well, that may be true, but — we can’t just ignore the laws. We have to subvert them. And human trials — what is it, a drug?”
“A treatment for adult autistics,” Aldrin said. “Supposed to make them normal. It supposedly worked on an ape.”