Nomadism had once been the linchpin of human existence; it was settled life that formed the technological novelty. Now technol-ogy had changed its nonexistent mind. Nomads were an entire alter-nate society for whom life by old-fashioned political and economic standards was simply no longer possible.
Or so Oscar reasoned. As a wealthy New Englander, he had never had much political reason to concern himself with proles. They rarely voted. But he had no prejudice against proles as a social group. They were certainly no stranger or more foreign to his sensibilities than scientists were. Now it was clear to him that the proles were a source of real power, and as far as he knew, there was only one Amer-ican politician who had made a deliberate effort to recruit and sustain them. That politician was Green Huey.
Having pacified the Moderators, Oscar’s second order of business was reconciling the Collaboratory’s scientists to their presence. Oscar’s key talking point here was their stark lack of choice in the matter.
The Collaboratory’s scientists had always had firm federal back-ing; they had never required any alternate means of support. Now there was no federal largesse left. That was bad, but the underlying reality was much, much worse. The lab’s bookkeeping had been ruined by a netwar attack. The Collaboratory was not only broke, its inhabitants were fiscally unable even to assess how broke they were. They couldn’t even accurately describe the circumstances under which they might be bailed out.
Morale at the lab had soared on the news that the President had taken notice of their plight. The President had even gone so far as to send a prepared speech for the lab’s Director, which was duly recited by Greta. However, the speech had a very conspicuous omission: money. The press release was basically a long grateful paean to the President’s talent for restoring law and order. Financing the Col-laboratory was not the President’s problem. The Congress was in charge of the nation’s purse strings, and despite frenzied effort, the Congress had still not managed to pass a budget.
For a federal science facility, this was a disaster of epic magni-tude, but for proles, it was business as usual.
So — as Oscar explained to the Emergency Committee — it was a question of symbiosis. And symbiosis was doable. Having boldly cut its ties to the conventional rules of political reality, the Collaboratory’s new hybrid population could float indefinitely within their glass bub-ble. They had no money, but they had warmth, power, air, food, shelter; they could all mind the business of living. They could wait out the turbulence beyond their borders, and since they were also ignoring federal oversight, they could all concentrate on their favorite pet proj-ects. They could get some genuine scientific work accomplished, for once. This was a formidable achievement, a Shangri-la almost, and it was there within their grasp. All they had to do was come to terms with their own contradictions.
There was a long silence after Oscar’s presentation. The Emer-gency Committee gazed at him in utter wonderment. At the moment, the Committee’s quorum consisted of Greta, her chief confidant and backer Albert Gazzaniga, Oscar himself, Yosh Pelicanos, Captain Burningboy, and a representative Moderator thug — a kid named Ombahway Tuddy Flagboy.
“Oscar, you’re amazing,” Greta said. “You have such talent for making impossible things sound plausible.”
“What’s so impossible about it?”
“Everything. This is a federal facility! These Moderator people invaded it by force. They’re occupying it. They are here illegally. We can’t aid and abet that! Once the President sends in troops, we’ll all be outed for collaboration. We’ll be arrested. We’ll be fired. No, it’s worse than that. We’ll be purged.”
“That never happened in Louisiana,” Oscar said. “Why should it happen here?”
Gazzaniga spoke up. “That’s because Congress and the Emer-gency committees never really wanted that air base in Louisiana in the first place. They never cared enough about it to take action.”
“They don’t care about you, either,” Oscar assured him. “It’s true that the President expressed an interest, but hey, it’s been a long week now. A week is forever during a military crisis. There aren’t any federal troops here. Because there isn’t any military crisis here. The President’s military crisis is in Holland, not East Texas. He’s not going to deploy troops domestically when the Dutch Cold War is heating up. If we had better sense, we’d realize that the Moderators are our troops. They’re better than federal troops. Real troops can’t feed us.”
“We can’t afford thousands of nonpaying guests,” Pelicanos said.
“Yosh, just forget the red ink for a minute. We don’t have to ‘afford them.’ They are affording us. They can feed and clothe us, and all we have to do is share our shelter and give them a political cover. That’s the real beauty of this Emergency, you see? We can go on here indefinitely! This is the apotheosis of the Strike. During the Strike, we were all refusing to do anything except work on science. Now that we have an Emergency, the scientists can continue their science, while the Moderators will assume the role of a supportive, sympathetic, civil population. We’ll just ignore everyone else! Everything that annoyed us in the past simply falls off our radar. All those senseless commercial demands, and governmental oversight, and the crooked contrac-tors… they’re all just gone. They no longer have any relevance.”
“But nomads don’t understand science,” Gazzaniga said. “Why would they support scientists, when they could just loot the place and leave?”
“Hey,” said Burningboy. “I can understand science, fella! Wernher von Braun! Perfect example. Dr. von Braun lucked into a big ugly swarm of the surplus flesh, just like you have! They’re heading for Dachau anyway if he don’t use ’em, so he might as well grind some use out of ’em, assembling his V-2 engines.”
“What the hell is he talking about?” Gazzaniga demanded. “Why does he always talk like that?”
“That’s what science is!” Burningboy said. “I can define it. Science is about proving a mathematical relationship between phenome-non A and phenomenon B. Was that so hard? You really think that’s beyond my mental grasp? I’ll tell you something way beyond your mental grasp, son — surviving in prison. You fair-haired folks might have, like, a bruising collision with nonquantum reality if somebody drove a handmade shiv right through your physics book.”
“This just isn’t going to work,” Greta said. “We don’t even speak the same language. We have nothing in common.” She pointed dramatically. “Just look at that laptop he’s carrying! It’s made out oj straw.”
“Why am I the only one who sees the obvious here?” Oscar said. “You people have amazing commonalities. Look at all that no-mad equipment — those leaf grinders, and digesters, and catalytic cracking units. They’re using biotechnology. And computer networks, too. They live off those things, for heaven’s sake.”
Greta’s face hardened. “Yes but … not scientifically.”
“But they live exactly like you live — by their reputations. You are America’s two most profoundly noncommercial societies. Your socie-ties are both based on reputation, respect, and prestige.”
Gazzaniga frowned. “What is this, a sociology class? Sociology’s not a hard science.”
“But it’s true! You scientists want to become the Most Fre-quently Cited and win all the honors and awards. While Moderators, like the Captain here, want to be streetwise netgod gurus. As a further plus, neither of you have any idea how to dress! Furthermore, even though you are both directly responsible for the catastrophe that our society is undergoing, you are both incredibly adept at casting your-selves as permanent, misunderstood victims. You both whine and moan endlessly about how nobody else is cool enough or smart enough to understand you. And you both never clean up your own messes. And you both never take responsibility for yourselves. And that’s why you’re both treated like children by the people who actu-ally run this country!”