desperate our situation is. They’re still going to be waiting for rescue ships.”
“McLaris figured it out,” Terachyk mumbled.
Brahms reddened but maintained his control. He saw bright white light behind his eyes, but he blinked it away. “You and I both know that Orbitech 1 was never meant to be self-sufficient. We have fifteen hundred employees here—tap into the database, get the exact inventory of our supplies. You can determine how much our gardens will produce right now. Model our consumption rate. Run a worst-case study. Use different rationing schemes.”
Terachyk kept his eyes turned away from the associate director, but he seemed to be paying attention. Brahms studied him, made a flash analysis of his reactions—yes, it was obvious. Terachyk would resent being brought back to the real world and its problems. He might turn his despair into anger toward Brahms for pulling him out of his misery.
But Brahms was willing to take that chance. He needed the colony to survive; he didn’t give a damn what the employees thought of his methods. Orbitech 1 had been left in his care, not Ombalal’s—Orbitechnologies had made that perfectly clear.
Brahms spoke quietly to Terachyk. “I have to know how long we can last, Allen. And I have to know before people start asking those questions.”
A moment passed.
Reluctantly, Terachyk logged on. He flashed a bitter glance at Brahms, then stared at the screen. In a few moments, his fingers picked up speed as he allowed the problem to distract him from his own memories.
Brahms nodded in encouragement. Push the right buttons, and he knew he could get the right reactions.
He watched Terachyk work. Nothing was routine anymore, nothing straightforward. Brahms was being sent through the fire, given an impossible task to manage. He felt himself hardening, rising to the job that had to be done. The people of Orbitech 1 were lucky to have him—they would have no chance at all relying on Ombalal.
Brahms studied the dark-skinned man. Roha Ombalal had been a brilliant chemist but was an utterly incompetent manager. The tall Indian had a soft, gentle voice with the potential for projecting a great deal of authority. Brahms had envied Ombalal for that, but scorned him for not making use of his gift. He could have been a perfect leader image, paternal and intelligent—all the things that Brahms, with his youth and clean-cut, boyish appearance, did not have.
But Ombalal was not a successful administrator—he had his priorities all wrong.
The Indian chemist had wanted everyone to like him, wanted the Orbitech 1 people to think of him as a benevolent manager, someone they could talk to.
To foster his image, or maybe just to avoid his other duties, Ombalal had spent a great deal of time wandering through the labs, looking at all the work being done. Occasionally, he would become fascinated with the research, interfering and not getting his own administrative work done. Some of the scientists may have loved him for his genuine interest; others thought he was harassing them, getting in the way.
But what could the parent corporation expect? Orbitechnologies had a consistent policy of “rewarding” brilliant researchers with promotions into administrative posts. Brahms stated his own position frequently: “I wouldn’t put a scientist in an important managerial position any more than I would put an administrator in a lab doing research.”
When Orbitechnologies finally relieved the director of his duties and ordered Brahms to replace him, Ombalal’s family had been sent home, but he had been allowed to stay for a while, as a figurehead, only to save face.
Roha Ombalal had been devastated, wide-eyed and baffled at his misfortune. Brahms could tell that the director had never failed like this before, and he still didn’t seem to grasp what exactly he had done wrong.
“Knock, knock?”
Brahms looked up and scowled at the obese man who strode into his office. Tim Drury, the
“McLaris figured it out,” Terachyk mumbled.
Brahms reddened but maintained his control. He saw bright white light behind his eyes, but he blinked it away. “You and I both know that Orbitech 1 was never meant to be self-sufficient. We have fifteen hundred employees here—tap into the database, get the exact inventory of our supplies. You can determine how much our gardens will produce right now. Model our consumption rate. Run a worst-case study. Use different rationing schemes.”
Terachyk kept his eyes turned away from the associate director, but he seemed to be paying attention. Brahms studied him, made a flash analysis of his reactions—yes, it was obvious. Terachyk would resent being brought back to the real world and its problems. He might turn his despair into anger toward Brahms for pulling him out of his misery.
But Brahms was willing to take that chance. He needed the colony to survive; he didn’t give a damn what the employees thought of his methods. Orbitech 1 had been left in his care, not Ombalal’s—Orbitechnologies had made that perfectly clear.
Brahms spoke quietly to Terachyk. “I have to know how long we can last, Allen. And I have to know before people start asking those questions.”
A moment passed.
Reluctantly, Terachyk logged on. He flashed a bitter glance at Brahms, then stared at the screen. In a few moments, his fingers picked up speed as he allowed the problem to distract him from his own memories.
Brahms nodded in encouragement. Push the right buttons, and he knew he could get the right reactions.
He watched Terachyk work. Nothing was routine anymore, nothing straightforward. Brahms was being sent through the fire, given an impossible task to manage. He felt himself hardening, rising to the job that had to be done. The people of Orbitech 1 were lucky to have him—they would have no chance at all relying on Ombalal.
Brahms studied the dark-skinned man. Roha Ombalal had been a brilliant chemist but was an utterly incompetent manager. The tall Indian had a soft, gentle voice with the potential for projecting a great deal of authority. Brahms had envied Ombalal for that, but scorned him for not making use of his gift. He could have been a perfect leader image, paternal and intelligent—all the things that Brahms, with his youth and clean-cut, boyish appearance, did not have.
But Ombalal was not a successful administrator—he had his priorities all wrong.
The Indian chemist had wanted everyone to like him, wanted the Orbitech 1 people to think of him as a benevolent manager, someone they could talk to.
To foster his image, or maybe just to avoid his other duties, Ombalal had spent a great deal of time wandering through the labs, looking at all the work being done. Occasionally, he would become fascinated with the research, interfering and not getting his own administrative work done. Some of the scientists may have loved him for his genuine interest; others thought he was harassing them, getting in the way.
But what could the parent corporation expect? Orbitechnologies had a consistent policy of “rewarding” brilliant researchers with promotions into administrative posts. Brahms stated his own position frequently: “I wouldn’t put a scientist in an important managerial position any more than I would put an administrator in a lab doing research.”
When Orbitechnologies finally relieved the director of his duties and ordered Brahms to replace him, Ombalal’s family had been sent home, but he had been allowed to stay for a while, as a figurehead, only to save face.
Roha Ombalal had been devastated, wide-eyed and baffled at his misfortune. Brahms could tell that the director had never failed like this before, and he still didn’t seem to grasp what exactly he had done wrong.
“Knock, knock?”
Brahms looked up and scowled at the obese man who strode into his office. Tim Drury, the
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