are—again—elevated blood allergens. Trace alkaloids are present in many of the exotic grasses they've been blending; not to mention all the synthetic concentrates and extracts they've been subjected to.
"The heartiness of Sudan grass alone has made it a keystone in their studies. Yet, immature plants have toxic levels of naturally occurring prussic acid—cyanide. The country club has been distilling and genetically altering great quantities of that same grass extract since the start."
A couple of members groaned over the well-covered ground. But the medic continued: "Even with adequate safeguards, you cannot simply leave people continually immersed in an adverse environment. Minute amounts of compounds, as they've been working with, are bound to get absorbed into their systems. The body can flush out a certain amount of contaminants on its own, sure. But even so, trace levels have a cumulative effect. And after three years, those people have crested the limits of acceptable tolerance. For their own good, they must be removed from that environment and detoxified immediately."
Corealis exchanged a sidelong glance with Welton, the security man, then drew a breath, addressing the doctor.
"Thom, once again, I appreciate what you're saying. But you've just agreed yourself that this project has been an arduous maneuver. We've made the best balance possible under the circumstances facing us."
The security man joined in reassuringly. "That's right. We're so close to wrapping this whole thing up, surely a few more days can't matter. Besides, they're the experts who better understand what they've been dealing with than we ever could. Has anyone heard complaints? When they're done we'll give them all a nice long vacation."
The doctor wasn't swayed. "A few days lounging about some R and R center won't fix things. Long term, they may already be in line for a degree of irreversible liver or kidney damage."
Abruptly matching tones, Corealis cut to the chase. "And short term?"
Realizing his disadvantage, the medic remained determined. "At the very least, the distinct possibility of mental impairment, hampered decision-making—confusion. After the withering momentum and complete isolation of their last thirty-six months, it's not too late in the game for some sort of individual—or even group—mental breakdown."
"You're saying that this close to the end, they might actually become dangerous; destructive?"
"Unintentionally, yes; possibly. Anyone familiar with the psychological profiles of hard-core researchers knows they are a narrowly focused bunch, individuals who have to be handled in a very sheltered and kid-glove sort of way. Most aren't equipped to deal with issues as commonplace and practical as food and shelter—let alone ever being confronted by the potential for a dark side of their work."
Economist Hampton muffled a snort.
"That's part of the reason they were stuck out in the middle of nowhere to begin with. We'd feed them. We'd clothe them. They'd have each other, but be totally dependant on us.
"Be realistic, Thom. These are lab nerds for Pete's sake, not dock workers. Keener's breed doesn't walk off the job or revert to savagery. If you know their kind as well as you claim, you'd also know the one thing they'd never do is abandon or sabotage their work. It's all they have in life. It is their life.
"Hell, if you pumped that whole garden party full of LSD I still doubt they'd know how to get rowdy. And remember, we threw in a 'housekeeper' to sweeten the pot. That fact alone has got to knock your data off kilter."
Nervous grins flashed around the room as Hampton finished.
But the doctor maintained his dignity, adding a final declaration. "Exhausted people in normal, healthy surroundings make catastrophic mistakes when pushed. We've taken already-spent persons and turned the speed up on them."
"Only through necessity," countered Quinsel. "You know Skylock's breaking, same as the rest of us. We're in a race
"The heartiness of Sudan grass alone has made it a keystone in their studies. Yet, immature plants have toxic levels of naturally occurring prussic acid—cyanide. The country club has been distilling and genetically altering great quantities of that same grass extract since the start."
A couple of members groaned over the well-covered ground. But the medic continued: "Even with adequate safeguards, you cannot simply leave people continually immersed in an adverse environment. Minute amounts of compounds, as they've been working with, are bound to get absorbed into their systems. The body can flush out a certain amount of contaminants on its own, sure. But even so, trace levels have a cumulative effect. And after three years, those people have crested the limits of acceptable tolerance. For their own good, they must be removed from that environment and detoxified immediately."
Corealis exchanged a sidelong glance with Welton, the security man, then drew a breath, addressing the doctor.
"Thom, once again, I appreciate what you're saying. But you've just agreed yourself that this project has been an arduous maneuver. We've made the best balance possible under the circumstances facing us."
The security man joined in reassuringly. "That's right. We're so close to wrapping this whole thing up, surely a few more days can't matter. Besides, they're the experts who better understand what they've been dealing with than we ever could. Has anyone heard complaints? When they're done we'll give them all a nice long vacation."
The doctor wasn't swayed. "A few days lounging about some R and R center won't fix things. Long term, they may already be in line for a degree of irreversible liver or kidney damage."
Abruptly matching tones, Corealis cut to the chase. "And short term?"
Realizing his disadvantage, the medic remained determined. "At the very least, the distinct possibility of mental impairment, hampered decision-making—confusion. After the withering momentum and complete isolation of their last thirty-six months, it's not too late in the game for some sort of individual—or even group—mental breakdown."
"You're saying that this close to the end, they might actually become dangerous; destructive?"
"Unintentionally, yes; possibly. Anyone familiar with the psychological profiles of hard-core researchers knows they are a narrowly focused bunch, individuals who have to be handled in a very sheltered and kid-glove sort of way. Most aren't equipped to deal with issues as commonplace and practical as food and shelter—let alone ever being confronted by the potential for a dark side of their work."
Economist Hampton muffled a snort.
"That's part of the reason they were stuck out in the middle of nowhere to begin with. We'd feed them. We'd clothe them. They'd have each other, but be totally dependant on us.
"Be realistic, Thom. These are lab nerds for Pete's sake, not dock workers. Keener's breed doesn't walk off the job or revert to savagery. If you know their kind as well as you claim, you'd also know the one thing they'd never do is abandon or sabotage their work. It's all they have in life. It is their life.
"Hell, if you pumped that whole garden party full of LSD I still doubt they'd know how to get rowdy. And remember, we threw in a 'housekeeper' to sweeten the pot. That fact alone has got to knock your data off kilter."
Nervous grins flashed around the room as Hampton finished.
But the doctor maintained his dignity, adding a final declaration. "Exhausted people in normal, healthy surroundings make catastrophic mistakes when pushed. We've taken already-spent persons and turned the speed up on them."
"Only through necessity," countered Quinsel. "You know Skylock's breaking, same as the rest of us. We're in a race
Similar Books
