However, I have long since rejected that incentive. Now I want to devote all this organization’s energy to seeing that the wonderful things expected of Mr. Hall’s simulator are realized.”
I let him commit himself. When the time came, I would have only to let word of the Siskin-party conspiracy leak out.
“Reactions,” he said gravely, “is going to have a commercial function too. As much as I regret it, that’s the way it has to be. Oh, we could apply for government grants instead. But, gentlemen, you have to realize that this new, great Foundation can be beholden to no one. It must operate above all levels.”
One of the newsmen asked, “What do you mean by ‘commercial functions’?”
“Simply that the simulator will have to earn the considerable funds needed to carry out its humanitarian purpose. Reactions will accept commercial, behavior-forecasting contracts. But only a bare minimum of them. Only as many as will be necessary to make up the operational deficit that will recur annually, even after I endow the Foundation immediately with an additional two hundred and fifty million.”
That went over big with the press corps. And it tightened the noose even more securely around the Lilliputian Siskin neck.
We spent the next half hour fielding questions. It was apparent, though, that we had left no room for skepticism. After the newsmen left, Siskin did a fairylike dance and ended up embracing me.
“You put on a good show, son—a great show!” he exclaimed. “I couldn’t have done half as well!”
By the next day floodgates had opened to loose a surging tide of public opinion on the Siskin announcement. Among all the stories and videocasts, the human interest columns and editorial expressions, there was not an unfavorable word. Never before had I seen anything capture the general imagination as had Siskin’s “great humanitarian effort.”
Before noon, commendatory resolutions had been passed by the City Council and the State House of Representatives. On the national level, a concurrent Congressional measure was being drafted.
With the suddenness of an avalanche, new organizations were proposed as allies of the “noble endeavor.” Two mass meetings that evening drew out separate groups of enthusiasts who decided on the lofty names “Simulectronic Samaritans, Inc.,” and “Tomorrow—the Whole Human.” I suppose it would have been difficult to find anyone who wasn’t afire with idealism. The hoodwinking had been that complete.
Sensing the buildup of public support for REIN, the Association of Reaction Monitors prudently reduced the number of their pickets to a mere ten. But even then the police riot squad was reinforced to protect them from scores of irate Siskin sympathizers.
As for myself, I was riding a crest of elation, having climbed up out of the depths of self-doubt. Not only had my personal problems evaporated, thanks to Collingsworth’s counsel, but triumph over Siskin and the party seemed inevitable.
Smugly armed with the well-publicized evidence of my return to normalcy, I videoed Jinx the next afternoon for a dinner date. Although she seemed somewhat unimpressed with the humanitarian course Siskin had charted for Reactions, she promptly accepted my invitation. But I was left uncomfortable with the notion that she had been reluctant.
Determined to insure a proper start for a change, I brought her to John’s Late Sixties—exclusive, expensive, and fairly exuding an atmosphere that had been, as the ads had put it, “left untouched for over two generations.”
The sharp scent of food (natural edibles, not the synthetic stuff) under preparation in the adjoining kitchen eventually captured Jinx’s fancy. And, while we waited to eat, she gradually warmed up to the harmonies of antiquity that were all around us—the bluntly functional chairs and tables, the latter quaint with their “cloth” coverings; incandescent bulbs; a string ensemble that was doing a valiant job, I
I let him commit himself. When the time came, I would have only to let word of the Siskin-party conspiracy leak out.
“Reactions,” he said gravely, “is going to have a commercial function too. As much as I regret it, that’s the way it has to be. Oh, we could apply for government grants instead. But, gentlemen, you have to realize that this new, great Foundation can be beholden to no one. It must operate above all levels.”
One of the newsmen asked, “What do you mean by ‘commercial functions’?”
“Simply that the simulator will have to earn the considerable funds needed to carry out its humanitarian purpose. Reactions will accept commercial, behavior-forecasting contracts. But only a bare minimum of them. Only as many as will be necessary to make up the operational deficit that will recur annually, even after I endow the Foundation immediately with an additional two hundred and fifty million.”
That went over big with the press corps. And it tightened the noose even more securely around the Lilliputian Siskin neck.
We spent the next half hour fielding questions. It was apparent, though, that we had left no room for skepticism. After the newsmen left, Siskin did a fairylike dance and ended up embracing me.
“You put on a good show, son—a great show!” he exclaimed. “I couldn’t have done half as well!”
By the next day floodgates had opened to loose a surging tide of public opinion on the Siskin announcement. Among all the stories and videocasts, the human interest columns and editorial expressions, there was not an unfavorable word. Never before had I seen anything capture the general imagination as had Siskin’s “great humanitarian effort.”
Before noon, commendatory resolutions had been passed by the City Council and the State House of Representatives. On the national level, a concurrent Congressional measure was being drafted.
With the suddenness of an avalanche, new organizations were proposed as allies of the “noble endeavor.” Two mass meetings that evening drew out separate groups of enthusiasts who decided on the lofty names “Simulectronic Samaritans, Inc.,” and “Tomorrow—the Whole Human.” I suppose it would have been difficult to find anyone who wasn’t afire with idealism. The hoodwinking had been that complete.
Sensing the buildup of public support for REIN, the Association of Reaction Monitors prudently reduced the number of their pickets to a mere ten. But even then the police riot squad was reinforced to protect them from scores of irate Siskin sympathizers.
As for myself, I was riding a crest of elation, having climbed up out of the depths of self-doubt. Not only had my personal problems evaporated, thanks to Collingsworth’s counsel, but triumph over Siskin and the party seemed inevitable.
Smugly armed with the well-publicized evidence of my return to normalcy, I videoed Jinx the next afternoon for a dinner date. Although she seemed somewhat unimpressed with the humanitarian course Siskin had charted for Reactions, she promptly accepted my invitation. But I was left uncomfortable with the notion that she had been reluctant.
Determined to insure a proper start for a change, I brought her to John’s Late Sixties—exclusive, expensive, and fairly exuding an atmosphere that had been, as the ads had put it, “left untouched for over two generations.”
The sharp scent of food (natural edibles, not the synthetic stuff) under preparation in the adjoining kitchen eventually captured Jinx’s fancy. And, while we waited to eat, she gradually warmed up to the harmonies of antiquity that were all around us—the bluntly functional chairs and tables, the latter quaint with their “cloth” coverings; incandescent bulbs; a string ensemble that was doing a valiant job, I
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