Darrell Bain - The Focus Factor

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The Focus Factor
Darrell Bain and Gerald Mills
Twilight Times Books
Kingsport, Tennessee
The Focus Factor
This is a work of fiction. All concepts, characters and events portrayed in this book are used fictitiously
and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2006 Darrell Bain and Gerald W. Mills.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted
by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise except brief extracts for the
purpose of review, without written permission of the publisher and the copyright owner.
Twilight Times Books
POB 3340
Kingsport TN 37664
twilighttimesbooks.com/
Credits
Cover artwork--Kurt Ozinga
Managing Editor--Ardy M. Scott
Publisher: Lida E. Quillen
Published in the United States of America.
BOOK ONE
Chapter One
The Red Queen had it right--it did take all the running one could do just to keep in the same place.
The line from Alice in Wonderland brought a thin smile as Murray Blake hung up his lab coat and
carefully shrugged an arm into his windbreaker. A week earlier he'd been lost in thought about his
research project, in a restaurant no less, and the gun in his right jacket pocket almost conked a woman
sitting at the adjacent table. The imaginary headline flashed across his mental screen: 'RESEARCH
SCIENTIST K.O.s RESTAURANT PATRON.' He'd managed to catch the heavy bulge just in time
and slap it back against his hip--still had the bruise--but it had been a close one.
Lost in thought--those three words certainly said it all. No matter how he stretched for that proverbial
carrot it was always the same distance away--just out of reach. Another hectic week at Barrington
Research with nothing to show for it but fatigue that cut right through to the bone marrow. Come
Monday he'd do it all over again. At the rate his life was flying by, his forty-fourth year might get there
before the forty-third was half over. On the flip side, scientific breakthroughs were never part of anyone's
timetable, happening when they were ready, not before.
He adjusted the gun handle for easy access, zipped the jacket and picked up his briefcase. One last
check around the office showed all terminals secured and the server vault door properly sequenced. It
would take a substantial amount of explosive to blow it, but just the past week an identical setup in
Boulder had been compromised and data stolen. A steel door eight inches thick simply wasn't enough to
guard company secrets any more. Even the smallish banks had gone to fourteen inches. The thought
drew a tired sigh. It was all a crap shoot. It depended on what kind of secrets were being guarded--and
who wanted them.
He pressed his thumb to the lockplate, holding it long enough for the analyzer to run its comparison.
There was an audible whirr behind the door panel, the sound of powerful gear motors sliding heavy bolts
into the steel panel, then a heavy thud. Done, at least until Monday. Then it would take a good half hour
to get everything up and running again, including a full archive check to be sure nothing had happened
over the weekend. So much for office security.
The whole protection thing had been one big charade for years because there'd been nothing much to
conceal or protect where he was concerned. Basic research often turned out that way. The heavy bulge
in his right pocket had to do with personal safety after he left the Barrington building, not while he was
inside. Nobody'd want his scientific data anyway, at least not in its present state. It was one long, sad tale
of promising threads that led nowhere. Only in the past few weeks had there been anything to crow
about. The research had begun to get exciting--and promising. Definitely a source of renewed drive and
personal energy, but still not worth the trouble of carrying a gun. Robbers weren't sophisticated enough
to go after that kind of data, but the money he usually carried was another matter. Not that it was a lot,
but still ... better to play it safe, as his wife Connie reminded him every so often.
He'd been thinking about the new investigative thread there in the restaurant, not caring to consider the
odds against success while he fought down the natural tendency found in all research: push harder, go
faster. Some of it couldn't be hurried, and there was the rub. Sit on a rocket, but stand on the brakes.
Dreams were hard to deal with that way.
Dust was still being delivered horizontally outside the huge Barrington building, blowing into Oklahoma
from Kansas. He ducked instinctively and held up a shielding hand to keep the grit from stinging his face
or getting in his eyes, but it did anyway. Half of Kansas had to be covering Oklahoma these days, thanks
to the wrong-way wind and constant drought. Or at least it seemed so on days like this. Clouds of the
stuff whirled around the parking area floodlight poles, leaving cars with half an inch in a single workday.
His own forty-acre spread, not that far from the labs, was no exception. Some of it remained green, but
not for much longer if this kept up. Now only scrub oaks and gnarled cedar were hanging on, plus
tumbleweeds, tough pasture grass and weeds of various kinds. Drifts of sand obscured the rest. It still
rained further south, but who'd want to live there? They got hurricanes that far inland now, along with a
spate of tornados every year. Big storms had already come within two hundred miles of the Oklahoma
City suburbs, streaking up through Texas and eventually arching back through Kansas and points east as
far as Chicago. Another hundred sixty miles north and the damn things would be crossing his front yard.
Only the Rockies would stop them some day not that far in the future.
Some scientists thought the current Midwestern drought was part of a cycle rather than global warming.
Who cared? Just have it all end, say tomorrow.
The parking lot was all but empty, just a few lonely cars plus his new Wankel Beehive. It suffered from
the dust as much as its occupants did. The windshield was scratched and would need replacing soon. Air
filters were good for about one week before they had to be changed. They were stacked fifty deep in his
garage. There was modern technology for you--a flywheel that could power the car for up to ten miles,
solar panels and fuel cells to supplement the gasoline engine, but no automatic air cleaner. The car had
cost a bundle, but it got formidable mileage--a real consideration these days--and gasoline was still
available because one of the new depolymerization plants outside the city furnished the oil for a small
refinery. Not enough to guarantee anything outside the driving limitations of the Wankel, but who drove
more than two hundred miles these days? And the way things were going, he couldn't be sure of proper
servicing for the Beehive outside that range anyway. The old Lincoln Expedition was always there for a
quick shopping trip downtown, or long distance driving if such a thing ever returned. And if the dust ever
stopped.
His finger was alongside the gun's trigger as he punched in the access code on the Beehive's door and
glanced quickly around to be sure he was alone. The unconscious act was the result of training and years
of self-discipline. Even though the floodlights were adequate, hits were often made just as drivers were
opening car doors or as they were settling in a moment later. This time there were no nearby cars to
conceal criminals.
He relaxed further as the car door swung upward and a female voice--Connie's voice--welcomed him.
“Hello, Mr. Blake. Won't you come in?" He'd originally programmed it with a much more seductive
greeting. That hadn't gone over so well when he'd forgotten to kill the greeting before taking on a female
passenger.
Once inside, with the door closed, he drew his first really long breath. One of the two most dangerous
parts of the commute had been passed without incident. The other would be at the distant end. On the
way out of the lot, he waved to the guard. What could be more comforting--and incongruous--than the
sight of someone wearing composite body armor and carrying a short-barreled M16A5, especially on a
Friday night after a mind-boggling week of work? It made the Barrington facility seem like the only safe
place in the universe, except for the parking lot. Bandits on foot could still get through the cyclone fence if
they had a mind. It hadn't been that way fifteen years back, when the country hadn't quite fallen into the
mess it was in now.
His hair had been solid black then, not shot with gray, and his face wasn't covered with worry lines deep
enough to conceal a memory chip. And glasses! He hated wearing them, but who had time for surgery?
His eyes weren't really that bad, and the specs did help his eyestrain. Connie said they made him look
distinguished. Ha! She'd have said that if he'd grown a Kris Kringle beard.
He was out at the main road before he really felt the pressure let go. A quick status check at the main
road said the car's computer could do the driving. The five-mile route to home was well-programmed
and the Beehive's reactive programming could handle anything unexpected, like a starving deer
wandering onto the road or a snap I.D. check by the state police. That left him hands-free. He stuck one
foot up on the dash, clasped both hands behind his head and asked for the digital news. The newsfeed
had nothing new on it at all, in spite of what the word 'news' was supposed to mean. Some politician was
blathering about ... well, what the heck was he blathering about? A minute later the question remained. A
few thousand words, give or take, with time out for throat clearings and a slew of anecdotes, but not one
clue as to the subject.
"Goddamned crooks, all of them." He'd muttered the same words a few thousand times before, but
usually at home and never when he might be overheard. The Beehive had no audio link, as far as he
knew, so he was free to say anything he wanted. His next word to the console was 'bioscience.' The
newscast switched before the word was finished, breaking in on a discussion of a new line of chicken
corn that held great promise as a source of tasty, low fat protein. Then that topic devolved into politics as
well. A debate between pundits of opposing ethical views got off to a lively start. One was based on
religious objections to releasing plants imbued with animal genes into the environment, while the other
so-called ethicist was no less adamant. She reasoned from an environmental basis, though God knows
what she thought people would eat if every new agricultural product was banned, as she seemed to think
they should be. Goddamn Luddites, both of 'em.
He switched off the news and took control of the car when it turned onto the gravel road going to his
quarter-mile driveway and the 'golden gate.' That's what he and Connie called the thing. Not too many
research scientists could afford security fences and gates like his, but in the long run the cost had been
worth it. The security fence didn't actually surround his property, but it did go most of the way around.
Better than most. Only a small portion was left to cyclone fence and barbed wire.
He stopped in the usual spot while the home computer once more made friends with the car. The
telescopic retina scan and pattern recognition camera allowed him to stay put, relatively safe from any
outlaws who might be hiding in the brush along the gravel road. Illegal immigrants were everywhere, and
when work was scarce they formed roving gangs. Goodbye to anything valuable in vulnerable country
cottages or estates when the immigangs came visiting. What a world! Couldn't even have a place in the
country without spending a fortune on security. Cars like the Beehive even had so-called bulletproof
windows that retracted no more than an arm's width. The laminate made driving almost too quiet at times,
and ordinary conversation with someone outside was more sign language than anything else. In spite of all
that, he could hear his Great Pyrenees dogs barking even now. When the Beehive was running on
electricity, their acute hearing picked up its unique whine.
Sugar and Moose, the gentle giants, were as much a part of the security system as the rest. Friendly and
lovable, they were instantly ferocious if any of the family were directly threatened. A new litter of pups
was almost weaned. When the doggies got their weekly treat of chewies, which amounted to candy for
dogs, they were more fun than the goats at feeding time. Sugar was even tending to a few baby chicks
whose mother had fallen victim to a bobcat. What a sight when the chicks took to sitting on pups and
mother, even sleeping with them. One photo won a prize in Dog World.
He parked the car and had no sooner raised the swing-up door than he was besieged by the monster
dust mops. “Hello, Sugar. Howdy, Moose! Hey, you lummoxes, what have you been doing, loafing
all day?" They bounced and rolled on the dusty driveway like it was a trampoline, waiting on him to clear
the car so they could maul him. Then Connie called from the open door of the mud room. She was
waggling the phone. Not even home, and he had a phone call waiting! What could that be about? He
fended off the dusty dogs and hurried toward his wife.
He gave her a lingering, affectionate kiss before taking the phone. Age seemed to enhance Connie's
subtle beauty. She still wore her reddish curly hair long, pulled casually back in a modified ponytail, and
whenever she'd been out in the sun the freckles across the bridge of her nose were more
pronounced--like now. She'd gotten home early and had been out trying to do something with the plants
bordering the house. An hour in the sun was all it took.
He slipped his free arm around her waist and put the phone to his ear. It Jack Williams, his best friend
and a colonel in the army.
"Hey, Murray, we're in town this weekend. What say we get together and you bring me up to date on
your research?"
"Bribe me."
"Okay, how's ribs on the barbie sound? On Brenda and me this time. Big and juicy. Bones for the
doggies."
"Fine, for openers. Now if you throw in everything the military's been up to since whenever it was we last
talked, you got a deal."
"Boy, you strike a hard bargain! Okay, we'll bring some little ribs just for those Chihuahuas. What're their
names again?"
"Bandit and Frito. And they're Pomeranians. That's where all the background noise is coming from."
Murray held the phone out so his friend could hear the frantic yapping of the fuzzy little dogs as they vied
for his attention.
"That's a relief. I thought maybe Connie was strangling a rooster for dinner."
"Matter of fact, we've been talking about you and Brenda staying here next time you get some leave. Not
that we miss you, but you barbeque better than I do. This is a real army leave this time, right? You're not
AWOL?"
"Last time I went AWOL they begged me never to come back. I didn't listen and look what happened ...
made me a colonel. And Murray, when it comes to your cooking, that's not a Bunsen burner you've got
out there on the patio. You're not heating something in a test tube. No wonder your dogs won't eat the
leftovers. What day?"
"Tomorrow?"
"Sounds good. We'll see you about noon."
He flipped the phone shut. He and Jack had been captains together a long time back. The research
position with Barrington had been too attractive to pass up, a chance for better pay and a more
interesting job in abnormal genetic physiology, his specialty. He'd originally been drawn to that field of
study because of autism that ran in the family, but a chance like that came once in a lifetime. He had
resigned his commission and grabbed at it.
Connie's bright smile set off her freckles. “Are they coming?"
"Yep. Guess he wanted to check and make sure I wasn't going to be stuck at the lab before he said
anything to you. He's bringing the ribs." He squeezed her, then aimed her inside, heading for the den
where the liquor lived. “Where's Keith?"
"In his room. Checking to make sure everything's still there, I suppose."
He glanced at his watch. “Two hours?"
"Sometimes it takes him that long to make sure nothing's been disturbed. You know."
"Yeah." He held up a bottle of Haig & Haig, arched an eyebrow and she nodded. It was time for
relaxation. Their autistic son always ran for his bedroom as soon as he got home, never reappearing until
he was satisfied everything was undisturbed there. The van dropped him off only after calling to be sure
Connie was home. It was an expensive service, but Keith seemed to find some kind of release at the
learning center so they'd kept it up. And the costs kept rising.
Medical care was edging ever closer to the breaking point as new, more expensive technology emerged
and the elderly population continued to grow. Added to all that was an entangled, incredibly convoluted
mix of government and private claims and payments that had evolved into a monster no one understood,
not even administrators or the insurance companies paying for the care. Then there was the mandate to
provide care for illegal immigrants and their children, bumping costs and complexities up even more.
Patients rarely tried to comprehend the barrage of paperwork that followed any kind of medical care.
The future? Even if one could afford the taxes and premiums, it looked terribly bleak.
He pulled two glasses from the shelf, added ice cubes and poured a liberal helping of liquor into each.
They'd no sooner gotten comfy on the big couch in the den when Keith joined them.
Murray smiled. “Hi, son. How was your day?" He got no reply. The boy simply went to the mudroom
door, just off the enclosed garage, and waited there. It was where he always stood when he figured he
was going somewhere, but he always insisted on going with Connie. Both were compulsive actions
typical of autistic children, but they evoked sadness in Murray every time he saw them. What was going
through Keith's mind? He was bright, but related only spottily to the outside world.
"Connie, did you tell him we were going somewhere?"
"He must have heard you talking about barbeque, and he's right. I do have to run into town and get some
shrimp and fixings. We're out."
"How did he know that?"
She shrugged. “Don't ask me, but he's on it now." She took a sip of her drink. “Here. Set this in
the fridge for me. It won't take us long for what we need. I'll take the Lincoln."
Her purse was kept locked up in their bedroom because of Keith's fascination with it. She'd tried filling
an identical purse with similar but useless items for him to play with, but he never once looked at them.
He was hard to fool. She returned a moment later. “We'll be back in a few minutes."
So much for a quiet drink after a hectic week. As they left, he switched on the big screen in the den.
There'd be some sort of special running. This one was about the latest famines in Africa and Brazil. He
watched a few minutes then turned it off. Famines and starvation had been going on in Africa ever since
he could remember. The continent ought to have been depleted of its inhabitants by now, what with
rampant diseases outrunning cures, and corrupt governments not having the finances to cover the crying
need for treatment. Census figures always showed population figures rising ever upward, though. Famine
and disease didn't appear to stop the reproductive urge; more likely the struggle for survival increased it.
Murray stretched out, then crossed his ankles on the coffee table and thought about Keith. His son's
condition had undoubtedly played a large part in the direction of the research he was doing now. Ever
since the day Keith had been diagnosed as an autistic, he'd been a source of fascination for the way he
and others like him could obsessively focus their attention on a single subject to the exclusion of
everything else. Remarkable feats of discovery and achievement were fairly common with some forms of
autism, particularly those afflicted with Asperger's syndrome--documented feats of prodigious memory,
awesome mathematical talents and exceptional accomplishments in the arts and sciences. The question
was 'why?'
Some psychologists thought the so called idiot savants weren't all that creative, but simply had their
minds totally centered on their interests, so much so they were able to go far beyond any ordinary
person's expectations. Baloney! There had to be something other than obsessive attention to detail
behind it all.
Such as microproteins.
Everyone's genes produced them, and it had become apparent over the last decade how many of them,
previously unknown, could be found circulating in the bloodstream. He'd begun cataloguing the tiny
molecules of autistic individuals who displayed creative abilities, comparing them to those of other
autistics as well as the ones found in normal persons of both average and super intelligence. The arduous
task had begun to pay off in terms of recognizable progress that might lead to a stupendous discovery in
the realm of creativity. Genetic physiology wasn't the primary causative mechanism, according to his
research, but certainly appeared to play a major role in the process. Monday might bring a
breakthrough. Might. Over the weekend his barrage of ultracentrifuges at the laboratory ought to yield
enough material to reach some final conclusions. He didn't even have to be there. His lab technician
would handle the infinitely painstaking task of isolating the fractions when the run was finished, sometime
Sunday. Once he had the results his work would really begin. He might even drop in on Sunday, see how
things were going. On second thought, probably not. He'd be recovering from Jack's barbecue and a
long evening of chat and catching up. Then too, it was more important to spend quality time with Connie
and Keith, come Sunday. Where were they, anyhow? Town was only a few minutes away and she
wasn't going to buy out the store, just shrimp and fixings.
It had been over an hour.
Chapter Two
He finished his drink, had another, then paced. She should have been home more than an hour ago,
even if she got stuck at the railroad crossing. Where can she be? Twice on the comphone and no
answer, but it could be the satellite reception. Maybe it's down for updates, repairs. Maybe it's ...
maybe they're maneuvering it. The possibilities were borderline ridiculous. Come on, Murray. Cool it.
She's a big girl. Look at the news or something.
He did, but that was no good either. Back to pacing.
How about the comphone extension? Maybe it had failed and the damned thing was out of
charge. Nope, it was okay. Where the hell was she? Almost by habit he started walking down the
quarter mile graveled driveway toward the gate, something he'd always done when the newspaper had
been delivered rather than coming by satellite. As long as he was going to pace, he might as well be out in
the air. He was nearing the midpoint of the drive when his comphone spoke up: Gate. Unknown visitor.
He activated video. When the handscreen brightened, his heart missed a beat. That was a state patrol car
at the gate, and behind it one belonging to the county sheriff's office. A quick pan to the insignia
confirmed it. They looked real enough, even though there was a slim chance they weren't. Fake officials'
cars and uniforms were occasionally used to gain entrance at security gates, a technique brought into the
country from the murderous Gulf Wars.
He focused in on the driver of the county vehicle. Alfredo Gomez! Alfredo was one of the sheriff's
deputies. With a sinking heart he told the gate to open, then stepped away from the ruts of the driveway
and waited. Moments later the two cars pulled to a halt. Ignoring the state patrol car, he went to the
passenger's side of the deputy's vehicle, one of the newer sedans sporting composite armor and
bulletproof glass. You could tell at a glance--it was built like a Brink's truck with rounded corners.
The door clicked open and he slid inside. Al's hand was sweaty, just like the young man's dark brown
face. “Hello Al. I take it you're not bringing good news, not with the state tagging along. What is it?"
"Murray, it's bad. Why don't we go on up to the house. We need to talk to you, and--"
"Just go ahead and tell me, Al. Was it Keith? Or Connie? What happened? How bad is it? Are they..."
He couldn't go on.
Al glanced over to be sure he was seated, then started up the drive. He pulled into the circular
turnaround before answering. “Murray, God knows I hate to have to tell you this, but it was a wreck
on the interstate. Some stupid wetbacks hit them head-on in an old pickup. They were going the wrong
way on that bad curve right before you get into town; you know the one. A couple of the bunch survived
and I guess they'll be prosecuted, for all the good it'll do you now. I'm sorry, Murray."
Alfredo was a third generation immigrant, and talked like one. Hardly anyone in the area had much use
for political correctness when it came to illegals, and a wetback would always be a wetback. Murray
looked away and pounded his fist on his knee, saying nothing for a long moment. Finally he turned and let
Alfredo continue.
"The trooper ... he ... well, he was going to notify you, but I said I'd do it since I knew you. Murray, I
hate that you have to go though this, but he's going to ask you to come in and identify the bodies."
The words arrived as through a long tunnel, echoing over and over. Bodies. Bodies. Bodies.
Murray forced himself to concentrate. Get a grip. You can't let down until it's over. You have to go
through it. You've imagined such things a dozen times in your worst nightmares, but this time you
can't switch your thoughts to something else. It's real. They're gone, Murray, gone.
But the mention of bodies made getting a grip impossible. There was all that carnage he'd seen on the
operation in Venezuela, from the time when the Marines and an army brigade had been sent in to rescue
American citizens. For a lot of them, it had been too late. Dead bodies everywhere. Destroyed,
eviscerated, burned--no longer people, just things--with expressions of pain or agony, if they still had
faces. Would Connie look like ... like them? A head-on collision ... ah, no, no!
He shook his head, feeling his vision blur. “I can't do it ... Al ... not that. I can't do that. I can't--"
"You have to, Murray. They need the identification."
"It can't all end ... not like this. Damn ... damn ... oh, damn!
A hand was placed on his arm. “Murray, I'm sorry. You can do it. Just take a look, that's all. Take a
deep breath, calm yourself, say it's them and it's over. That's all you have to do. The trooper's waiting.
Go talk to him."
"Not my own family, Al. Someone else can do it." He abruptly shouldered open the heavy door and
staggered out. There's no way in hell they can force me to view the ... they'll have to get someone
else, someone from town, someone from the agency that cared for ... Keith. They've got the DNA
on both of them, so let 'em use that.
But when the trooper's window rolled down, nothing came together, no coherent argument, just protest.
The trooper stared straight ahead all through the outburst. He finally looked up. “Sir," he said gently,
“we recovered some personal identification. If you could just look at one of the victims, we'll take that
as conclusive for both. Or if you have some other close family member, that would do as well."
"There's no one nearby. They're in ... I'll ... okay, I'll go in and look at ... at my son. Only him. Not ... not
my wife. I can't ... not her." I'll remember you as you were, Connie, my beautiful, vibrant, loving
companion. I'll always remember your smile when you said you'd be back in a few minutes. Your
freckles. They were you.
It was the last thing he remembered clearly that day.
* * * *
Connie had named the farm one day when they examined a withered Leyland Cypress landscape tree,
their third attempt to get one started. She'd laughed, not really serious as she complained. “Everything
we do here dies, so far as plants go. We ought to name this the Do-Die farm. We should have settled in
East Texas or Louisiana, where it's still green."
Murray stared at the spot where the tree had been, then wandered on, pausing here and there as
memories flooded back. It was part of letting go, something he knew he had to do to wash away of the
nightmare of these days since losing her. Part of it came from Connie's family in the form of outrage when
they learned there'd be no 'viewing', not even a private one. There'd be no closed casket on a bier either,
no masterpiece in walnut they could weep over and whisper about and drag out old memories over. If
they wanted to see her casket, they could go to the graveyard where they'd cluster around an artfully
concealed hole, hear words they'd heard at other burials and depart in the belief that somehow the casket
would magically become a lovely grassy plot replete with headstone and flowers. He wouldn't be there.
Even the burial was a concession, something he allowed, not something Connie would have wanted. She
hated spectacles of that sort, but there was so much rebellion over cremation that he yielded on that
subject, nothing else. It might cause a permanent breach with her family, but he couldn't make himself
give much of a damn just then.
Throughout it all they barely mentioned Keith. Her family had never really accepted him, letting their silent
approbation say clearer than words that the autism was his fault, not Connie's. As if anyone could predict
those things.
It had been a dark, depressing nightmare with no retreat possible, given his analytical mind. The phone
calls were agony, first to Jack and Brenda to cancel their visit, then to the family members. He'd done it
solo, in a state of shock without a soul to lean on, and shortly thereafter they'd descended on him.
Myriads of quasi-strangers, most familiar--others not, arriving at his home in ragged sequences;
mountains of food brought by some as a form of comfort; expressions of consolation and grief; four dogs
going crazy; arrangements at the funeral home with one hand, orchestration of the memorial service with
the other, phone calls and simultaneous comphone conversations, incessant explanations. The
kaleidoscope of events played out over and over in his conscious mind, while a part of him screamed for
quiet, for time to grieve. It had never happened when it should have happened.
He was grieving now as he wandered their Do-Die farm. The memory of her merry voice and that
laughing, expressive face was there wherever he looked, but something else was forming in the
background, tenuous, like a thin fog.
It was rage.
Rage, not so much for the specific truckload of illegals that cost him his family, but the fact of their very
illegal existence in the country. Rage at the federal government's unwillingness to control the borders, at
the craven politicians who feared taking effective action would lose the Hispanic vote. It gradually
displaced grief, helping him take his mind somewhere else. He began documenting all the aspects of
illegal immigration, concentrating on how it had gotten to the present morass and what it would take to
cure it. He delved into government in general, into how cowardly and immoral politicians cast votes, not
for what was best for the country, but for whatever would get them reelected. Or, for whatever
legislation the biggest donors wanted passed or kept viable by congress.
One major roadblock to effective control, but by no means the only one, was the way elected officials
reached out to ethnic voting blocs--such as Hispanics--and catered to their demands. Industry wanted
wages kept low to compete with foreign markets. Farmers, unsatisfied with giant publicized subsidies of
the past or the more hidden ones at present, supported more and more illegals because they'd harvest the
crops at any wages. And the list went on.
That study initially occupied him, but it soon ballooned to include other aspects of government and
society, bogging him down in a wealth of details. It would be hard for even one of those giant computers
normally used for weather forecasting to untangle the mess government had become. Probably
impossible. Computers were fast, not intelligent. At the end of the week he gave up. He had a mountain
of data and assumptions and charts and projections, plus innumerable other paths he'd thought of but
hadn't traveled. Too much, too much. Maybe later he could come back and concentrate on just the illegal
immigration boondoggle and perhaps think of something to do about it, but for now it was time to go
back to Barrington, and work. That would be a test of another sort. Perhaps he was ready, but he
wouldn't know until he faced it.
He decided to go in late the first morning. That way he might postpone the inevitable a little longer, not
the most courageous decision to be sure, but one anyone might expect. Ernesta Wiggins, administrative
assistant for his department, would be the most likely to spot him as he entered the suite of offices.
摘要：

TheFocusFactorDarrellBainandGeraldMillsTwilightTimesBooksKingsport,TennesseeTheFocusFactorThisisaworkoffiction.Allconcepts,charactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookareusedfictitiouslyandanyresemblancetorealpeopleoreventsispurelycoincidental.Copyright©2006DarrellBainandGeraldW.Mills.Allrightsreserved.N...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：151 页 大小：403.95KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-23

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