Elizabeth Moon - The Speed of Dark

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The Speed of Dark - Elizabeth Moon
THE SPEED OF DARK
Elizabeth Moon
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Contents
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BALLANTINE BOOKS NEW YORK
A Ballantine Book Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 2003 by Elizabeth Moon
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of
Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of
Canada Limited, Toronto.
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www.ballantinebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Moon, Elizabeth. The speed of dark / Elizabeth Moon.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-345-44755-7
1. Autism—Patients—Fiction. I. Title.
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The Speed of Dark - Elizabeth Moon
PS3563.O557 S64 2002
813'.54—dc21
Text design by Holly Johnson
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition: January 2003
For Michael, whose courage and joy are a constant delight, and for Richard, without
whose love and support the job would have been 200 percent harder. And for other
parents of autistic children, in the hope that they also find that delight in difference.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Among the people who had helped most in research for this book were the autistic
children and adults and the families of autists who over the years have communicated
with me—by their writings, in person, on the Internet. In the planning stages of this
book, I distanced myself from most of these sources (unsubscribing from mailing lists
and news groups, et cetera) to protect the privacy of those individuals; a normally
spotty memory made it unlikely that any identifiable details would survive several
years of noncontact. One of those individuals chose to stay in e-mail contact; for her
generosity in discussing issues related to disability, inclusion, and the perception of
nonautistic persons I am always in her debt. However, she has not read this book (yet)
and is not responsible for anything in it.
Of the writers in this field, I am most indebted to Oliver Sacks, whose many books on
neurology are informed with humanity as well as knowledge, and Temple Grandin,
whose inside view of autism was invaluable (and especially accessible to me since
my lifelong interest in animal behavior overlaps her expertise). Readers who are
particularly interested in autism might want to look at the reading list on my Web
site.
J. Ferris Duhon, an attorney with extensive experience in employment law, helped me
design a plausible near-future business and legal climate as it related to employment
of persons labeled disabled; any remaining legal pratfalls are my fault, not his. J.B.,
J.H., J.K., and K.S. contributed insights into the corporate structure and the internal
politics of large multinational corporations and research institutions; for obvious
reasons they preferred not to be identified more fully. David Watson provided expert
advice on fencing, historical re-creation organizations, and the protocol of
tournaments. Again, any errors in any of this are my fault, not theirs.
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The Speed of Dark - Elizabeth Moon
My editor, Shelly Shapiro, provided exactly the right blend of freedom and guidance,
and my agent, Joshua Bilmes, sustained the effort with his belief that I could actually
do this.
CHAPTER ONE
^ »
QUESTIONS, ALWAYS QUESTIONS. THEY DIDN’T WAIT FOR the answers, either.
They rushed on, piling questions on questions, covering every moment with
questions, blocking off every sensation but the thorn stab of questions.
And orders. If it wasn’t, “Lou, what is this?” it was, “Tell me what this is.” A bowl.
The same bowl, time after time. It is a bowl and it is an ugly bowl, a boring bowl, a
bowl of total and complete boring blandness, uninteresting. I am uninterested in that
uninteresting bowl.
If they aren’t going to listen, why should I talk?
I know better than to say that out loud. Everything in my life that I value has been
gained at the cost of not saying what I really think and saying what they want me to
say.
In this office, where I am evaluated and advised four times a year, the psychiatrist is
no less certain of the line between us than all the others have been. Her certainty is
painful to see, so I try not to look at her more than I have to. That has its own
dangers; like the others, she thinks I should make more eye contact than I do. I glance
at her now.
Dr. Fornum, crisp and professional, raises an eyebrow and shakes her head not quite
imperceptibly. Autistic persons do not understand these signals; the book says so. I
have read the book, so I know what it is I do not understand.
What I haven’t figured out yet is the range of things they don’t understand. The
normals. The reals. The ones who have the degrees and sit behind the desks in
comfortable chairs.
I know some of what she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know that I can read. She thinks
I’m hyperlexic, just parroting the words. The difference between what she calls
parroting and what she does when she reads is imperceptible to me. She doesn’t know
that I have a large vocabulary. Every time she asks what my job is and I say I am still
working for the pharmaceutical company, she asks if I know what pharmaceutical
means. She thinks I’m parroting. The difference between what she calls parroting and
my use of a large number of words is imperceptible to me. She uses large words when
talking to the other doctors and nurses and technicians, babbling on and on and saying
things that could be said more simply. She knows I work on a computer, she knows I
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The Speed of Dark - Elizabeth Moon
went to school, but she has not caught on that this is incompatible with her belief that
I am actually nearly illiterate and barely verbal.
She talks to me as if I were a rather stupid child. She does not like it when I use big
words (as she calls them) and she tells me to just say what I mean.
What I mean is the speed of dark is as interesting as the speed of light, and maybe it
is faster and who will find out?
What I mean is about gravity, if there were a world where it is twice as strong, then
on that world would the wind from a fan be stronger because the air is thicker and
blow my glass off the table, not just my napkin? Or would the greater gravity hold the
glass more firmly to the table, so the stronger wind couldn’t move it?
What I mean is the world is big and scary and noisy and crazy but also beautiful and
still in the middle of the windstorm.
What I mean is what difference does it make if I think of colors as people or people
as sticks of chalk, all stiff and white unless they are brown chalk or black?
What I mean is I know what I like and want, and she does not, and I do not want to
like or want what she wants me to like or want.
She doesn’t want to know what I mean. She wants me to say what other people say.
“Good morning, Dr. Fornum.”
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”
“Yes, I can wait. I don’t mind.”
I don’t mind. When she answers the phone I can look around her office and find the
twinkly things she doesn’t know she has. I can move my head back and forth so the
light in the corner glints off and on over there, on the shiny cover of a book in the
bookcase. If she notices that I’m moving my head back and forth she makes a note in
my record. She may even interrupt her phone call to tell me to stop. It is called
stereotypy when I do it and relaxing her neck when she does it. I call it fun, watching
the reflected light blink off and on.
Dr. Fornum’s office has a strange blend of smells, not just the paper and ink and book
smell and the carpet glue and the plastic smell of the chair frames, but something else
that I keep thinking must be chocolate. Does she keep a box of candy in her desk
drawer? I would like to find out. I know if I asked her she would make a note in my
record. Noticing smells is not appropriate. Notes about noticing are bad notes, but not
like bad notes in music, which are wrong.
I do not think everyone else is alike in every way. She has told me that Everyone
knows this and Everyone does that, but I am not blind, just autistic, and I know that
they know and do different things. The cars in the parking lot are different colors and
sizes. Thirty-seven percent of them, this morning, are blue. Nine percent are oversize:
trucks or vans. There are eighteen motorcycles in three racks, which would be six
apiece, except that ten of them are in the back rack, near Maintenance. Different
channels carry different programs; that would not happen if everyone were alike.
When she puts down the phone and looks at me, her face has that look. I don’t know
what most people would call it, but I call it the I AM REAL look. It means she is real
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and she has answers and I am someone less, not completely real, even though I can
feel the nubbly texture of the office chair right through my slacks. I used to put a
magazine under me, but she says I don’t need to do that. She is real, she thinks, so she
knows what I need and don’t need.
“Yes, Dr. Fornum, I am listening.” Her words pour over me, slightly irritating, like a
vat of vinegar. “Listen for conversational cues,” she tells me, and waits. “Yes,” I say.
She nods, marks on the record, and says, ‘Very good,“ without looking at me. Down
the hall somewhere, someone starts walking this way. Two someones, talking. Soon
their talk tangles with hers. I am hearing about Debby on Friday… next time…
going to the Did they? And I told her. But never bird on a stool… can’t be, and Dr.
Fornum is waiting for me to answer something. She would not talk to me about a bird
on a stool. “I’m sorry,” I say. She tells me to pay better attention and makes another
mark on my record and asks about my social life.
She does not like what I tell her, which is that I play games on the Internet with my
friend Alex in Germany and my friend Ky in Indonesia. “In real life,” she says firmly.
“People at work,” I say, and she nods again and then asks about bowling and
miniature golf and movies and the local branch of the Autism Society.
Bowling hurts my back and the noise is ugly in my head. Miniature golf is for kids,
not grownups, but I didn’t like it even when I was a kid. I liked laser tag, but when I
told her that in the first session she put down “violent tendencies.” It took a long time
to get that set of questions about violence off my regular agenda, and I’m sure she has
never removed the notation. I remind her that I don’t like bowling or miniature golf,
and she tells me I should make an effort. I tell her I’ve been to three movies, and she
asks about them. I read the reviews, so I can tell her the plots. I don’t like movies
much, either, especially in movie theaters, but I have to have something to tell her…
and so far she hasn’t figured out that my bald recitation of the plot is straight from a
review.
I brace myself for the next question, which always makes me angry. My sex life is
none of her business. She is the last person I would tell about a girlfriend or
boyfriend. But she doesn’t expect me to have one; she just wants to document that I
do not, and that is worse.
Finally it is over. She will see me next time, she says, and I say, “Thank you, Dr.
Fornum,” and she says, “Very good,” as if I were a trained dog.
Outside, it is hot and dry, and I must squint against the glitter of all the parked cars.
The people walking on the sidewalk are dark blots in the sunlight, hard to see against
the shimmer of the light until my eyes adjust.
I am walking too fast. I know that not just from the firm smack of my shoes on the
pavement, but because the people walking toward me have their faces bunched up in
the way that I think means they’re worried. Why? I am not trying to hit them. So I
will slow down and think music.
Dr. Fornum says I should learn to enjoy music other people enjoy. I do. I know other
people like Bach and Schubert and not all of them are autistic. There are not enough
autistic people to support all those orchestras and operas. But to her other people
means “the most people.” I think of the Trout Quintet, and as the music flows through
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The Speed of Dark - Elizabeth Moon
my mind I can feel my breathing steady and my steps slow to match its tempo.
My key slides into my car’s door lock easily, now that I have the right music. The
seat is warm, cozily warm, and the soft fleece comforts me. I used to use hospital
fleece, but with one of my first paychecks I bought a real sheepskin. I bounce a little
to the internal music before turning on the engine. It’s hard to keep the music going
sometimes when the engine starts; I like to wait until it’s on the beat.
On the way back to work, I let the music ease me through intersections, traffic lights,
near-jams, and then the gates of the campus, as they call it. Our building is off to the
right; I flash my ID at the parking lot guard and find my favorite space. I hear people
from other buildings complain about not getting their favorite space, but here we
always do. No one would take my space, and I would not take anyone else’s. Dale on
my right and Linda on my left, facing into Cameron.
I walk to the building, on the last phrase of my favorite part of the music, and let it
fade as I go through the door. Dale is there, by the coffee machine. He does not
speak, nor do I. Dr. Fornum would want me to speak, but there is no reason. I can see
that Dale is thinking very hard and doesn’t need to be interrupted. I am still annoyed
about Dr. Fornum, as I am every quarter, so I pass my desk and go on into the mini-
gym. Bouncing will help. Bouncing always helps. No one else is there, so I hang the
sign on the door and turn good bouncing music up loud.
No one interrupts me while I bounce; the strong thrust of the trampoline followed by
weightless suspension makes me feel vast and light. I can feel my mind stretching
out, relaxing, even as I keep perfect time with the music. When I feel the
concentration returning and curiosity drives me once more toward my assignment, I
slow the bouncing to tiny little baby bounces and swing off the trampoline.
No one interrupts me as I walk to my desk. I think Linda is there, and Bailey, but it
doesn’t matter. Later we may go for supper, but not now. Now I am ready to work.
The symbols I work with are meaningless and confusing to most people. It is hard to
explain what I do, but I know it is valuable work, because they pay me enough to
afford the car, the apartment, and they supply the gym and the quarterly visits to Dr.
Fornum. Basically I look for patterns. Some of the patterns have fancy names and
other people find them hard to see, but for me they have always been easy. All I had
to do was learn the way to describe them so others could see that I had something in
mind.
I put headphones on and choose a music. For the project I’m on now, Schubert is too
lush. Bach is perfect, the complex patterns mirroring the pattern I need. I let the place
in my mind that finds and generates patterns sink into the project, and then it is like
watching ice crystals grow on the surface of still water: one after another, the lines of
ice grow, branch, branch again, interlace… All I have to do is pay attention and
ensure that the pattern remains symmetrical or asymmetrical or whatever the
particular project calls for. This time it is more intensely recursive than most, and I
see it in my mind as stacks of fractal growth, forming a spiky sphere.
When the edges blur, I shake myself and sit back. It has been five hours, and I didn’t
notice. All the agitation from Dr. Fornum has gone, leaving me clear. Sometimes
when I come back I can’t work for a day or so, but this time I got back into balance
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with the bouncing. Above my workstation, a pinwheel spins lazily in the draft of the
ventilation system. I blow at it, and after a moment—1.3 seconds, actually—it spins
faster, twinkling purple-and-silver in the light. I decide to turn on my swiveling fan so
all the pinwheels and spin spirals can spin together, filling my office with twinkling
light.
The dazzle has just started when I hear Bailey calling from down the hall, “Anyone
for pizza?” I am hungry; my stomach makes noises and I can suddenly smell
everything in the office: the paper, the workstation, the carpet, the
metal/plastic/dust/cleaning solution… myself. I turn off the fan, give a last glance at
the spinning and twinkling beauty, and go out into the hall. A quick flick of a glance
at my friends’ faces is all I need to know who is coming and who is not. We do not
need to talk about it; we know one another.
We come into the pizza place about nine. Linda, Bailey, Eric, Dale, Cameron, and
me. Chuy was ready to eat, too, but the tables here hold only six. He understands. I
would understand if he and the others were ready first. I would not want to come here
and sit at another table, so I know that Chuy will not come here and we will not have
to try to squeeze him in. A new manager last year did not understand that. He was
always trying to arrange big dinners for us and mix us up in seating. “Don’t be so
hidebound,” he would say. When he wasn’t looking, we went back to where we like
to sit. Dale has an eye tic that bothers Linda, so she sits where she can’t see it. I think
it’s funny and I like to watch it, so I sit on Dale’s left, where it looks like he’s
winking at me.
The people who work here know us. Even when other people in the restaurant look
too long at us for our movements and the way we talk— or don’t—the people here
don’t ever give us that go-away look I’ve had other places. Linda just points to what
she wants or sometimes she writes it out first, and they never bother her with more
questions.
Tonight our favorite table is dirty. I can hardly stand to look at the five dirty plates
and pizza pans; it makes my stomach turn to think of the smears of sauce and cheese
and crust crumbs, and the uneven number makes it worse. There is an empty table to
our right, but we do not like that one. It’s next to the passage to the rest rooms, and
too many people go by behind us.
We wait, trying to be patient, as Hi-I’m-Sylvia—she has that on her name tag, as if
she were a product for sale and not a person—signals to one of the others to clean up
our table. I like her and can remember to call her Sylvia without the Hi-I’m as long as
I’m not looking at her name tag. Hi-I’m-Sylvia always smiles at us and tries to be
helpful; Hi-I’m-Jean is the reason we don’t come in on Thursdays, when she works
this shift. Hi-I’m-Jean doesn’t like us and mutters under her breath if she sees us.
Sometimes one of us will come to pick up an order for the others; the last time I did,
Hi-I’m-Jean said, “At least he didn’t bring all the other freaks in here,” to one of the
cooks as I turned away from the register. She knew I heard. She meant me to hear.
She is the only one who gives us trouble.
But tonight it’s Hi-I’m-Sylvia and Tyree, who is picking up the plates and dirty
knives and forks as if it didn’t bother him. Tyree doesn’t wear a name tag; he just
cleans tables. We know he’s Tyree because we heard the others call him that. The
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first time I used his name to him, he looked startled and a little scared, but now he
knows us, though he doesn’t use our names.
“Be done in a minute here,” Tyree says, and gives us a sidelong look. “You doin’
okay?”
“Fine,” Cameron says. He’s bouncing a little from heel to toe. He always does that a
little, but I can tell he’s bouncing a bit faster than usual.
I am watching the beer sign blinking in the window. It comes on in three segments,
red, green, then blue in the middle, and then goes off all at once. Blink, red. Blink,
green, blink blue, then blink red/green/blue, all off, all on, all off, and start over. A
very simple pattern, and the colors aren’t that pretty (the red is too orange for my
taste and so is the green, but the blue is a lovely blue), but still it’s a pattern to watch.
“Your table’s ready,” Hi-I’m-Sylvia says, and I try not to twitch as I shift my
attention from the beer sign to her.
We arrange ourselves around the table in the usual way and sit down. We are having
the same thing we have every time we come here, so it doesn’t take long to order. We
wait for the food to come, not talking because we are each, in our own way, settling
into this situation. Because of the visit to Dr. Fornum, I’m more aware than usual of
the details of this process: that Linda is bouncing her fingers on the bowl of her spoon
in a complex pattern that would delight a mathematician as much as it does her. I’m
watching the beer sign out of the corner of my eye, as is Dale. Cameron is bouncing
the tiny plastic dice he keeps in his pocket, discreetly enough that people who don’t
know him wouldn’t notice, but I can see the rhythmic flutter of his sleeve. Bailey also
watches the beer sign. Eric has taken out his multicolor pen and is drawing tiny
geometric patterns on the paper place mat. First red, then purple, then blue, then
green, then yellow, then orange, then red again. He likes it when the food arrives just
when he finishes a color sequence.
This time the drinks come while he’s at yellow; the food comes on the next orange.
His face relaxes.
We are not supposed to talk about the project off-campus. But Cameron is still
bouncing in his seat, full of his need to tell us about a problem he solved, when we’ve
almost finished eating. I glance around. No one is at a table near us. “Ezzer,” I say.
Ezzer means “go ahead” in our private language. We aren’t supposed to have a
private language and nobody thinks we can do something like that, but we can. Many
people have a private language without even knowing it. They may call it jargon or
slang, but it’s really a private language, a way of telling who is in the group and who
is not.
Cameron pulls a paper out of his pocket and spreads it out. We aren’t supposed to
take papers out of the office, in case someone else gets hold of them, but we all do it.
It’s hard to talk, sometimes, and much easier to write things down or draw them.
I recognize the curly guardians Cameron always puts in the corner of his drawings.
He likes anime. I recognize as well the patterns he has linked through a partial
recursion that has the lean elegance of most of his solutions. We all look at it and nod.
“Pretty,” Linda says. Her hands jerk sideways a little; she would be flapping wildly if
we were back at the campus, but here she tries not to do it.
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“Yes,” Cameron says, and folds the paper back up.
I know that this exchange would not satisfy Dr. Fornum. She would want Cameron to
explain the drawing, even though it is clear to all of us. She would want us to ask
questions, make comments, talk about it. There is nothing to talk about: it is clear to
all of us what the problem was and that Cameron’s solution is good in all senses.
Anything else is just busy talk. Among ourselves we don’t have to do that.
“I was wondering about the speed of dark,” I say, looking down. They will look at
me, if only briefly, when I speak, and I don’t want to feel all those gazes.
“It doesn’t have a speed,” Eric says. “It’s just the space where light isn’t.”
“What would it feel like if someone ate pizza on a world with more than one
gravity?” Linda asks.
“I don’t know,” Dale says, sounding worried.
“The speed of not knowing,” Linda says.
I puzzle at that a moment and figure it out. “Not knowing expands faster than
knowing,” I say. Linda grins and ducks her head. “So the speed of dark could be
greater than the speed of light. If there always has to be dark around the light, then it
has to go out ahead of it.”
“I want to go home now,” Eric says. Dr. Fornum would want me to ask if he is upset.
I know he is not upset; if he goes home now he will see his favorite TV program. We
say good-bye because we are in public and we all know you are supposed to say good-
bye in public. I go back to the campus. I want to watch my whirligigs and spin spirals
for a while before going home to bed.
CAMERON AND I ARE IN THE GYM, TALKING IN BURSTS AS WE bounce on the
trampolines. We have both done a lot of good work in the last few days, and we are
relaxing.
Joe Lee comes in and I look at Cameron. Joe Lee is only twenty-four. He would be
one of us if he hadn’t had the treatments that were developed too late for us. He
thinks he’s one of us because he knows he would have been and he has some of our
characteristics. He is very good at abstractions and recursions, for instance. He likes
some of the same games; he likes our gym. But he is much better—he is normal, in
fact— in his ability to read minds and expressions. Normal minds and expressions.
He misses with us, who are his closest relatives in that way.
“Hi, Lou,” he says to me. “Hi, Cam.” I see Cameron stiffen. He doesn’t like to have
his name shortened. He has told me it feels like having his legs cut off. He has told
Joe Lee, too, but Joe Lee forgets because he spends so much of his time with the
normals. “Howzitgoin?” he asks, slurring the words and forgetting to face us so we
can see his lips. I catch it, because my auditory processing is better than Cameron’s
and I know that Joe Lee often slurs his words.
“How is it going?” I say clearly, for Cameron’s benefit. “Fine, Joe Lee.” Cameron
breathes out.
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“Didja hear?” Joe Lee asks, and without waiting for an answer he rushes on.
“Somebody’s working on a reversal procedure for autism. It worked on some rats or
something, so they’re trying it on primates. I’ll bet it won’t be long before you guys
can be normal like me.”
Joe Lee has always said he’s one of us, but this makes it clear that he has never really
believed it. We are “you guys” and normal is “like me.” I wonder if he said he was
one of us but luckier to make us feel better or to please someone else.
Cameron glares; I can almost feel the tangle of words filling his throat, making it
impossible for him to speak. I know better than to speak for him. I speak only for
myself, which is how everyone should speak.
“So you admit you are not one of us,” I say, and Joe Lee stiffens, his face assuming
an expression I’ve been taught is “hurt feelings.”
“How can you say that, Lou? You know it’s just the treatment—”
“If you give a deaf child hearing, he is no longer one of the deaf,” I say. “If you do it
early enough, he never was. It’s all pretending otherwise.”
“What’s all pretending otherwise? Otherwise what?” Joe Lee looks confused as well
as hurt, and I realize that I left out one of the little pauses where a comma would be if
you wrote what I said. But his confusion alarms me—being not understood alarms
me; it lasted so long when I was a child. I feel the words tangling in my head, in my
throat, and struggle to get them out in the right order, with the right expression. Why
can’t people just say what they mean, the words alone? Why do I have to fight with
tone and rate and pitch and variation?
I can feel and hear my voice going tight and mechanical. I sound angry to myself, but
what I feel is scared. “They fixed you before you were born, Joe Lee,” I say. “You
never lived days—one day—like us.”
“You’re wrong,” he says quickly, interrupting. “I’m just like you inside, except—”
“Except what makes you different from others, what you call normal,” I say,
interrupting in turn. It hurts to interrupt. Miss Finley, one of my therapists, used to tap
my hand if I interrupted. But I could not stand to hear him going on saying things that
were not true. “You could hear and process language sounds—you learned to talk
normally. You didn’t have dazzle eyes.”
“Yeah, but my brain works the same way.”
I shake my head. Joe Lee should know better; we’ve told him again and again. The
problems we have with hearing and vision and other senses aren’t in the sensory
organs but in the brain. So the brain does not work the same if someone doesn’t have
those problems. If we were computers, Joe Lee would have a different main processor
chip, with a different instruction set. Even if two computers with different chips do
use the same software, it will not run the same.
“But I do the same work—”
But he doesn’t. He thinks he does. Sometimes I wonder if the company we work for
thinks he does, because they have hired other Joe Lees and no more of us, even
though I know there are unemployed people like us. Joe Lee’s solutions are linear.
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