One
The psychiatric evaluation of Marion Jefferson Greystein disgusted him. “Emotional immaturity and consequent rebelliousness, compounded by alcoholic tendencies.” In plain English, Greystein broke whatever rules he pleased. As that anonymous phone call had just made clear.
Davis drummed his fingers on the desk. PsychSection recommended nonsense: comprehension, counseling, therapy. All a smokescreen spewed out to hide its failure to properly indoctrinate Greystein in the first place. If it had done its job—damn the personality damage!—Greystein would never have acted up.
Not one Flinger except Harry Lipsiento, whose Psych session he had overseen personally, seemed to have been indoctrinated properly. Whiners, all of them! Ask them to work overtime, to squeeze in one extra Fling—“I’m too tired,” or “Couldn’t get it there safely,” or even, to his fury, “No.” Except for Harry, who was as courteous and as reflexively obedient as any boss could want.
Time to draw a line. Whip the prima donnas into shape. Make an example out of Greystein. His roommate Feighan was nearly as bad, but at least Feighan did his job. Greystein thought he was above all that. Dead last on the performance ratings the last six months. Four days out of five he came to work hung over; on the fifth, he came drunk. No therapy for him. What he needed—and would get if that caller sent the proof—would be a good headscrub.
That would solve the problem. For sure. And forever.