Three
“Don’t you understand? I don’t care!” He slammed the phone down. Psychiatrists! The nerve, criticizing his order to Greystein as “counter-productive: it might trigger an undesirable response.”
“Undesirable response.” Phaugh! What could be less desirable than drunken lechery? The idiot psychiatrists just did not understand. His half-psychotic employees had to maintain Earth’s links in an interstellar transportation web. The only way to keep them working was to crucify anyone who stepped out of line.
He picked up the holocube and stroked it with a fingertip. Thank God somebody had his head on straight and would help him bring those spoiled brats to heel. This clear plastic box, fifteen centimeters on a side, offered enough evidence to justify scouring Greystein’s skull twice over.
“Undesirable response.” Like what—mutiny? He almost hoped it came to that. The more insubordinate Greystein became, the more severe an indoctrination his behavior would warrant. Even PsychSection would agree to that. So let Greystein flout him. Just let him.
The system had rules so it would run smoothly and efficiently. When people started breaking the rules, they threatened its survival. But the Network was bigger than people, and star travel more important. It had to survive. Even if some of them did not.
The obedient ones, like Harry Lipsiento, would do very well.
And the Greysteins would make very nice examples.