Dr. Rivers leaned back from his terminal, flipping the pen across his desk and spinning the thumbwheel to make the screen whirl back and forth.
“Yeah, See. There’s nothing there. It’s all smoke and mirrors. It’s a crime.”
“Sure it is, Pete,” said Robert Grinder; “They don’t do have of the great stuff we do here.”
I looked across at my liaison and raised one eyebrow. Was this guy for real?
“See,” said Dr. Rivers, leaning in to me and lowering his elocution level as if he were speaking to a small child, “They think that they can say they’ve got it all made because they run a battery of tests, right?”
He paused, waiting for me to acknowledge him. I nodded him on.
“But I don’t need 40,000 credits worth of tests to know that there’s something wrong with this kid, right?” Another pause. Another nod. “He wouldn’t be coming here if there wasn’t something wrong with him.” He looked over to Grinder for confirmation and Grinder shot him back a loud, raucous laugh, confirming my first and primary suspicion about the man; he was a suck up.
Science had solved man kind’s medical problems— but no matter what kind of genome mapping, rotovirus RNA-implanting stem-cell regenerating bio-nuclear petri dish mumbo jumbo you threw at mankind, some people were still assholes.