Page 37 - The Gluckman Occasional Number Eleven

MORTON: Yes, yes! No progress. They’re getting sick of seeing
my face in the computer room. I’m not used to working this late.
Now I know why they put that guy Patterson on second shift:
he’s so stupid he couldn’t pass a test for opposable thumbs.

KELLERMAN (grimaces) But we’re running out of time: the month
ends in less than half an hour. The figures have to be correct!

MORTON: Look: the data comes in to us online from the
hospitals and police stations. That’s out of my control. Are you sure
those algorithms you gave me are correct?

KELLERMAN: Is grass green? Do the rivers empty into the sea?
Don’t be such a wise-ass. True, I’ve been getting more into
management lately, but I’m still a damn good statistician. Don’t
you think I checked out my equations very carefully before I gave
them to you to program? Next thing, you’ll be telling me there’s a
glitch in the computer.

MORTON: (gets up angrily, then sits back down) Bullshit! If you
didn’t think I could write this projection, then why didn’t you give
it to Burton or Murasaki?

KELLERMAN: You want to know how I picked you? Eeny-
meeny, miney-moe. That’s how. Promotion is not automatic in this
department: remember that little fact. And you have a salary review
coming up soon, don’t you?

MORTON: All right. No need to get nasty. I’ve been working my tail
off to get this done for you. Look, I’m going to change one piece of
logic and rerun it. Maybe there’s been one more suicide reported
somewhere in the city. There. (stands and stretches) I’ll go wait by the
printer. (exits center; sounds of machinery when door opened).

KELLERMAN: (goes to MORTON’s desk, looks at papers) That
idiot! Let me see if he really coded up that extrapolation
correctly…ah, there it is…heads of household, divorced men,
minority women, liberal arts students, lunar phases, stock market,
weather patterns…it all seems to be there…

SINCLAIR: (enters from right drunk and in evening clothes) Jim, my
boy! Didn’t expect to see you here burning the midnight oil.
Everything under control? (Sits heavily in MORTON’s chair)