Aldrin said nothing. Crenshaw in full flow wouldn’t listen anyway. Crenshaw took that silence for consent and went on.

“And then they figured out what it was that went wrong and started fixing it in babies… so your guys are fossils, Pete. Marooned between the bad old days and the bright new ones. Stuck. It’s not fair to them.”

Very little in life was fair, and Aldrin could not believe that Crenshaw had a clue about fairness.

“Now you say they have this unique talent and deserve the expensive extras we shower on them because they produce. That may’ve been true five years ago, Pete — maybe even two years ago — but the machines have caught up, as they always do.” He held out a printout. “I’ll bet you don’t keep up with the literature in artificial intelligence, do you?”

Aldrin took the printout without looking at it. “Machines have never been able to do what they do,” he said.

“Once upon a time, machines couldn’t add two and two,” Crenshaw said. “But you wouldn’t hire someone now to add up columns of figures with pencil and paper, would you?”

Only during a power outage: small businesses found it expedient to be sure the people who worked checkout registers could, in fact, add two and two with paper and pencil. But mentioning that would not work, he knew.

“You’re saying machines could replace them?” he asked.

“Easy as pie,” Crenshaw said. “Well… maybe not that easy. It’d take new computers and some pretty high-powered software… but then all it takes is the electricity. None of that silly stuff they’ve got.”

Electricity that had to be paid for constantly, whereas the supports for his people had been paid off long ago. Another thing Crenshaw wouldn’t listen to.

“Suppose they all took the treatment and it worked: would you still want to replace them with machines?”

“Bottom line, Pete, bottom line. Whatever comes out best for the company is what I want. If they can do the work as well and not cost as much as new machines, I’m not out to put anyone on unemployment. But we have to cut costs — have to. In this market, the only way to get investment income is to show efficiency. And that plush private lab and those offices — that’s not what any stockholder would call efficiency.”

The executive gym and dining room, Aldrin knew, were considered inefficiency by some stockholders, but this had never resulted in loss of executive privileges. Executives, it had been explained repeatedly, needed these perks to help them maintain peak performance. They had earned the privileges they used, and the privileges boosted their efficiency. It was said, but Aldrin didn’t believe it. He also didn’t say it.

“So, bottom line, Gene—” It was daring to use Crenshaw’s first name, but he was in the mood to be daring. “Either they agree to treatment, in which case you might consider letting them stay on, or you’ll find a way to force them out. Law or no law.”

“The law does not require a company to bankrupt itself,” Crenshaw said. “That notion went overboard early this century. We’d lose the tax break, but that’s such a tiny part of our budget that it’s worthless, really. Now if they’d agree to dispense with their so-called support measures and act like regular employees, I wouldn’t push the treatment — though why they wouldn’t want it I can’t fathom.”

“So you want me to do what?” Aldrin asked.

Crenshaw smiled. “Glad to see you’re coming onboard with this, Pete. I want you to make it clear to your people what the options are. One way or another, they have to quit being a drag on the company: give up their luxuries now, or take the treatment and give them up if it’s really the autism that makes them need that stuff, or…” He ran a finger across his throat. “They can’t hold the company hostage. There’s not a law in this land we can’t find a way around or get changed.” He sat back and folded his hands behind his head. “We have the resources.”

Aldrin felt sick. He had known this all his adult life, but he had never been at a level where anyone said it out loud. He had been able to hide it from himself.

“I’ll try to explain,” he said, his tongue stiff in his mouth.

“Pete, you’ve got to quit trying and start doing,” Crenshaw said. “You’re not stupid or lazy; I can tell that. But you just don’t have the… the push.”

Aldrin nodded and escaped from Crenshaw’s office. He went into the washroom and scrubbed his hands… He still felt soiled. He thought of quitting, of turning in his resignation. Mia had a good job, and they had chosen not to have children yet. They could coast a while on her salary if they had to.

But who would look after his people? Not Crenshaw. Aldrin shook his head at himself in the mirror. He was only fooling himself if he thought he could help. He had to try, but… who else in the family could pay his brother’s bills for residential treatment? What if he lost his job?

He tried to think of his contacts: Betty in Human Resources. Shirley in Accounting. He didn’t know anyone in Legal; he’d never needed to. HR took care of the interface with laws concerning special-needs employees; they talked to Legal if it was necessary.

MR. ALDRIN HAS INVITED THE WHOLE SECTION OUT TO DINNER. We are at the pizza place, and because the group is too large for one table, we are at two tables pushed together, in the wrong part of the room.

I am not comfortable with Mr. Aldrin sitting at the table with us, but I do not know what to do about it. He is smiling a lot and talking a lot. Now he thinks the treatment is a good idea, he says. He does not want to pressure us, but he thinks it would benefit us. I try to think about the taste of the pizza and not listen, but it is harder.

After a while he slows down. He has had another beer, and his voice is softening at the edges, like toast in hot chocolate. He sounds more like the Mr. Aldrin I am used to, more tentative. “I still don’t understand why they’re in such a hurry,” he says. “The expense of the gym and things is minimal, really. We don’t need the space. It’s a drop in the bucket, compared to the profitability of the section. And there aren’t enough autistics like you in the world to make this a profitable treatment even if it does work perfectly for all of you.”

“Current estimates are that there are millions of autistic persons in the United States alone,” Eric says.

“Yes, but—”

“The cost of social services for that population, including residential facilities for the most impaired, is estimated at billions a year. If the treatment works, that money would be available—”

“The workforce can’t handle that many new workers,” Mr. Aldrin says. “And some of them are too old. Jeremy—” He stops suddenly and his skin turns red and shiny. Is he angry or embarrassed? I am not sure. He takes a long breath. “My brother,” he says. “He is too old to get a job now.”

“You have a brother who is autistic?” Linda asks. She looks at his face for the first time. “You never told us.” I feel cold suddenly, exposed. I thought Mr. Aldrin could not see into our heads, but if he has an autistic brother, then he may know more than I thought.

“I… didn’t think it was important.” His face is still red and shiny, and I think he is not telling the truth. “Jeremy is older than any of you. He’s in a residential facility—”

I am trying to put this new idea about Mr. Aldrin, that he has an autistic brother, together with his attitudes toward us, so I say nothing.

“You lied to us,” Cameron says. His eyelids have pulled down; his voice sounds angry. Mr. Aldrin’s head jerks back, as if someone had pulled a string.

“I did not—”

“There are two kinds of lie,” Cameron says. I can tell he is quoting something he was told. “The lie of commission, which states an untruth known to the speaker to be untrue, and the lie of omission, which omits to state a truth known to the speaker to be true. You lied when you did not tell us your brother was autistic.”