Go to the ant, you sluggard …
The scientist, in his jeans and flannel shirt, looked across the meeting room table at his visitor, a 30-something man in a blue suit jacket and trousers, white shirt, red tie, and bulldozer jaw. He was a key adviser to the Board that ran the oceanographic research organization to which the scientist belonged, and he was on a mission. The atmosphere was not collegial.
“How much did you say it was that we invested in this microscope facility downstairs?”, he demanded.
“Around $2 million, as you’ve seen in the spreadsheet”, the scientist responded, with passive aggressive calm. “All of which came from federal grant money, as per usual for our institution.”
“And how often does it get used?” came the pointed followup.
“When we need it”, the scientist responded, deliberately vague, fearing what was coming and doing as little as possible to bring it on.
His hopes were dashed. “9 to 5 Monday through Friday?”
“Not so often.”
“Why not?” The man in the suit’s tone was accusatory.
“Because“, the scientist’s word were slightly more heated, “we have many tasks that we promised to accomplish in order to get the not-enough funding to run those microscopes, and we do not have the hands to do them all. We plan carefully how to get the most use out of the machines for the least amount of time spent. The rest of the time, they necessarily stand idle.”
“That’s inefficient”, the suited man snarled. “That’s a waste!” The snarl gave way to a sneer. “What are you doing with the rest of your sacred time?”
“Other experiments. Thinking.”
“‘Thinking‘”, the scientist’s opposition scoffed. “Sitting on your hands being lazy, you mean!”
“I’m sorry”, the scientist was deadly quiet, or at least that’s what he thought he was. “Insights that allow us to understand what’s going on with the natural world around us do not just come at the snap of the fingers.”
“Why not!?!” The advisor blew away the scientist’s calm. “I thought you people were supposed to be smart. You think the man in the street, working 14-hour days at two or three jobs for minimum wage, gives a flying fickle finger of fate about your thinking? You think their employers, who pay the taxes that keep this slum open, do?” He waved at the buildings, which had been abandoned by their previous occupants and condemned by the state; the oceanographic research organization had accepted them because it was what they could afford.
The man vaulted to his feet. “Computer geeks are at their machines 24/7/365. They don’t have to sit the frick around and think about what they’re doing. They know the score. You? Doesn’t bloody sound like it. Your CEO wants to get these buildings replaced before they fall down, or are torn down as fire and environmental hazards, around you. You want that to happen, those machines of yours better damned well be working at the speed of business. Eight hours a day, five days a week, is the minimum. With you people at those machines the same hours. Or I tell your CEO that the piles of rotten lumber that you have the gall to call buildings are all you’re going to get, and all that you deserve!” He stormed out of the meeting room.
Your Friendly Neighborhood Amoeba is not making this up. And this was long before 47.
“But whatta we gonna do wit’ this food in tha fridge? We can’t let it go ta waste!”
