Brad stood watching the singular red glow of the taillights careening through the blue lights of the runway. Angrily, and aloud, he said, "Spoiled brat!" but inwardly he almost sympathized with her. She was right, in that they would not be able to spend any time together. The power failure would have the Institute and its' Washington affiliates occupied indefinitely. Providing she got safely through the roadblocks, Audley would be better off at home.

He wondered for a moment at the uncanny wisdom of the little snit, driving away in his automobile. She had the ability to size up a situation and deal with it in a much more accurate way than he did. He attributed this to women's intuition but suspected that the ability was deeper than that, like some highly refined ESP.

He turned toward the terminal. She was right, too, that he had been working too hard. He should get some rest. Maybe he would skip the meeting, go home, have a shower, a decent meal and a full nights sleep for a change.

"Dr. Spencer!" Emerging out of the darkness was the messenger boy for the IOF.

"Oscar? What are you doing out so late?"

"Everybody's working overtime tonight, boss," he said, falling in with Brad's long stride. "They want you at the Institute right away."

Brad shook his head. "I'm tired, Oscar. I'm going home. Tell them you couldn't find me."

Oscar persisted. "Come on now, Dr. Spencer. I know how you must feel, Sir." He was sticking his neck out. "I overheard your conversation with the lady over there." He lowered his eyes, unaccustomed to probing into the private affairs of his superiors, but he was following the strictest of orders. When he looked up to say, "The President has authorized it, Sir," his eyes were imperative.

"What makes Sammy run?" Brad asked absently. What makes Bradford tick? What makes him feel he has to abide by such authority? What authority superseded his own needs? When would he, Brad, be allowed to find his own reasons for being where he wanted to be, when, and for his own singularly selfish purposes? Conditioning, he knew, was the answer. Behavior modification. Train a child in the things he should know and when he is grown, he will not depart from them.

Brad had been trained to be a machine. Do not upset your sister; do not argue with your mother; do not interrupt your elder brother; do not disturb your father. Don't move so quickly, so slowly; don't shout; don't whisper. Don't breathe; don't exist. Except, of course, in the disciplinary ways we establish for you. Don't look at women. They will distract you from your work, your life's destiny.

Open your books. Study. Learn. Excel. Attain perfection. And do it now! You have a brilliant mind. It needs trained so that people will need your skills, for which they will pay you great sums of money. You will have power and wealth, and we will be so proud.

Bradford Jules Spencer was the second son born to Lt. Col. Dudley Paine Spencer and Lydia Monroe Spencer. Dudley, Jr., three years older than Brad, followed willingly in his father's footsteps and was now a Captain in the Army. The sister, Kathleen, who was perhaps the only member of the family who understood Brad, married a fashion designer; she lived in France with Ives and their children, Paul and Gena.

Brad was indoctrinated into the ways of education and discipline when he was two years of age. Ambition rather than maternal instincts drove Lydia Monroe Spencer. She arranged a lifetime of institutions for her youngest progeny, one regime following immediately upon the other. After a series of prep schools, Brad was sent to West Point. The military life was not for him, however, and he argued heatedly with his father on the issue. In the end Brad won out and attended a college of science in Chicago, receiving his master’s degree, summa cum laude, at the age of 23.

Having earned parental approval, he went on to work in Quantum Mechanics, continuing his studies and continuing to excel. He worked on several projects for the Space Federation and, after being published in some notable journals, was discovered by General Lassater and invited to work on the federally funded Institute of Futurology. There he helped set up and administer IOF programs, soon becoming their Head Systems Analyst. It was during this time that he met and became closely associated with Dr. Wilhelm Blackstone, a surrogate father.

Because of Brad's stringent upbringing, his ability to develop trusting and meaningful human relationships was naturally handicapped. His most comfortable liaison was with Samantha, the computer. Not until he met Dr. Blackstone's daughter Audley had Brad been enamored of a woman and only now, in the eerie blinking of the blue lights on the empty runway, did he feel he might be in love.

Underneath his scientific facade, Brad was a witty, dramatic, sensitive and aesthetic being. Audley had tapped these in him, and with her he had just begun to glimpse who the human Brad might be. He had found a woman he could love, would be permitted to love. Only it was not until this precise moment that he realized, in an almost blinding rush of emotion, that it was, indeed, a woman he knew almost nothing about and who had somehow, just now, eluded his grip.

The red blinking taillights, doggedly dodging the Meadowland roadblock, carried off all hope. Why he felt that it was over he did not know, but as surely as he knew Quantum Mechanics and Samantha, he knew that Audley had driven not just out of the airport, but out of his life. The potential loss of something so great, that came so close to being his, staggered him. He grabbed for the only reality he knew: the scientific equations and disciplines of his work.

"I beg your pardon, Sir?"

"Never mind, Oscar. Where's your car?"

Oscar led the way, happy to have succeeded in his mission. In the old Chevy sedan, the messenger proved to be a good source of information. "Lassater was at the Convention Hall this evening, Dr. Spencer. He really gave the boys hell!"

Brad bristled. "What's he saying?"

"He's saying Sam is to blame for the power failure."

Brad's blood pressure shot up. "Son of a bitch!"

Oscar sniggered.

Sam had done more to prevent the inevitable than anyone or anything. All Lassater accomplished by this lie was to shove the responsibility off his own shoulders onto the IOF, and the President was letting him get away with it.

"Three-Star Generals get away with too goddamned much!"

Oscar did not speak.

"What a load of crap!" he said to Oscar as much as to himself. "Anybody with an ounce of sense would know that we were the only ones who did anything about it at all!"

"Yes, Sir."

"Lassater and the President have ignored our reports from the beginning!" Anger seldom occurred to Brad but he was having his fair share of it now.

"Yes, Sir," Oscar said. "I know that, Sir. But wait until you hear the General tell the story."

Brad rode the rest of the way in silence.