 What seems to be O'Leary's internal dilemma as the story progresses?
His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in his nostrils. He was a captain of guards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known to its inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scent of trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived to reach his captaincy. And, what was more important, why she couldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in. It said in the Civil Service Guide to Prison Administration : "Detainees will be permitted to speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings." And O'Leary was a man who lived by the book. That old witch Mathias never told me I was supposed to mop up. Captain O'leary put down his pencil and looked at the girl. He said patiently: "Bradley, the rules are you have to mop out your cell. He handed the rap sheet to Sodaro and said absently: "Too bad a kid like her has to be here. Captain O'Leary took a long drink of water from the fountain marked "Civil Service." If anything, she had had a better environment than O'Leary himself, and look what she had made of it. The direction of evolution is toward specialization and Man is no exception, but with the difference that his is the one species that creates its own environment in which to specialize. From the moment that clans formed, specialization began—the hunters using the weapons made by the flint-chippers, the food cooked in clay pots made by the ceramists, over fire made by the shaman who guarded the sacred flame. From the born mechanic and the man with the gift of gab, society evolved to the point of smaller contact and less communication between the specializations, until now they could understand each other on only the most basic physical necessities—and not even always then. The ultimate should be the complete segregation of each specialization—social and genetic measures to make them breed true, because the unspecialized man is an uncivilized man, or at any rate he does not advance civilization. And letting the specializations mix would produce genetic undesirables: clerk-laborer or Professional-GI misfits, for example, being only half specialized, would be good at no specialization. A bleary old inmate orderly stood up straight and touched his cap as O'Leary passed by. O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted those things, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'd noticed the captain coming by.
 He says to himself that he trusts in the specialization segregation, but he has thoughts that indicate otherwise.
 He is having a hard time convincing himself of the laws that they all follow, and the validity of them.  He says to himself that he trusts in the specialization segregation, but he has thoughts that indicate otherwise.  The Warden isn't listening to him, and he's scared of overstepping his boundaries to point out the problem.  He knows that there is trouble, and he can smell it. He just can't pinpoint from where.