Dorfman grinned at him. "Do I irritate you?"

"You always irritate me."

"Ali. Well. Then perhaps there is hope. Not for you, of course for me. I am old, Thomas. Hope has a different meaning, at my age. You wouldn't understand. These days, I cannot even get around by myself. I must have someone push me. Preferably a pretty woman, but as a rule they do not like to do such things. So here I am, with no pretty woman to push me. Unlike you."

Sanders sighed. "Max, do you suppose we can just have an ordinary conversation?"

"What a good idea," Dorfman said. "I would like that very much. What is an ordinary conversation?"

"I mean, can we just talk like normal people?"

"If it will not bore you, Thomas, yes. But I am worried. You know how old people are worried about being boring."

"Max. What did you mean about the stained glass?"

He shrugged. "I meant Meredith, of course. What else?"

"What about Meredith?"

"How am I to know?" Dorfman said irritably. "All I know of this is what you told me. And all you told me is that you used to take trips, to Korea or Japan, and when you came back, Meredith would-"

"Tom, I'm sorry to interrupt," Cindy said, leaning in the door to the conference room.

"Oh, don't be sorry," Max said. "Who is this beautiful creature, Thomas?"

"I'm Cindy Wolfe, Professor Dorfman," she said. "I work for Tom."

"Oh, what a lucky man he is!"

Cindy turned to Sanders. "I'm really sorry, Tom, but one of the executives from Conley-White is in your office, and I thought you would want to"

"Yes, yes," Dorfman said immediately. "He must go. Conley-White, it sounds very important."

"In a minute," Sanders said. He turned to Cindy. "Max and I were in the middle of something."

"No, no, Thomas," Dorfman said. "We were just talking about old times. You better go."

"Max-"

"You want to talk more, you think it's important, you come visit me. I am at the Four Seasons. You know that hotel. It has a wonderful lobby, such high ceilings. Very grand, especially for an old man. So, you go right along, Thomas." His eyes narrowed. "And leave the beautiful Cindy with me."

Sanders hesitated. "Watch out for him," he said. "He's a dirty old man."

"As dirty as possible," Dorfman cackled.

Sanders headed down the hallway to his office. As he left, he heard Dorfman say, "Now beautiful Cindy, please take me to the lobby where I have a car waiting. And on the way, if you don't mind indulging an old man, I have a few little questions. So many interesting things are happening in this company. And the secretaries always know everything, don't they?"

Mr. Sanders."Jim Daly stood quickly, as Sanders came into the room. "I'm glad they found you."

They shook hands. Sanders gestured for Daly to sit down, and slid behind his own desk. Sanders was not surprised; he had been expecting a visit from Daly or one of the other investment bankers for several days. Members of the Goldman, Sachs team had been speaking individually with people in various departments, going over aspects of the merger. Most of the time they wanted background information; although high technology was central to the acquisition, none of the bankers understood it very well. Sanders expected Daly to ask about progress on the Twinkle drive, and perhaps the Corridor.

"I appreciate your taking the time," Daly said, rubbing his bald head. He was a very tall, thin man, and he seemed even taller sitting down, all knees and elbows. "I wanted to ask you some things, ah, off the record."

"Sure," Sanders said.

"It's to do with Meredith Johnson," Daly said, in an apologetic voice. "If you, ah, don't mind, I'd prefer we just keep this conversation between us."

"All right," Sanders said.

"I understand that you have been closely involved with setting up the plants in Ireland and Malaysia. And that there has been a little controversy inside the company about how that was carried out."

"Well." Sanders shrugged. "Phil Blackburn and I haven't always seen eye to eye."

"Showing your good sense, in my view," Daly said dryly. "But I gather that in these disputes you represent technical expertise, and others in the company represent, ah, various other concerns. Would that be fair?"

"Yes, I'd say so." What was he getting at?

"Well, it's along those lines that I'd like to hear your thoughts. Bob

Garvin has just appointed Ms. Johnson to a position of considerable authority, a step which many in Conley-White applaud. And certainly it would be unfair to prejudge how she will carry out her new duties within the company. But by the same token, it would be derelict of me not to inquire about her past duties. Do you get my drift?"

"Not exactly," Sanders said.

"I'm wondering," Daly said, "what you feel about Ms. Johnson's past performance with regard to the technical operations of the company. Specifically, her involvement in the foreign operations of DigiCom."

Sanders frowned, thinking back. "I'm not aware that she's had much involvement," he said. "We had a labor dispute two years ago in Cork. She was part of the team that went over to negotiate a settlement. She lobbied in Washington about flatpanel display tariffs. And I know she headed the Ops Review Team in Cupertino, which approved the plans for the new plant at Kuala Lumpur."

"Yes, exactly."

"But I don't know that her involvement goes beyond that."

"Ali. Well. Perhaps I was given wrong information," Daly said, shifting in his chair.

"What did you hear?"

"Without going into specifics, let me say a question of judgment was raised."

"I see," Sanders said. Who would have said anything to Daly about Meredith? Certainly not Garvin or Blackburn. Kaplan? It was impossible to know for sure. But Daly would be talking only to highly placed officers.

"I was wondering," Daly said, "if you had any thoughts on her technical judgment. Speaking privately, of course."

At that moment, Sanders's computer screen beeped three times. A message flashed:

ONE MINUTE TO DIRECT VIDEO LINKUP: DC/M-DC/S

SEN: A. KAHN REC: T. SANDERS

Daly said, "Is something wrong?"

"No," Sanders said. "It looks like I have a video feed coming in from Malaysia."

"Then I'll be brief and leave you to it," Daly said. "Let me put it to you directly. Within your division, is there any concern whether Meredith Johnson is qualified for this post?"

Sanders shrugged. "She's the new boss. You know how organizations are. There's always concern with a new boss."

"You're very diplomatic. I mean to say, is there concern about her expertise? She's relatively young, after all. Geographic move, uprooting. New faces, new staffing, new problems. And up here, she won't be so directly under Bob Garvin's, ah, wing."

"I don't know what to say," Sanders said. "We'll all have to wait and see."

"And I gather that there was trouble in the past when a nontechnical person headed the division . . . a man named, ah, Screamer Freeling?"

"Yes. He didn't work out."

"And there are similar concerns about Johnson?"

Sanders said, "I've heard them expressed."

"And her fiscal measures? These cost-containment plans of hers? That's the crux, isn't it?"

Sanders thought: what cost-containment plans?

The screen beeped again.

30 SECONDS TO DIRECT VIDEO LINKUP: DC/M-DC/S

"There goes your machine again," Daly said, unfolding himself from the chair. "I'll let you go. Thank you for your time, Mr. Sanders."

"Not at all."

They shook hands. Daly turned and walked out of the room. Sanders's computer beeped three times in rapid succession:

15 SECONDS TO DIRECT VIDEO LINKUP: DC/M-DC/S

He sat down in front of the monitor and twisted his desk lamp so that the light shone on his face. The numbers on the computer were counting backward. Sanders looked at his watch. It was five o'clock-eight o'clock in Malaysia. Arthur would probably be calling from the plant.

A small rectangle appeared in the center of the screen and grew outward in progressive jumps. He saw Arthur's face, and behind him,

the brightly lit assembly line. Brand-new, it was the epitome of modern manufacturing: clean and quiet, the workers in street clothes, arranged on both sides of the green conveyor belt. At each workstation there was a bank of fluorescent lights, which flared a little in the camera.

Kahn coughed and rubbed his chin. "Hello, Tom. How are you?" When he spoke, his image blurred slightly. And his voice was out of sync, since the bounce to the satellite caused a slight delay in the video, but the voice was transmitted immediately. This unsynchronized quality was very distracting for the first few seconds; it gave the linkup a dreamy quality. It was a little like talking to someone under water. Then you got used to it.

"I'm fine, Arthur," he said.

"Well, good. I'm sorry about the new organization. You know how I feel personally."

"Thank you, Arthur." He wondered vaguely how Kahn in Malaysia would have heard already. But in any company, gossip traveled fast.

"Yeah. Well. Anyway, Tom, I'm standing here on the floor," Kahn said, gesturing behind him. "And as you can see, we're still running very slow. And the spot checks are unimproved. What do the designers say? Have they gotten the units yet?"

"They came today. I don't have any news yet. They're still working on it."

"Uh-huh. Okay. And have the units gone to Diagnostics?" Kahn asked.

"I think so. Just went."

"Yeah. Okay. Because we got a request from Diagnostics for ten more drive units to be sent in heat-sealed plastic bags. And they specified that they wanted them sealed inside the factory. Right as they came off the line. You know anything about that?"

"No, this is the first I heard of it. Let me find out, and I'll get back to you."

"Okay, because I have to tell you, it seemed strange to me. I mean, ten units is a lot. Customs is going to query it if we send them all together. And I don't know what this sealing is about. We send them wrapped in plastic anyway. But not sealed. Why do they want them sealed, Tom?" Kahn sounded worried.

"I don't know," Sanders said. "I'll get into it. All I can think is that it's a full-court press around here. People really want to know why the hell those drives don't work."

"Hey, us too," Kahn said. "Believe me. It's making us crazy."

"When will you send the drives?"

"Well, I've got to get a heat-sealer first. I hope I can ship Wednesday, you can have them Thursday."

"Not good enough," Sanders said. "You should ship today, or tomorrow at the latest. You want me to run down a sealer for you? I can probably get one from Apple." Apple had a factory in Kuala Lumpur.

"No. That's a good idea. I'll call over there and see if Ron can loan me one.

"Fine. Now what about Jafar?"

"Hell of a thing," Kahn said. "I just talked to the hospital, and apparently he's got cramps and vomiting. Won't eat anything. The abo doctors say they can't figure out anything except, you know, a spell."

"They believe in spells?"

"Damn right," Kahn said. "They've got laws against sorcery here. You can take people to court."

"So you don't know when he'll be back?"

"Nobody's saying. Apparently he's really sick."

"Okay, Arthur. Anything else?"

"No. I'll get the sealer. And let me know what you find out."

"I will," Sanders said, and the transmission ended. Kahn gave a final wave, and the screen went blank.

SAVE THIS TRANSMISSION TO DISK OR DAT?

He clicked DAT, and it was saved to digital tape. He got up from the desk. Whatever all this was about, he'd better be informed before he had his meeting with Johnson at six. He went to the outer area, to Cindy's desk.

Cindy was turned away, laughing on the phone. She looked back and saw Sanders, and stopped laughing. "Listen, I got to go."

Sanders said, "Would you mind pulling the production reports on Twinkle for the last two months? Better yet, just pull everything since they opened the line."

"Sure."

"And call Don Cherry for me. I need to know what his Diagnostics group is doing with the drives."

He went back into his office. He noticed his e-mail cursor was blinking, and pushed the key to read them. While he waited, he looked at the three faxes on his desk. Two were from Ireland, routine weekly production reports. The third was a requisition for a roof repair at the Austin plant; it had been held up in Operations in Cupertino, and Eddie had forwarded it to Sanders to try and get action.

The screen blinked. He looked up at the first of his e-mail messages.

OUT OF NOWHERE WE GOT A BEAN COUNTER FROM OPERATIONS DOWN HERE IN AUSTIN. HE'S GOING OVER ALL THE BOOKS, DRIVING PEOPLE MAD. AND THE WORD IS WE GOT MORE COMING DOWN TOMORROW. WHAT GIVES? THE RUMORS ARE FLYING, AND SLOWING HELL OUT OF THE LINE. TELL ME WHAT TO SAY. IS THIS COMPANY FOR SALE OR NOT?

EDDIE

Sanders did not hesitate. He couldn't tell Eddie what was going on. Quickly, he typed his reply:

THE BEAN COUNTERS WERE IN IRELAND LAST WEEK, TOO.

GARVIN'S ORDERED A COMPANY-WIDE REVIEW, AND THEY'RE LOOKING AT EVERYTHING. TELL EVERYBODY DOWN THERE TO FORGET IT AND GO BACK TO WORK.

TOM

He pushed the SEND button. The message disappeared.

"You called?" Don Cherry walked into the room without knocking, and dropped into the chair. He put his hands behind his head. `Jesus, what a day. I've been putting out fires all afternoon."

"Tell me."

"I got some dweebs from Conley down there, asking my guys what the difference is between RAM and ROM. Like they have time for this. Pretty soon, one of the dweebs hears `flash memory' and he goes, `How often does it flash?' Like it was a flashlight or something. And my guys have to put up with this. I mean, this is high-priced talent. They shouldn't be doing remedial classes for lawyers. Can't you stop it?"

"Nobody can stop it," Sanders said.

"Maybe Meredith can stop it," Cherry said, grinning.

Sanders shrugged. "She's the boss."

"Yeah. Sowhat's on your mind?"

"Your Diagnostics group is working on the Twinkle drives."

"True. That is, we're working on the bits and pieces that're left after Lewyn's nimble-fingered artistes tore the hell out of them. Why did they go to design first? Never, ever, let a designer near an actual piece of electronic equipment, Tom. Designers should only be allowed to draw pictures on pieces of paper. And only give them one piece of paper at a time."

"What have you found?" Sanders said. "About the drives."

"Nothing yet," Cherry said. "But we got a few ideas we're kicking around."

"Is that why you asked Arthur Kahn to send you ten drives, heatsealed from the factory?"

"You bet your ass."

"Kahn was wondering about that."

"So?" Cherry said. "Let him wonder. It'll do him good. Keep him from playing with himself."

"I'd like to know, too."

"Well look," Cherry said. "Maybe our ideas won't amount to anything. At the moment, all we have is one suspicious chip. That's all Lewyn's clowns left us. It's not very much to go on."

"The chip is bad?"

"No, the chip is fine."

"What's suspicious about it?"

"Look," Cherry said. "We've got enough rumors flying around as it is. I can report that we're working on it, and we don't know yet. That's alt. We'll get the sealed drives tomorrow or Wednesday, and we should know within an hour. Okay?"

"You thinking big problem, or little problem? I've got to know," Sanders said. "It's going to come up in the meetings tomorrow."

"Well, at the moment, the answer is we don't know. It could be anything. We're working on it."

"Arthur thinks it might be serious."

"Arthur might be right. But we'll solve it. That's all I can tell you."

"Don . . ."

"I understand you want an answer," Cherry said. "Do you understand that I don't have one?"

Sanders stared at him. "You could have called. Why'd you come up in person?"

"Since you asked," Cherry said, "I've got a small problem. It's delicate. Sexual harassment thing."

"Another one? It seems like that's all we have around here."

"Us and everybody else," Cherry said. "I hear UniCom's got fourteen suits going right now. Digital Graphics has even more. And MicroSym, look out. They're all pigs over there, anyway. But I'd like your read on this."

Sanders sighed. "Okay."

"In one of my programming groups, the remote DB access group. The group's all pretty old: twenty-five to twenty-nine years old. The supervisor for the fax modem team, a woman, has been asking one of the guys out. She thinks he's cute. He keeps turning her down. Today she asks him again in the parking lot at lunch; he says no. She gets in her car, rams his car, drives off. Nobody hurt, and he doesn't want to make a complaint. But he's worried, thinks it's a little out of hand. Comes to me for advice. What should I do?"

Sanders frowned. "You think that's the whole story? She's just mad at him because he turned her down? Or did he do something to provoke this?"

"He says no. He's a pretty straight guy. A little geeky, not real sophisticated."

"And the woman?"

"She's got a temper, no question. She blows at the team sometimes. I've had to talk to her about that."

"What does she say about the incident in the parking lot?"

"Don't know. The guy's asked me not to talk to her. Says he's embarrassed and doesn't want to make it worse."

Sanders shrugged. "What can you do? People are upset but nobody will talk . . . I don't know, Don. If a woman rammed his car, I'd guess he must have done something. Chances are he slept with her once, and won't see her again, and now she's pissed. That's my guess."

"That would be my guess, too," Cherry said, "but of course, maybe not.

"Damage to the car?"

"Nothing serious. Broken taillight. He just doesn't want it to get any worse. So, do I drop it?"

"If he won't file charges, I'd drop it."

"Do I speak to her informally?"

"I wouldn't. You go accusing her of impropriety-even informally-and you're asking for trouble. Nobody's going to support you. Because the chances are, your guy did do something to provoke her."

"Even though he says he didn't."

Sanders sighed. "Listen, Don, they always say they didn't. I never heard of one who said, `You know, I deserve this.' Never happens."

"So, drop it',"

"Put a note in the file that he told you the story, be sure you characterize the story as alleged, and forget it."

Cherry nodded, turned to leave. At the door, he stopped and looked back. "So tell me this. How come we're both so convinced this guy must have done something?"

`Just playing the odds," Sanders said. "Now fix that damned drive for me."

A six o'clock, he said good night to Cindy and took the Twinkle files up to Meredith's office on the fifth floor. The sun was still high in the sky, streaming through the windows. It seemed like late afternoon, not the end of the day.

Meredith had been given the big corner office, where Ron Goldman used to be. Meredith had a new assistant, too, a woman. Sanders guessed she had followed her boss up from Cupertino.

"I'm Tom Sanders," he said. "I have an appointment with Ms. Johnson."

"Betsy Ross, from Cupertino, Mr. Sanders," she said. She looked at him. "Don't say anything."

"Okay."

"Everybody says something. Something about the flag. I get really sick of it."

"Okay."

"My whole life."

"Okay. Fine."

"I'll tell Miss Johnson you're here."

Tom." Meredith Johnson waved from behind her desk, her other hand holding the phone. "Come in, sit down."

Her office had a view north toward downtown Seattle: the Space Needle, the Arly towers, the SODO building. The city looked glorious in the afternoon sun.

"I'll just finish this up." She turned back to the phone. "Yes, Ed, I'm with Tom now, we'll go over all of that. Yes. He's brought the documentation with him."

Sanders held up the manila folder containing the drive data. She pointed to her briefcase, which was lying open on the corner of the desk, and gestured for him to put it inside.

She turned back to the phone. "Yes, Ed, I think the due diligence will go smoothly, and there certainly isn't any impulse to hold anything back . . . No, no . . . Well, we can do it first thing in the morning if you like."

Sanders put the folder in her briefcase.

Meredith was saying, "Right, Ed, right. Absolutely." She came toward Tom and sat with one hip on the edge of the desk, her navy blue skirt riding up her thigh. She wasn't wearing stockings. "Everybody agrees that this is important, Ed. Yes." She swung her foot, the high heel dangling from her toe. She smiled at Sanders. He felt uncomfortable, and moved back a little. "I promise you, Ed. Yes. Absolutely."

Meredith hung up the phone on the cradle behind her, leaning back across the desk, twisting her body, revealing her breasts beneath the silk blouse. "Well, that's done." She sat forward again, and sighed. "The Conley people heard there's trouble with Twinkle. That was Ed Nichols, flipping out. Actually, it's the third call I've had about Twinkle this afternoon. You'd think that was all there was to this company. How do you like the office?"

"Pretty good," he said. "Great view."

"Yes, the city's beautiful." She leaned on one arm and crossed her legs. She saw that he noticed, and said, "In the summer, I'd rather not wear stockings. I like the bare feeling. So much cooler on a hot day."

Sanders said, "From now to the end of summer, it will be pretty much this way."

"I have to tell you, I dread the weather," she said. "I mean, after California . . ." She uncrossed her legs again, and smiled. "But you like it here, don't you? You seem happy here."

"Yes." He shrugged. "You get used to rain." He pointed to her briefcase. "Do you want to go over the Twinkle stuff?"

"Absolutely," she said, sliding off the desk, coming close to him. She looked him directly in the eyes. "But I hope you don't mind if I impose on you first. Just a little?"

"Sure."

She stepped aside. "Pour the wine for us."

"Okay."

"See if it's chilled long enough." He went over to the bottle on the side table. "I remember you always liked it cold."

"That's true," he said, spinning the bottle in the ice. He didn't like it so cold anymore, but he did in those days.

"We had a lot of fun back then," she said.

"Yes," he said. "We did."

"1 swear," she said. "Sometimes I think that back when we were both young and trying to make it, I think that was the best it ever was."

He hesitated, not sure how to answer her, what tone to take. He poured the wine.

"Yes," she said. "We had a good time. I think about it often."

Sanders thought: I never do.

She said, "What about you, Tom? Do you think about it?"

"Of course." He crossed the room carrying the glasses of wine to her, gave her one, clinked them. "Sure I do. All us married guys think of the old days. You know I'm married now."