Disclosure_ A Novel - Michael Crichton [144]
“It was done by somebody very high up in Operations in Cupertino a few days ago.”
“Meredith?”
“Probably. And it means I’m screwed.”
“Why?”
“Because now I know what was done at the Malaysia plant. I know exactly what happened: Meredith went in and changed the specs. But she’s erased the data, right down to her voice transmissions to Kahn. Which means I can’t prove any of it.”
Standing in the corridor, Sanders poked the sheet, and it fluttered back down, dissolving into the top sheet. He closed the file, put it back in the drawer, and watched the model dissolve and disappear.
He looked over at Conley. Conley gave a little resigned shrug. He seemed to understand the situation. Sanders shook his hand, gripping air, and waved goodbye. Conley nodded and turned to leave.
“Now what?” Fernandez said.
“It’s time to go,” Sanders said.
The angel began to sing: “It’s time to go, so long again till next week’s show—”
“Angel, be quiet.” The angel stopped singing. He shook his head. “Just like Don Cherry.”
“Who’s Don Cherry?” Fernandez asked.
“Don Cherry is a living god,” the angel said.
They walked back to the entrance to the Corridor and then climbed out of the blue screen.
Back in Cherry’s lab, Sanders took off the headset and, after a moment of disorientation, stepped off the walker pad. He helped Fernandez remove her equipment. “Oh,” she said, looking around. “We’re back in the real world.”
“If that’s what you call it,” he said. “I’m not sure it’s that much more real.” He hung up her headset and helped her down from the walker pad. Then he turned off the power switches around the room.
Fernandez yawned and looked at her watch. “It’s eleven o’clock. What are you going to do now?”
There was only one thing he could think of. He picked up the receiver on one of Cherry’s data modem lines and dialed Gary Bosak’s number. Sanders couldn’t retrieve any data, but perhaps Bosak could—if he could talk him into it. It wasn’t much of a hope. But it was all he could think to do.
An answering machine said, “Hi, this is NE Professional Services. I’m out of town for a few days, but leave a message.” And then a beep.
Sanders sighed. “Gary, it’s eleven o’clock on Wednesday. I’m sorry I missed you. I’m going home.” He hung up.
His last hope.
Gone.
Out of town for a few days.
“Shit,” he said.
“Now what?” Fernandez said, yawning.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve got half an hour to make the last ferry. I guess I’ll go home and try to get some sleep.”
“And the meeting tomorrow?” she asked. “You said you need documentation.”
Sanders shrugged. “Louise, I’ve done all that I can do. I know what I’m up against. I’ll manage somehow.”
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”
He felt less sanguine on the ferry going home, looking back at the lights of the city in the rippling black water. Fernandez was right; he ought to be getting the documentation he needed. Max would criticize him, if he knew. He could almost hear the old man’s voice: “Oh, so you’re tired? That’s a good reason, Thomas.”
He wondered if Max would be at the meeting tomorrow. But he found he couldn’t really think about it. He couldn’t imagine the meeting. He was too tired to concentrate. The loudspeaker announced that they were five minutes from Winslow, and he went belowdecks to get into his car.
He unlocked the door and slipped behind the wheel. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw a dark silhouette in the backseat.
“Hey,” Gary Bosak said.
Sanders started to turn.
“Just keep looking forward,” Bosak said. “I’ll get out in a minute. Now listen carefully. They’re going to screw you tomorrow. They’re going to pin the Malaysia fiasco on you.”
“I know.”
“And if that doesn’t work, they’re going to hit you with employing me. Invasion of privacy. Felonious activity. All that crap. They’ve talked to my parole officer. Maybe you’ve seen him—a fat guy with a mustache?”
Sanders vaguely remembered the man walking up to the mediation center the day before. “I think so, yes. Gary, listen, I need some documents—”
“Don’t talk. There’s no time.