Disclosure_ A Novel - Michael Crichton [18]
“Yeah, we all love you,” Cherry said. “At least, we did until we got our cute new boss.”
Lewyn said, “I’ll support Johnson—if she’s any good.”
“No you won’t,” Hunter said. “You’ll sabotage her. You’ll find a reason to get rid of her.”
“Wait a minute—”
“No. What is this conversation really about? It’s about the fact that you’re all pissed off because now you have to report to a woman.”
“Mary Anne . . .”
“I mean it.”
Lewyn said, “I think Tom’s pissed off because he didn’t get the job.”
“I’m not pissed off,” Sanders said.
“Well, I’m pissed off,” Cherry said, “because Meredith used to be Tom’s girlfriend, so now he has a special in with the new boss.”
“Maybe.” Sanders frowned.
Lewyn said, “On the other hand, maybe she hates you. All my old girlfriends hate me.”
“With good reason, I hear,” Cherry said, laughing.
Sanders said, “Let’s get back to the agenda, shall we?”
“What agenda?”
“Twinkle.”
There were groans around the table. “Not again.”
“Goddamn Twinkle.”
“How bad is it?” Cherry said.
“They still can’t get the seek times down, and they can’t solve the hinge problems. The line’s running at twenty-nine percent.”
Lewyn said, “They better send us some units.”
“We should have them today.”
“Okay. Table it till then?”
“It’s okay with me.” Sanders looked around the table. “Anybody else have a problem? Mary Anne?”
“No, we’re fine. We still expect prototype card-phones off our test line within two months.”
The new generation of cellular telephones were not much larger than a credit card. They folded open for use. “How’s the weight?”
“The weight’s now four ounces, which is not great, but okay. The problem is power. The batteries only run 180 minutes in talk mode. And the keypad sticks when you dial. But that’s Mark’s headache. We’re on schedule with the line.”
“Good.” He turned to Don Cherry. “And how’s the Corridor?”
Cherry sat back in his chair, beaming. He crossed his hands over his belly. “I am pleased to report,” he said, “that as of half an hour ago, the Corridor is fan-fucking-tastic.”
“Really?”
“That’s great news.”
“Nobody’s throwing up?”
“Please. Ancient history.”
Mark Lewyn said, “Wait a minute. Somebody threw up?”
“A vile rumor. That was then. This is now. We got the last delay bug out half an hour ago, and all functions are now fully implemented. We can take any database and convert it into a 3-D 24-bit color environment that you can navigate in real time. You can walk through any database in the world.”
“And it’s stable?”
“It’s a rock.”
“You’ve tried it with naïve users?”
“Bulletproof.”
“So you’re ready to demo for Conley?”
“We’ll blow ’em away,” Cherry said. “They won’t fucking believe their eyes.”
Coming out of the conference room, Sanders ran into a group of Conley-White executives being taken on a tour by Bob Garvin. Robert T. Garvin looked the way every CEO wanted to look in the pages of Fortune magazine. He was fifty-nine years old and handsome, with a craggy face and salt-and-pepper hair that always looked windblown, as if he’d just come in from a fly-fishing trip in Montana, or a weekend sailing in the San Juans. In the old days, like everyone else, he had worn jeans and denim work shirts in the office. But in recent years, he favored dark blue Caraceni suits. It was one of the many changes that people in the company had noticed since the death of his daughter, three years before.
Brusque and profane in private, Garvin was all charm in public. Leading the Conley-White executives, he said, “Here on the third floor, you have our tech divisions and advanced product laboratories. Oh, Tom. Good.” He threw his arm around Sanders. “Meet Tom Sanders, our division manager for advanced products. One of the brilliant young men who’s made our company what it is. Tom, say hello to Ed Nichols, the CFO for Conley-White . . .”
A thin, hawk-faced