Disclosure_ A Novel - Michael Crichton [27]
Coming back to his office, Sanders used his electronic passcard to open the door to the fourth floor. Then he slipped the card in his trouser pocket, and headed down the hallway. He was moving quickly, thinking about the meeting with Lewyn. He was espe cially bothered by one thing that Lewyn had said: that he was allowing himself to be pushed around by Garvin— that he was being too passive, too understanding.
But Sanders didn’t see it that way. When Sanders had said it was Garvin’s company, he meant it. Bob was the boss, and Bob could do what he wanted. Sanders was disappointed not to get the job, but no one had promised it to him. Ever. He and others in the Seattle divisions had come, over a period of weeks, to assume that Sanders would get the job. But Garvin had never mentioned it. Nor had Phil Blackburn.
As a result, Sanders felt he had no reason to gripe. If he was disappointed, it was only because he had done it to himself. It was classic: counting your chickens before they hatched.
And as for being too passive—what did Lewyn expect him to do? Make a fuss? Yell and scream? That wouldn’t do any good. Because clearly Meredith Johnson had this job, whether Sanders liked it or not. Resign? That really wouldn’t do any good. Because if he quit, he would lose the profits pending when the company went public. That would be a real disaster.
So on reflection, all he could do was accept Meredith Johnson in the new job, and get on with it. And he suspected that if the situation were reversed, Lewyn, for all his bluster, would do exactly the same thing: grin and bear it.
But the bigger problem, as he thought it over, was the Twinkle drive. Lewyn’s team had torn up three drives that afternoon, and they still didn’t have any idea why they were malfunctioning. They had found some non-spec components in the hinge, which Sanders could track down. He’d find out soon enough why they were getting non-spec materials. But the real problem—the slowness of the drives—remained a mystery to which they had no clue, and that meant that he was going to—
“Tom? You dropped your card.”
“What?” He looked up absently. An area assistant was frowning, pointing back down the hall.
“You dropped your card.”
“Oh.” He saw the passcard lying there, white against the gray carpet. “Thanks.”
He went back to retrieve it. Obviously, he must be more upset than he realized. You couldn’t get anywhere in the DigiCom buildings without a passcard. Sanders bent over, picked it up, and slipped it in his pocket.
Then he felt the second card, already there. Frowning, he took both cards out and looked at them.
The card on the floor wasn’t his card, it was someone else’s. He paused for a moment, trying to decide which was his. By design, the passcards were featureless: just the blue DigiCom logo, a stamped serial number, and a magstripe on the back.
He ought to be able to remember his card number, but he couldn’t. He hurried back to his office, to look it up on his computer. He glanced at his watch. It was four o’clock, two hours before his meeting with Meredith Johnson. He still had a lot to do to prepare for that meeting. He frowned as he walked along, staring at the carpet. He would have to get the production reports, and perhaps also the design detail specs. He wasn’t sure she would understand them, but he should be prepared with them, anyway. And what else? He did not want to go into this first meeting having forgotten something.
Once again, his thoughts were disrupted by images from his past. An opened suitcase. The bowl of popcorn. The stained-glass window.
“So?” said a familiar voice. “You don’t say hello to your old friends anymore?”
Sanders looked up. He was outside