Disclosure_ A Novel - Michael Crichton [30]
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 non-technical 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