Endworlds - Nicholas Read [13]
“I di—,” Hills caught himself quickly, “I do too, sir.”
Turning to his left, Eisman leaned out over the waist-high railing and looked back toward the central peak of Pohnpei.
“She could still be up there somewhere, hurt but alive, with or without her two little friends. Cushioned by updrafts and the tree canopy. Sheltering in the forest. Surviving on berries and leaves. Maybe it is possible.”
He turned back to his food. “I know it’s something of a pipedream, Bill. But we don’t know what happened to them. Only that it was some kind of anomaly. There was no hole in the plane, no seats fell out, no hatches blew open. Paige, those other two girls, and the two cabin crew nobody talks about just disappeared that day. It defies the laws of physics.” He shrugged. “And where normal rules don’t apply, neither do normal conclusions, Bill. Can you say for certain that I’m wrong?”
Hills studied him. Raef Eisman was a master negotiator, at home among the world’s most powerful businessmen and politicians. He always seemed to know which way to jump, the correct decisions to make. Where others wavered, he moved. When they hesitated, he leaped. But it had been months, and even as Hills supported Eisman, he feared his boss and friend was hoping beyond reason. And he wasn’t alone in the conclusion.
Reaching into a shirt pocket Hills pulled out a piece of paper, unfolded it, and set it on the table between them. “Yesterday’s Financial Times. Syndicated, of course.”
Chewing methodically, Eisman leaned forward to study the image on the paper. “I recognize the cartoonist. Always admired his line. Clean.”
The cartoon showed a wide-eyed unshaven man clad in ragged shirt and shorts squatting on an island beach clutching a parasol fashioned from sticks and palm leaves. Behind him in the distance a ship was sinking stern-first. On the ship was the name Burroughs Labs. As the beachcomber was bald, writing in his name would have been superfluous. Everyone in the business world knew who was being depicted.
Hills crumpled the paper, turned slightly, and arced it into a nearby basket. “It’s not funny, sir. When this sort of thing appears in the tabloids it can be ignored. When it starts showing up in The Times, The Economist, and so forth, it ceases to be amusing.”
As always, Eisman was not in the least impressed. “And has it started to show up?”
Hills pushed the remainder of his dinner aside, his appetite gone. “It’s been ‘showing up’ for weeks now, sir. I just haven’t shown any of it to you. I didn’t want to burden you with such nonsense.”
This time Eisman’s smile was wide, and grateful. “That was good of you, William. What other kinds of nonsense?” When his assistant hesitated, Eisman pressed him. “Come on, Bill. I’m not about to fall to the floor in tears.”
It was Hills’ turn to smile. “I know you’re not, sir.” The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Op-ed pieces that question your competence. Not just your competence to continue with Burroughs; articles that question your competence in general.” Raising his eyes, he met the unblinking gaze of his friend. “That question your . . . sanity.”
Eisman forked in a piece of fish and chewed thoughtfully. For a long moment he was silent. “And what about you, Bill? Do you think I’m insane or competent?”
Hills chose his words carefully as he stood for his customary evening constitutional walk along the beach. “I would say obsessed rather than mad, sir. They are different.”
Eisman nodded. “Madly obsessed or obsessively mad? The Board is entitled to its own perspective.” He sank into thought.
Hills let him be. Whatever response Raef Eisman concocted it was sure to be precisely thought out and to the point.
As indeed it was. But it was not one that Hills would have anticipated.
“Wire my resignation.” The fork dipped only momentarily before Eisman resumed eating as though he had