That Saturday turned out to be the day when winter descended abruptly
and with rare vengeance. Remember we're only talking mid-December,
still a dozen full shopping days till you know what, but it could have
been the depths of January. After things kicked off with what seemed a
foot of snow around three, the elements really started to unload.
Everything from sleet in historic proportions to a wind-chill that
would have frosted the horns off a Bexar County billy goat.
While I waited for Tam, I battened down the garden, covered the outdoor
furniture, and prudently provisioned the larder with a flagon of Remy
antifreeze. Ben in the meantime was lumbering around downstairs, eyeing
the snow-covered garden with an air of disgruntlement. The universe had
turned unacceptable, something he never greeted with equanimity. I
decided to try and divert his misery by hauling him up on the long
Country French dining table and combing some of the knots out of his
shag. When that merely reinforced his overall gloom, however, I called
it quits, located a consoling rawhide stick for him to gnaw, and poured
a brandy. It was along about then, shortly after nightfall, that Tam
finally appeared.
A cab with snow chains dropped her off (she'd come directly from the
office, which Noda had just shut down for the weekend), and I helped
her navigate the sleet-covered steps. I got the immediate sense that
her first impression of my living quarters was unchanged from the old
days. In spite of all the art, armor, and antiques, the place had a
poignant rootlessness about it. Boys like toys; they just get more
expensive as the bank account grows. Also, since she'd been in the man
game long enough to spot a divorce-rebound case a mile off, she
probably had me figured from the start: part of that army of emotional
paraplegics in our feckless day and age.
After the MITI twist, however, I suppose she was ready to consult with
somebody concerning the direction things were headed. I warmly invited
her downstairs to the sisal-carpeted den just off the garden and dumped
some logs in the fireplace. Next I pulled out a few discs--Mendelssohn
seemed about right for some reason--and offered to whip up a batch of
margaritas. 'Twould be, I dared to hope, a long winter's eve. Alas, she
said no thanks, a club soda and lime would do fine. Looked as if I
would be working barehanded, without aid of that universal socializer,
distilled spirit, so I rustled up a Perrier, then poured another
snifter of brandy for myself.
Since she appeared exhausted, my first suggestion was she kick off her
shoes and get comfortable. No argument.
After settling in, shoes off and feet to the fire, she announced she
was ready to hear what I'd come up with.
Before an awkward silence could grow, I snapped open my briefcase.
"Dr. Richardson, in keeping with the ground rule that this is a formal
business meeting, let me introduce my first agenda item." I flashed her
my best smile, then pulled out the purloined page. "This is part of the
paperwork Mori seems to have brought with her. I don't understand too
well what it's all about, but my first impression is that somebody has
decided to do some major tinkering with your program. Take a look at
this and give me an opinion." I passed it over.
She glanced down, then back at me. "Are you supposed to be bringing DNI
documents home?"
That was her first reaction, swear to God.
"Look, this just accidentally got in with some of my photocopies. All
it is is a list of companies. And I didn't want to talk about it there
in the office." I reached over and ran my finger down the string of
firms, then to several columns of numbers off to the right. "The
question is, what are these outfits suddenly doing on DNI's buy list?"
She studied it a second, looked around the room, and said exactly
nothing.
"Doesn't that seem at all strange to you?" I finally spoke up. "As I
understand the plan, you want to shift more corporate funding into
research in the companies you're buying into? I do have it right, don't
I?"
She nodded.
"Okay, then you're with me so far. But take a look at this." I
indicated the column of numbers. "That's the current research budget
for these firms--it says so right up there on the top. Presumably these
figures came out of the analytical setup down on eleven. Does anything
about those figures seem out of line?"
She looked at it, her eyes widening, then narrowing.
"Well, I don't know what this sheet is all about." She glanced up.
"These companies aren't part of our buys."
"Got news for you. I think they just made the team." I pointed to the
heading. "See that--'ACQUISITION SCHEDULE: REVISIONS.'"
When she said nothing, nada, I continued, "But you're right; they
weren't on the original list. The reason being, I would surmise, that
they didn't need any of this so-called management Rx you guys are
supposed to be cooking up. Look at that one, and that one. Even I know
enough to realize those outfits are operating with a real cash surplus
right now, have plenty of R&D funding already, and hence are doing just
fine, thank you. The figures, in fact, are right over there in that
column on the right."
"Matt, we don't know what this is for."
"True, true. So let's just play pretend. And to make it fun, let me
show you something else." I rummaged through my briefcase some more,
finally extracting another paper. "I copied a corresponding page from
the file on current buys."