Free Disclosure by Michael Crichton Page A

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    ”
    “Mark,” Sanders said. “Your name didn't even come up. Honest.”
    To change the subject, Sanders asked, “What'd you think of Johnson? Pretty strong presentation, I thought.”
    “Yes. She's impressive. There was only one thing that bothered me,” Lewyn said.
    He was stil frowning, stil uneasy. “Isn't she supposed to be a late-breaking curve, forced on us by management at Conley?”
    “That's what I heard. Why?”
    “Her presentation. To put together a graphic presentation like that takes two weeks, at a minimum,” Lewyn said. “In my design group, I get the designers on it a month in advance, then we run it through for timing, then say a week for revisions and re-do's, then another week while they transfer to a drive. And that's my own in-house group, working fast. For an executive, it'd take longer. They pawn it off on some assistant, who tries to make it for them. Then the executive looks at it, wants it al done over again. And it takes more time. So if this was her presentation, I'd say she's known about her new job for a while. Months.”
    Sanders frowned.

    “As usual,” Lewyn said, “the poor bastards in the trenches are the last to know. I just wonder what else we don't know.”
    Sanders was back at his office by 2:15. He cal ed his wife to tel her he would be home late, that he had a meeting at six.
    “What's happening over there?” Susan said. “I got a cal from Adele Lewyn. She says Garvin's screwing everybody, and they're changing the organization around.”
    “I don't know yet,” he said cautiously. Cindy had just walked in the room.
    “Are you stil getting a promotion?”
    “Basical y,” he said, “the answer is no.”
    “I can't believe it,” Susan said. “Tom, I'm sorry. Are you okay? Are you upset?”
    “I would say so, yes.”
    “Can't talk?”
    “That's right.”
    “Okay. I'l leave soup on. I'l see you when you get here.”
    Cindy placed a stack of files on his desk. When Sanders hung up, she said, “She already knew?”
    “She suspected.”
    Cindy nodded. “She cal ed at lunchtime,” she said. “I had the sense. The spouses are talking, I imagine.”
    “I'm sure everybody's talking.”
    Cindy went to the door, then paused. Cautiously, she said, “And how was the lunch meeting?”
    “Meredith was introduced as the new head of al the tech divisions. She gave a presentation. She says she's going to keep al the division heads in place, al reporting to her.”
    “Then there's no change for us? Just another layer on top?”
    “So far. That's what they're tel ing me. Why? What do you hear?”
    “I hear the same.”
    He smiled. “Then it must be true.”
    “Should I go ahead and buy the condo?” She had been planning this for some time, a condo in Queen Anne's Hil for herself and her young daughter.

    Sanders said, “When do you have to decide?”

    “I have another fifteen days. End of the month.”

    “Then wait. You know, just to be safe.”

    She nodded, and went out. A moment later, she came back. “I almost forgot.
    Mark Lewyn's office just cal ed. The Twinkle drives have arrived from KL. His designers are looking at them now. Do you want to see them?”

    “I'm on my way.”
    The Design Group occupied the entire second floor of the Western Building. As always, the atmosphere there was chaotic; al the phones were ringing, but there was no receptionist in the little waiting area by the elevators, which was decorated with faded, taped-up posters for a 1929 Bauhaus Exhibition in Berlin and an old science-fiction movie cal ed The Forbin Project. Two Japanese visitors sat at a corner table, speaking rapidly, beside the battered Coke machine and the junk food dispenser. Sanders nodded to them, used his card to open the locked door, and went inside.
    The floor was a large open space, partitioned at unexpected angles by slanted wal s painted to look like pastel-veined stone. Uncomfortable-looking wire chairs and tables were scattered in odd places.