The latest information request seemed innocent enough, but then again, most of them did. They wanted lists of any and all new hires or terminations for two specific major corporations in a given region.
It seemed innocent enough. In fact, it duplicated several requests they had made in the past for different corporations. But these were two new lists they were watching, and in a different part of the globe.
Mausier pursed his lips as he studied the request. The C-Block was sharp. They didn't do anything without reason and they didn't waste money or effort on petty items. There was something going on that they were watching, something that he couldn't see.
He studied the board. Two new personnel lists. In a new area. In Brazil. Brazil! The missed rendezvous in Brazil!
Mausier was suddenly excited. Abandoning his boards, he strode hurriedly to his desk and clicked on his doodle screen. He keyed for a clear workspace,, then input two items. Agent missed rendezvous. Personnel hires and terminations. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the two items glowing brightly on the screen.
Thomas Mausier had a hobby. He never actually handled the information that the clients bartered for, but all the requests and items for sale still crossed his screens even if it was in the vaguest of terms. As a hobby, he put the pieces together.
You didn't have to see the blueprints of a weapon to know a country was hurriedly stockpiling arms. You didn't have to see the actual medical records to know someone was compiling a dossier on someone else. By combining the skeletal information that passed through his offices with the public data he collected from the incredible mass of news tapes, newspapers, and periodicals he subscribed to from all over the world, he could regularly second-guess the next day's headlines. So far he had successfully predicted three border skirmishes, a civil war, two coups, and several assassination attempts. He never did anything with the information, since that would be a breach of confidence with his clients. Still it made an interesting and exciting hobby.
He stared at the two items on the screen. They were probably unrelated. All the same, he would take the time to scan the current events public records for any items concerning either of those two conglomerates or Brazil. The C-Block was watching them for some reason and he was going to puzzle it out.
2
Thirty-seven is a lousy age for a corporate executive.
Peter Hornsby grimaced at the busy streets below as he stared out the window of his office. He was taking a break after realizing he hadn't focused on anything all morning. Monday morning blahs, maybe.
Actually, the "window" was a viewscreen with a continuous loop videotape showing on it, the corporate world's answer to the office-status scramble of which executive got a window viewing what. In his depressed, self-analyzing moments such as these, Pete questioned his own choice of views. Most of the other executives looked at a seashore or a morning meadow. He was one of the few who had the "fifty-seventh-story view of city streets" tape, and, to his knowledge, the only one who had the "night electrical storm over the city."
Was this a sign of his waning career? Was this all that was left? Deluding himself with illusions of grandeur?
He shook off the feeling. C'mon Pete, you aren't dead yet. So the promotions aren't coming as fast these last few years. So what? You're getting up there on the ladder; ya know. There aren't as many openings you can move up into. You're just upset because they went outside and hired Ed Bush two years back instead of moving you up. Well, they needed a new person to get the changes in, and even you admit you couldn't do the job Eddie's done. He's a real ball of fire. So what if he's a couple years younger than you.
Pete returned to his desk and picked up a piece of paper, staring at it with unseeing eyes. The trouble with being thirty-seven was you didn't have the option of starting over somewhere else. Nobody hires a thirty-five to forty year old executive expecting him to go places. That was for the young tigers like-like Eddie. If Pete was going to go any further with his career, it would have to be right here.
His thoughts were interrupted by a tingling on his hand. His ringpager. He grimaced. Dick Tracy was alive and well in the corporate world. He thumbed back the lid.
"Hornsby here."
"Yeah, Pete. Eddie." Eddie Bush's voice was identifiable even with the poor sound reproduction of a three-quarter-inch speaker-mike. "Can you stop up at my office for a minute?"
"On my way, Eddie." He thumbed the ring shut and hit a button on his desk. The wood paneling of the north wall of his office faded, giving him a one-way view of his reception area. For a change, his secretary was at her desk. However, she was covertly leafing through a cosmetics catalogue. He touched the intercom button.
"Ginny!" He was rewarded by seeing her start guiltily before hitting her own intercom button.
"Yes, Pete?"
"I'm heading up to Eddie's office. Hold all calls till I get back."
"How long will you be?"
"Don't know. It's one of his surprise calls."
He clicked off the intercom and started across his office. As he approached the south wall, a portion slid back and he entered the executive corridor, stepping onto the eastbound conveyor. He nodded recognition to another executive striding purposefully along the westbound conveyor, but remained standing, letting the conveyor carry him along at a sedate four miles an hour. Corridor-walking varied by section. Some crews walked, some ran in an effort to show frenzied enthusiasm or pseudoimportance. Eddie set the code for their group. Let the convey do it. We're smoothly run to the point to where we don't have to dash around like a bunch of panicked rodents.
Stepping off onto the platform in front of Eddie's door, he hit the intercom button in the doorframe and got an immediate response.
"That you, Pete?"
"Right."
"C'mon in."
The door slid open and he entered Eddie's office.
Eddie's office was not noticeably larger than Pete's, but much more lavishly furnished. Instead of a panoramic scene, Eddie had a moving opti-print on his viewscreen. The print had always given Pete an uneasy feeling of vertigo, but he didn't say anything.
"Make yourself comfortable, Pete. It's two sugars, no cream, right?"
"Right." In spite of himself, Pete was always pleased when Eddie remembered small details like that.
Eddie punched the appropriate buttons on the Servo-Matic and in a few seconds, the coffee hummed into view.
"That reminds me, Eddie. My Servo-Matic is down. Can you lean on someone to get it fixed?"
"Have you called maintenance?"
"Daily for two weeks. All I get is double-talk and forms to fill out."
"I'll see what I can do. What are you working on right now?"
"Nothing special. Pushing around a few ideas, but nothing that couldn't be delegated or put on hold. Why? What's up?"
"We've had a live one tossed in our laps, and I need that detail brain of yours working on it. I just got back from headquarters-talked with Becker himself.
"Who?"
"Becker, one of the international vps. Check your conspectus-you'll see his name. Anyway, it seems we've been picked as one of several teams assigned to submit recommendations on this. It's a chance for some nice exposure at the top levels."
"Who else is working on it?"
"Higgins on the East Coast and Marcus in New Orleans."
"Higgins? I thought he got dumped after his last fiasco."