Disclosure (4 page)

`Jesus,” Sanders said. “I've been with this company twelve years.”

“And I expect you wil be with us many more,” Blackburn said smoothly. “Look: it's in everybody's interest to keep the teams in place. Because as 1 said, she can't run them directly.”

“Uh-huh.”

Blackburn shot his cuffs and ran his hand through his hair. “Listen, Tom. I know you're disappointed that this appointment didn't come to you. But let's not make too much of Meredith appointing the division heads. Realistical y speaking, she isn't going to make any changes. Your situation is secure.” He paused. “You know the way Meredith is, Tom.”

“I used to,” Sanders said, nodding. “Hel , I lived with her for a while. But I haven't seen her in years.”

Blackburn looked surprised. “You two haven't kept contact?”

“Not real y, no. By the time Meredith joined the company, I was up here in Seattle, and she was based in Cupertino. I ran into her once, on a trip down there. Said hel o. That's about it.”

“Then you only know her from the old days,” Blackburn said, as if it al suddenly made sense. “From six or seven years ago.”

“It's longer than that,” Sanders said. “I've been in Seattle eight years. So it must be . . .” Sanders thought back. “When I was going out with her, she worked for Novel in Mountain View. Sel ing Ethernet cards to smal businesses for local area networks. When was that?” Although he remembered the relationship with Meredith Johnson vividly, Sanders was hazy about exactly when it had occurred.

He tried to recal some memorable event-a birthday, a promotion, an apartment movethat would mark the date. Final y he remembered watching election returns with her on television: bal oons rising up toward the ceiling, people cheering. She was drinking beer. That had been early in their relationship. “Jesus, Phil. It must be almost ten years ago.”

“That long,” Blackburn said.

When Sanders first met Meredith Johnson, she was one of the thousands of pretty saleswomen working in San Jose-young women in their twenties, not long out of col ege, who started out doing the product demos on the computer while a senior man stood beside her and did al the talking to the customer. Eventual y, a lot of those women learned enough to do the sel ing themselves. At the time Sanders first knew Meredith, she had acquired enough jargon to rattle on about token rings and 1OBaseT hubs. She didn't real y have any deep knowledge, but she didn't need to. She was good-looking, sexy, and smart, and she had a kind of uncanny selfpossession that carried her through awkward moments. Sanders had admired her, back in those days. But he never imagined that she had the ability to hold a major corporate position.

Blackburn shrugged. “A lot's happened in ten years, Tom,” he said. “Meredith isn't just a sales exec. She went back to school, got an MBA. She worked at Symantec, then Conrad, and then she came to work with us. The last couple of years, she's been working very closely with Garvin. Sort of his protege. He's been pleased with her work on a number of assignments.”

Sanders shook his head. “And now she's my boss . . .”

“Is that a problem for you?”

“No. It just seems funny. An old girlfriend as my boss.”

“The worm turns,” Blackburn said. He was smiling, but Sanders sensed he was watching him closely. “You seem a little uneasy about this, Tom.”

“It takes some getting used to.”

“Is there a problem? Reporting to a woman?”

“Not at al . I worked for Eileen when she was head of HRI, and we got along great. It's not that. It's just funny to think of Meredith Johnson as my boss.”

“She's an impressive and accomplished manager,” Phil said. He stood up, smoothed his tie. “I think when you've had an opportunity to become reacquainted, you'l be very impressed. Give her a chance, Tom.”

“Of course,” Sanders said.

“I'm sure everything wil work out. And keep your eye on the future. After al , you should be rich in a year or so.”

“Does that mean we're stil spinning off the APG Division?”

“Oh yes. Absolutely.”

It was a much-discussed part of the merger plan that after Conley-White bought DigiCom, it would spin off the Advanced Products Division and take it public, as a separate company. That would mean enormous profits for everyone in the division. Because everyone would have the chance to buy cheap options before the stock was publicly sold.

“We're working out the final details now,” Blackburn said. “But I expect that division managers like yourself wil start with twenty thousand shares vested, and an initial option of fifty thousand shares at twenty-five cents a share, with the right to purchase another fifty thousand shares each year for the next five years.”

“And the spin-off wil go forward, even with Meredith running the divisions?”

“Trust me. The spin-off wil happen within eighteen months. It's a formal part of the merger plan.”

“There's no chance that she may decide to change her mind?”

“None at al , Tom.” Blackburn smiled. “I'l tel you a little secret. Original y, this spin-off was Meredith's idea.”

Blackburn left Sanders's office and went down the hal to an empty office and cal ed Garvin. He heard the familiar sharp bark: “Garvin here.”

“I talked to Tom Sanders.”

“And?”

“I'd say he took it wel . He was disappointed, of course. I think he'd already heard a rumor. But he took it wel .”

Garvin said, “And the new stricture? How did he respond?”

“He's concerned,” Blackburn said. “He expressed reservations.”

“Why?”

“He doesn't feel she has the technical expertise to run the division.” Garvin snorted, “Technical expertise? That's the last goddamn thing I care about.

Technical expertise is not an issue here.”

“Of course not. But I think there was some uneasiness on the personal level. You know, they once had a relationship.”

“Yes,” Garvin said. “I know that. Have they talked?”

“He says, not for several years.”

“Bad blood?”

“There didn't seem to be.”

“Then what's he concerned about?”

“I think he's just getting used to the idea.”

“He'l come around.”

“I think so.”

“Tel me if you hear otherwise,” Garvin said, and hung up.

Alone in the office, Blackburn frowned. The conversation with Sanders left him vaguely uneasy. It had seemed to go wel enough, and yet . . . Sanders, he felt sure, was not going to take this reorganization lying down. Sanders was popular in the Seattle division, and he could easily cause trouble. Sanders was too independent, he was not a team player, and the company needed team players now. The more Blackburn thought about it, the more certain he was that Sanders was going to be a problem.

Tom Sanders sat at his desk, staring forward, lost in thought. He was trying to put together his memory of a pretty young saleswoman in Silicon Val ey with this new image of a corporate officer running company divisions, executing the complex groundwork required to take a division public. But his thoughts kept being interrupted by, random images from the past: Meredith smiling, wearing one of his shirts, naked beneath it. An opened suitcase on the bed. White stockings and white garter belt. A bowl of popcorn on the blue couch in the living room. The television with the sound turned off.

And for some reason, the image of a dower, a purple iris, in stained glass. It was one of those hackneyed Northern California hippie images. Sanders knew where it came from: it was on the glass of the front door to the apartment where he had lived, back in Sunnyvale. Back in the days when he had known Meredith. He wasn't sure why he should keep thinking of it now, and he-

“Tom?”

He glanced up. Cindy was standing in the doorway, looking concerned.

“Tom, do you want coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

“Don Cherry cal ed again while you were with Phil. He wants you to come and look at the Corridor.”

“They having problems?”

“I don't know. He sounded excited. You want to cal him back?”

“Not right now. I'l go down and see him in a minute.”

She lingered at the door. “You want a bagel? Have you had breakfast?”

“I'm fine.”

“Sure?”

“I'm fine, Cindy. Real y.”

She went away. He turned to look at his monitor, and saw that the icon for his email was blinking. But he was thinking again about Meredith Johnson.

Sanders had more or less lived with her for about six months. It had been quite an intense relationship for a while. And yet, although he kept having isolated, vivid images, he realized that in general his memories from that time were surprisingly vague. Had he real y lived with Meredith for six months? When exactly had they first met, and when had they broken up? Sanders was surprised at how difficult it was for him to fix the chronology in his mind. Hoping for clarity, he considered other aspects of his life: what had been his position at DigiCom in those days? Was he stil working in Marketing, or had he already moved to the technical divisions? He wasn't sure, now. He would have to look it up in the files.

He thought about Blackburn. Blackburn had left his wife and moved in with Sanders around the time Sanders was involved with Meredith. Or was it afterward, when things had gone bad? Maybe Phil had moved into his apartment around the time he was breaking up with Meredith. Sanders wasn't sure. As he considered it, he realized he wasn't sure about anything from that time. These events had al happened a decade ago, in another city, at another period in his life, and his memories were in disarray. Again, he was surprised at how confused he was.

He pushed the intercom. “Cindy? I've got a question for you.”

“Sure, Tom.”

“This is the third week of June. What were you doing the third week of June, ten years ago?”

She didn't even hesitate. “That's easy: graduating from col ege.”

Of course that would be true. “Okay,” he said. “Then how about June, nine years ago.”

“Nine years ago?” Her voice sounded suddenly cautious, less certain. “Gee . . .

Let's see, June . . . Nine years ago? . . . June . . . Uh . . . I think I was with my boyfriend in Europe.”

“Not your present boyfriend?”

“No . . . This guy was a real jerk.”

Sanders said, “How long did that last?”

“We were there for a month.”

“I mean the relationship.”

“With him? Oh, let's see, we broke up . . . oh, it must have been. . . uh, December . . . I think it was December, or maybe January, after the holidays . . .

Why?”

“Just trying to figure something out,” Sanders said. Already he was relieved to hear the uncertain tone of her voice, as she tried to piece together the past. “By the way, how far back do we have office records? Correspondence, and cal books?”

“I'd have to check. I know I have about three years.”

“And what about earlier?”

“Earlier? How much earlier?”

“Ten years ago,” he said.

“Gee, that'd be when you were in Cupertino. Do they have that stuff in storage down there? Did they put it on fiche, or was it just thrown out?”

“I don't know.”

“You want me to check?”

“Not now,” he said, and clicked off: He didn't want her making any inquiries in Cupertino now. Not right now.

Sanders rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. His thoughts drifting back over time.

Again, he saw the stained-glass flower. It was oversize, bright, banal. Sanders had always been embarrassed by the banality of it. In those days, he had lived in one of the apartment complexes on Merano Drive. Twenty units clustered around a chil y little swimming pool. Everybody in the building worked for a high-tech company. Nobody ever went in the pool. And Sanders wasn't around much.

Those were the days when he flew with Garvin to Korea twice a month. The days when they al flew coach. They couldn't even afford business class.

And he remembered how he would come home, exhausted from the long flight, and the first thing he would see when he got to his apartment was that damned stainedglass flower on the door.

And Meredith, in those days, was partial to white stockings, a white garter belt, little white flowers on the snaps with

“Tom?” He looked up. Cindy was at the doorway. She said, “If you want to see Don Cherry, you'd better go now because you have a ten-thirty with Gary Bosak.”

He felt as if she was treating him like an invalid. “Cindy, I'm fine.”

“I know. Just a reminder.”

“Okay, I'l go now.”

As he hurried down the stairs to the third floor, he felt relieved at the distraction.

Cindy was right to get him out of the office. And he was curious to see what Cherry's team had done with the Corridor.

The Corridor was what everyone at DigiCom cal ed VIE: the Virtual Information Environment. VIE was the companion piece to Twinkle, the second major element in the emerging future of digital information as envisioned by DigiCom.

In the future, information was going to be stored on disks, or made available in large databases that users would dial into over telephone lines. At the moment, users saw information displayed on flat screenseither televisions or computer screens. That had been the traditional way of handling information for the last thirty years. But soon, there would be new ways to present information. The most radical, and the most exciting, was virtual environments. Users wore special glasses to see computer-generated, threedimensional environments which al owed them to feel as though they were literal y moving through another world.

Dozens of high-tech companies were racing to develop virtual environments. It was exciting, but very difficult, technology. At DigiCom, VIE was one of Garvin's pet projects; he had thrown a lot of money at it; he had had Don Cherry's programmers working on it around the clock for two years.

And so far, it had been nothing but trouble.

The sign on the door said “VIE” and underneath, “When Reality Is Not Enough.”

Sanders inserted his card in the slot, and the door clicked open. He passed through an anteroom, hearing a halfdozen voices shouting from the main equipment room beyond. Even in the anteroom, he noticed a distinctly nauseating odor in the air.