time with this.
He was a twenty-five-year vete:an well into his final lap before
retirement, well into his middle fifties, the last echo of the old
days. He was still tall, still fairly lean and athletic, but greying
fast and softening in some of the wrong places. His name was
Stuyvesant. Like the last Director-General of New Amsterdam,
he would say when the spelling was questioned. Then, acknowledging
the modern world, he would say: like the cigarette. He
wore Brooks Brothers every day of his life without exception,
but he was considered capable of flexibility in his tactics. Best
of all, he had never failed. Not ever, and he had been around a
long time, with more than his fair share of difficulties. But
there had been no failures, and no bad luck, either. Therefore,
in the merciless calculus of organizations everywhere, he was
considered a good guy to work for.
11
n, a little,’ Froelich said back.
office was small, and quiet, and sparsely furnished, and
:lean. The walls were painted bright white and lit with
n. There was a window, with white vertical blinds haft
[ against grey weather outside.
y are you nervous?’ he asked.
ed to ask your permission.’
what?’
something I want to try,’ she said. She was twenty years
‘er than Stuyvesant, exactly thirty-five. Tall rather than
but not excessively. Maybe only an inch or two over the
;e for American women of her generation, but the kind of
,ence and energy and vitality she radiated took the word
m right out of the equation. She was halfway between
nd muscular, with a bright glow in her skin and her eyes
aade her look like an athlete. Her hair was short and
d casually unkempt. She gave the impression of having
dly stepped into her street clothes after showering
y after winning a gold medal at the Olympics by playing a
1 role in some kind of team sport. Like it was no big deal,
ae wanted to get out of the stadium before the television
iewers got through with her teammates and started in on
;he looked like a very competent person, but a very
;t one.
at kind of something?’ Stuyvesant asked. He turned and
the file he was carrying on his desk. His desk was large,
1 with a slab of grey composite. High-end modern office
re, obsessively cleaned and polished like an antique. He
mous for always keeping his desktop clear of paperwork
ampletely empty. The habit created an air of extreme
ncy.
nt an outsider to do it,’ Froelich said.
-eesant squareff the file on the desk corner and ran his
s along the spine and the adjacent edge, like he was
ing the angle was exact.
t think that’s a good idea?’ he asked.
lich said nothing.
ppose you’ve got somebody in mind?’ he asked.
12
‘Who?’
Froelich shook her head. ‘You should stay outside the loop,’
she said. ‘Better that way.’
‘Was he recommended?’
‘Or she.’
Stuyvesant nodded. The modern world. ‘Was the person you have in mind recommended?’
‘Yes, by an excellent source.’
‘In-house?’
‘Yes,’ Froelich said again.
‘So we’re already in the loop.’
‘No, the source isn’t in-house any more.’
Stuyvesant turned again and moved his file parallel to the
long edge of the desk. Then back again parallel with the short
edge.
‘Let me play devil’s advocate,’ he said. ‘I promoted you four
months ago. Four months is a long time. Choosing to bring in
an outsider now might be seen to betray a certain lack of
self-confidence, mightn’t it? Wouldn’t you say?’
‘I can’t worry about that.’
‘Maybe you should,’ Stuyvesant said. Fhis could hurt you.
There were six guys who wanted your job. So if you do this and
it leaks, then you’ve got real problems. You’ve got half a dozen
vultures muttering told you so the whole rest of your career.
Because you started second-guessing your own abilities.’
¢I’hing like this, I need to second-guess myself. I think.’
‘You think?’
‘No, I know. I don’t see an alternative.’
Stuyvesant said nothing.
‘I’m not happy about it,’ Froelich said. ‘Believe me. But I
think it’s got to be done. And that’s my judgement call.’