“Yes, but for vision you have to go in at the thalamus. That’s another level higher yet.”
“Oh.” Hamils nodded that that was something they’d just have to accept. “Okay. So when will it happen?”
“It isn’t scheduled at present,” Corrigan replied, conscious as he said it of sounding negative. Hamils shot Glinberg a glance that said he couldn’t see this as a star attraction for getting prospective customers excited.
There was a short silence. Then Glinberg clapped Corrigan lightly on the shoulder. “But doing it right takes time, eh, Joe? P-Two will be better in the end.”
Corrigan acknowledged with a faint grin. “Right,” he agreed.
Hamils looked at his watch. “We’d better be moving,” he announced. They drank up, collected briefcases and things, and headed for the elevator.
“Do you get to see many customers, Joe?” Hamils inquired casually as they got in.
“Not really.”
“The main person we’re going to see today is a guy called Victor Borth. He’s general manager of F and F’s New York office, and a working director of the firm. A very influential person.”
“I see.”
“Sometimes there’s politics involved in these situations,” Hamils went on. “Just stick to answering questions, and keep it technical. We’ll let you know when. Okay?”
“Sure,” Corrigan said.
It was only when they were in the car and heading toward the East Side that it dawned on him that people who knew too much were considered a potential menace—he had been tactfully told where his place was.
* * *
The offices of Feller & Faber occupied four floors of a soaring face of copper-tinted glass in midtown. The visitors were conducted from the elevators through a reception lobby of rust-gold velour furnishings, ceramic and chrome, and art noveau prints, into corridors flanked by designer-decor office spaces and computer displays glowing in glass-partitioned rooms.
They had arrived early to let Hamils take care of some routine matters before the main meeting, and Corrigan found himself tagging along on a quick tour. Somebody from F & F was due to attend a trade exhibition in Russia, and there was talk about a joint promotional effort involving CLC marketing people from Pittsburgh. A man called Gary had a problem with a service invoice. Pat wanted advance information from CLC engineering on a new line of image analyzers not in production yet. Could Sandra in the Manhattan office get two more sets of manuals on the stock-forecasting package? The proposal to Mercantile Bankers in London was looking good, and there should be a decision next week.
After the racks and cubicles, scratched metal desks, and tiled vinyl floors of the environment that Corrigan was used to, it all seemed very glamorous and exciting—a glimpse of the real world, where the events that shaped the news were made to happen. In comparison, the world that he was from looked woefully pedestrian and academic—a behind-the-scenes support facility to serve this, the stage.
Finally, they came to a sumptuous corner office looking out over Manhattan in two directions. It had deep russet pile, integral mahogany shelves and fittings, and framed travelogue scenes looking down over a conference area set off around a circular, glass-topped table. From the immense desks with computer side-tables and recessed consoles, the office was evidently shared by two people. One of the desks was unoccupied. From the other, a man of about Corrigan’s age rose to greet them, smiling genially. He had a trim, athletic build with collar-length yellow hair, and looked aristocratically debonair in a tan jacket and maroon cord shirt worn open with a silk cravat in place of necktie.
“Nigel, how are things?” Hamils pumped his hand. “Is the world still taking good care of you?”
“Never better.”
“You know Henry Glinberg, up from Pittsburgh again to see us.”
“Of course. Hello again, Henry. Did you fly up this morning?”
“Hi, Nigel. Yes. Can’t afford the time to stay over every time. You customers keep us too busy.”
Nigel’s smile broadened, easily, unrepentantly. “How would you pay the rent without us?”
Hamils indicated Corrigan. “And this is Joe Corrigan, from the DNC group at Blawnox. He’s the guy that Jason sent up after Therese Loel talked to Victor.”