“Damn it, so am I,” Mike protested. “What’s the matter with everybody these days—don’t they want to do any business? Look, you find him, please, and tell him to give me a call, urgent . . . day or night, I don’t care. Got that?”
“Well, I’ll see what I can do.” The secretary didn’t sound very optimistic. “Leave it with me, okay?”
“Okay,” Mike sighed as he cut the call.
“I want to try something,” Clifford growled from where he had been watching at the back of the room. “Key the same number again, will you.” As he spoke he moved forward and pivoted the Infonet terminal around so that the view from it would show a different background. Mike rekeyed and, as Clifford slipped into the chair, another female face appeared.
“Micromatic, hello,” she announced.
“Ron Williams, please,” Clifford answered.
“Putting you through to Sales,” she said. A second later the same secretary that had spoken to Mike was staring out at Clifford. He repeated the name.
“Who’s calling Mr. Williams?” she inquired.
“Walter Massey of ACRE, New Mexico.”
“One moment.”
The screen blurred for a moment, then stabilized to reveal the smiling features of a man probably in his late thirties.
“Walt . . .” he began, then his face fell abruptly. “Oh . . . Bradley Clifford . . . It’s been a long time . . . I thought you’d left ACRE a long time ago.”
“I did,” Clifford said curtly. “I’m at ISF, Sudbury. What the hell are you playing at?”
“I’m not sure I know . . .”
“Sure you’re damn well sure. We’ve been calling for two days and getting the bum’s rush. All the time you’re sitting on your ass there. What are you playing at?”
Williams looked confused and tried to smile weakly. “We’ve been having a bit of a communications problem here,” he said. “Sorry if it’s been a pain. What did you want?”
“Model 1137-C pulse resonators,” Clifford said. “How much and how long to deliver?”
“Oh, gee . . . well . . . ah . . . that might be a problem. I don’t think that model is available anymore. They’re on engineering hold at Manufacturing pending design mods. Could be a while before they’re released.”
“How long is a while?” Clifford demanded. “And what do you have in the way of alternatives?”
Williams was looking uncomfortable. “I really can’t say how long,” he pleaded. “It all depends on our engineering people. We’ve withdrawn all the other models from the list.” Without waiting for further comments he went on hastily. “It looks as if we can’t really help you this time. Some time in the future though, maybe.”
After he had cleared down the call, Clifford scowled at Mike. “Something very strange is going on. I’ve never known that outfit to play hard to get before; usually they’re very helpful. If it’s not because they don’t want to do business, then somebody somewhere is getting at them and warning them off for some reason. I’m beginning to get a good idea who.”
* * *
“They were advertising them less than a month ago, and now they’re saying it’ll take twelve months at least.” Clifford slapped the paper down on Morelli’s desk and turned angrily away to face the window. “It’s the same thing everywhere we go, Al. Everything is unavailable or reserved for government priority or out of stock. The only way we’ll get those modulators is from that company in France that Aub mentioned. Have you had any luck with that approach yet?”
“Forget it,” Morelli said gloomily.
“Why? What’s happened now?”
“We need an importation license and we can’t get one. It’s been refused.”
“Why, for Christ’s sake? Aub says all the ones they used at Berkeley came from France, no problem.”
“No reason offered,” Morelli said. “It’s just been refused outright. Anyhow, the matter’s academic now since the French outfit won’t play ball.”
“What d’you mean—won’t play?” Clifford asked. “I thought they said they’d be happy to oblige.”
“A week ago they said they would be,” Morelli agreed. “But when I talked to them yesterday, it’d all changed. Jacques muttered something about having to reserve a stock for spares and said they couldn’t let any go. He said they’d been misled by an incorrect stock count.”