“I think we’ve heard all we need to for now on that topic,” he said. “What we do from here on is not a matter for this meeting. Let’s get back to the point.” He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the edge of the table.
“Gentlemen, you have asked for our support and backing. We are unanimous in voting our total commitment to expediting your work in any way we can. You tell us what needs to be done to get you moving at maximum possible speed. What is your biggest problem area right now?”
Morelli answered that one. “The main bottleneck with the system as it stands at present is computer power. Until we can come up with a better way of extracting meaningful information from the raw data, we’re not going to move any faster than a snail’s pace. The rate of progress of the past six months isn’t the thing to go by; we’re up against different requirements now. That’s our biggest single problem.”
“We had already gathered that,” Foreshaw nodded. “It was one of the things we discussed while you were outside. We think we can help. For instance, what would you say if I were to offer to make a BIAC available?”
Morelli looked incredulous. Clifford and Aub gaped. Even Peter Hughes suffered a visible momentary loss of composure.
“A BIAC!” Morelli blinked as if trying to convince himself that he wasn’t dreaming. “I guess that would be . . . just fine. . . .” His voice trailed away for lack of an appropriate continuation. Foreshaw’s expression remained businesslike, but his eyes were twinkling.
“Very well,” he said. “That’s settled. It will be done. Now, Professor Morelli, are there any other things that look as if they could slow you down?”
“Well . . . there are one or two suppliers we seem to be experiencing difficulty with. I’ve got a hunch that one or two people whom you might have some influence over aren’t being as cooperative toward us as they could be.”
“Do you have details?”
Morelli slipped a wad of handwritten sheets of paper out of the folder he had brought in with him and began reciting the items in a monotone. He had gotten to number seven when Foreshaw stopped him, his face dark with anger.
“Wait,” he said, taking his pen out again and opening his pad. “Now go back and start again would you please. I want the facts.”
* * *
“There’s a Mr. Johnson on the line from Weston-Carter Magnetic,” Morelli’s secretary called through from the outer office. “What d’you want me to do?”
“Put him through,” Morelli shouted back. He turned away from the window through which he had been admiring the lake and, still humming softly to himself, returned to his desk and sat down facing the Infonet screen. Within seconds the features of Cliff Johnson, Sales Director of WCM, had materialized.
“Al,” he said at once, beaming. “How are you? Hope I’m not calling at an awkward time. I’ve got some good news.”
“I’ll always listen to good news,” Morelli said. “Shoot.”
“Those special transformers you wanted wound—we can do ’em inside two weeks.” He waited, looking slightly apprehensive as if he expected some embarrassing questions, but Morelli replied simply, “That’s great. I’ll have one of the guys get an order out today.”
“No need, Al,” Johnson said. “I’ll get a salesman from our Boston office to call in and collect it. That way he can check over the technical specs too. I wouldn’t want there to be any mistakes.”
“As you say then,” Morelli shrugged. “That’s fine by me.”
“Fine. If there are any problems at all, call me personally. Okay?”
“Okay. See ya around.”
Morelli cleared down the call, got up, walked across to the window and resumed admiring the lake. That had been the third such call he had taken that morning and it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet. Amazing, he thought.
* * *
“I got a letter from Sheila Massey today,” Sarah remarked one evening about a week later as Clifford was eating his dinner.
“Sheila with the legs . . . how’s she getting on?”
“Trust you to remember the legs. She’s fine. I thought you’d be interested in what she had to say.”