The Cold Cash War

2

Thirty-seven is a lousy age for a corporate executive.

Peter Hornsby grimaced at the busy streets below as he stared out the window of his office. He was taking a break after realizing he hadn't focused on anything all morning. Monday morning blahs, maybe.

Actually, the "window" was a viewscreen with a continuous loop videotape showing on it, the corporate world's answer to the office-status scramble of which executive got a window viewing what. In his depressed, self-analyzing moments such as these, Pete questioned his own choice of views. Most of the other executives looked at a seashore or a morning meadow. He was one of the few who had the "fifty-seventh-story view of city streets" tape, and, to his knowledge, the only one who had the "night electrical storm over the city."

Was this a sign of his waning career? Was this all that was left? Deluding himself with illusions of grandeur?

He shook off the feeling. C'mon Pete, you aren't dead yet. So the promotions aren't coming as fast these last few years. So what? You're getting up there on the ladder; ya know. There aren't as many openings you can move up into. You're just upset because they went outside and hired Ed Bush two years back instead of moving you up. Well, they needed a new person to get the changes in, and even you admit you couldn't do the job Eddie's done. He's a real ball of fire. So what if he's a couple years younger than you.

Pete returned to his desk and picked up a piece of paper, staring at it with unseeing eyes. The trouble with being thirty-seven was you didn't have the option of starting over somewhere else. Nobody hires a thirty-five to forty year old executive expecting him to go places. That was for the young tigers like-like Eddie. If Pete was going to go any further with his career, it would have to be right here.

His thoughts were interrupted by a tingling on his hand. His ringpager. He grimaced. Dick Tracy was alive and well in the corporate world. He thumbed back the lid.

"Hornsby here."

"Yeah, Pete. Eddie." Eddie Bush's voice was identifiable even with the poor sound reproduction of a three-quarter-inch speaker-mike. "Can you stop up at my office for a minute?"

"On my way, Eddie." He thumbed the ring shut and hit a button on his desk. The wood paneling of the north wall of his office faded, giving him a one-way view of his reception area. For a change, his secretary was at her desk. However, she was covertly leafing through a cosmetics catalogue. He touched the intercom button.

"Ginny!" He was rewarded by seeing her start guiltily before hitting her own intercom button.

"Yes, Pete?"

"I'm heading up to Eddie's office. Hold all calls till I get back."

"How long will you be?"

"Don't know. It's one of his surprise calls."

He clicked off the intercom and started across his office. As he approached the south wall, a portion slid back and he entered the executive corridor, stepping onto the eastbound conveyor. He nodded recognition to another executive striding purposefully along the westbound conveyor, but remained standing, letting the conveyor carry him along at a sedate four miles an hour. Corridor-walking varied by section. Some crews walked, some ran in an effort to show frenzied enthusiasm or pseudoimportance. Eddie set the code for their group. Let the convey do it. We're smoothly run to the point to where we don't have to dash around like a bunch of panicked rodents.

Stepping off onto the platform in front of Eddie's door, he hit the intercom button in the doorframe and got an immediate response.

"That you, Pete?"

"Right."

"C'mon in."

The door slid open and he entered Eddie's office.

Eddie's office was not noticeably larger than Pete's, but much more lavishly furnished. Instead of a panoramic scene, Eddie had a moving opti-print on his viewscreen. The print had always given Pete an uneasy feeling of vertigo, but he didn't say anything.

"Make yourself comfortable, Pete. It's two sugars, no cream, right?"

"Right." In spite of himself, Pete was always pleased when Eddie remembered small details like that.

Eddie punched the appropriate buttons on the Servo-Matic and in a few seconds, the coffee hummed into view.

"That reminds me, Eddie. My Servo-Matic is down. Can you lean on someone to get it fixed?"

"Have you called maintenance?"

"Daily for two weeks. All I get is double-talk and forms to fill out."

"I'll see what I can do. What are you working on right now?"

"Nothing special. Pushing around a few ideas, but nothing that couldn't be delegated or put on hold. Why? What's up?"

"We've had a live one tossed in our laps, and I need that detail brain of yours working on it. I just got back from headquarters-talked with Becker himself.

"Who?"

"Becker, one of the international vps. Check your conspectus-you'll see his name. Anyway, it seems we've been picked as one of several teams assigned to submit recommendations on this. It's a chance for some nice exposure at the top levels."

"Who else is working on it?"

"Higgins on the East Coast and Marcus in New Orleans."

"Higgins? I thought he got dumped after his last fiasco."

"Just shelved. If you want my guess, someone's using this assignment as an excuse to dump him. I'd be willing to bet that whatever he turns in, it gets rejected. I'm guessing he'll be out by the end of the year."

"It's about time. Who's Marcus?"

"Never met him. He's supposed to be some kind of genius, but the word is he rubs a lot of people the wrong way. If he thinks you're an ass, he'll say so. You can imagine how well that goes over in the brainstorming sessions."

Pete lit a cigarette and exhaled thoughtfully.

"So our competition is a three-time loser and a loudmouthed whiz kid. If we can't beat that, we should hang it up."

"That's the way I see it. But don't short-sell Marcus. If he's lasted this long, he must have something going for him. There's a chance someone's watching for some real dynamic ideas from him. We'll have to watch close, and if things look like they are leaning his way, decide if we go for the kill or if we want to cover."

"How much time have we got?"

Eddie grimaced.

"Quote, as much time as you need to do a good job, unquote. In other words, whoever submits first is going to be holding up their presentation for the other two teams to tear apart. On the other hand, if we take too long, we're going to look like a bunch of old women who can't make up their minds."

Pete thought it over for a few minutes, then shrugged.

"If that's the rules, that's the rules. We play the cards as they're dealt. Okay, what's the assignment?"

"Are you ready for this? Our everlovin' communications conglomerate has got a war on its hands."

"Come again?"

"You heard me. A war. You know-soldiers, bullets, tanks-a war."

"Okay, I'll bite. What are we supposed to do about it?"

"Nothing much. Just keep a lid on it. We're supposed to come up with a bunch of ideas to keep the public from finding out about it, and at the same time start conditioning the public so that they'll accept it if the word ever leaks out."

"Are you serious? C'mon, Eddie, we're talking about a war! People are bound to notice a war!"

"It's not as wild as it sounds. This thing's been going on for nearly a year-have you heard anything about it?"

"Well...no."

"What's more, there are supposedly three other wars going on at the same time-one in Iceland over the fishing rights, one in Africa over the diamond mining, and one in the Great Plains over oil. Corporate wars are nothing new. At least that's what Becker says."

"So who are we fighting?"

"That's where it gets a bit tricky. We're up against one of the biggest oil companies in the world."

"And we're supposed to keep a lid on it?"

"Cheer up. It's being fought in Brazil."

Pete studied his cigarette for a few moments.

"Okay, I'll ask the big one. Who do we get for the task force? Our choice, or assigned?"

"Pretty much carte blanche. Why? Do you have anyone specific in mind?"

"Well, I'll want a personnel listing of anyone in the plant who's been in the service or lost a member of his family in a war; but there is one I'll want if we can get him."

"Who's that?"

"Terry Carr."

"The radical freak back in shipping."

"Him? C'mon, Pete. That kid's got a police record for antimilitary activities. What can he give us besides trouble?"

"Another point of view. I figure if we can sell this war to him, we can sell it to anybody."

Now it was Eddie's turn to look thoughtful.

"Let me think about that one. Say, doing anything for lunch?"

"Not really."

"Let's duck out and grab a bite. There're a few ideas I want to bounce off you."

The two men stood up and started for the door. As he walked, Eddie clapped a hand on Pete's shoulder.

"Cheer up, Pete. Remember, no one's ever gone broke overestimating the gullibility of the general public."