Robert Sawyer - Frameshift

Amanda’s brow was creasing. She could clearly see that Pierre was upset. Pierre tried again, but the gestures looked clawlike, unfriendly. He realized he was scaring his daughter, but, damn it, if he could only control his fingers he would—

Amanda began to cry.

“You know, hon, the Condor shareholders’ meeting is coming up next month,” said Molly that weekend. They were having steak, barbecued in their backyard. Molly had cut Pierre’s sirloin into manageable pieces; he had no trouble using knives on soft food, but had difficulty when consecutive slices in the same spot were required.

Pierre nodded. His hands moved constantly now, and his legs moved most of the time. “But they probably won’t let us in after what happened when we saw Craig Bullen.”

“They can’t legally bar you from attending. You’re a stockholder.”

“Still, it might be easier if we kept a low profile.”

“We could go in disguise,” said Molly.

“Disguise?” Pierre’s tone indicated his surprise.

“Sure. Nothing major, but — well, you could grow a beard. You’ve got four weeks after all, and…” She trailed off, but Pierre knew what she was thinking — that his jobs of shaving had been getting worse and worse as his hands had been shaking more and more. A beard would simplify his life anyway.

He nodded. “Okay, I’ll grow a beard. What about you?”

“No, I’d have to take testosterone pills for that.”

Pierre grinned. “I mean, what are you going to do about a disguise?”

“Well, I know Constance Brinkley over at the Center for Theater Arts pretty well. A lot of her acting students take psych courses. I’m sure she’d let me borrow a brown wig.”

Pierre considered. “Real undercover work, eh?”

Molly smiled. “Why not? That’s always been one of your strongest points…”

After a month of growth, Pierre’s beard turned out to be much more satisfactory than he’d imagined. Molly had brought home the wig the previous night. Pierre was startled by how different it made his wife look: her skin seemed almost porcelain white by comparison, and her cornflower eyes stood out piercingly. He’d talked her into wearing the wig to bed that night, and it inspired him to new levels of creativity. Molly gently teased him about being her six-foot vibrator.

The next day, Molly drove them to San Francisco; Pierre had quietly given up driving after an uncontrollable arm movement had almost sent them off Highway 1 into the Pacific.

As they approached the Condor Tower, Pierre caught sight of a small helicopter flying overhead. Although he couldn’t make out the markings on it, it was painted yellow and black, the Condor corporate colors. He shook his head as he watched it land on the roof of the forty-story building. More premiums well spent.

They parked the car and went inside.

Molly and Pierre got off the elevator in the basement of the Condor Tower. For the last few weeks, Pierre had been walking with the aid of a cane. There were long tables set up for shareholders to register, and he made his way slowly over to them, where he received a copy of the meeting agenda. Hundreds of people were milling about, drinking coffee or mineral water and snacking on canapes served by women in stylish uniforms.

Molly and Pierre entered the auditorium, which had about seven hundred seats. They found two chairs together near the middle, one of them on an aisle. Pierre took the aisle seat and held tightly to the handle of his cane, trying to control his shaking. Molly sat down, adjusted the position of her dark wig slightly, and read over the agenda.

On the stage, a line of nine white men and one white woman took seats behind a long mahogany table. Craig Bullen was in the middle. He was wearing a charcoal gray suit with a red carnation pinned to his lapel. He conferred with the men on either side of him, then rose to his feet and moved over to the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said into the mike, “welcome to the Annual General Meeting of Condor Health Insurance. My name is Craig Bullen and I’m the president of the company.”

A few latecomers were still in the process of seating themselves, but everyone else broke into applause. Pierre resisted the urge to boo. The applause continued longer than mere manners would have required. The auditorium was three-quarters full. Many of the people were apparently individual stockholders, but Molly had pointed out several suited types who were probably representatives of mutual funds that had invested in the company.

Bullen was grinning from ear to ear. “Thank you,” he said as the applause finally died down. “Thank you very much. It has been a spectacular year, hasn’t it?”

More clapping.

“Our chief financial officer, Garrett Sims, will have a few words to say about that later, but for now, let me take you through our progress of the past year. We’ll start by introducing the auditors…”

All the usual reports were given, and three motions were brought to the floor — although it was clear that the board of directors had enough proxy votes to pass anything it wished. A few members of the audience asked questions. One young guy was all worked up about the fact that the annual report wasn’t printed on recycled paper. Pierre smiled. The spirit of California radicalism wasn’t dead.

Bullen returned to the podium. “Of course, the biggest impact on our cash flow has been Senator Patrick Johnston’s bill eleven forty-six, which became law on January first, three years ago. That bill has prevented us from denying policies to those who have genetic tests proving that they have serious disorders, so long as the disorder has not yet manifested itself. California insurance companies had lobbied hard in Sacramento to get that law defeated, and indeed had succeeded in getting Governor Wilson to veto it. But, as you may know, Senator Johnston kept reintroducing it, and Wilson finally signed it.” He looked out at the audience. “That’s the bad news. The good news is that we continue to lobby in Oregon and Washington State to make sure that no similar bills are introduced there. So far, the California law is still the only one of its kind in the nation — and we intend to keep it that way.”

The audience applauded. Pierre was fuming.

At the end of the formal presentations, Bullen — whose deep voice was now noticeably hoarse — asked if there was any new business. Pierre nudged Molly, who raised a hand on his behalf; he didn’t want people to see his arm waving wildly like some sixth-grade brownnose. Two other people were recognized first, and then Bullen pointed at Molly.

She rose briefly. “Actually,” she said loudly, “it’s my husband who wishes to speak.” Slowly, meticulously, Pierre got up, leaning on his cane.

He walked over to the microphone set up in the middle of the aisle. His feet were splayed as he moved, and his free arm — the one not holding the cane — was rising and falling at his side. There were gasps from a few people. Someone a few rows back said to his companion that the guy must be drunk. Molly turned around and gave him a withering stare.

Pierre at last reached the microphone stand. It was too low for him, but he knew he didn’t have the coordination to loosen the milled sleeve that would have let him raise one of the telescoping sections. Still, he grabbed the stand with his left hand to help steady its movements, and leaned hard on his cane with his right.

“Hello,” he said into the microphone. “I’m not just a stockholder; I’m also a geneticist.” Bullen sat up straight in his chair, perhaps recognizing Pierre’s accent. He motioned to someone offstage. “I heard Mr. Bullen tell you what an evil thing the California anti-genetic-discrimination law is.