Michael Crichton - Disclosure

He heard rock-and-roll music from an adjacent room, and went there. A lone programmer in his early twenties was sitting at a console typing. Beside him, a portable radio blared.

Sanders said, "Where is everybody?"

The programmer looked up. "Third Wednesday of the month."

“So?”

"OOPS meets on the third Wednesday."

"Oh." The Object Oriented Programmer Support association, or OOPS, was an association of programmers in the Seattle area. It was started by Microsoft some years earlier, and was partly social and partly trade talk.

Sanders said, "You know anything about what the Diagnostics team found?"

"Sorry." The programmer shook his head. "I just came in."

Sanders went back to the Diagnostics room. He flicked on the lights and gently removed the white cloth that covered the drives. He saw that only three of the CD-ROM drives had been opened, their innards exposed to powerful magnifying glasses and electronic probes on the tables. The remaining seven drives were stacked to one side, still in plastic.

He looked up at the blackboards. One had a series of equations and hastily scribbled data points. The other had a flowchart list that read:

A. Contr. Incompat. VLSI? pwr?

B. Optic Dysfunct-? voltage reg?/arm?/servo?

C. Laser R/O (a,b,c)

D. E Mechanical J J

E. Gremlins

It didn't mean much to Sanders. He turned his attention back to the tables, and peered at the test equipment. It looked fairly standard, except that there were a series of large-bore needles lying on the table, and several white circular wafers encased in plastic that looked like camera filters. There were also Polaroid pictures of the drives in various stages of disassembly; the team had documented their work. Three of the Polaroids were placed in a neat row, as if they might be significant, but Sanders couldn't see why. They just showed chips on a green circuit board.

He looked at the drives themselves, being careful not to disturb anything. Then he turned to the stack of drives that were still wrapped in plastic. But looking closely, he noticed fine, needle-point punctures in the plastic covering four of the drives.

Nearby was a medical syringe and an open notebook. The notebook showed a column of figures:

And at the bottom someone had scrawled, "Fucking Obvious!" But it wasn't obvious to Sanders. He decided that he'd better call Don Cherry later tonight, to have him explain it. In the meantime, he took one of the extra drives from the stack to use in the presentation the following morning.

He left the Diagnostics room carrying all his presentation materials, the easel boards flapping against his legs. He headed downstairs to the ground floor conference room, which had an AV closet where speakers stored visual material before a presentation. He could lock his material away there.

In the lobby, he passed the receptionist's desk, now manned by a black security guard, who watched a baseball game and nodded to Sanders. Sanders went back toward the rear of the floor, moving quietly on the plush carpeting. The hallway was dark, but the lights were on in the conference room; he could see them shining from around the corner.

As he came closer, he heard Meredith Johnson say, "And then what?" And a man's voice answered something indistinct.

Sanders paused.

He stood in the dark corridor and listened. From where he stood, he could see nothing of the room.

There was a moment of silence, and then Johnson said, "Okay, so will Mark talk about design?"

The man said, "Yes, he'll cover that."

"Okay," Johnson said. "Then what about the…"

Sanders couldn't hear the rest. He crept forward, moving silently on the carpet, and cautiously peered around the corner. He still could not see into the conference room itself, but there was a large chrome sculpture in the hallway outside the room, a sort of propeller shape, and in the reflection of its polished surface he saw Meredith moving in the room. The man with her was Blackburn.

Johnson said, "So what if Sanders doesn't bring it up?"

"He will," Blackburn said.

"You're sure he doesn't-that the-" Again, the rest was lost.

"No, he-no idea."

Sanders held his breath. Meredith was pacing, her image in the reflection, twisting and distorted. "So when he does-I will say that this is a-is that-you mean?"

"Exactly," Blackburn said.

"And if he-"

Blackburn put his hand on her shoulder. "Yes, you have to-"

"-So-want me to-"

Blackburn said something quiet in reply, and Sanders heard none of it, except the phrase "-must demolish him."

"-Can do that-"

"-Make sure counting on you-"

There was the shrill sound of a telephone. Both Meredith and Blackburn reached for their pockets. Meredith answered the call, and the two began to move toward the exit. They were heading toward Sanders.

Panicked, Sanders looked around, and saw a men's room to his right. He slipped inside the door as they came out of the conference room and started down the hallway.

"Don't worry about this, Meredith," Blackburn said. "It'll go fine." "I'm not worried," she said.

"It should be quite smooth and impersonal," Blackburn said. "There's no reason for rancor. After all, you have the facts on your side. He's clearly incompetent."

"He still can't get into the database?" she said.

"No. He's locked out of the system."

"And there's no way he can get into Conley-White's system?"

Blackburn laughed. "No way in hell, Meredith."

The voices faded, moving down the hallway. Sanders strained to listen, finally heard the click of a door closing. He stepped out of the bathroom into the hallway.

The hallway was deserted. He stared toward the far door.

His own telephone rang in his pocket, the sound so loud it made him jump. He answered it. "Sanders."

"Listen," Fernandez said. "I sent the draft of your contract to Blackburn's office, but it came back with a couple of added statements that I'm not sure about. I think we better meet to discuss them." "In an hour," Sanders said. "Why not now?" "I have something to do first," he said.

Ah, Thomas." Max Dorfman opened the door to his hotel roomand immediately wheeled away, back toward the television set.

"You have finally decided to come."

"You've heard?"

"Heard what?" Dorfman said. "I am an old man. No one bothers with me anymore. I'm cast by the wayside. By everyone including you." He clicked off the television set and grinned.

Sanders said, "What have you heard?"

"Oh, just a few things. Rumors, idle talk. Why don't you tell me yourself?"

"I'm in trouble, Max."

"Of course you are in trouble," Dorfman snorted. "You have been in trouble all week. You only noticed now?"

"They're setting me up."

"They?"

"Blackburn and Meredith."

"Nonsense."

"It's true."

"You believe Blackburn can set you up? Philip Blackburn is a spineless fool. He has no principles and almost no brains. I told Garvin to fire him years ago. Blackburn is incapable of original thought."

"Then Meredith."

"Ali. Meredith. Yes. So beautiful. Such lovely breasts."

"Max, please."

"You thought so too, once."

"That was a long time ago," Sanders said.

Dorfman smiled. "Times have changed?" he said, with heavy irony. "What does that mean?"

"You are looking pale, Thomas."

"I can't figure anything out. I'm scared."

"Oh, you're scared. A big man like you is scared of this beautiful woman with beautiful breasts."

"Max-"

"Of course, you are right to be scared. She has done all these many terrible things to you. She has tricked you and manipulated you and abused you, yes?"