Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

“Gene designed Black Dragon, right?”

“Well, he supervised its design and the production of the prototype. Actually, a brilliant kid I hired, Andy Chen, really designed its guts.”

“Oh, sure. Gene talked about someone named Andy. I don’t think he ever mentioned his last name. Said he was a genius.”

“He is. Excuse me, Dr. Neruda. But I don’t really know what we’re accomplishing. Gene probably exaggerated his importance a little. We all do that, don’t we? But he was very important here. And he was a valuable employee, until the last year, year and a half, when he just burned out. To be honest, that’s a hazard of our business. Building computers is a young man’s game. The competition is ferocious. Every year MIT and Stanford graduate a new crop of geniuses. Every four months somebody invents a new chip. Practically every day there’s new and hungrier software. To survive in this business, someone in Gene’s position has to get out of the trenches and make the transition to management. I gave him that opportunity by promoting him to vice-president. He couldn’t hack it. He wasn’t leadership material. He hit the wall hard. Some people bounce off and sink peacefully to a lower place. Some people pick themselves up and, I don’t know, buy themselves a cabin in Vermont or a hammock in Tahiti and enjoy the rest of their lives. Gene imploded.”

“Gene worked very hard and long hours—”

“All the engineers do,” Stick interrupted, impatient.

“Maybe that’s why they burn out.”

“Maybe. But there’s no other way to get it done. Work a forty-hour week and you fall two years behind. Ask IBM.” He sat forward, as if about to rise. “Sorry, but I really have to …”

I interrupted him. “Just one more favor. May I speak with Andy Chen? If I remember right, he worked closely with Gene.”

Copley snorted and shook his head. “Dr. Neruda, I really can’t have you wandering the halls.”

“It’s almost lunchtime. If he’s free, I could buy him …”

Copley cut me off, “I doubt Andy eats lunch. He’s project director and he’s got a brutal deadline.”

“This is my last request. My final imposition. I’m grateful for your patience. You’ve been very helpful, just as Edgar said you would be. Talking to Andy Chen would wrap it up.”

His reaction to my cornering him was interesting. He smiled. Just as Halley had seemed pleased when I guessed correctly that she and Stick were going to consult later about our dinner, he took defeat (albeit a minor one) not only with surprising grace, but with amusement. The lines of his gaunt face multiplied as his smile widened and he did something that was just lovely. He winked at me. “Okay, Doc, you win. Would you wait outside while I check with Andy? Believe it or not, I can’t order him to have lunch with you today. He has a crazy idea his job is to build machines for me, not have lunch with VIPs.” He pressed the button on his black floor. I heard the whoosh of the door opening for me to leave.

Rejoining Laura in her office, I got a good look at her phone as she asked me, “Would you like something to drink while he talks to Andy?” Copley hadn’t said a word to her, but I understood the mystery of their clairvoyance by now. In addition to the LCD display, there was a small keyboard to type messages to send to the other phone. I said no thanks to the drink and complimented her, using Copley’s nickname. “Stick told me you were the best assistant in the world and now I know your secret. It’s that amazing phone.”

Her tone was skeptical, “He said I was the best?” But she flushed with pleasure. I nodded. She touched her phone. “Well, you’re right, this is my secret. It’s great, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Stick said you can tell him who’s on and he can tell you what to say while he keeps talking to someone else.”

She glanced at the massive door, although it was shut, before saying softly, “Exactly. It does a lot of amazing things. You know, someone here invented it, but we decided not to market it ourselves.”

“Oh. So it’s available to the public?”

“Not really.” Again, she glanced at the door and spoke in a half-whisper, “They made a stupid, simple version. This is our prototype, the only one in existence. I’m terrified it’s going to break.”

“But you’ve got two buildings full of repairmen.”

“The man who designed it doesn’t work here anymore. And with these nutty guys, you give them something to fix and who knows? It could come back as a blender.” Her magic phone chirped. She answered. She said, “Hold on, please,” as she pressed keys — they made no sound, not even a faint clack — with astonishing rapidity. Hardly a moment passed before she told the caller, “Mr. Copley won’t be able to speak to you until tomorrow. But he’s read your memo and he’s interested. Okay? Great. I’ll tell him.” She hung up and pointed to a cabinet beside her computer terminal. It housed a printer that whirred softly. “A log of the call, and my notes on what was said, comes out automatically. Saves me hours of work,” she commented as she reached for the sheet of paper. Something on the phone’s display caught her eye. “Mr. Copley wants to talk to you on that phone,” she pointed to a plain extension by the couch. It wasn’t beeping or ringing, but I picked up. Copley spoke without introduction, “Andy said he’s got a half hour. He’ll meet you on the basketball court. That’s behind the main building. Laura’ll tell you how to get there.”

“Thank you. And when should I call to give you a report?” I asked.

That earned me a moment of silence. “A report?”

“Well,” I lowered my voice, although it wasn’t quiet enough to prevent Laura from overhearing. “I assume you’re interested in knowing what Andy tells me. I owe you that much for all your help.”

There was another silence before he conceded, “I would be interested. I may be out by the time you’re done. Why don’t you call from reception and Laura will figure it out?”

Following Laura’s directions, I took the mirrored elevator down to the lobby, walked around it to unmarked double doors and stepped into the backyard of Minotaur. There was a halfhearted attempt at a garden amounting to four wood benches arranged around an abstract black metal sculpture. The bushes were scraggly. No flowers were in bloom. A path led away to the right, turning behind one of the beige concrete lab buildings. Making the turn, I came upon a basketball hoop attached to the back wall. It was the sole recreational structure. The path did continue toward the pond, as if it might be used for running, but there was something improvised and tired about the basketball hoop, as if it were attached to a suburban home to amuse the kids years ago, and they were now grown and gone away.

I found Andy Chen there, in dungarees and sneakers, his shirt off, wearing big round glasses with gold-colored frames. He stood to the right of the basket, taking twelve-foot jump shots. He missed one as I approached, gathered the ball, and missed another. He noticed me as he caught the rebound.

“Hi,” he said. He was nearly six feet tall and painfully skinny. His chest was a boy’s, hairless and flat. His large oval face needed his frail neck and skinny body to fill out to be proportionate. “You’re Dr. Neruda?”

We shook hands. “Thanks for seeing me.”

“No problem.” At most, he was twenty-four years old. His voice was high and sweet, as if puberty still awaited him. “Okay if I keep shooting?”

“Sure. I’ll rebound.”

“Pessimist,” he commented and took another shot.

The ball bounced way off the rim to the left and I had to trot to fetch it. I passed it to him. I introduced myself briefly, explaining I had been Gene’s shrink, that I hadn’t seen him for the last year — my usual version. He listened while concentrating on his shooting. He missed each time, often coming close, and always reacted calmly. Even when the ball spun all round the inner lip of the rim and popped out, he showed no frustration.