Your Eyelids Are Growing Heavy (6 page)

That advertising campaign was scheduled to begin the following Monday, but all the advertising in the world wouldn't do any good if the product wasn't available when customers started asking for it. Megan checked over the arrangements she'd made for the tenth time, looking for any possible sources of trouble. For every shipment she'd assigned, she'd instructed the computer to list at least three separate contingency plans—in case this airplane developed engine trouble or that trucking line lost its drivers to a strike. She couldn't find a weak spot anywhere. But still she worried.

Lipan was just too important for any of them at Glickman to blow it now.
Everything
had to go right. Not that Glickman was dependent upon Lipan to save the company from financial ruin. Glickman had never had to turn to the government for reimbursement for its own inadequacies, as certain of its competitors had. But
because
they'd been bailed out by the government, those competitors were able to go in for research in a big way as long as somebody else was picking up the tab.

Nevertheless, it was Glickman research that got there first. For years the company had been funding various universities and private laboratories doing work in high-density lipoproteins, and gradually the evidence had come pouring in. An increasingly cholesterol-conscious public was on the verge of being offered a way of controlling the insidious killer that lurked in even innocent-appearing foods like soda crackers (most of which contain coconut oil). Glickman had patented its process—a process that would be challenged in the courts the minute Lipan appeared on the market, of course. But that kind of litigation could be stretched out for years. The odds were better than even that Glickman would eventually lose its monopoly. But by the time that happened, not only would they have made a killing, but also—and perhaps more importantly—the public's Lipan-buying habit would be firmly established. That kind of clean head start came along about as often as an ice age.

Megan owned a few shares of Glickman. Not many, just the fewest number she could legally buy. But even that miniblock had taken all her savings. Yet if Lipan performed as predicted and increased company profits by nearly a third, the value of Megan's shares would go through the ceiling.

Because more was involved than the actual profit realized through sales. At least two of Glickman's financially troubled competitors had put all their eggs in one basket and gambled their futures on being the first to come out with an anti-cholesterol pill. Their losing the gamble meant probable bankruptcy; not even the government could be counted on to go on rewarding incompetence forever. And who else but Glickman would be right there in the front row bidding ten cents on the dollar for the bankrupt companies' diminished assets? Lipan could be the means of a take-over that might well enable Glickman to pass Upjohn, Bristol-Myers, American Cyanamid, Roche, Squibb, all of them. That little lavender tablet had the potential to make Glickman the giant in the pharmaceuticals field.

Megan swallowed nervously and checked her arrangements again.

The other element of suppressed excitement in the Glickman offices was limited to a small group of people and was frankly tinged with
Schadenfreude:
it was always titillating to watch some high-ranking executive fall on his face. The vice president in charge of marketing and distribution was a man named Unruh, and he was in hot water. Not because of his failure to stop Bogert's meddling, but because he'd failed to pull off an important deal in Boston. And Unruh had failed simply because he'd gone into the negotiations inadequately prepared.

A Boston-based pharmaceuticals distributor was in the process of expanding its line; and since Glickman had no New England branch, the opportunity seemed heaven-made. Unruh had gone to Boston to close the deal. He'd had all the financial details down pat; but when the distributor had started asking about stock on hand and Glickman's capability for making emergency deliveries and how the insurance for long-distance hauling was handled, he'd floundered. To question after question Unruh had found himself saying, “I'll have to get back to you on that.” (Executives never say, “I don't know.”) As a result the Boston distributor had had very serious second thoughts, and Unruh had come back to Pittsburgh without the contract.

Which was dumb
, Megan thought. Every one of the details the Boston distributor had asked for was right there in the Glickman computer. All Unruh had had to do was pick up a phone and call Megan; she could have gotten everything he needed in a matter of hours.

But that wasn't Unruh's way. To him, asking for so much additional information would have been an admission that he hadn't done his homework. So instead he'd chosen to try to bluff it out, to protect himself at the expense of the company's best interests. It hadn't worked. There were Unruhs in every corporation, people who were quite willing to let the company take a bath rather than stick their own necks out. Glickman's vice president in charge of marketing and distribution had been Peter Principled beyond his capabilities; as a result, most of his energy was directed toward protecting his position instead of working for the good of the company.

Sometimes Megan thought Unruh just wasn't very bright. He'd overlook the most obvious things, and he was slow at making connections. He didn't really understand how the computer could be used to best advantage and he'd made no effort to learn. Unruh had a smooth and affable manner, though; he functioned well in an old-boys atmosphere. He'd built up a lot of good will for Glickman, and good will preceded good contracts. But as a practical, working executive, Unruh left a lot to be desired.

Unruh's secretary had made the trip to Boston with him, and from her Megan was able to find out exactly what it was the distributor had wanted to know. She'd called up the information from the computer and formally made an appointment to speak to the president.

Mr. Ziegler made her wait two days; he was up to his ears in work. But at last she went in with a stack of printouts under her arm and asked him straight out about the Boston distributor. “Have they closed the door? Or is there still a chance of getting the contract?”

“The door's still open. A crack.” Mr. Ziegler wasn't smiling. “I'm afraid we didn't make too good an impression.”

“But providing them with the information they asked for would open the door a little wider?”

“That's what we're hoping. Mr. Unruh is working on it now.”

Megan didn't understand. “Excuse me—what do you mean, he's ‘working' on it?”

A note of impatience crept into Mr. Ziegler's voice. “I mean he's working on compiling the information, of course.”

Megan placed the printouts on his desk. “Here it is.”

He looked startled. “That can't be all of it.”

Megan pointed to a photocopy clipped to the top printout sheet. “Mr. Unruh's secretary said these were the questions raised in Boston. If that list is complete, then the printout information is complete.”

The president studied the photocopy. “Yes, it's the same list I have. But Unruh told me it would take him at least two weeks to dig up everything they wanted to know.”

Megan waited a moment and then said, “Mr. Ziegler, it took me less than an hour to fill out the instruction sheets for the computer room. Then somebody else spent maybe ten minutes pushing the right buttons. The machine did the rest.” She chose her next words carefully. “I don't think Mr. Unruh always appreciates the capabilities of our computer.” She did not add that the information had been just as available last week as it was this; Mr. Ziegler could figure that out for himself. “I didn't know Mr. Unruh was working on it—I'd have taken these printouts to him if he'd told me,” she half-lied.

“Leave them with me,” the president said shortly.

Megan was dismissed; she left him studying the printout sheets, not even trying to conceal the fact that he was angry.

Back in her office, Megan closed the door and let out the breath she'd been holding. She had no compunctions at all about undercutting the vice president; the man was a bungler and not to be trusted. She hadn't set him up—he'd created the circumstances of his trouble himself. Just as Bogert had done. Everybody made mistakes; that didn't bother Megan. But Unruh's risking the loss of the contract rather than admit he needed help made her see red.

Two hours later Megan was just returning from lunch when the phone rang. It was the president's secretary: Mr. Ziegler would like Ms Phillips to come to his office immediately, please.

He came straight to the point. “I've just talked to Boston,” he said. “Your printout sheets may get us the contract yet. There's just one hitch. I can't go. There's no way I can get away from this desk for at least a week. Somebody else is going to have to take care of it. You're the logical one to follow through.”

Megan's heart gave a leap; this was more than she'd hoped for. She forced herself to calm down and realized Unruh's name hadn't even been mentioned. “I'd love to go,” she said truthfully.

“But there's another hitch. The Lipan shipments start the day after tomorrow, and Lipan's potential is far more important to this company than the Boston contract. What if some of the shipping arrangements break down and you're not here to take care of it?”

Here it was: the sink-or-swim test of Megan's faith in her own work. She took a deep breath and said, “I can't see that there'll be any problem. I have at least three contingency plans for every shipment scheduled, and as many as six for the larger ones. I've been over each one a dozen times. They're solid.”

“They're all in the computer?”

“Yes. If something does go wrong—an airport gets fogged in or the like—the computer will automatically kick through the alternate plan that will cause the least loss of time. I'd meant to keep a close eye on it, of course—but that was mostly for my own satisfaction. The computer can handle it.”

Mr. Ziegler studied her through slitted eyes for a moment—and then nodded once, abruptly. “You leave tomorrow,” he said.

Gus Bilinski wrote in Persian:
We took the rug off the carpet and under it we put our money
. He pushed his book aside. He was worried about Megan.

Gus was seated at a big table in the University of Pittsburgh's determinedly modern Hillman Library, directly under one of the numerous signs listing the phone number of the Rape Crisis Center. The library wasn't crowded; not many girls about. Gus gathered up his books and left. The place depressed him.

Megan seemed healthy enough, and she certainly was in good spirits when she left for Boston. But her second try at hypnosis with that marvelously-named Snooks person hadn't been any more productive than the first. And Megan had had to cancel the third session—because of her last-minute business trip. So they still didn't know what had caused the blackout, or whether it might happen again or not.

He couldn't shake the feeling that there ought to be something he could do. He stood on a corner of Forbes Avenue waiting for a Highland Park bus. If he woke up one morning and found he'd lost thirty-eight hours of his life, he'd probably come down with the screaming meemies. Megan had simply called a cab and gone home.

It wasn't his problem, as Megan had once told him. But it was a puzzle. And Gus had a hard time leaving puzzles alone.

The bus growled up to the corner and stopped with a great hissing of brakes. It was crowded: standing room only during the evening rush hour. Gus grabbed an overhead bar and planted his feet against the ordeal to come. The bus lurched ahead and took the next corner with all the speed the driver could coax out of the engine, slinging the standing passengers around like so many slabs of meat. The man standing next to Gus ended up in a lady's lap, to their mutual distress.

Megan had been lucky that nothing had happened to her during her night in Schenley Park. There had been murders in that park, and even a couple of plane crashes on the golf course itself. The first person who saw her was that groundskeeper—or was he? Gus wondered about that, as a fat man lost his grip and came hurtling into Gus's back. That park was patrolled at night. But if someone had spotted Megan lying there on the golf course, surely he wouldn't have just left her there.

It suddenly became very important to Gus to know whether Schenley Park had its own guards or whether the patrolling was done by the regular police. Let's see, to get to the park he'd have to go back to Oakland where he'd just come from and then take one of the Squirrel Hill busses. Gus started inching his way toward the door.

When at last he managed to get off, he saw a bus on the other side of the street taking on passengers, headed back toward Oakland. Gus dodged his way across Fifth Avenue, drawing one angry horn blast en route.

He climbed aboard and fumbled in his pocket for the fare. The driver had watched him get off the bus heading in the opposite direction and said, “You're sure, now?”

“I'm sure,” Gus said, dropping his money into the box and asking for a transfer.

Thirty bus stops later Gus was at the Schenley Park golf course, and the man in the clubhouse said the park was patrolled by the city police, some of whom were assigned to a special park police detail. Gus asked where the nearest police station was.

The Number Six Station in Squirrel Hill was at the corner of Northumberland and Asbury. Gus explained he wanted to talk to whoever had been on duty in Schenley Park the night of April 29.

“There were a lotta men on duty,” the desk sergeant told him. “That's a big area. We send some men and the Number Four Station in Oakland sends some men, and the permanent park police detail patrols until one
A
.
M
.”

“The golf course, then. Who patrolled the golf course?”

The sergeant squinted one eye at him. “Why do you want to know?”