The Green Progression

by L. E. Modesitt Jr

  “She loves it. She went down there for a weekend and came back raving. I think she’s really going to thrive down there. In a way, that brings me to my reason for calling. I’d like to invite you to lunch. In fact, I have a surprise for you.”

  “Really? What?”

  “I can’t tell you, or it wouldn’t be a surprise. Actually, it’s from Keri, not me. She was going to mail it, but we thought you should get it in person. So I’m sort of her stand-in.”

  “What are the chances she bakes French cheesecake?”

  “Not good, I’m afraid. But I’ll be glad to make one.” There was a low laugh.

  “I was kidding. I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “Baking is no trouble at all. I need something to take my mind off work when I get home. Keri—dear daughter as she is—is not exactly around that much. You know, the Hotel Saliers routine? That’s what happens when they get to be high school seniors. And you can only think about pesticides for so long. When would you be free for lunch?”

  “Let me check.” The executive thumbed through the appointment book on the desk, again losing the pencil, which dropped onto the heavy carpet. “I have appointments tomorrow and Wednesday and a big meeting on Thursday. Next week I’m going to be on the road. How about this Friday?”

  “Friday would be fine. Could we make it a little on the late side? I have a staff meeting in the morning, and they tend to drone on.”

  “How about one? Or is that too late?”

  “One would be perfect. I’ll see you then.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Take care.”

  Corellian replaced the handset and looked down at the tablet. The first sheet had Esther’s name on top and was followed by almost a full page of small light gray block letters. He tore the sheet off and slowly fed it into the wastebasket-sized paper shredder in the corner of his office.

  The cheesecake had been good. That he had to admit.

  69

  McDARVID LOOKED AT THE GLASS DOORS on the Ninth Street side of the Convention Center—stretching down the block. He tried a door at random.

  Once inside, his eyes flickered over to the long lines in front of the registration signs spaced at not quite regular intervals. Having Jonnie’s badge was definitely a good idea. He paused and removed the plastic oblong from his pocket, placed it in the clear-plastic holder, and affixed badge and holder as evenly as he could on the breast pocket of his older blue pinstripe. It was probably crooked. Certainly, had he been home, either Allyson or Elizabeth would have informed him of his lack of symmetry.

  After walking under the banner proclaiming “Welcome to the FOSE Interconnectivity and Applications Exhibition,” McDarvid looked around for several seconds, then, as he stepped on the escalator, glanced up to see a sign pointing toward the escalator on which he stood. On the next level, a line of tables awaited him, on which were stacked exhibition guides and assorted promotional materials.

  McDarvid stepped through the wide doorway onto the main floor of the Convention Center, stopped, and took a deep breath before confronting the aisles and aisles of computer displays and banners.

  He extracted the folded map of the exposition from his pocket, tracking down the list of exhibitors until he located “Lao Systems, Booth 1620.”

  Where was he? McDarvid glanced around, then back at the map. Despite his years of Navy flying, and his familiarity with assorted maps and charts, he still found the damned convention map confusing.

  Finally, after checking the nearest exhibitor, Apple—that name he did recognize—and finding it on the convention map, he located Lao—seemingly as far into the center of the endless booths as possible. He began to stroll down the closest aisle, looking and listening as he walked.

  “… told the boss we needed a multiprocessor network server…”

  “… nothing more than a bunch of linked PCs…”

  “If you need cross-platform connectivity…”

  McDarvid forced a bored smile as he paused to study a display which featured a computer-controlled color copier. To think he was having enough trouble with one small computer in his study.

  The Lao booth was staffed with five or six men and women in pale turquoise coats and dark blue ties surrounded by a dozen or so customers—or at least interested individuals—flocking around a demonstration.

  McDarvid looked for something resembling the TEMPESTed equipment that Jonnie had mentioned, but only saw one small display, freestanding and unattended, which noted: “For zero emissions under all conditions, the Lao Systems SC-486.”

  He stepped up to the pedestal and picked up a brochure, trying to ignore the representative heading in his direction by continuing past the pedestal toward a circular container.

  THE LAO FOUNDATION

  Helping Provide the Best for the Best Contributions are tax-deductible

  Several plain cards printed in black upon thin but smooth white stock rested by the container. McDarvid picked up one and began to read, skimming the words quickly: “501 C(3) Foundation … dedicated to providing merit scholarships to outstanding students of middle-class backgrounds … allowing them a collegiate freedom of choice…”

  He nodded as he recalled the same words from the poster at DEP. Elizabeth could certainly benefit from something like the Lao Foundation. Then he stopped, swallowed, and pocketed the card.

  “Might I help you…”—the Lao employee smiled as he strained to read the badge—“Mr. Black? I see you’re interested in TEMPEST equipment.”

  “Ah…” McDarvid stuttered. Mr. Black? Then he remembered that the badge carried Jonnie’s name. “Actually, I was interested in the Lao Foundation. I’d seen an announcement or two, but never realized…”

  “Yes, that’s a relatively new endeavor. The Corporate Responsibility department helps with their fund-raising. It doesn’t have much to do with marketing, but Mr. Corellian insists that we get a fair amount of publicity and even some contributions from the shows.” The young man shrugged, then smiled. “I’m Allan DiTellio, organizational marketing. What sort of system are you looking for?”

  “I’m not really sure,” McDarvid admitted, trying to digest the confirmation of the link between Andy Corellian and the Lao Foundation.

  “What platform are you using?”

  “The secretaries use PCs,” McDarvid said slowly. “Some of the attorneys have their own machines, generally the younger ones.”

  “Oh, you’re with a law firm, then?”

  McDarvid smiled faintly, hoping to get away from the man. “You said that the Lao Foundation was a new effort. What can you tell me about it?”

  “Really not much more than the cards say. That’s mostly handled by Corporate Responsibility out of the Washington office. Going for funding at the shows was Andy’s idea. He insists it works, but we’re not really equipped to answer detailed questions. That’s why we insisted he leave the cards there.” The young man nodded. “What applications are you running?”

  “Standard stuff. I was just looking to get an idea of the possibilities for upgrading. We haven’t determined our connectivity needs yet.”

  “I can understand that.” DiTellio smiled broadly. “I’ll tell you what. Let me have your pass there—it’s made for a handy-dandy imprint—and I’ll send you the full informational package designed for midsize firms.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Oh, it’s really no trouble at all. It really isn’t. I mean, that’s what we’re here for—to make sure you get the information you need.”

  McDarvid surrendered the badge reluctantly, realizing belatedly that the follow-up information would go to Jonnie.

  He glanced back at the SC-486, unattended and unnoticed, wondering why no one paid any attention to a product that Jonnie had assured him was one of the few unique products offered by Lao. He also wondered about the donation container for the Lao Foundation. He frowned as DiTellio returned the badge.

  “It should just be a week or so, Mr.
Black.”

  “No problem,” answered the preoccupied McDarvid. “No problem.” He wandered back down the aisle, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

  70

  “IS MR. BLACK IN? He’s expecting me.” The woman in gray smiled. The ash-gray dress, although modest, revealed a hint of well-shaped calf. The high-cut neckline scarcely concealed the elegant form underneath the soft fabric.

  “May I please have your name?” The magnolias of Mississippi drenched the gentle voice of the young receptionist.

  “Veronica Lakas.”

  “Let me see. Mr. Black—I know he’s here somewhere.”

  Veronica added, “He’s not an attorney.”

  “Not an attorney, ma’am? And I thought you were looking for a lawyer. Now you hang on a moment.” The receptionist smiled and picked up a second photocopied personnel list. “Jonathon Black? Here he is. You sit down over there, and I’ll ring him.”

  “Miss Lakas?”

  Veronica turned her head at the unexpected male voice. The flow of auburn hair revealed a small freshwater-pearl earring. She looked at the graying man in the three-piece blue pinstripe polywool suit. Not an attorney. His clothes weren’t excessively expensive, and he looked neither dim-witted nor conniving.

  “I’m Jack McDarvid. I work with Jonnie. He’s in a meeting, but should be out soon.”

  Veronica smiled, looked down for a second, and shook her head slightly. So much for catching Jonnie unaware.

  “He’s not answering his phone, ma’am. Should I page him?”

  “No. I’ll just wait a bit. Thank you.”

  “Would you prefer to wait in my office? It’s not as spacious as this, but…” McDarvid waved his hand at the reception area professionally appointed in Upscale Lawyer Modern.

  “Thank you. That would be lovely.”

  “Can I get you some coffee? Or tea or soda?”

  “Oh, no, thank you. I’m fine.” She followed him past several doors, all closed.

  “Here we are.”

  Veronica sat down and looked at McDarvid over the neat, almost clean-topped desk. “Jonnie’s mentioned you.”

  “He’s also mentioned you.” McDarvid smiled politely. “I understand you work for an environmental group.”

  “I do some policy work for Ecology Now! The issues probably aren’t all that different from what you do. Except our perspective may be a bit different.”

  “Probably.” McDarvid nodded. “Although I’m sure we share the same goals.”

  Veronica raised her eyebrows.

  “A healthy environment.”

  “And a healthy economy?” Veronica grinned.

  “We can’t have a healthy environment without a good economy. Just look at East Europe, Mexico, Brazil, or any other third-world country.”

  “Now you sound like Jonnie.”

  McDarvid gave a half-smile. “We’ve worked together for a while.”

  “Well, this is a surprise.” Jonnie stood in the open door.

  “How did you know I was here? Let alone where I’d wait?” Veronica stood and turned toward the younger consultant.

  Jonnie just grinned.

  Veronica turned back as she stood. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. McDarvid.” She extended her hand across the desk.

  “My pleasure.” McDarvid stood, nodded, and returned the firm dry handshake. He remained standing as the couple left.

  “Ready to go?” asked Jonnie.

  “I’ve been ready since I got here,” Veronica answered with an amused smile. “But I’d hoped for a little more surprise.”

  “I am surprised. But what can I say?” Jonnie stopped by the closet next to the reception area and pulled out his coat, slipping into it quickly.

  After a moment, he extracted Veronica’s powder-blue down coat. “This is good enough for the South Pole. Are you sure you’ll be warm enough?”

  “I like to be warm.”

  Jonnie grinned as the two stepped through the glass double doors and up to the elevators. “So … did Jack keep you entertained?” He pressed the “down” button.

  “He offered me coffee.”

  “What do you think of him?”

  “He’s probably pretty bright. He’s very pleasant.”

  “Everyone needs a good cover.”

  “I wondered about that. He seems so … bland. Not your type at all. I mean, to work with.”

  The elevator arrived. Two men in dark wool coats and carrying briefcases stood in the rear of the wood-paneled enclosure.

  “No, he is genuinely nice. That’s why it’s such a great cover,” Jonnie added as they entered the elevator.

  Veronica looked at the two lawyers. Neither returned her look. She glanced at Jonnie. “You remember what I told you? About your being elliptical?”

  “Jack’s exactly what he seems to be, a generally mild, pleasant guy who loves his wife and is devoted to his kids. It’s just that none of that has anything to do with anything else.”

  Jonnie stopped talking as the elevator door opened, waiting to resume the conversation until they were out of the building. Once on Nineteenth Street, he continued. “The good thing about Jack, or the scary thing, depending on your perspective, is that when he wants to accomplish something, he will. If something gets him started, there’s no stopping him. He also has a feel for things—call it intuition—that you don’t find often. Show him the starting line, give him a few hints on which way to go, and he has the smarts and skills and luck to reach the finish. He’s also likely to destroy the course in the process, at least the parts that get in his way.”

  “So what’s your perspective on him? Good or scary?”

  “Useful.” Jonnie shrugged. “I’m glad he’s on my side or I’m on his.”

  “Are you sure that you two are on the same side?”

  “Yeah. Most of the time.”

  They continued up Nineteenth Street toward the Dupont Circle Metro station. Jonnie ignored the plaintive music from two buskers as they stepped onto the long escalator into the station. After playing sardines all the way to Metro Center, changing to the blue line train, and playing sardines once more, they emerged from the Rosslyn Metro station.

  “That’s the drawback of taking the Metro,” observed Jonnie. “You get a particular brand of air pollution.”

  “Sometimes, I think you don’t like people as much as you say you do.”

  “I do like people,” protested Jonnie. “But not in toxic doses.”

  “Hmmmm…” was all Veronica said.

  They covered the remaining three blocks—footsteps lost in the noise of traffic and empty office buildings—to his apartment building.

  “You’re really going to prepare dinner? Yourself?” Veronica gave a slight shiver under the powder-blue down coat as she stepped into the lobby.

  “Sure. Although I did take the liberty of preparing most of it in advance last night. It wasn’t as hard as I thought. I just got the Campbell Soup Cookbook and followed the directions.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I found out you can do some really amazing things with chicken noodle soup.”

  “If you really didn’t want to cook, there were better ways of making your point.”

  “Give dinner a try. It may surprise you. You’ll never believe it’s all based on tinned soup.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it isn’t.”

  She gave him an almost playful sock in the arm before entering the empty elevator.

  Once inside the apartment, Jonnie took the down coat and hung it up before removing his own dark green Harris Tweed overcoat.

  “I see you haven’t redecorated.”

  “You don’t like Early Basement?”

  Veronica gave a slight chuckle as she sat in one of the two big green plaid chairs. Facing the chairs were two large speakers almost completely covered in black fabric on either side of a black metal stereo rack. The speakers rested on short three-legged black metal stands. On the fa
r side of each speaker was a large crate filled with records. The walls were bare except for several unframed moody black-and-white pictures of Chesapeake Bay.

  “I shouldn’t complain, given what my place looks like.”

  “I like your place. It’s comfortable. Of course, the extraordinary nature of the prime occupant doesn’t hurt.”

  Veronica looked past Jonnie and focused on the picture of the Thomas Point lighthouse at dusk.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” asked Jonnie. “Tea, coffee, soda, champagne, scotch, bourbon, gin, or—”

  “What do you have in the way of water?”

  “Sparkling or still?”

  “Still.”

  “I have some very fine Green Spring water. I get it at the local co-op.”

  “You shop at a co-op?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s interesting.”

  “You don’t trust the local water supply?”

  “The local water is safe enough. It’s not so much a lack of trust as the fact that I don’t like all that water with my chlorine. Call it an aesthetic decision.” Jonnie walked past the chipped veneer of the circular dining table and into the separate kitchen. He returned and handed her an off-green glass before disappearing back into the kitchen.

  “Look around while I finish up in here,” he called back.

  Veronica got up and walked over to the low bookcase against the wall, where she began to read the titles. “You don’t have many books,” she observed after several minutes.

  “No. I like to pass on books when I’m finished with them. Literature is like money. It should circulate. I usually only keep books I haven’t read, intend to reread, or got as gifts.”

  “Let’s see what you’ve got here. Charles McCarry, The Last Supper, The Hammer of Darkness, a new copy of Metamorphosis, an old edition of The Oxford Book of English Verse.”

  “That’s one of my favorites—the most important book in the English language.”

  “You really believe that?” Veronica leafed through the thick volume.

  As he returned to the living room, Jonnie nodded. “No other single volume contains a better, more complete distillation of the best of English-speaking culture. Do you like poetry?”