East is East

by Emma Lathen

  As he defined the forces arrayed against Shima, Gene Fleming casually scanned the incomprehensible road signs, swung around a cloverleaf suspended over a spanking new satellite town, and sped off in a different direction.

  “And to protect their interests, Shima’s got to wade in and start an all-out fight to upset someone else’s applecart. That sort of confrontational move doesn’t get a lot of sympathy here. The received truth is that they should resolve their differences with Arai behind the scenes. Fat chance! Poor Rick has been put in a position where he’s pressuring a lot of bureaucrats and politicians who won’t thank him for it.”

  “Rick? Is that Noriko Iwamoto? Are you familiar with him?”

  “Oh, Rick and I go way back to the days when Shima started him in their motorcycle division. But don’t be fooled by the nickname. He went to school in the States because his father was stationed there, and he likes to pretend he’s one of the boys to innocent Americans.”

  Clearly today’s meeting was going to be a sharp contrast to Arai’s luncheon, with its formality and its interpreters. Even the pictorials helped, as they discovered when they finally arrived at the course.

  As far as the eye could see there were men who seemed dressed by the same outfitter as Arnold Palmer. Thatcher was under no illusion as to what they were doing here on a work-day. Golf, after all, is a worldwide lubricant. Strangers can spend hours together, and small talk is no problem.

  Noriko Iwamoto—tall, rangy, and at least fifteen years younger than Thatcher expected—took full advantage of the ambience. After vigorously pumping hands and introducing one of his vice-presidents, he launched into a discussion of the clubs awaiting Thatcher, which took them through the pro shop and onto the first tee. The vice-president, who spoke minimal English, was amiable, and Gene Fleming did his bit by describing difficult holes.

  “It’s a good course,” Iwamoto said earnestly, as if he really cared. “The only trouble is that it’s so far away.”

  Thatcher, who knew that today’s game was being stage-managed, was willing to wait upon events.

  “The same thing is happening around New York,” he replied politely, getting on with the round.

  To an outsider the scene would have seemed idyllic. There was a clear blue sky overhead, and the sunshine was tempered by a mild breeze. The greens were in perfect condition, and according to their handicaps, the four men were evenly matched. But Thatcher, who had noticed the smooth, practiced swing of the vice-president, together with the extraordinary pains he required to miss several easy putts, confidently expected developments from him.

  At the third hole the language barrier was allowed to intrude. The vice-president addressed a remark in Japanese to Gene Fleming, and the foursome dissolved into two couples. Even then Iwamoto was in no hurry. Chatting about the Burning Tree Club outside Washington, he continued to take Thatcher’s measure. It was a full half hour—by which time Thatcher was coming to the end of his resources about the different grasses required by Japanese grounds keepers—before the vice-president plopped his ball into the water hazard.

  Instantly Iwamoto brought down the first-act curtain and suggested that he and Thatcher move into the shade while they waited. Confident that the vice-president knew his duty, Thatcher prepared for a lengthy session. It began with their forthcoming trip to Alaska.

  “We’ve been very pleased with the service provided by the Sloan. Len Ridgeway seems like the ideal partner for us, at least on paper. But I’ll be glad to meet him.”

  Thatcher said that while some questions still had to be ironed out, he foresaw no real problem in Anchorage.

  “The sooner we can increase production, the better, as far as Shima is concerned. The demand for pulp here is skyrock eting,” Iwamoto said with an expansive thrust of his hand.

  Thatcher obligingly nudged them forward.

  “There seem to be ten times as many magazines on the stand as during my last visit,” he said.

  “And every single one of them featuring Carl Kruger,” Iwamoto replied tartly.

  “He does tend to grab the limelight.”

  But Rick Iwamoto was simply using Kruger to get to the point.

  “We all realize his technology can be a godsend to the steel industry. There’s no argument against acquiring it. The question is, how?”

  Now they were getting down to it. Thatcher cocked his head receptively.

  “There are alternatives?”

  Iwamoto grinned. “For starters, what’s wrong with old-fashioned money? Kruger could license Yonezawa and charge a hell of a lot. What’s more, that way Kruger would still have the benefit of future advances.”

  “I expect that possibility has been considered.”

  Iwamoto leaned forward persuasively, giving Thatcher a clear view of Fleming and the vice-president trudging off behind a screen of trees.

  “Kruger may have considered it, but have you? I would think the creditors would be happier with a substantial addition to Lackawanna’s income, coupled with the retention of a valuable asset. That way, they’re taking no chances. Kruger’s plans to enter the Japanese market are a gamble at best. He has no familiarity with domestic practices; he’s bound to take a lot of time getting off the ground.”

  It went without saying that Shima’s mighty apparatus would be busy raising a host of obstacles to Kruger’s success.

  “That would certainly have been a major consideration if Kruger did not have Yonezawa’s contacts and distribution system to support his efforts,” Thatcher pointed out.

  “Arai may not be able to deliver as much as he has promised,” Iwamoto warned. “He probably expects the usual resistance from us. But his own proposal is so radical and it affects us so directly that we may be forced into more far-reaching opposition.”

  “Speaking of far-reaching,” Thatcher said mildly, “how do you think your vice-president has managed to get into that sand trap?”

  Iwamoto spared only a perfunctory glance at his subordinate’s predicament before returning to the attack. “I am trying to suggest that you, being on the scene, may want to revise your assessment of Kruger’s plan.”

  Thatcher took a deep breath to deliver the speech he had come to make. By American custom, the creditors were not concerned with the broad picture. If Kruger’s sale of assets did not materially lessen his ability to meet his obligations as due, then the creditors had to yield the right of decisionmaking. And Lackawanna’s current performance effectively reduced Thatcher’s role to one of automatic compliance.

  As the well-rehearsed phrases dropped from Thatcher’s lips, he observed a change in his companion. Until now Iwamoto had been a robust, outgoing person. His voice had been inflected, his face had mirrored one expression after another, his hands and arms had been in constant play. As he listened to Thatcher, he became Japanese. His hands were stilled, his face was a mask, his brief queries were monotonic. The overall impression was not one of placidity but of great nervous energy under restraint.

  “I cannot, of course, propose that you depart from your customs,” he said stiffly.

  Thatcher was prepared to counter any such effort by forcing conversation back to RR&H, but the moment passed. With the best will in the world, the vice-president had been able to manage only a quadruple bogey.

  “Did you see that last putt?” Gene Fleming marveled. “It must have been at least ninety feet. And I could have sworn that Jiro hit it all wrong. It was damn near miraculous.”

  Under the shower of congratulations, Jiro produced a tight smile.

  “Miraculous,” he echoed painfully.

  * * *

  “Well, did we give you enough time on the eighth hole?” Fleming asked when they were finally back in the car.

  “Yes, thank you. Your man seemed to be working hard.”

  “He did everything but hire a dog to steal the ball. And then to have that putt take that crazy break.” Fleming laughed. “I thought he was going to swear when it went in.”

  Thatcher was
reassuring. “Oh, the job was done by then. Theoretically, Iwamoto was trying to promote a creditors’ strike or at least a demand for further review. Actually he was warning me that he is far from through. He feels that Yonezawa is playing so dirty that from now on it’s street fighting with no holds barred.”

  “That’s no way for Rick to talk,” Fleming said disapprovingly. “Maybe he’s beginning to fall for his own act. Because the American clothes and the American slang are just a put-on. Rick thinks by Japanese rules, and it’s a big effort for him to plan anything outside them. Now, with Arai, it’s second nature. He’s been a rogue elephant from the start. People prefer to forget that little fact now that he’s a symbol of national success. He may have been head of the Tokyo Rotarians, but he hasn’t changed a bit. With him, it’s the conservative act that’s the put-on.”

  “In America people would say the same thing about Kruger. I notice you don’t consider him when you’re weighing the odds. You feel he won’t have any impact?”

  Fleming was apologetic. “Well, of course, I don’t know him. For an outsider, he already has had an impact, so I shouldn’t overlook him. I guess I’ve read too many stories about him and his lady companion.”

  Gene could hardly have missed them, Thatcher reflected.

  “It’s hard to know what’s going on there. The simple explanation that she’s his mistress may be correct. On the other hand, given Kruger’s gift for publicity, he may have deliberately made an unusual choice of financial officer as part of the general picture. It has certainly succeeded in capturing the attention of the American media.”

  “And the Japanese,” Fleming retorted. “Everybody here is wildly curious. ‘Is she the power behind the throne?’ ‘Is it true he doesn’t go anywhere without her?’ You know the sort of thing. What’s she really like?”

  Thatcher recalled his impressions of Pamela.

  “Very good-looking, very efficient, very motivated,” he summed up. “I don’t know what the facts are, but the two of them have created a situation that is beneficial for both of them. Offhand, I’d say they have most to gain by keeping everybody guessing.”

  Fleming had not previously considered it from Pamela Webb’s point of view. “What’s she getting out of it, if not a sugar daddy?”

  “She’s a household name with the Fortune 500 at the age of twenty-nine. That’s worth a great deal by itself, let alone the opportunity to create an impressive résumé. What’s more, I’d say she rather enjoys the speculation. She’s quite an open young woman. She doesn’t hide the fact that she’s ambitious.”

  Gene Fleming nodded comprehension.

  “She also doesn’t hide a certain underlying sense of mischief,” Thatcher added.

  This was going too far.

  “Mischief!” said Fleming, appalled. “That’s the last thing we need.”

  Then, for the remainder of their long drive back to the city, he turned his attention to the future of SloanCorp.

  Chapter 6

  Bennet Alderman was sticking with his proven strength as he, too, did his bit for Lackawanna. Having already saturated Japan with Carl Kruger, he had now scheduled Ali for an interview with several technical monthlies. But for these purposes, Ali was still an unknown quantity.

  “You have nothing to worry about, Ali. This won’t be as tricky as Carl’s press conference. It’s just a bunch of people coming here to talk.”

  Ignoring the reassurance, Ali said: “Did you get me the easel with the blackboard?”

  “Listen, I’m not sure a blackboard is such a hot idea, you’re just giving a general talk.”

  “I need a blackboard.”

  Bennet took a deep breath. “Okay, okay. Now, another thing. I don’t suppose anybody will ask you about the business details. If they do, just say frankly you don’t understand.”

  “What’s so bloody difficult about it?” Ali sighed. “Carl wants to sell me to the Japanese.”

  “For God’s sake, don’t say that! Particularly in that tone of voice. We’re all supposed to be enthusiastic.”

  Ali, still in his sweatsuit, was lounging against the doorframe, munching an apple.

  “Not me, he said briefly.

  “But the sale won’t change anything in Birmingham,” Alderman protested. “Are you worried by those TV stories about how they do calisthenics and sing the company song together? That’s only here. When the Japanese take over a foreign company, they’re very tactful. They’re supposed to be a lot better at it than we are.”

  It was impossible to tell whether the speech had any effect. Instead of answering, Ali tossed his apple core into a wastebasket and said:

  “I have to shower and dress.”

  “Just remember, Ali, there’s nothing to be nervous about.”

  “I’m not nervous, Bennet. You are,” Ali countered, disappearing into the bathroom.

  Alderman winced. The actor was supposed to suffer stage fright while the director remained calm. This role reversal was unsettling.

  Half an hour later, Alderman welcomed his guests with professional cordiality and profound misgivings. If anything went wrong, there was no way to retrieve the situation. Carl Kruger at least was adept at trimming his wings in midflight. He could soft-pedal a previous statement, increase his emphasis, or toss out a modest disclaimer—all in response to barely perceptible cues. With Ali, it was foolhardy to expect such control.

  But from the first handshake, Ali took charge. Bennet Alderman had overlooked the obvious. After graduating from the University of Birmingham, Ali had done postgraduate work at Cambridge. For three years he had moved in a circle where the exposition of technical matters was an everyday occurrence.

  Without a shadow of diffidence, Khan explained the practical aspects of his work. “You can see, from these diagrams of the steel process before and after the introduction of MR’s robotics, that there’s been a giant saving in labor costs. But that’s not all. What may not be so obvious is that we’ve reduced the need for a very expensive environment.”

  His audience had been following intently. Now one of them frowned.

  “I don’t understand that.”

  Ali scrubbed his nose thoughtfully as he considered possible simplifications. The resulting chalk mark on his forehead completed the professorial picture.

  “Stop thinking about robots and think about human beings instead,” he directed cheerfully. “Your traditional plant has to protect human respiration, human eyesight, even human skin. And so long as you throw in a robot here and there on a piecemeal basis, you don’t change any of that. But by robotizing a major segment of the production line, you can get rid of those requirements in over half your plant. And that means you’re saving a hell of a lot of pounds, shillings, and pence.”

  Even when somebody strayed from the technical arena to ask about the capital investment required for the changeover, Ali did not miss a beat.

  “You can see from these figures,” he said, “the speed with which you could recover your start-up costs.”

  For Alderman it was a humbling experience. At the end of twenty minutes he had to shake himself mentally. He was not in Japan in order to admire technical advances—or even to understand them. For a variety of reasons it was desirable that Carl Kruger should score an international victory. That was Bennet Alderman’s goal, and he had better remember it.

  Meanwhile Ali was nodding approval to a query from the local equivalent of Scientific American.

  “Sure, there are applications beyond the steel industry.”

  “Electronics? Machine tools? Isn’t that what Yonezawa is after?”

  Ali shrugged. “Offhand, I’d think the older, resource-based industries offer better opportunities. But we’re just in the first generation of our work. God knows where we’ll end up.”

  He achieved the ultimate triumph of the salesman. The final burst of optimism came from his audience.

  “You were great, Ali, just great,” Alderman said the minute he closed the door after the dep
arting visitors. His imagination was fired by the discovery of a new weapon in his armory. “Look, I might be able to get you on some talk show. Or maybe they have a kind of science panel. Do you think you could handle it in twenty-four hours? I’d work overtime with you.”

  Ali was the expert now. “Bennet, I invented MR’s robotics, remember? It’s not something where I have to stay up late and cram. I know more about the subject than anyone else in the world.”

  “I know, I know,” Alderman apologized hastily. “It’s not the subject matter. It’s how you communicate.”

  “You’re talking about transmitting information. People were doing that long before someone invented publicity agents.”

  Chastened, Alderman tried to justify himself. “Of course you can explain it all; I know that now. But with you being reluctant about the Japanese deal, I was afraid it would show.”

  “I wasn’t telling them about any deal. I was describing my work.”

  Alderman dismissed petty distinctions. “If I can just get you some TV exposure, then the big-circulation magazines will want their innings with you. Christ, with luck, I can blanket Japan a second time around.”

  Carl Kruger’s thoughts were ranging further afield.

  When his call to Washington came through, he greeted the familiar voice eagerly.

  “Mike? Glad I caught you.”

  “Any problems, Carl?” the senator from Ohio asked. “From where I sit, it looks as if you’re doing fine.”

  “No complaints so far,” Kruger said buoyantly.

  Mike was envious. “I wish I could say the same. Around here things are pretty grim. In fact, if you pull this off, they’ll want to hang medals on you.”

  “It’s a long way from being in the bag, but I’m happy with the way we’re moving.”

  “Of course you won’t be so popular in this town,” Mike continued reflectively. “Everyone’s going to be on our necks, wanting to know why it’s possible for you to do what Washington can’t.”

  Sometimes Kruger could be a realist.

  “Tell them it’s because I get to pick and choose what I tackle,” he said crisply. “But, Mike, I’d like to keep the ball rolling by giving the brass here something to chew on.”