by Emma Lathen
“What about Miss Webb and Hodiak?”
The young Pakistani’s reply was tinged with contempt.
“I guess they just do as they’re told.”
Thatcher reminded himself that Ali Khan was not part of day-to-day life at Lackawanna. For the most part he ran his own show, far from the center of power.
“At least I didn’t get shortchanged,” Khan said, confirming Thatcher’s impression. “It’s my robotics that they want, and I did give the presentation.”
This analysis, of course, omitted Lackawanna’s role entirely. But from Ali’s point of view, it was the higher realism, as he went on to demonstrate.
“I may not know much about business, but I do know that now they’ve seen what’s available, they’ll find some way to buy MR’s technology.” Then Ali remembered recent events. “I still don’t understand why they threw us out. By the time I got up this morning, Carl was so busy fighting with your embassy people, he had no time to answer questions.”
Thatcher could well believe that Kruger was not a source of rational information. Nonetheless some driblets must have percolated through the exchange of hostilities. “Surely you heard about the letter in Mr. Ushiba’s files?” he asked.
“The police found something about a bribe at MITI, didn’t they? But why pick on Lackawanna?”
Thatcher explained the legacy of the Recruit scandal.
“Even if some of their people have been taking payoffs, that still doesn’t mean we’re the villains,” Ali said impatiently. “Shima has the most to lose, doesn’t it? According to Carl, he was going to take a big slice of their business.”
“Perhaps. But the last thing the government wants is a highly publicized bribe to MITI by any Japanese company. That could destabilize the entire political situation. If they can blame this all on a foreigner, it makes things much easier for them.”
Ali Khan was beginning to understand. “Now I see. Carl thinks that once they get rid of him, he won’t stand a chance.”
“Exactly. But the only way he could mount a real fight was with the backing of the American government. And they’re not intervening in a criminal case.”
Khan frowned, digesting the scope of interests involved. “Then who do the Japanese really think murdered that clerk?”
“I doubt if they care very much at this stage. But certainly, if Kruger is accepted as the briber, the implication will be that Lackawanna was trying to prevent exposure.”
Satisfied, the Pakistani nodded. “No wonder Carl was wild. This morning it seemed crazy to me. If the government wants to throw you out, what’s the point of staying?”
“Very true. Actually Kruger is in a cleft stick now that he’s a source of embarrassment. It remains to be seen whether his ouster will serve the government’s purpose.”
“Well, if he’s out of the country and the embassy is lying low, it has to, doesn’t it?”
Thatcher was sorry to have to add further complexity.
“Not necessarily. The reason for the haste was that there still hasn’t been any publicity. But once the opposition smells bribery, there will be howls for a complete investigation.”
“Good God!” Khan exclaimed. “Carrying out research is straightforward compared to all this. You just do your work and hope you come up with something.”
This might be the ideal path of scientific inquiry. In view of headlines about fraudulent experimental results, Thatcher did not believe that scientists were immune to more sordid motivations. When he said as much, Khan was swift to make a distinction.
“They’re the ones who joined the rat race. They’re either working for a company or fighting for academic promotion. They have to produce results, and some of them don’t care how they do it. I will say this for Carl. When he bought MR, he didn’t understand beans about my research, but he did realize that it takes time.”
“Well, your research has certainly been successful,” Thatcher said agreeably.
The compliment was scarcely necessary.
“I always knew it would be, although I didn’t realize how far I’d have to carry it. According to Lackawanna, there wasn’t anything to sell until there were functioning robots. But at least that avoids the question of faked research. Anybody who wants can come in and see the bloody things work.” Suddenly he smiled shyly. “I don’t really feel that way about them. In fact, whenever we have a demonstration, I feel like Thomas Edison showing off his gramophone.”
Thatcher could well believe it. The thrill of accomplishment always benefits from public recognition.
“And working out practical applications doesn’t bother you?” he asked, aware that this process was anathema to some theoreticians.
“That’s where the money is.” A gleam of amusement lit the dark eyes. “I do understand that much about business. Besides, it’s interesting. I like finding out about new things.”
This enjoyment was not limited to the world of industrial applications. When the pilot announced their imminent arrival at Anchorage International Airport, Ali turned his attention to their destination.
“I want to see as much as I can. Do you know how long it takes to get to their zoo?”
Thatcher did not, but the stewardess did. She explained about the free people movers servicing downtown Anchorage and some of its outlying attractions.
“Good,” Ali said, nodding. “That will give me a couple of hours there and time for lunch.”
In the face of these plans, Thatcher drew a conclusion.
“You mean they wouldn’t even let you wait for a through flight?”
“I didn’t bother to ask,” Ali replied. “With the Japanese creating, I wasn’t going to be left alone there. Carl can get his ambassador by snapping his fingers when things get dicey. I doubt if mine has even heard what’s going on.”
“Good to see you, John,” said the current Ridgeway that afternoon when Thatcher presented himself at Ridgeway, Ridgeway & Hall. “They fix you up all right over at the hotel?”
“They’ve given me a spectacular view,” Thatcher said politely.
Len Ridgeway knew all about the Chugiak Inn; he had built it.
“We’re going to have some time alone,” Ridgeway announced with satisfaction. “Iwamoto called to say that he and his boys will be taking a later flight. In fact, they’ll come to dinner at my place directly from the airport.”
It was not hard to guess how Noriko Iwamoto was spending the day. Huddled with his supporters, he was no doubt driving the final nails into Carl Kruger’s coffin.
“Tell me about him,” Ridgeway concluded.
“From your point of view, he’s ideal. He’s very eager to get into production as rapidly as possible.”
“Yes. In fact, he’s so gung ho, I wonder why Shima didn’t consider going it alone.”
“There are two good reasons,” Thatcher began. “First of all, starting from scratch is more time-consuming for the Japanese than for us. Secondly, they’re sensitive about all-Japanese undertakings abroad. They can avoid resentment by taking a local partner.”
Ridgeway still wanted more.
“And what kind of a guy is he?”
Given Iwamoto’s chameleon characteristics, Thatcher found this a difficult question. Len Ridgeway would probably never see the Iwamoto who had been losing points to Pamela Webb or the one nervously jerking his way through the aftermath of Mr. Ushiba’s murder. Even the good-time Rick who stage-managed golf games might never appear in Anchorage.
“I think you’ll find Iwamoto easy to deal with,” he said cautiously. “He’s very Americanized and, at the same time, a member of the Japanese establishment. Of course I’ve only seen him in Japan. He may well be different here.”
He was. From the moment that he arrived at Len Ridgeway’s front door, Noriko Iwamoto was determined to please. Leaving his hapless aides to fend for themselves, he began working the crowd as if he were running for state office in Alaska.
As Thatcher moved through the cocktail hour, he overhe
ard Iwamoto claiming a deep interest in the Native Peoples Rights Association, then expressing the intention to start a collection of Alaskan artifacts, and finally regretting the fact that he was not privileged to live the frontier life. All this could be credited to the desire to make a good impression. Thatcher, however, suspected a welling ebullience that had to be vented . . . which gave him a fair notion of current thinking in Tokyo.
Not surprisingly Iwamoto was the hit of the evening.
“If you ask me, one reason for the Japanese success is that they believe in facing facts,” said a burly lawyer to Thatcher. “Take this Iwamoto, he understands that we’re sitting on top of a lot of potential here in Alaska and the way to go is forward. You don’t have to tell him that we’re coming up on the twenty-first century.”
The baleful look he directed at a group near the bar prepared Thatcher for the views of his neighbor at the dinner table. She was the publisher of a newspaper with a long track record opposing unregulated development.
“It was a relief to hear Mr. Iwamoto’s views,”she said approvingly. “The Japanese are way ahead of us in understanding that you have to study the consequences of a project beforehand and in relation to an overall plan. God knows we’ve seen the havoc that uncontrolled expansion can cause. But some people act as if they’re back in the gold rush days.”
Her glance down the table could have peeled varnish.
If Iwamoto pursued his course of universal accommodation, Thatcher reflected, he might never be able to set foot in Anchorage again.
But Len Ridgeway had no complaints. When he cornered Thatcher after dinner, he was beaming.
“It’s going great, isn’t it? And Rick is the kind of guy it’s a pleasure to do business with. He tells me he’s really excited about our field trip tomorrow.”
Thatcher had no intention of discussing the reasons for Iwamoto’s well-being or explaining that a visit to the Anchorage dump would evoke the same enthusiasm. Instead he raised a question of his own.
“Several of your guests told me that they’ve been active opponents of the pipeline and similar developments. How have you managed to line them all up?”
This earned him a brisk lecture. When times are tough, people lose interest in saving the moose, Ridgeway declaimed.
“Of course new jobs would be desirable,” Thatcher said. “Still I would have expected someone to be protesting.”
Ridgeway first looked around for enemy ears, then lowered his voice. “These days the environmentalists are so busy being anti-oil, they don’t have time for anything else. Besides, RR&H is Alaskan, which makes a big difference.”
Thatcher could well see how it might. After Exxon, anything that did not sound like the casual arrogance of an occupying army would be welcome.
Bethel is five hundred miles from Anchorage. Situated on a broad delta, it is a fishing village, a transportation center, and an administrative hub. Some three thousand hardy inhabitants call it home.
RR&H’s Cessna took one hour and twenty minutes to make the trip, giving Len Ridgeway ample time to relay this information. As the same facts had been pressed on Thatcher for over three months, he concentrated on the breathtaking scenery.
Noriko Iwamoto, however, had still not simmered down. Drinking in every word, he hailed each detail as if it provided him with new and powerful insights. Nonetheless, Thatcher reflected, by yesterday’s standards, Iwamoto’s responses were almost muted.
“. . . soon be touching down at the airport,” droned Ridgeway. “Then we’ll survey the ground.”
The party that clambered aboard utility vehicles a few moments later was gunning for big profits. The giant high-tech pulp mill would be only the beginning. If Ridgeway, Shima, and their cohorts came to terms, Bethel would boast a new long-runway airport, the largest drydock in the world, and dredged channels in all directions.
All numbers mentioned were dizzying.
“. . . fifteen thousand acres north of town.”
“Within four years, the crew level stabilizes at six or seven thousand year round . . .”
“. . . an easy two hundred million tons by year three . . .”
When the caravan returned to downtown Bethel, Thatcher was happy to see that the Sloan was not underwriting the desecration of an Alaska treasure. Bethel could use all the money it could get.
The climate, however, was something to boast about.
“. . . and since we’re on the ocean, the weather is better than it is inland.”
“Sounds great to me,” Iwamoto rejoined.
No one was labeling Bethel a gourmet’s paradise. Lunch had been flown in with the inspection team and was served in the command post. Once they were seated at the groaning board, Rick Iwamoto relinquished his role as the voice of Shima. One of his associates was a structural engineer, the other a hydrologist. As RR&H had contributed a paper chemist and a metallurgist, Thatcher was not the only one to withdraw from the main conversation. Separated from his Japanese partner-to-be, Len Ridgeway relaxed.
“Say, John, Rick tells me you’ve been dealing with Carl Kruger in Tokyo,” he began.
“That’s right,” said Thatcher cautiously, wondering how much Ridgeway knew about the MR debacle.
But Len was thinking along different lines.
“Down in Juneau there’s been a lot of talk about him. Ever since he salvaged Lackawanna, there’ve been guys saying he’d make a great presidential candidate.”
“Yes, that crops up every now and then.”
“I guess it’s happening often enough to start worrying some of the party regulars.” Ridgeway frowned. “I know Jake’s concerned about what would happen to party structure if an outsider blew the primaries open. And I hear that some of the heavyweights in Washington are thinking the same way.”
Thatcher detected an underlying note of perplexity. “You don’t agree?”
“I don’t know. Like I was telling Jake, if we don’t get a real winner on the ticket pretty soon, there won’t be much party to worry about. And you can’t deny that Kruger’s got a lot going for him.”
Thatcher was spared the necessity of replying. Unheard by him, Rick Iwamoto had padded over to their end of the table.
“I can take just so much when the experts get going,” he said lightly.
“Pull up a chair,” Ridgeway invited. “Hey, Ben, can we have some more coffee over here?”
Iwamoto let him bustle, then said, “Did I hear you talking about Carl Kruger?”
Unsuspecting, Ridgeway expanded. “Yep. I was just telling John that some of the local pols are beginning to wonder if he’s got the makings of a serious presidential candidate.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Like it or not, you have to admit his strong points. God, just the exposure on his trip to Japan was worth millions. I hear his PR guy used to be a political hardballer.”
“Bennet Alderman,” Iwamoto provided. “He did several of your senatorial campaigns. Very successfully.”
Thatcher was surprised to hear Iwamoto reveal this much knowledge, but Rick turned to him with a smile.
“Shima is always thorough.”
“So I see,” said Thatcher, refusing to be drawn.
Ignoring this byplay, Ridgeway began to worry a different bone. “Of course Kruger’s got drawbacks too. For one thing, there’s that woman he carts around with him.”
Iwamoto was only too happy to extend the list. “And then he’s run into some hitches in Japan,” he said with considerable tact. “At the very least, he’s stubbed his toe.”
Thatcher’s earlier question was now answered. Ridgeway’s reply made it clear he had still not heard the details.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said judiciously. “Although I’m crossing my fingers when I say this, a lot of business deals fall through. It’s still not a crime.”
“No,” Iwamoto agreed calmly. “It’s still not a crime.”
But Carl Kruger’s political future was not why they were in
&nb
sp; Bethel. Before the last drop of coffee was downed, time came for the nitty-gritty.
“Now about production quotas . . .,” Ridgeway began.
Within ten minutes Thatcher had every reason to congratulate himself on the Sloan’s acumen in arranging this partnership. Ridgeway and Iwamoto shared far more than might have been expected from their surface differences. They were both capable of projecting the full sweep of their ultimate goal while staying on top of the details.
“And housing for the start-up labor force?” Iwamoto asked.
“We’ll ship in kits so as not to waste time,” Ridgeway replied. “They sell them in a big way down on the West Coast.”
“I know. We’ve even got a couple of dealers in Japan planning to import them.”
He sounded almost distracted, as if contemplating a world In which a Toyota car, a Sony television, a Canon computer, would all be adjuncts of a Shima house. But instantly he got back on track in an impressive display of concentration. Nothing existed for him except reaching agreement with RR&H. For over three hours he matched Len Ridgeway’s intensity, then announced himself satisfied.
“It looks good to me,” he said finally, shuffling his notes Into order. “I’ll have my people look at these shipping schedules and insurance costs. I still think we can do better on the transportation, but we’ll be back to you before the week’s out.”
As he rose, Thatcher could almost hear the changing of gears. Rick had done what he had come to do and was now moving on.
By the time that Thatcher shared an airport limousine with Rick Iwamoto the next morning, the calls from Tokyo had been coming thick and fast.
‘Shima’s people are breaking out the champagne,” Gene Fleming had reported.
“And how is Mr. Arai reacting?”
“Who knows? But he’s never wasted his time on lost causes. And my guess is that Kruger’s application is deader than a doornail. If it weren’t for the clerk’s murder, I’d begin to smell a setup. But that isn’t the way they do things here, even by accident.’’
Thatcher thought of other reasons for rejecting Fleming’s theory out of hand. “Without Ushiba dead, Kruger wouldn’t have been thrown out. Nobody could have planned on one without the other.”