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"FBT has never been inclined to enter the consumer products market," Joel said mildly.
Sam dismissed this with a disdainful wave of his hand. "Haven't you been following the Altair 8800?"
"Perhaps you should fill me in."
Sam began pacing in front of the desk, filling the office with his restless energy. Even from her safe perch
at the side of the room, she could feel his intensity. "A year and a half ago, Popular Mechanics ran a
picture on its cover of the Altair 8800, this small computer about half the size of an air conditioner that
can be built from a kit. The only way to get information out of it is by reading a panel of lights flashing
octal code. The machine doesn't have any memory, so it can't do much, and all anybody gets for his
money is a bag of parts that have to be assembled. But within three weeks the company that was
manufacturing it went from near bankruptcy to having $250,000 in the bank."
Joel's eyebrows lifted, but Sam was so wrapped up in his enthusiasm that he didn't notice. "Two hundred
and fifty thousand dollars! They got more orders than they could fill. People were sending money for
add-on equipment that was only in the talking stages. One guy drove all the way to Albuquerque and
lived in a trailer outside the company's offices while he waited for his machine."
"My, my," Joel said, shaking his head. And then he looked thoughtful. "Two hundred and fifty thousand
dollars, you say?"
Sam planted his hands on the edge of Joel's desk, then leaned forward eagerly. "In only three weeks.
There's an incredible market, especially when you consider the fact that the Altair is primitive compared
to what Yank has designed."
Joel gazed down at the motherboard in front of him with admiration. "Yes, I can see that. And how much
are you and Mister is it 'Yankowski'? How much are the two of you asking for this design?"
Sam sat down, hesitating. "We'd want some assurance that FBT would aggressively market the
machine."
"I understand."
"And we'd like to be involved with the process."
"Ah, yes. Heading up the project team, perhaps? Something like that?"
Sam looked a bit surprised, but then he nodded.
"And the price tag?" Joel inquired.
Sam leaned back in his chair and crossed one ankle over his knee. Susannah could almost see him pulling
the number from the top of his head. "Fifty thousand dollars."
"I see." Joel picked up a stainless-steel letter opener. "And how much yearly revenue do you think your
computer could generate for FBT once the product was established?"
"A few million, I'd guess," Sam said cautiously.
"Ah." Joel looked thoughtful. "Could you be more specific?"
"Maybe two and a half million."
"Two and a half million? Are you sure about that number?"
Sam had begun to grow wary. "I haven't done any research, if that's what you mean."
"Could it be less?"
"I suppose."
"More? Perhaps three million?"
"Possibly."
"Two point eight million?"
Sam stared at Joel for a few seconds and then slowly stood. "You're jerking me off, aren't you?"
Susannah made a soft, barely audible gasp and rose from her chair.
"Jerking you off?" Joel looked puzzled, as if he were trying to understand the meaning of the expression.
"Now why would you think that?"
Sam's jaw jutted forward. "Just answer my question."
Joel scoffed. "Why would I be jerking someone off who wants to make this company two million dollars
a year? That's nearly what FBT pays to have its garbage collected."
Sam's complexion turned chalky.
"You don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about, Mr. Gamble. You have no idea of the value
of what you're selling or of its worth to this corporation. It's obvious that you haven't done your
homework, because if you had, you certainly wouldn't be wasting my time with this meeting."
Joel had been toying with a panel of switches set into the top of his desk, and now he began to press
them. Slowly he turned his head to look out the window. Sam followed the direction of his eyes and
watched as the seven columns of water rising from the stone fountains outside began to still, one by one.
Like God, Joel Faulconer could command the forces of the universe. The show of power wasn't lost on
Sam.
As the last column of water disappeared and the lake grew still, Joel resumed speaking. "I have no
interest at all in someone who comes to me with a story about a bankrupt company making a profit of
$250,000. I'm not even interested in a profit of two million dollars. Now if you had said you were going
to make me a hundred million, I might have listened."
"You son of a bitch."
Joel's hand moved and all seven fountains once again sprang to life. "I'm not turning you down because
you're crude and arrogant. I'm not even turning you down because you didn't have the common courtesy
to get a haircut before you came to see me. I'm turning you down because you don't think big enough.
Good day, Mr. Gamble."
For a few seconds Sam didn't move. Then he snatched up the motherboard and began walking toward
the door. Before he got there, however, he stopped and turned back to Joel. "I almost feel sorry for you,
Faulconer. You're even stupider than I thought you'd be." Then he left the office.
The blood had drained from Susannah's face and her skin was ashen. As Joel turned to her, he could
clearly see her distress, but he didn't take pity on her. "I don't care how many favors you owe your
friends. Don't ever impose on me like this again."
"I I didn't mean to impose," she said shakily. "I know he was unforgivably rude, but " Joel's eyes gave
her a look so imperious that she faltered. How could she defend Sam after what he'd said? But her father
had been rude, too deliberately baiting Sam.
"It's just you were rather hard on him," she finished lamely.
"Are you actually defending him?"
"No, I "
He tilted back his head so that he seemed to be looking at her from a great distance, and the acute
hostility in his expression made her feel ill. She'd had the audacity to question her father's authority, and
now she would be punished.
Without saying another word, he punched a button on his intercom. "My daughter is leaving now. Would
you please see her out."
The endless winter of Joel Faulconer's disapproval had begun.
Susannah had watched others endure her father's icy silences, but she had seldom had to endure one
herself and never one of this duration. As the weeks passed and the time for the wedding drew nearer,
Susannah began to feel as if someone had placed a curse on her. Despite her repeated apologies and her
attempts to restore her father's good mood, he remained silent and condemning.
Cal had to be in Europe for several weeks on business, so he wasn't around to act as a buffer, and each
day seemed to bring another last-minute crisis with the wedding arrangements. Twice she picked up the
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