A lot of people are always bringing her ideas; there's a lot of pressure on her constantly. We've got to strike right away."
"Okay, but overnight—I don't know if I can do it that quick. I have to go back to my lab. . . ."
"Can't you do it here?"
"I need the components. And the tools."
"Gee," said Lori, "we're right next to NYU. Don't you think they'd have the stuff you need?"
"Maybe. But how do I get it? I don't know anybody there."
Lori pressed her lips together and turned to scan the crowded bar. "I hope he's still . . . yes! There he is."
Without another word she slid out of the booth, wormed her way through the crowd at the "meat market" of unattached singles jammed around the bar, and came out towing a wiry-looking man of about thirty-five or forty. He had a slightly puzzled grin on his face.
Sliding onto the booth's other bench, he pushed Carl's bags into a squashed mess. He had a thick mop of reddish hair that looked like a rusty Brillo pad, long lean arms that ended in oversized hands with long fingers that looked almost like talons. He held big mugs brimming with beer, one in each clawlike hand.
"Saves time going for refills," he said in answer to Carl's questioning gaze.
"Carl, this is Ralph Malzone; Ralph, Carl Lewis."
"I heard about your fiasco." Malzone said it jovially, as if he had heard and seen plenty of other fiascos, and even participated in a few of his own.
He released the beer mugs and reached across the table to shake Carl's hand. His grip was strong. And wet. He had a long, lopsided, lantern-jawed grinning face that seemed honest and intelligent. Carl immediately liked him, despite his opening line.
"Ralph is our director of sales," Lori said. "And our resident electronics whiz. Whenever a computer or anything else complicated breaks down, Ralph can fix it for us."
The wiry guy seemed to blush. "Yeah, but from what I hear, your gadget is way out of my league."
"Do you know where I might find a good electronics lab at NYU?" Carl asked.
"Nope. But maybe I could get you into one at my old alma mater. Columbia."
"I didn't know you were a Columbia graduate," Lori said, sounding surprised.
"Electrical engineering, '91," Malzone said amiably. "Then I went back three years ago and got the mandatory MBA. Only way to get promoted."
"How did you get into the publishing business?" Carl wondered aloud. "And sales, at that."
"Long story. You really don't want to hear it." He raised one of the mugs to his lips and drained half of it in a gulp.
"Can you really get Carl into a lab where he can fix his . . . his . . ."
"It's an electro-optical reader," said Carl.
Malzone knocked off the rest of the beer in mug number one and thunked it down on the table. "You're going to have to get a sexier name for the thing, pal. And, yeah, I can get you into the lab. I think. Lemme make a phone call."
He slid out of the booth with the graceful agility of a trained athlete.
Lori glanced at her wristwatch. "I'll have to be going in a few minutes," she said.
"Going? You're not coming along with me?"
"I'd love to, but I can't. I've got my other job to get to."
"Other job?" Carl felt stupid, hearing himself echo her words.
With a sad little smile Lori explained, "You don't think an editor's salary pays for living in New York, do you?"
"I . . ." Carl shrugged and waved his hands feebly.
"All the editors who live in the city have second jobs. It's either that or live in Yonkers or out on the Island someplace. Or New Jersey." She shuddered. "And then you have to get up before dawn and spend half the day traveling to and from your office."
Carl held himself back from replying. But he thought, I'm going to change all that. The electronic book is just the beginning. I'm going to revolutionize the whole business world, all of it. I'm going to put an end to senseless commuting and make the world safe for trees.
"Maryann Quigly weaves baskets and sells them to anybody she sink her hooks into," Lori was
"Okay, but overnight—I don't know if I can do it that quick. I have to go back to my lab. . . ."
"Can't you do it here?"
"I need the components. And the tools."
"Gee," said Lori, "we're right next to NYU. Don't you think they'd have the stuff you need?"
"Maybe. But how do I get it? I don't know anybody there."
Lori pressed her lips together and turned to scan the crowded bar. "I hope he's still . . . yes! There he is."
Without another word she slid out of the booth, wormed her way through the crowd at the "meat market" of unattached singles jammed around the bar, and came out towing a wiry-looking man of about thirty-five or forty. He had a slightly puzzled grin on his face.
Sliding onto the booth's other bench, he pushed Carl's bags into a squashed mess. He had a thick mop of reddish hair that looked like a rusty Brillo pad, long lean arms that ended in oversized hands with long fingers that looked almost like talons. He held big mugs brimming with beer, one in each clawlike hand.
"Saves time going for refills," he said in answer to Carl's questioning gaze.
"Carl, this is Ralph Malzone; Ralph, Carl Lewis."
"I heard about your fiasco." Malzone said it jovially, as if he had heard and seen plenty of other fiascos, and even participated in a few of his own.
He released the beer mugs and reached across the table to shake Carl's hand. His grip was strong. And wet. He had a long, lopsided, lantern-jawed grinning face that seemed honest and intelligent. Carl immediately liked him, despite his opening line.
"Ralph is our director of sales," Lori said. "And our resident electronics whiz. Whenever a computer or anything else complicated breaks down, Ralph can fix it for us."
The wiry guy seemed to blush. "Yeah, but from what I hear, your gadget is way out of my league."
"Do you know where I might find a good electronics lab at NYU?" Carl asked.
"Nope. But maybe I could get you into one at my old alma mater. Columbia."
"I didn't know you were a Columbia graduate," Lori said, sounding surprised.
"Electrical engineering, '91," Malzone said amiably. "Then I went back three years ago and got the mandatory MBA. Only way to get promoted."
"How did you get into the publishing business?" Carl wondered aloud. "And sales, at that."
"Long story. You really don't want to hear it." He raised one of the mugs to his lips and drained half of it in a gulp.
"Can you really get Carl into a lab where he can fix his . . . his . . ."
"It's an electro-optical reader," said Carl.
Malzone knocked off the rest of the beer in mug number one and thunked it down on the table. "You're going to have to get a sexier name for the thing, pal. And, yeah, I can get you into the lab. I think. Lemme make a phone call."
He slid out of the booth with the graceful agility of a trained athlete.
Lori glanced at her wristwatch. "I'll have to be going in a few minutes," she said.
"Going? You're not coming along with me?"
"I'd love to, but I can't. I've got my other job to get to."
"Other job?" Carl felt stupid, hearing himself echo her words.
With a sad little smile Lori explained, "You don't think an editor's salary pays for living in New York, do you?"
"I . . ." Carl shrugged and waved his hands feebly.
"All the editors who live in the city have second jobs. It's either that or live in Yonkers or out on the Island someplace. Or New Jersey." She shuddered. "And then you have to get up before dawn and spend half the day traveling to and from your office."
Carl held himself back from replying. But he thought, I'm going to change all that. The electronic book is just the beginning. I'm going to revolutionize the whole business world, all of it. I'm going to put an end to senseless commuting and make the world safe for trees.
"Maryann Quigly weaves baskets and sells them to anybody she sink her hooks into," Lori was
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