out that theory and to follow it to its natural consequences — to the exclusion of all else.
“Today, our company has a decision to make. We can’t pretend not to recognize the connections between our animals, our clients and our employees. And we can’t undo any exposure our clients and employees have already had. But we can stop operations as they are now, regroup, relocate and be back in business in a year or two.
“None of us can tell you what the risks are if you stay, financially or healthwise. If we can keep this glitch relatively quiet and out of the hands of the press, and if we can contain the problem over the next few weeks, we all have a chance to make some sizeable bonuses in the short term based on the plan we’ve come up with. Whether the potential reward is worth the potential risk will have to be your decision.”
“What about lawsuits?” Peter was looking visibly shaken. “These clients who have already died —”
“Have no reason or proof to trace back to Triple E. And if their relatives were to try, well, our indemnity clauses got special attention from our lawyers when they were drawn up in the client waivers. And,” Thurman looked pointedly at Peter, “in our employee contracts.”
“How do we stop it?” It was unusual to hear David Margolis, the facilities manager, speak up in a meeting, and just hearing his voice underscored the frightening and foreboding feel this meeting had taken on.
“First,” Thurman said, “we have to destroy the inventory.”
Even the seasoned executives who had been prepared for it had a visceral reaction to hearing it spoken so bluntly.
Thurman pressed on. “Knowledge, not inventory, is our most valuable asset right now. Our supply of frozen zygotes, excepting Sector C animals, is completely unaffected. We can start over with them immediately. There are still plenty of zoos and sanctuaries around the world willing to get rid of older breeding stock at bargain prices. We can get new surrogates and two years from now be hosting hunts again.”
“Not here,” David said with certainty.
“You’re right,” Thurman agreed. “Not here. This compound will have to be closed. Sterilized. Maybe chemically. Maybe just through time. It depends what the genetics department comes back with. In any case, we’ll have to relocate.”
“Where to?”
Thurman could almost see David calculating the time and costs for rebuilding, and knew he had at least one experienced player on board with him. “Canada maybe. But we can move the headquarters wherever we need to.”
“That’s assuming any of us are still alive,” Chloe Glenhaven blurted out. The accounts manager had always worn her heart on her sleeve. “Or has everyone here forgotten we’re likely next in line for a casket — and this bloody company isn’t going to help us, or our families, out.”
“That isn’t helping,” Helen snapped at Chloe, overriding the frightened women by immediately asking Thurman, “How do you intend to ‘destroy the inventory’? That could be tricky on down the road from a PR perspective.”
“Isn’t helping?” Chloe, cheeks reddened, forehead limned with sweat, faced the marketing director. “And what, worrying how the public may feel about a dead elephant is?”
“Look,” Helen tried the reasonable approach to calm Chloe down, “you’re not sick and may not even get sick. We don’t know what other factors may have to be present for people to get whatever this is. Maybe you have to have a weak heart or a certain gene or a birthmark on your hiney. We don’t know. And until we do, there’s no use worrying about it any more today when we know about it than yesterday when we didn’t. For now, we have an obligation to stop it. Preferably without doing irreparable damage to Triple E as a company. Which, by the way, you are a part of. There isn’t any other person or entity going to step in and
“Today, our company has a decision to make. We can’t pretend not to recognize the connections between our animals, our clients and our employees. And we can’t undo any exposure our clients and employees have already had. But we can stop operations as they are now, regroup, relocate and be back in business in a year or two.
“None of us can tell you what the risks are if you stay, financially or healthwise. If we can keep this glitch relatively quiet and out of the hands of the press, and if we can contain the problem over the next few weeks, we all have a chance to make some sizeable bonuses in the short term based on the plan we’ve come up with. Whether the potential reward is worth the potential risk will have to be your decision.”
“What about lawsuits?” Peter was looking visibly shaken. “These clients who have already died —”
“Have no reason or proof to trace back to Triple E. And if their relatives were to try, well, our indemnity clauses got special attention from our lawyers when they were drawn up in the client waivers. And,” Thurman looked pointedly at Peter, “in our employee contracts.”
“How do we stop it?” It was unusual to hear David Margolis, the facilities manager, speak up in a meeting, and just hearing his voice underscored the frightening and foreboding feel this meeting had taken on.
“First,” Thurman said, “we have to destroy the inventory.”
Even the seasoned executives who had been prepared for it had a visceral reaction to hearing it spoken so bluntly.
Thurman pressed on. “Knowledge, not inventory, is our most valuable asset right now. Our supply of frozen zygotes, excepting Sector C animals, is completely unaffected. We can start over with them immediately. There are still plenty of zoos and sanctuaries around the world willing to get rid of older breeding stock at bargain prices. We can get new surrogates and two years from now be hosting hunts again.”
“Not here,” David said with certainty.
“You’re right,” Thurman agreed. “Not here. This compound will have to be closed. Sterilized. Maybe chemically. Maybe just through time. It depends what the genetics department comes back with. In any case, we’ll have to relocate.”
“Where to?”
Thurman could almost see David calculating the time and costs for rebuilding, and knew he had at least one experienced player on board with him. “Canada maybe. But we can move the headquarters wherever we need to.”
“That’s assuming any of us are still alive,” Chloe Glenhaven blurted out. The accounts manager had always worn her heart on her sleeve. “Or has everyone here forgotten we’re likely next in line for a casket — and this bloody company isn’t going to help us, or our families, out.”
“That isn’t helping,” Helen snapped at Chloe, overriding the frightened women by immediately asking Thurman, “How do you intend to ‘destroy the inventory’? That could be tricky on down the road from a PR perspective.”
“Isn’t helping?” Chloe, cheeks reddened, forehead limned with sweat, faced the marketing director. “And what, worrying how the public may feel about a dead elephant is?”
“Look,” Helen tried the reasonable approach to calm Chloe down, “you’re not sick and may not even get sick. We don’t know what other factors may have to be present for people to get whatever this is. Maybe you have to have a weak heart or a certain gene or a birthmark on your hiney. We don’t know. And until we do, there’s no use worrying about it any more today when we know about it than yesterday when we didn’t. For now, we have an obligation to stop it. Preferably without doing irreparable damage to Triple E as a company. Which, by the way, you are a part of. There isn’t any other person or entity going to step in and
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