“Why don’t we step into my office and get down to business then,” he suggested. “Allison, please hold my calls.”
Aside from Roberta or Isis, he wasn’t really expecting to hear from anybody, but Seven judged that it was important to present the appearance of a thriving business.
“Sounds good to me,” Offenhouse agreed. He stepped through the interior door into Seven’s personal office. Shrewd brown eyes inspected the room’s furnishings, assessing their worth and state of repair. “Not a bad place you’ve got here,” he conceded eventually. Without waiting for an invitation, he sat down on the couch and waited for Seven to take his place behind the obsidian-and-walnut desk. A translucent green cube sat like a paperweight atop various phony reports and invoices.
“Can I offer you a drink?” Seven asked.
Offenhouse shook his head. “No thanks,” he said, glancing at an expensive Rolex wristwatch. “I’m a busy man, so let’s not waste time with formalities.” He stared across the room at Seven, establishing eye contact. “Like I said on the phone, I saw your ad in that magazine. Are those prices for real?”
Knowing that any project involving large-scale genetic engineering would require quantities of specialized equipment, Seven had placed a prominent ad in a number of popular science and medical trade magazines, offering sophisticated biotech apparatus at discount prices. [44] Most of the inquiries generated by the ad had come from institutions and individuals that checked out as entirely aboveboard and innocuous; those deals he had quietly allowed to fall through, except for a few especially deserving clinics and research projects that he didn’t mind subsidizing indirectly. Offenhouse was different; from their earlier discussions on the phone, Seven had sensed something covert, evasive, and promisingly illicit about the man’s approach.
Subsequent biographical research had revealed that Offenhouse was a self-made entrepreneur with a history of faintly shady dealings. Marketing thalidomide in the Third World, for instance, long after the mutagenic tranquilizer had been discredited in the more advanced industrial nations, and investing in primitive cryogenics projects that sold a dubious promise of prolonged existence to the desperate, the fearful, and the terminally ill. Furthermore, he possessed no known connection to any reputable scientific organizations. Assuming Offenhouse doesn’t want the equipment for himself, Seven wondered, whom is he fronting for?
“The prices are as advertised,” he informed Offenhouse, removing his servo from his coat pocket and fiddling with it as though it were merely an ordinary silver pen. In this manner he instructed the crystalline cube on his desk to record the conversation for future reference and analysis. Later on, after Offenhouse departed, he could then examine his visitor’s voice patterns to determine when and if the pugnacious businessman was telling the truth.
“Is that so?” Offenhouse said. Beneath bushy black eyebrows, dark eyes regarded Seven suspiciously. “What’s your angle, Seven? How can you afford to unload this gear so cheap?”
“Excess inventory,” Seven lied smoothly. “It costs too much to store this quantity of equipment on a long-term basis. In addition, I’d rather sell off the majority of my stock now, before the next generation of technology renders my inventory obsolete.”
Offenhouse appeared only partly appeased by Seven’s explanation. “What about quality?” he demanded. “I’m not going to pay good money for junk. I insist on inspecting the merchandise before payment.”
[45] “Of course,” Seven agreed. “My instruments are all state-of-the-art and in excellent condition, as you can certainly see for yourself upon delivery.”
Offenhouse glanced around the office, as if half-expecting to see a stockpile of electron microscopes or gel electrophoresis units tucked away in a corner of the room.
Aside from Roberta or Isis, he wasn’t really expecting to hear from anybody, but Seven judged that it was important to present the appearance of a thriving business.
“Sounds good to me,” Offenhouse agreed. He stepped through the interior door into Seven’s personal office. Shrewd brown eyes inspected the room’s furnishings, assessing their worth and state of repair. “Not a bad place you’ve got here,” he conceded eventually. Without waiting for an invitation, he sat down on the couch and waited for Seven to take his place behind the obsidian-and-walnut desk. A translucent green cube sat like a paperweight atop various phony reports and invoices.
“Can I offer you a drink?” Seven asked.
Offenhouse shook his head. “No thanks,” he said, glancing at an expensive Rolex wristwatch. “I’m a busy man, so let’s not waste time with formalities.” He stared across the room at Seven, establishing eye contact. “Like I said on the phone, I saw your ad in that magazine. Are those prices for real?”
Knowing that any project involving large-scale genetic engineering would require quantities of specialized equipment, Seven had placed a prominent ad in a number of popular science and medical trade magazines, offering sophisticated biotech apparatus at discount prices. [44] Most of the inquiries generated by the ad had come from institutions and individuals that checked out as entirely aboveboard and innocuous; those deals he had quietly allowed to fall through, except for a few especially deserving clinics and research projects that he didn’t mind subsidizing indirectly. Offenhouse was different; from their earlier discussions on the phone, Seven had sensed something covert, evasive, and promisingly illicit about the man’s approach.
Subsequent biographical research had revealed that Offenhouse was a self-made entrepreneur with a history of faintly shady dealings. Marketing thalidomide in the Third World, for instance, long after the mutagenic tranquilizer had been discredited in the more advanced industrial nations, and investing in primitive cryogenics projects that sold a dubious promise of prolonged existence to the desperate, the fearful, and the terminally ill. Furthermore, he possessed no known connection to any reputable scientific organizations. Assuming Offenhouse doesn’t want the equipment for himself, Seven wondered, whom is he fronting for?
“The prices are as advertised,” he informed Offenhouse, removing his servo from his coat pocket and fiddling with it as though it were merely an ordinary silver pen. In this manner he instructed the crystalline cube on his desk to record the conversation for future reference and analysis. Later on, after Offenhouse departed, he could then examine his visitor’s voice patterns to determine when and if the pugnacious businessman was telling the truth.
“Is that so?” Offenhouse said. Beneath bushy black eyebrows, dark eyes regarded Seven suspiciously. “What’s your angle, Seven? How can you afford to unload this gear so cheap?”
“Excess inventory,” Seven lied smoothly. “It costs too much to store this quantity of equipment on a long-term basis. In addition, I’d rather sell off the majority of my stock now, before the next generation of technology renders my inventory obsolete.”
Offenhouse appeared only partly appeased by Seven’s explanation. “What about quality?” he demanded. “I’m not going to pay good money for junk. I insist on inspecting the merchandise before payment.”
[45] “Of course,” Seven agreed. “My instruments are all state-of-the-art and in excellent condition, as you can certainly see for yourself upon delivery.”
Offenhouse glanced around the office, as if half-expecting to see a stockpile of electron microscopes or gel electrophoresis units tucked away in a corner of the room.
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