Your Eyelids Are Growing Heavy by Barbara Paul

energy was directed toward protecting his position instead of working for the good of the company.
    Sometimes Megan thought Unruh just wasn’t very bright. He’d overlook the most obvious things, and he was slow at making connections. He didn’t really understand how the computer could be used to best advantage and he’d made no effort to learn. Unruh had a smooth and affable manner, though; he functioned well in an old-boys atmosphere. He’d built up a lot of good will for Glickman, and good will preceded good contracts. But as a practical, working executive, Unruh left a lot to be desired.
    Unruh’s secretary had made the trip to Boston with him, and from her Megan was able to find out exactly what it was the distributor had wanted to know. She’d called up the information from the computer and formally made an appointment to speak to the president.
    Mr. Ziegler made her wait two days; he was up to his ears in work. But at last she went in with a stack of printouts under her arm and asked him straight out about the Boston distributor. “Have they closed the door? Or is there still a chance of getting the contract?”
    â€œThe door’s still open. A crack.” Mr. Ziegler wasn’t smiling. “I’m afraid we didn’t make too good an impression.”
    â€œBut providing them with the information they asked for would open the door a little wider?”
    â€œThat’s what we’re hoping. Mr. Unruh is working on it now.”
    Megan didn’t understand. “Excuse me—what do you mean, he’s ‘working’ on it?”
    A note of impatience crept into Mr. Ziegler’s voice. “I mean he’s working on compiling the information, of course.”
    Megan placed the printouts on his desk. “Here it is.”
    He looked startled. “That can’t be all of it.”
    Megan pointed to a photocopy clipped to the top printout sheet. “Mr. Unruh’s secretary said these were the questions raised in Boston. If that list is complete, then the printout information is complete.”
    The president studied the photocopy. “Yes, it’s the same list I have. But Unruh told me it would take him at least two weeks to dig up everything they wanted to know.”
    Megan waited a moment and then said, “Mr. Ziegler, it took me less than an hour to fill out the instruction sheets for the computer room. Then somebody else spent maybe ten minutes pushing the right buttons. The machine did the rest.” She chose her next words carefully. “I don’t think Mr. Unruh always appreciates the capabilities of our computer.” She did not add that the information had been just as available last week as it was this; Mr. Ziegler could figure that out for himself. “I didn’t know Mr. Unruh was working on it—I’d have taken these printouts to him if he’d told me,” she half-lied.
    â€œLeave them with me,” the president said shortly.
    Megan was dismissed; she left him studying the printout sheets, not even trying to conceal the fact that he was angry.
    Back in her office, Megan closed the door and let out the breath she’d been holding. She had no compunctions at all about undercutting the vice president; the man was a bungler and not to be trusted. She hadn’t set him up—he’d created the circumstances of his trouble himself. Just as Bogert had done. Everybody made mistakes; that didn’t bother Megan. But Unruh’s risking the loss of the contract rather than admit he needed help made her see red.
    Two hours later Megan was just returning from lunch when the phone rang. It was the president’s secretary: Mr. Ziegler would like Ms Phillips to come to his office immediately, please.
    He came straight to the point. “I’ve just talked to Boston,” he said. “Your printout sheets may get us the contract yet. There’s just one hitch. I can’t go.