UnDivided
Page 98
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John Rifkin, vice president of sales, seems slightly taken aback. “You looked it up?”
“Yes, I did. Also, unlike those other companies, Rifkin Medical Instruments has no ties to Proactive Citizenry.”
“No, we don’t. Which is probably why we’re number seven,” he says, irritated by his own admission.
“I also looked you up,” continues Grace. “The company’s got your name—Rifkin Medical Instruments—but someone without your name is now its president, which tells me you’ve got fangs for that job, and could use a boost up the ladder, am I right?”
Now he gets uncomfortable. “Who put you up to this? Is it Bob? It’s Bob, isn’t it?”
“There ain’t no Bob, there’s only me.” Then she gestures to the array of parts before her. “This here is an organ printer. It’s kind of unwound right now, but it’s the real deal.”
John Rifkin relaxes a bit, and offers her something of a superior smirk. “Miss Skinner, organ printing was debunked as a fraud years ago. It was a nice idea, but it didn’t work.”
“That’s what they want you to think,” she whispers. “But Janson Rheinschild knew better.”
Suddenly he’s sitting up straight, like a kindergartner on his first day of school. “Did you say Janson Rheinschild?”
“You heard of him?”
“My father did. The man was a genius, but he went crazy, didn’t he?”
“Or he got driven that way. But not before he built this.”
Now John Rifkin is interested. He begins tapping his pen on the table, finally considering that maybe Grace is worth taking seriously. “If Rheinschild built that, why do you have it?”
“Got it from his widow. Old woman in Ohio, ran an antique shop.”
He grabs his phone.
“Don’t bother, she’s dead. Big fire. But of everything in her shop, I knew she wanted me to save this, so I did. And I’m here to give it to you.”
He reaches for one of the parts, but hesitates, and asks, “May I?” Grace nods, and he gently picks up the printing part, turning it over in his hands to explore it from every angle. “And you say it once worked.”
“Once that I saw, before I went and dropped the thing down the stairs.” Then she pulls out from her pocket an object that will seal the deal. A small plastic bag containing a decomposing ear. “I watched it make that.”
Rifkin looks at it in both awe and disgust, and reaches for the bag.
“Prolly shouldn’t take it out here,” Grace warns. “It didn’t keep well.”
He withdraws his hand, and just continues to stare at it.
“My bet is that you can fix the printer and make more of them. A lot more. In all shapes and sizes and colors.”
Grace studies him as he studies the ear and the pieces, and even the empty box. For a businessman he doesn’t have much of a poker face. She can see him calculating. “How much are you asking for it?”
“Maybe I’ll just give it to you.”
Then he takes a moment to look at her. He glances at the door as if someone might be watching, then comes around the table, sitting in a chair just next to her.
“Grace . . .”
“Miss Grace.”
“Miss Grace . . . if this is what you say it is, you shouldn’t just give it away. I’ll tell you what: I’ll give it to our research and development department, and if it’s, as you say, ‘the real deal,’ I will give you a very fair price for it.”
Grace leans back in her chair satisfied with him, but even more satisfied with herself. She grabs his hand and shakes it vigorously. “Congratulations, Mr. John Rifkin. You passed my test.”
“Excuse me?”
“I woulda walked if you were sleazy enough to rip me off, but you didn’t. That means your company deserves to shoot up to number one. And if you play your cards right, it will. You’ll probably get to be the company’s president, too.” Then she pulls out her phone.
John Rifkin seems a bit flustered now. “Wait . . . who are you calling?”
“My lawyer,” she tells him with a wink. “He’s waitin’ outside to negotiate my deal.”
71 • Broadcast
“This is Radio Free Hayden broadcasting from somewhere where we can see cows. Is it just me, or do those videos of the military rewinds in Hawaii make you want to hurl up all the organs you may have gotten from guys like me? In case you missed it, here’s a little sound bite of what General Edward Bodeker, head of the project, had to say about it:”
“Team Mozaic is a pilot program to ascertain the viability of creating a military force without impacting the resources of society by using the glut of unallocated unwound parts.”
“Damn, that’s an impressive mission statement! Shortly after those words left his lips, he was hauled in for a court-martial, and the Pentagon released the following statement instead:”
“This unsanctioned venture was the product of General Bodeker working without the knowledge or consent of the United States military. There is no question that the parties involved, including General Bodeker and Senator Barton Cobb, will be investigated and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”
“Booyaah! The shrapnel just keeps flying. The military has covered their tender parts through plausible denial, and blamed the whole thing on Bodeker—which may or may not be true—but at least they won’t be looking for a few good rewound men. Kudos, though, to one good rewound man—Camus Comprix—for exposing this bad idea before it could take root. But what about the next bad idea? I can see it now, a whole rewound service class custom cut to do all those dirty little jobs no one else wants to do.
“Yes, I did. Also, unlike those other companies, Rifkin Medical Instruments has no ties to Proactive Citizenry.”
“No, we don’t. Which is probably why we’re number seven,” he says, irritated by his own admission.
“I also looked you up,” continues Grace. “The company’s got your name—Rifkin Medical Instruments—but someone without your name is now its president, which tells me you’ve got fangs for that job, and could use a boost up the ladder, am I right?”
Now he gets uncomfortable. “Who put you up to this? Is it Bob? It’s Bob, isn’t it?”
“There ain’t no Bob, there’s only me.” Then she gestures to the array of parts before her. “This here is an organ printer. It’s kind of unwound right now, but it’s the real deal.”
John Rifkin relaxes a bit, and offers her something of a superior smirk. “Miss Skinner, organ printing was debunked as a fraud years ago. It was a nice idea, but it didn’t work.”
“That’s what they want you to think,” she whispers. “But Janson Rheinschild knew better.”
Suddenly he’s sitting up straight, like a kindergartner on his first day of school. “Did you say Janson Rheinschild?”
“You heard of him?”
“My father did. The man was a genius, but he went crazy, didn’t he?”
“Or he got driven that way. But not before he built this.”
Now John Rifkin is interested. He begins tapping his pen on the table, finally considering that maybe Grace is worth taking seriously. “If Rheinschild built that, why do you have it?”
“Got it from his widow. Old woman in Ohio, ran an antique shop.”
He grabs his phone.
“Don’t bother, she’s dead. Big fire. But of everything in her shop, I knew she wanted me to save this, so I did. And I’m here to give it to you.”
He reaches for one of the parts, but hesitates, and asks, “May I?” Grace nods, and he gently picks up the printing part, turning it over in his hands to explore it from every angle. “And you say it once worked.”
“Once that I saw, before I went and dropped the thing down the stairs.” Then she pulls out from her pocket an object that will seal the deal. A small plastic bag containing a decomposing ear. “I watched it make that.”
Rifkin looks at it in both awe and disgust, and reaches for the bag.
“Prolly shouldn’t take it out here,” Grace warns. “It didn’t keep well.”
He withdraws his hand, and just continues to stare at it.
“My bet is that you can fix the printer and make more of them. A lot more. In all shapes and sizes and colors.”
Grace studies him as he studies the ear and the pieces, and even the empty box. For a businessman he doesn’t have much of a poker face. She can see him calculating. “How much are you asking for it?”
“Maybe I’ll just give it to you.”
Then he takes a moment to look at her. He glances at the door as if someone might be watching, then comes around the table, sitting in a chair just next to her.
“Grace . . .”
“Miss Grace.”
“Miss Grace . . . if this is what you say it is, you shouldn’t just give it away. I’ll tell you what: I’ll give it to our research and development department, and if it’s, as you say, ‘the real deal,’ I will give you a very fair price for it.”
Grace leans back in her chair satisfied with him, but even more satisfied with herself. She grabs his hand and shakes it vigorously. “Congratulations, Mr. John Rifkin. You passed my test.”
“Excuse me?”
“I woulda walked if you were sleazy enough to rip me off, but you didn’t. That means your company deserves to shoot up to number one. And if you play your cards right, it will. You’ll probably get to be the company’s president, too.” Then she pulls out her phone.
John Rifkin seems a bit flustered now. “Wait . . . who are you calling?”
“My lawyer,” she tells him with a wink. “He’s waitin’ outside to negotiate my deal.”
71 • Broadcast
“This is Radio Free Hayden broadcasting from somewhere where we can see cows. Is it just me, or do those videos of the military rewinds in Hawaii make you want to hurl up all the organs you may have gotten from guys like me? In case you missed it, here’s a little sound bite of what General Edward Bodeker, head of the project, had to say about it:”
“Team Mozaic is a pilot program to ascertain the viability of creating a military force without impacting the resources of society by using the glut of unallocated unwound parts.”
“Damn, that’s an impressive mission statement! Shortly after those words left his lips, he was hauled in for a court-martial, and the Pentagon released the following statement instead:”
“This unsanctioned venture was the product of General Bodeker working without the knowledge or consent of the United States military. There is no question that the parties involved, including General Bodeker and Senator Barton Cobb, will be investigated and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”
“Booyaah! The shrapnel just keeps flying. The military has covered their tender parts through plausible denial, and blamed the whole thing on Bodeker—which may or may not be true—but at least they won’t be looking for a few good rewound men. Kudos, though, to one good rewound man—Camus Comprix—for exposing this bad idea before it could take root. But what about the next bad idea? I can see it now, a whole rewound service class custom cut to do all those dirty little jobs no one else wants to do.
