Read Online F Paul Wilson - Sims 04 by Zero (v5.0) - Free Book Online Page A

lobby that SimGen —or “ simgee ,” as the stockholders liked to call it, phoneticizing its SIMG stock symbol—had come in with
earnings of $1.37 per share, beating not only the analysts’ predictions of
$1.26, but the whisper number of $1.31 as well.
                 She
walked into the magnificent four-story Art Deco grand ballroom just in time to
fill out an index card with her question for the CEO. Instead of passing her
card down to the center aisle, she walked it to the rear of the ballroom and
personally handed it to the elderly gent who would be reading them.
                 “I’d
really like to know the answer to this,” she whispered, laying a hand on his
arm and flashing her warmest smile.
                 He
looked at her over the top of his reading glasses and smiled. “I’ll see what I
can do, miss.”
                 Then
she found an empty seat along the side and waited. Mercer Sinclair,
dark-haired, dark-eyed, and impeccable in a charcoal gray silk Armani suit,
stood behind a podium on the dais and breezed through the usual run of inane
questions from the audience about future earnings projections and new product
outlooks—all of which were explained in detail in the annual report—and deftly
fielded inquiries about the Reverend Eckert’s assertions that the lost sim was pregnant, laughing them off as a crude and
transparent ratings ploy.
                 And
then the reader-man got to Romy’s question.
                 “Mr.
Sinclair, a stockholder wants to know, ‘How big a part does surge play in your
day-to-day operations?’”
                 Romy leaned forward, studying Mercer Sinclair’s face as it
floated in the glow from the podium. She saw him stiffen as if touched by a
cattle prod, watched his eyes widen, then narrow. Even
if she were blind she’d have detected his shock from his stammering reply.
                 “ Wh - what?
I-I don’t understand the question. What does it mean? Could the person who
asked it please identify himself and clarify the question?”
                 Romy didn’t move.
                 “Please,”
Sinclair said. “I…I’m quite willing to answer any question, but I have to
understand it first. Who asked it? If you’ll be kind enough to clarify…”
                 Romy sat and watched him stumble and fumble, peering into
the great dark lake of faces before him.
                 Finally
he fluttered a hand at the reader and said, “Very well…I guess he left…next
question.”
                 He
went on responding but Romy could tell his heart was
no longer in it. His answers were terse, his manner distracted, as if he
couldn’t wait to be done with this.
                 Before
the lights came up, Romy wandered back to where the
elderly question reader was winding up the Q and A session, and grabbed the
discard pile of cards he’d already read. No sense in leaving any unnecessary
traces behind.
                 She
had a bad moment when two men in suits followed her into the elevator down to
the lobby, but they spent the ride talking about hockey and got off on the
twenty-second floor. She used a side exit and stepped out onto East
Forty-ninth. She waited to see if anyone followed, then hurried downhill to
sunny Lexington
Avenue where Patrick waited. His face was too well known to SimGen stockholders to risk his presence at the meeting,
but he hadn’t been able to stay completely away.
                 “Well?”
he said as he took her arm and began walking her uptown. The cold snap had
broken and the day was clear and mild. “Did he react?”
                 “Did
he ever,” Romy said. “He just about lost it. Looked
as if he’d just been stripped naked and hosed with ice water.”
                 Patrick
grinned and jabbed the air with a fist. “Knew it!”