Chapter 6

The agenda had been full, meaning that the meeting ran overtime (again!) so Panit got back to his office later than expected. But the graybeard was there, waiting in the reception area, beaming. And so he should! He was finishing a cup of Panit’s excellent (and expensive) coffee!

Panit unobtrusively signaled Mrs. Stendall, then walked into his office. She came in moments later. Panit raised his eyebrows questioningly. “It’s him,” she confirmed. “His name is Morton Sneyd, and he confessed that he’s the one that’s been phoning and sending us all those faxes. He says he’s invented something revolutionary and the device is mounted on that platform he was flying. I pointed out that he didn’t have an appointment and that you were very busy, but he said he’d wait. Do you want to speak to him, Mr. Jindae?”

“I suppose I’ll have to,” Panit sighed. “You say his invention was attached to that craft, whatever it was?”

“Yes, sir. He claims his device flies, so I suppose that much is confirmed. He also said it doesn’t use jets or propellers. I asked about the noise, and he said it’s not from his invention, it’s coming from a small generator.

“One of the maintenance people had come up to see what the noise was that you reported and he got a closer look at the thing from the lounge windows. He said that what looked like an external tank of fuel was strapped in front of the generator and there was a bank of batteries fastened down behind the seat, big heavy-duty ones, but no jet exhaust or propeller. I’m not sure what a bank of batteries is, but he seemed to know what he was talking about.”

“Well, then,” Panit said, accepting the inevitable. “Why don’t you show our visitor in? If he wants another coffee or a doughnut, give him one. I’ll have a cup too, please.”

“I’ll see to it, sir. He’s already on his second cup; he said it was ‘right tasty’.” Panit snorted derisively and sat behind his desk, waiting.

Mrs. Stendall held the door and Morton Sneyd walked in. “You’re a hard man to see, Mr. Jindae!”

“There’s a reason for that, Mister ... Sneyd?”

“Right, Morton Sneyd. Call me Morty.”

“All right, Morty. Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

Morton Sneyd strolled out of Panit’s office an hour after he’d entered. He nodded at Mrs. Stendall, poured himself another cup of coffee and snagged the last doughnut on his way out the door. She raised her eyebrows at this bit of effrontery, undecided whether to be amused or irritated. The soft chime of the intercom caught her attention. “Yes, sir?”

“Contact the chairman’s secretary, please. I need to see him as soon as possible, and a telephone call won’t do. This needs to be kept strictly confidential.”

“Sir, we’ve had calls from a reporter. He heard about that flying platform. What should I tell him?”

“Laugh it off, Mrs. Stendall! A flying bedstead? Ridiculous!”

Sol Goldman hated high-stakes gambling.

Other companies might spend millions developing concept vehicles, but not Sol. Where was the profit in making something that couldn’t be sold? He’d firmly quashed the idea, preferring his designers to work on incremental improvements which were almost guaranteed to pay off. His engineers also avoided flashy, heavily chromed, high-powered models; that was for others. Sol’s company made solid cars that sold readily and held their value.

True, the luxury division pushed this to an extent, but since their profit margin was high, Sol considered that acceptable. It wasn’t really a gamble as he saw it. As for small stakes gambling, especially when there was an element of skill involved, that was different. Sol enjoyed winning, even though the thought of losing large sums frightened him. Today he would play golf, and with luck manage to take home a few dollars.

The other three players were impatient. Two of them, like Sol, headed manufacturing concerns. The third one wasn’t even a real businessman, only a financier; Sol had invited him solely because of his investment in the company. Besides, he might be another pigeon Sol could pluck on the course.

That hadn’t gone well during the previous few weeks. Sol frowned in distaste, wondering why he’d ever invited the man. But he had, and unlike Sol, who played a safe game, he often took the riskier shot. Too often, the pigeon had managed to extract a few feathers from Sol’s tail, forcing him to become—well, creative—with his game. And last week the man had attached himself to Sol, watching every shot; you’d think he believed Sol was cheating!