Chapter 23

At 11:55 the man moved cautiously from behind his file cabinet. 
 "It's only 11:55," Smith warned.
 "That's okay, my boss won't complain about the extra five minutes."
 "He sounds like a very good boss."
 "No, he was a very bad boss. But those are his legs you see sticking out from under the copy machine, and they haven't moved much in the past day or two, so as I said, I don't expect he'll mind.
The man walking towards Smith wore thick glasses with black plastic frames of the sort that were very popular among engineers in the 1960s who were starting to go bald on top. The man walking towards Smith was starting to go bald on top. He was clothed in a simple gray wool suit--or the tattered remains of a simple gray wool suit, anyway, which was still impressive considering that the heat in Spanish Guyana forced even the sheep to wear cotton. "Now, we can finally meet," he said. They exchanged the handshake. 
 "My brother," the man said, and they embraced. 
 "You may call me Thomas," said Smith.
 "And my name is Luis. I welcome you to my lunch hour with pleasure. It has been days since I have seen another administrator. All of my colleagues who survived the shelling were conscripted into the military. I would have been conscripted, too, had I not hidden behind a stack of purchase requisition forms."
 "That was quick thinking," said Smith.
 "I was lucky. Had I worked any faster the week before, the piles of forms around my desk waiting to be processed would have been insufficient to provide cover."
 "That is a brave and harrowing tale," said Smith. "You are a fine administrator."
 "Thank you my brother," Luis said. "Now, state your business."
 "Non-profit," said Smith.
 "Ah, non-profit," Luis' eyes teared up behind their thick glass lenses. "Long have I dreamed of non-profit. Here, my business is for-profit. That is no life for an administrator."
 "Better times," Smith comforted him. "There will be better times ahead."
 "In the meantime, I will do what I can to help you in your quest. Please explain the situation."
 "I'm on a vital administrative mission," Smith said. "I am not at liberty to go into details, but suffice it to say it involves intra-office politics, life-and-death consequences, and the very future of the world as we know it."
 "Intra-office politics, you say? That is important. I will make this one of my very top priorities. In what non-demanding way can I help?"
 "I need to find someone," Smith explained.
 
"Something's definitely up at Johnston Brothers," Hue Llwellan fretted. Llwellan was vice president in charge of Wall Street rumors and general paranoia for Mornall & Swain. He was very good at his job. "First they have a big round of layoffs from their research staff and won't talk to the media about it. That's odd enough on its own: when we fire people, we always talk to the press--layoffs are good for our share price. Now I get word that half the sales staff just put down deposits on Porsches."
 "Porsches?" asked CEO Alan Mornall. "In this market? Could it be a cover? You know, refundable deposits."
 "No, they're non-refundable. I've looked into it."
 "968s?"
 "911s," said Llwellan.
 "911s? Jesus. You're right. This doesn't add up. Well, there's only one way to know for sure. Hire someone away from them so we get the story."
 "Anyone in particular I should hire."
 "Start with whoever you can get cheap, then move up the ladder until you get answers. In fact, get an intern first--that will cost us next to nothing."
 
"This wasn't going to stay secret forever," Gwafinn said. "We knew that right from the start. No idea in history has remained secret forever. Or at least if one has, I've never heard of it." Word had reached Gwafinn that Mornall & Swain had hired away a Johnston Brothers intern. It was well known on Wall Street that Johnston Brothers had the least-trained and, of late, worst-smelling interns this side of the hog-rendering district. Thus, the only conclusion was that the competition was looking for some information…or perhaps for subjects to use in an unsanctioned medical experiment, but those sorts of things were usually handled quietly through third-world intermediaries. 
 "There's only one way to prevent bad press," Gwafinn continued. "And that certainly is not by keeping quiet. If you keep quiet, you let your enemies determine the facts. But if you speak first, you get to say what's what. If you do a good enough job of it, your enemies won't have a chance, even if your facts aren't fact-facts in terms of their actually being facts, if you follow."
 "Uh…" I said.
Gwafinn unlocked the top drawer of his filing cabinet and removed a memo. Only bad news ever came out of locked drawers. Good news is kept in unlocked drawers, since if anyone got a look, it could only help one's public image or share price. 
 "Bob, tell the clerical staff to fax copies of the monkey study to all of our major clients together with this memo I wrote concerning our new research staff. Once that's done, you and the equity sales staff can start calling our clients with the monkey's first homerun pick." Gwafinn paused. "What stock did they select, anyway?" 
 "I believe it was Montgomery Technologies."
 "Never heard of it."
 "No reason you would have. It's not much of a company."
 "They must have done something to get the monkey's attention."
 "They colorize old movies for television."
 "There you go. Cutting-edge technology."
 "Except that everyone hates watching colorized movies."
 "So what keeps them going?"
 "They've branched out into de-colorizing new movies."
 "Is there a market for that?"
 "If there were, people could just turn down the color setting on their televisions."
 "Well, I'm not going to argue with a monkey. I'd look silly trying. Get the sales staff to work pushing Montgomery."
 
"I need some guidance."
 "What? Who is this?" I asked. It was the first caller of the afternoon that hadn't mentioned monkeys at least once in his opening sentence.
 "It's Roger's owner. Sorry to bother you in the office like this, but I really need some more advice. The alumni department tracked you down for me. They're very good with that sort of thing."
 "Yes, I know. Listen, this really isn’t a good time. Lot going on here today. Anyway I'm trying to shift away from the spiritual guidance work and into equity sales. Perhaps there's someone down at the Native American Observatory you could ask."
 "I checked. There's just this guy named Curt who keeps going on about how the alumni department is blackmailing him. He really wasn't much help. Couldn't you spare a moment?"
 "Maybe just a moment. Shoot."
 "I think my wife's cheating on me."
 "I've got your advice. Ready?"
 "I'm ready."
 "No, she isn't," I said.
 "That's it? That's your advice?"
 "That's it."
 "I've heard better."
 "It's really deceptively wise," I said. "I'm rather pleased with it, considering the short notice. Look at it this way: do you love your wife? Do you want to remain married?"
 "More than anything."
 "Then trust me, she isn't having an affair."
 "But how can I know that that's true?"
 "I didn't say it was true. I said it was my advice. For all I know your wife sells $20 blow jobs on street corners, the point is it doesn't matter."
 "That would matter to me," said Kerns, who had never before even considered this a possibility.
 "Let me put it this way. Either my advice is correct and she isn't having an affair, in which case you're worrying over nothing. Or my advice is incorrect, in which case your worrying about your wife's waning interest in you can only serve to undermine your already shaky self-confidence and give her all the more reason to look elsewhere for a real man. If you just believe she isn't cheating on you, then your confidence will improve, and your chances of saving your marriage will improve as well. Either way, you're better off if you just take my advice that she isn't cheating on you."
 "Uh…"
 "But you really have to believe it."
 "I have to believe my wife isn't having an affair?"
 "That's right."
 "And the truth means nothing?"
 "The truth means everything. But it's up to you to decide what the truth is. That's something I've just figured out myself recently. Got it?" 
 "I guess."
 "Anything else? I asked.
 "No, that was all…Wait, actually there is something. Do you know someone named Dana Davis?"
 "Yes, I know her," I said, bracing for the inevitable horrendously bad news.
 "There was a letter addressed to you at the Native American Observatory from her. The paranoid guy named Curt didn't know what to do with it."
 "There was? Do you have it?"
 "Yes, I've got it right in front of me."
 "Read me the return address. Where was it sent from?"
 "Oh, let's see here," Roger's owner said. "It says 'One Planet, Madison Avenue, New York City.' Need the zip code?"
 "No, that's okay. But does it have a postmark?"
 "It's a little smudged…I think it says 'Greater Merrill Island'."
 "Where?"
 "Greater Merrill Island. As I recall, it's the larger of the two Merrill Islands. Although I'm not sure of that. It could be the smaller. No…no, the more I think about it, the more certain I am that it's the larger."
 "And these islands are where?"
 "Oh, that I wouldn't know."
 "Listen carefully. It's very important that you do two things right now," I said, trying to remain calm. "First, you need to mail that letter to me at this address," I gave him the address of my New Jersey apartment. 
 "And second?"
 "Second, you need to invest in technology stocks." Roger's owner did both. The way I figured it, if he was going to lose all his money in a divorce, he might as well lose some of it in the market first. Better I get a cut than some sleazy divorce lawyer.

July 30

Luis the administrator did not know how to find the person Smith needed. But he did know how to get in contact with the Spanish Guyanian Administrators' Back-Office Army, a military/administrative organization valiantly handling the paperwork for both the government and the rebel forces. Taking both sides, they had decided, was a sensible, cover-the-bases approach to civil war from a risk-management perspective. If it was written on a piece of paper in Spanish Guyana, a Captain in the Back-Office Army assured Smith, they had a copy of it, and often more than one copy, just to be safe. For a fellow administrator on a vital mission, it would be their pleasure to help. In exchange for a small bribe.
 It was money very well spent. Within days Smith was in contact with the Antarctic boy and his middle-manager father. A meeting was arranged in a secret administrators' document depository just outside of Spanish Guyana's capital city, Pila de Basura. Smith thought it best not to venture into the city itself, which was currently was under the control of roving gangs. In fairness it should be noted that in mere weeks in power, the roving gangs had reduced the local crime rate by eight percent and illiteracy by six percent. But roving gangs have such a bad reputation.
 The boy was Roberto Valasquez. He had attended all the best schools, his father Santos said, which in Spanish Guyana meant they had both books and teachers who understood what books were for, at least in a broad sense. As an added bonus, Roberto was fluent in English, his father added, which could only work to the boy's benefit once he was enrolled in Bucklin. Santos loved the idea of an American college for his son, almost as much as he loved the idea of a full scholarship. Young Roberto's college fund had taken something of a beating of late, what with world currency markets currently valuing Spanish Guyanian Pesos on par with small slips of blank paper the size and shape of Spanish Guyanian pesos.
 "My boy, he will be conscripted into the army if he remains here in Spanish Guyana," Santos moaned. "And if he manages to escape that, he surely will be conscripted into the other army. You can see what we're up against."
 "Yes, yes. It's quite tragic," Smith said.
 "Sure, they'd probably put him in the army paperwork division, to take advantage his administrative heritage and limited upper-body strength. But even so, what chance does a boy of this sort have in the military? He would be torn to bits by their strict filing protocols." Santos grabbed hold of Roberto's weak upper arm and shook it about to prove his point. "He is not a hardened administrator like you and I."
 "Then it looks like we can help each other," said Smith.
The Administrative Underground slipped Smith and his prize back out of the country. Smith's plan was coming together.

August 2

"Smith, is there a press conference going on in the main auditorium?" Kerns asked when he arrived that morning.
 "Now that you mention it, I do believe I saw a press conference there when I walked by. Funny, that."
 "And what is this press conference about?"
 "Most of them are about generating awareness for ideas or products," Smith explained. "Or such is my understanding. It's not really my field." 
 "Yes, yes. But what specific idea or product is this press conference meant to promote awareness of?"
 "You know, I really couldn't say."
 "You don't know?" Kerns asked.
 "I couldn't say."
 "I take it your repeated use of the phrase 'I couldn't say.' Is your way of subtly evading the issue."
 "I couldn't say that either," Smith said.
 "Well, since no one knows anything about this press conference, I guess I'll just go and tell them that there's been a mistake and they can leave."
 "I'll take care of it," Smith said, beating Kerns to the office door. "And now that I think about it, as long as the press, the college board of regents, and select members of faculty are assembled, I might just wander by and say a few words. Seems a shame to waste a perfectly good press conference."
 "Funny how no one seems to know why this press conference is there," Kerns noted. "Press conferences don't usually just pop up on their own."
 "Probably a statistical anomaly," Smith said. "A few reporters wind up in the same place by a coincidence, than other media outlets figure they better have someone there, too, so they won't get left out should something happen."
 "And the board of regents and select members of the faculty?"
 "That's a bit harder to explain…"
 "Smith, why don't you just admit that you called this press conference. You're obviously planning something."
 "No, really. I never plan anything. Plans just lead to scheduling conflicts."
 "Go ahead and deny it, but I'm coming to your press conference," Kerns said. "Just keep in mind that whatever you're trying to pull off, I'm going to be there to stop you." It was the first direct challenge Kerns had made in his life. And it felt good.
 
A funny thing had happened the day the monkey plan got rolling. Montgomery Technology shares rallied. The company hadn't made any announcements or signed any new contracts. They hadn't colorized any old movies that day or de-colorized any new ones. No progress had been made in settling the lawsuit from the man turned down for employment because of his physical disability--specifically, color blindness. In fact, most of the staff had spent their morning calling other, better, firms in search of more promising jobs. So the employees had been as surprised as anyone to learn that their stock had rallied right from the opening bell. They'd been downright amazed when it soared farther still in the afternoon, since all anyone at Montgomery had done since lunch was track the value of their stock options. By the close of business, the company was worth four times as much as it had been that morning. It was a stunningly successful day. And considering how little effort Montgomery employees had expended in accomplishing this feat, the firm's CEO informed the financial press that he was confident they could do it again, tomorrow. Johnston Brothers' clients were equally thrilled. For all this had occurred on the very day that Johnston Brothers tasked its massive sales force with pushing the stock. 
 From that day on there was no hiding the monkey plan from the financial press. There also was no debating the media's reaction. 
 They loved the idea. 
 What choice did they have? The monkeys already had made a fortune. And the journalists knew that no one lasted long on Wall Street criticizing anything that made money. In fact, very few lasted long on Wall Street criticizing things that had never made money, but that someday might. Sure, a few curmudgeonly sorts griped that the Montgomery stock only had rallied because there was suddenly a wave of demand for the shares from Johnston Brothers customers. But money was money and pesky details were decidedly not money, so no one paid the critics much mind. Johnston Brothers' customers had made a huge profit, and everyone was happy.  
 Only it couldn't last. If there's one lesson that can be learned from the relatively large number of countries that followed Russia into Communism, it's that no good idea, and very few bad ones besides, ever goes unstolen. Within days the rest of The Street had adopted the new "Jungle Thinking" approach to financial analysis. Johnston Brothers' star chimps were flooded with lucrative offers to jump to the competition--or they would have been, if only they'd known how to answer their phones. Rebuffed by this unintentional and unexpected loyalty, desperate Wall Street human resource directors resorted to more drastic measures. The Bronx Zoo was forced to add extra security guards around the monkey house. Medical experimenters began skipping right from mice to unemployed humans to cope with escalating monkey prices. 
 Soon no investor would trust a stock pick unless it came from a monkey, or at very least a ringed-tail lemur. Shares of Red Lion Supermarkets took an unprecedented drubbing. Thousands of human financial analysts suddenly found themselves out of work. But they were resourceful sorts, and did their best to take advantage of the changing culture of Wall Street, opening banana daiquiri bars and climbing gyms throughout the area.
 There was plenty of glory to go around as well. Gwafinn's picture was soon on the cover of every financial periodical in the world--or at least those that couldn't swing an interview with the real star, Chimp #8. But the glut of imitators also represented a problem. With other ideas, in other fields, patents are used to protect innovators from exactly this sort of thing. But as Gwafinn had learned to his chagrin, you can't patent a monkey. Imitation might be the sincerest form of flattery, but flattery translated poorly to Johnston Brothers' quarterly report.
 "We have to stay ahead, Bob," Gwafinn said, fuming behind his large office desk. "We cannot be seen as just one of many monkey-analyst firms. Just watch; in a few months no one will even remember that we were the first." Gwafinn was wearing a safari outfit, complete with pith helmet. "I suppose I should have realized that we would have imitators. But how could I have known it would happen so fast?" Gwafinn banged a fist on his desk, then took a deep breath. Well, no point living in the past. It looks like we're going to need another bold move."
 "Maybe we could go back to human analysts," I suggested. "We could pick up some good ones cheap, now that everyone else is laying them off."
 "The contrarian approach? No, too soon, too soon. If you want to be a contrarian, you have to wait at least six months, maybe even a year. Act any sooner than that, and everyone will think you're behind the times, instead of realizing you're ahead of them. Anyway, I've got a better idea. Take a look at these numbers." Gwafinn slid a computer print out across the desk towards me. "What do you see?" he asked.
 "It looks like our monkeys' picks haven't done as well since all the other firms on the Street have had monkeys picking stocks as well."
 "That's right. Our monkeys have been on Wall Street only a week, and already they're burning out. Burnout happens to human analysts, too, and there's only one thing to do when it does."
 "Vacations?"
 "Replacements. We've got to get new analysts."
 "More monkeys?"
 "No, no. Monkeys clearly aren't cut out for this kind of work, long term. Too much pressure. What we need to do is find someone with the stock picking ability of a monkey, but the strength and dedication of a human."
 "Meaning?"
 "We're switching to gorillas. 'Bigger monkeys, bigger profits.' Wait, let me write that down, it could be useful for our marketing department." He jotted his catchy monkey phrase down. "Gorillas are tough s.o.b.'s and they're smarter than the monkeys that we've been using. They're the perfect analysts. They might even be smart enough to take over the corporate finance department. What do you think?"
 "Uh, I don't know, sir, I'll ask around."
 "Do that. I've already arranged for 40 gorillas to be shipped in for interviews."
 "Interviews with gorillas? That ought to take care of some of the overstaffing down in human resources, anyway."
 "An excellent point, Bob. We keep trying to lay off those people, but they're the human resources department, so they always hire themselves back."
I got up to leave.
 "This is a smart move," Gwafinn said. "An analyst shouldn't be able to sleep in the drawers of his own desk."
 "Yes sir."
An oddly mischievous smile flashed on Gwafinn's face. "You think I'm insane, don't you?" he asked.
 "Why do say that?" I evaded.
 "I'm not, you know. Someday I hope I'll be able to make you understand that. In the meantime, all I ask is that you believe in me."
 "On the bright side," I thought on my way back to my desk, "at least I work for a firm that's open to new ideas."
 
"Thank you all for coming," Smith began. It was a full house. Smith knew just what to say to journalists to get them to show up at a news conference. He'd said there would be food served. All the local news people had arrived right on time and stuffed themselves full of Danish. Smith had little doubt that the trip would be worth their effort on more than just the breakfast-pastry front. He strongly suspected that their stories would be picked up by all the national networks and newswires. "I realize it was short notice," Smith continued. "But we are here to witness a totally unique event in the history of campus diversity. And I, Assistant Dean Thomas Prester Smith, am privileged to be a part of it…That's P-R-E-S-T-E-R," he spelled, unprompted. "S-M-I-T-H" he added just to be safe. "So without further delay I'd like to introduce to you Bucklin College's newest student, the only Antarctican in the world," Smith announced with a flourish. "Roberto Something-or other." Roberto stepped from behind the curtain and crossed the stage to a hushed audience. 
 "Hello," he said in halting English. "My name is Roberto. I'm very happy to be here."
 "Be quiet Roberto," Smith whispered. "They already know your name. Just stand here and act like an Antarctican."
Roberto stood smiling in front of the crowd. There were a few scattered flashbulbs, but, oddly, no awed gasp.
 "I'll take your questions," Smith prompted. But there was no response. The silence was becoming uncomfortable, and Smith was about to start talking about his heroic journey into a war zone when someone else did speak. Someone way in the back of the crowd, whom Smith couldn't quite see--although the voice did sound familiar. "But," this voice said, "he's just like everyone else!"
A rumbling bubbled up from the crowd. It was true--this boy was just like everyone else. A little bit of an accent, sure. Perhaps even enough skin tone to qualify as a racial minority. But he was just a kid like all the other kids on all the other campuses across the country. 
 "No, he's not like everyone else," Smith shouted over the gathering tumult. "He's an Antarctican. We have papers to prove it."
 "Say something, Roberto," Smith said, desperate.
 "Hello, my name is Roberto," said Roberto. "I'm very happy to be here."
But it was too late. The cameras were shutting off, the reporters departing to cover the region's real news that day, a man down the coast in Harforth who had grown a 14-pound tomato. Even the assembled members of Bucklin's board of directors were leaving without so much as a promotion thrown Smith's way. "Wait!" Smith yelled after the shrinking crowd. "He's different. He's special."
 "Call us back when you've grown a really big vegetable," advised the reporter from the Bridgeton Weekly Sun, before he headed for the exit with the rest of his colleagues. The reporter turned back just before he reached the door to add "or caught a really big fish." Then they were gone. Smith slumped forward onto the podium.
 "Hello, my name is Roberto," consoled Roberto. "I'm very happy to be here."
 "I thought your father said you were fluent," Smith moaned. "Is that all the English you know?"
 "No," said Roberto. "It just seemed like the thing to say."
 
"Information."
 "Yes, I need a number in Greater Morrell Island," I said. Dana's forwarded letter still hadn't arrived, but I was tired of waiting.
 "Where?"
 "Greater Morrell Island. I believe it's the larger of the two Morrell Islands, but I can't be certain of that."
 "Sir, this is Manhattan information. Unless Greater Morrell Island has an apartment in town I'm not going to be able to help."
 "So how am I supposed to find a number on Greater Morrell Island?"
"Try Greater Morrell Island information."
 "And how can I find the number for that?"
 "How should I know? All I can tell you is there's no listing here in the city."
 "How can you call yourself information?" I asked.
 "No listing," she explained, and billed my account $1.50. 
I made a second call.
 "Reference desk."
 "Do you have the phone book for Greater Morrell Island?" I asked.
 "One moment."
The New York Public Library is known for its skilled reference librarians. And for its numerous sleeping vagrants. But as the sleeping vagrants rarely answered the phones, I felt safe in assuming I was speaking with one of the former.
 "Sort of," the reference librarian answered a few minutes later.
 "Sort of?"
 "We have the phone listings, but I'm not certain I'd call it a phone book."
 "More of a booklet?"
 "More of a leaflet."
 "A leaflet? For the whole island?"
 "A small leaflet. And it's only printed on one side. Would you like me to fax it to you?"
 "Thank you," I said. "That would be very helpful."
Only it wasn't very helpful. None of its listings sounded at all like someplace where I could find Dana, and I read through all 22 of them twice. I considered calling a few at random, but as it was the middle of the day here, it figured to be the middle of the night there, if there was anything to this round Earth theory that had become so popular. I'd wait for the morning, by which I mean the evening, to make my call.
"Problem?" Keller asked.
 "Turns out my girlfriend might not be caught in a war zone after all."
 "Well that's a kick in the teeth," Keller said, and went back to pushing the latest monkey-endorsed shares.