William Harrell braced himself for the cool comfort of the
limousine's air-conditioned interior.
For twenty-five minutes he would relax in a comfortable silent
plushness. He stretched his legs, lengthening his taut body until
his feet touched the facing seatback. His calves responded
wearily. Last evening's workout, the first in more than a week,
had taken its toll. He had skipped several sessions since putting
in longer hours over the past couple of days, working on the
company's portable computer strategy. The break in his routine,
regardless of whatever aches and pains it caused, brought him the
kind of excitement on which he thrived. His regal face had the
precisely aged features of a character actor cast in the role of
judge, or the President of the United States. On occasion he wore
glasses, when he remembered, for seeing things up close. At
sixty-two, his looks suited his job perfectly.
The car briskly pulled away from the brownstone, his course and
destination the same today as it had been each business day for
the past fourteen years.
He eagerly unfolded the "Wall Street Journal. In the News Brief
column analysts speculated as they did every quarter about
changes at Wallaby, Incorporated. According to the story, sources
close to the company suggested that the company's founder, Peter
Jones, and its president, Matthew Locke, were not getting along
as famously as they once had.
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