“Yes,” Connor said.

“I still have problems about it,” Morton said. “MicroCon’s advanced technology was developed in part with American taxpayer money. I’m outraged that our taxpayers should pay for research that is being sold to the Japanese—who will then use it to compete against our own companies. I feel strongly we should be protecting American capacity in high-tech areas. I feel we should be protecting our intellectual resources. I feel we should be limiting foreign investment in our corporations and our universities. But I seem to be alone in this. I can’t find support in the Senate or in industry. Commerce won’t help me. The trade rep’s worried it’ll upset the rice negotiations. Rice. Even the Pentagon is against me on this. And I just wondered, since Nakamoto is the parent company of Akai Ceramics, whether the events of last night had any relationship to the proposed sale.”

He paused. He was looking at us in an intense way. It was almost as if he expected that we would know something.

Connor said, “I’m not aware of any linkage.”

“Has Nakamoto done anything unfair or improper to promote the sale?”

“Not that I am aware, no.”

“And your investigation is formally concluded?”

“Yes.”

“I just want to be clear. Because if I back down on my opposition to this sale, I don’t want to find that I’ve stuck my hand in a box of snakes. One could argue that the party at Nakamoto was an attempt to win over opponents to the sale. So a change of position can be worrisome. You know in Congress they can get you coming and going, with a thing like this.”

Connor said, “Are you abandoning your opposition to the sale?”

From across the lawn, an aide said, “Senator? They’re ready for you, sir.”

“Well.” Morton shrugged. “I’m out on a limb with this thing. Nobody agrees with my position on MicroCon. Personally, I think it’s another Fairchild case. But if this battle can’t be won, I say, let’s not fight it. Plenty of other battles to be fought, anyway.” He straightened, smoothed his suit.

“Senator? When you’re ready, sir.” And he added, “They’re concerned about the light.”

“They’re concerned about the light,” Morton said, shaking his head.

“Don’t let us keep you,” Connor said.

“Anyway,” Morton said. “I wanted your input. I understand you to say that last night had nothing to do with MicroCon. The people involved had nothing to do with it. I’m not going to read next month that someone was working behind the scenes, trying to promote or block the sale. Nothing like that.”

“Not as far as I know,” Connor said.

“Gentlemen, thank you for coming,” he said. He shook both of our hands, and started away. Then he came back. “I appreciate your treating this matter as confidential. Because, you know, we have to be careful. We are at war with Japan.” He smiled wryly. “Loose lips sink ships.”

“Yes,” Connor said. “And remember Pearl Harbor.”

“Christ, that too.” He shook his head. He dropped his voice, becoming one of the boys. “You know, I have colleagues who say sooner or later we’re going to have to drop another bomb. They think it’ll come to that.” He smiled. “But I don t feel that way. Usually.”

Still smiling, he headed back to the camera crew. As he walked, he collected people, first a woman with script changes, then a wardrobe man, then a sound man fiddling with his microphone and adjusting the battery pack at his waist, and the makeup woman, until finally the senator had disappeared from view, and there was just a cluster of people moving awkwardly across the lawn.

14

I said, “I like him.”

I was driving back into Hollywood. The buildings were hazy in the smog.

“Why shouldn’t you like him?” Connor said. “He’s a politician. It’s his job to make you like him.”

“Then he’s good at his job.”

“Very good, I think.”

Connor stared out the window silently. I had the sense that something was troubling him.

I said, “Didn’t you like what he was saying in the commercial? It sounded like all the things you say.”

“Yes. It did.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Connor said. “I was just thinking about what he actually said.”

“He mentioned Fairchild.”

“Of course,” Connor said. “Morton knows the real story about Fairchild, very well.”

I started to ask him what it was, but he was already telling me.

“Have you ever heard of Seymour Cray? For years, he was the best designer of supercomputers in the world. Cray Research made the fastest computers in the world. The Japanese were trying to catch up with him, but they just couldn’t do it. He was too brilliant. But by the mid-eighties, Japanese chip dumping had put most of Cray’s domestic suppliers out of business. So Cray had to order his custom-designed chips from Japanese manufacturers. There was nobody in America to make them. And his Japanese suppliers experienced mysterious delays. At one point, it took them a year to deliver certain chips he had ordered—and during that time, his Japanese competitors made great strides forward. There was also a question of whether they had stolen his new technology. Cray was furious. He knew they were fucking with him. He decided that he had to form a liaison with an American manufacturer, and so he chose Fairchild Semiconductor, even though the company was financially weak, far from the best. But Cray couldn’t trust the Japanese anymore. He had to make do with Fairchild. So now Fairchild was making his next generation of custom chips for him—and then he learned that Fairchild was going to be sold to Fujitsu. His big competitor. It was concern about situations like that, and the national security implications, that led Congress to block the sale to Fujitsu.”

“And then?”

“Well, blocking the sale didn’t solve Fairchild’s financial problems. The company was still in trouble. And it eventually had to be sold. There was a rumor it was going to be bought by Bull, a French company that didn’t compete in supercomputers. That sale might have been permitted by Congress. But in the end, Fairchild was sold to an American company.”

“And MicroCon is another Fairchild?”

“Yes, in the sense that MicroCon will give the Japanese a monopoly on vital chip-making machinery. Once they have a monopoly, they can withhold the machines from American companies. But now I think—“

That was when the phone rang. I left it on the speakerphone.

It was Lauren. My ex-wife.

“Peter?”

I said, “Hello, Lauren.”

“Peter, I am calling to inform you that I’m going to pick up Michelle early today.” Her voice sounded tense, formal.

“You are? I didn’t know you were picking her up at all.”

“I never said that, Peter,” she answered quickly. “Of course I’m picking her up.”

I said, “Okay, fine. By the way, who’s Rick?”

There was a pause. “Really. That is beneath you, Peter.”

“Why?” I said. “I’m just curious. Michelle mentioned it this morning. She said he has a black Mercedes. Is he the new boyfriend?”

“Peter. I hardly think that is on the same level.”

I said, “The same level as what?”

“Let’s not play games,” she said. “This is difficult enough. I’m calling to tell you I have to pick up Michelle early because I’m taking her to the doctor.”

“Why? She’s over her cold.”

“I’m taking her for an examination, Peter.”

“For what’?”

“An examination.”

“I heard you,” I said. “But—“

“The physician who will examine her is Robert Strauss. He is an expert, I’m told. I have been asking people in the office who is the best person. I don’t know how this is going to turn out, Peter, but I want you to know I am concerned, particularly in the light of your history.”

“Lauren, what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about child abuse,” she said. “I’m talking about sexual molestation.”