by Harry Marku
was a novice at negotiating he was not a fool. He had already ascertained that the GenCorp executive was chumming for ideas. If it was difficult to sell a project without being tangible, being transparent without having an NDA in blood was an invitation for intellectual piracy. Academics like him were not fortified by legions of lawyers.
Ryan shifted against the door frame. The distraction ended the standoff.
“What else is in the pipeline?” Shapner pressed immediately.
“We feel we can corner any number of viruses.”
“How about the 'flu or the common cold?” Shapner tested the potential.
“Unlikely due to their multiplicity.”
“That's too bad,” Shapner struck a belittling tone. “What about cancer?”
“Cancer is not a virus and it has no single determined cause.”
Shapner shrugged with measured impatience. Jankowiak felt himself being cornered.
“What makes your technology better?” Shapner was condescending.
“We have results—and we have a growing base of contributors...”
“Your success is limited.” Shapner challenged.
“It is unparalleled.” Jankowiak's answer seemed weak.
“Dr. Jankowiak, GenCorp requires specifics before it can commit money. Our investors...”
Ryan's frustration had crested. From his second-hand vantage it was obvious that Shapner was denigrating his adviser with the low-ball tactics of a used-car salesman.
“Perhaps you have something in mind,” Ryan blurted with his own measure of disdain.
Shapner turned to look at him. The outburst from Ryan did not fit his first impressions. He instantly re-calibrated. “I'm here to explore the synergy,” he replied, no less vague than before. Perhaps Ryan could be snowballed by jargon.
“You wouldn't have come here without a plan in place,” Ryan scoffed. “Dr. Jankowiak's program is not in competition with GenCorp. Why don't you tell us what you want?”
“I prefer to discuss those ideas face-to-face,” Shapner backpedaled. “but not with the constraints that present time imposes.” He turned to Jankowiak and smiled. “Dr. Jankowiak, I'd like to invite you to GenCorp...”
“Why?” Ryan interjected.
Shapner frowned and Jankowiak warned Ryan with his eyes. “...to meet our research management and give a talk to our teams.”
“You need my help,” Jankowiak stated. He was familiar with Wall Street's analysis of GenCorp's.
For a split-second, Shapner's face froze. He was not used to being called-out as beggarly. “Our R&D is experimental, not modeled,” the executive said snidely. “We use state-of-the-art, proven methodology—combinatorial screening and directed evolution—not theoretical approaches from the ether.”
Jankowiak smelled the desperation but he had no need to gloat. “You aren't the first to ask questions of a new tool,” he reassured, “but as Ryan suggested, you wouldn't be here if you didn't think GenCorp could benefit from it.” He waited for a reply and thought through his dilemma.
In spite of Shapner's apparent disregard for his past success, GenCorp obviously valued Jankowiak's platform as a commodity to be wrested away. That put them miles ahead of the others he'd been in discussions with. Most had simply looked down their noses, disregarding his work as the master code from an electronic idiot savant. He could not partner with time for without respect there would be no resolve. On the other hand, with any agreement there would always be danger.
While Shapner stalled, Jankowiak sighed. He had resolved his dilemma. He would warily explore a partnership with GenCorp.
“We are in clinical trials...” Shapner began.
“Mr. Shapner, I still believe in a handshake. The details can be worked out with the contract professionals.”
Shapner's face pulsed in victory. “Of course, we would welcome your further consideration.”
“I'll be delighted.” Jankowiak agreed. “We'll continue our discussion over lunch.”
Hostilities
“Welcome to GenCorp, may I help you?” A strikingly pretty brunette receptionist beamed at Jankowiak although, beneath her desk, her foot rested firmly on a panic switch.
“I'm here to see Bill Shapner.”
“Mr. Shapner,” her smile grew larger, “I'll let him know you're here.” She punched some keys on a phone pad while Jankowiak surveyed the room.
He had entered through doors to his left. To his immediate right, and just past the receptionist, a flat panel monitor displayed a schedule of the day's activities. An image of himself flashed onto its screen. He would deliver his talk at 11:45 AM in the Crick and Watson Auditorium. To his extreme right was a security booth, currently manned by two armed men, which took root at the center of the lobby. The men were busy checking in the steady stream of GenCorp employees passing through.
Behind him was a large wall on which GenCorp's corporate insignia and motto was mounted in front of a charcoal granite wall. The scripted silver letters were brightly lit from a skylight ceiling twenty feet overhead.
Jankowiak turned his attention to the security checkpoint. Briefcases, backpacks and purses were all subject to search and, in the moments he observed, the security officers browsed through several.
Jankowiak frowned.
On the opposite side of the booth, a flustered women finished reorganizing the contents of her shoulder bag. Her face was red and her movements were clumsy and hurried. She snapped the top shut and scurried toward an elevator bank where she waited, rocking on her feet, unable to hide her irritation.
Nobody stood next to her. The elevator door opened and she darted into the interior, stabbing at the bank of buttons on its wall. Then she spun and stood, tapping her feet repeatedly, until the sliding doors closed and thwarted his view.
There were several entrances into the interior of GenCorp besides the bank of elevators. A winding staircase led to a second floor veranda overhead, and there were sets of doors at left, right, and center for ground floor access. Jankowiak wondered which one he would take.
A second stream of employees began to filter about the foyer. Jankowiak checked his watch. It was 9 o'clock. Though the men and women were dressed casually, their eyes were intense and their faces were grim. Nobody was smiling.
Two men walked past him toward the front doors. Style-matched in khakis and polo shirts, they were a contrast in mannerism. The tall, slim man's arms hung naturally at his sides while the short, bald and heavy-set man's arms were tightly crossed over his chest.
“You have to make them do it for you,” the confident man lectured.
“They tell me its not their top priority,” he replied, diverting his troubled eyes away from Jankowiak. He could not conceal his downcast face.
“You're going to miss your milestones.”
The comment was delivered with an extra measure of volume. For an instant the foyer hushed and the tall man's artless shot across the bow filled the void. The silence only amplified the warning.
As the two men left the building, the normal babble refreshed.
“Angela?” The receptionist spoke into a receiver, diverting Jankowiak's attention back to her. “This is Janine at the front desk. Mr. Shapner's guest is in the front lobby.” She paused. “Okay...okay...I'll let him know.”
The receptionist disconnected.
“He'll be right with you, Dr. Jankowiak. Would you like to wait in the conference room across the lobby?”
“Thank you,” said Jankowiak.
He turned and crossed the foyer, sidestepping the late stragglers from the hourly traffic surge. The conference room door was exactly centered beneath the omnipresent sign. As he breached its plane, he instinctively frowned.
In contrast with the omnipotent design of the foyer, the modestly sized rectangular conference room was furnished with elegant utilitarianism. Nobody who sat at the centerpiece boardroom table would suffer for lack of physical comfort nor connectivity.
Plush swivel chairs skirted the oval table,
each served by a pop-up compartment that provided connection to AC power, Ethernet and a projection system. Staring down the table's long-axis he saw a large, shared flat-panel monitor. At table center lay a hand-held remote with laser pointer alongside a three prong bird-of-prey style conference speaker-phone.
A perimeter of lesser chairs framed the room's perimeter. These offered less comfort, no wired access, and did not swivel. One long row was placed beneath electronically activated blinds, which were raised to three-quarter height, in front of an exterior wall of metal-framed plate glass. The outdoor sunshine streamed in, illuminating the table top of stained mahogany, while dust rose gently from its polished surface.
Jankowiak selected the seat nearest the window, opened his briefcase and sorted his professional effects. As he waited for Shapner, he scanned the outline for his talk and then the legal documents that covered his visit.
Hurried footsteps approached and a thirty-something woman entered the conference room. She wore a matching three-piece business suit of gray wool with a white blouse beneath the vest.
“Dr. Jankowiak, I'm Angela Cohen, Administrative Assistant to Elliot Hampden, GenCorp Counsel,” she introduced herself.
Jankowiak surmised that Ms. Cohen was as efficient as she was matter-of-fact. She had intense eyes, a curt bob of strawberry blond hair and an expressionless face. Clearly she was as ambitious as her boss, a trait well suited to having achieved the status of an Executive Admin.
“Mr. Shapner will meet with you presently,” Cohen continued. “He asked me to complete some formalities with
