It was getting ridiculous. It didn't seem to matter what I said, how I dressed, or how suggestively I behaved. I simply couldn't get a rise out of him. For nearly a year I'd done everything I could think of short of pulling down his pants. He acted as if I were just one more male colleague. Oh, he was polite, even friendly. He'd listen forever to anything I cared to talk about. And he was helpful to a fault. But I wanted more than anything to see that courteous, attentive expression tinged with a little lust.
I thought it might be my face. I ruined it a few years ago in a motorcycle accident. Major skin grafts were necessary just to keep bone from showing through. The scars are many and prominent. In short, I'm not pretty. My face makes me look much older than I really am. But I have other assets.
I'm a fairly big gal at five-eight and a hundred thirty. All the martial arts training and sports I've done have given me a tight, muscular body. Still, I'm visibly female, with the right stuff in the right places and no shortage of it. And I like clothes that divert attention away from my face and toward my figure: silky, form-following blouses, short skirts, and the highest heels I can manage. A colleague once called me a walking advertisement for sex, which I'd have minded a lot less if I'd been getting any.
My build, my couture and my single status at age twenty-eight had made me the office sex kitten. Just about every office has one. Most of the time, the designated female is no more sexually active than anyone else there, and frequently, as in my case, a good deal less. But the position has its responsibilities nonetheless, so I flirted as universally and lightheartedly as possible.
I do flight software for warplanes; he's the number-one real-time software expert in the world. We worked together as closely as a surgical team. We spent many hours together, chasing elusive faults through the bowels of huge programs written for exotic military computers.
Often on such occasions, I would leave off studying the problem at hand, and instead study him. He never noticed. When he's at work, he's the ultimate portrait of concentration. His focus narrows down to whatever he's pursuing, and the rest of reality ceases to matter. There's a palpable force that emanates from him, an assertion of unstoppability, as if he were daring the universe to try to hide anything from him.
What does he look like? Oh, he's unremarkable. An inch shorter than I am. An ordinary body, with a hint of middle-aged-middle developing. At forty-three, he's allowed. A pleasant face, usually with a smile, but nothing to make loins quiver... except for mine.
I told myself repeatedly that all I wanted was to prove to myself that he was human, that he could be had. I avoided asking myself why proving that was so important to me.
It was his mind that turned me on. I'm excessively bright myself; there aren't many men whose mental powers impress me. And women aren't attracted by men's physical attributes nearly as strongly as by their minds and personalities. There just isn't that much variation among men's bodies, whereas no two women look alike at all.
But their minds and personalities are a different subject. Women show more uniformity there. Sure, there are both fools and geniuses among us; I should know. But the central hump of the big bad bell curve includes many more women than men in those areas. The differences between the sexes are dramatic, despite the endless attempts to talk them away.
His mind is the most unusual in my experience. It's flexible, subtle, and powerful beyond description. He's a specialist in an arcane field, as am I, but there is nothing specialized or limited about the way he thinks. I've seen some sharp people try to snow him, and I'm convinced that it can't be done. He cuts through obfuscation like a new razor. He can detect an unjustified assumption, an attempt to disguise inadequate evidence, or a substitution of premise for conclusion with absolute precision.
Coupled to that nuclear-powered intellect is a personality as warm and friendly as a Newfoundland puppy. I've never heard him say a negative word to or about anyone, even people I know he detests. He was married once. She left him for someone else, and took nearly everything he had in the divorce settlement. When he told me about it, I disparaged her in no uncertain terms. That is, I started to disparage her. The warning look I got from him was like having a tennis ball wedged into my mouth.
He helped without being intrusive. He criticized without being unkind. And my God, how he listened.
My God, how I wanted him.
------
Everyone who ever works for a sizable company eventually faces an ethical dilemma. Ethical dilemmas are created by middle managers; a company whose top bosses were in direct contact with the grunts and knew what they were doing could never have one.
There's really only one ethical dilemma for an employee: a middle manager tempts you to suppress something you know you ought to broadcast. He's invariably trying to advance at the expense of his equals in the organization. Deny him, and he'll vow revenge. Accede to him, and he'll own your soul.
The middle manager is indispensable to the dilemma because you can't tempt yourself. If you have ethics, then you'll know what's right and what's wrong. If you don't, then you're not a man; you're vermin, and you ought to be crushed.
The day came to us with more than a little warning, for we were "late." We'd told the project director how long the project would take, but he'd rejected our estimate and made up his own, the better to impress his own management. Now the customer was screaming about cost overruns, missed deadlines, and having been wilfully deceived.
So the director called the two of us into his office for a chat.
He spoke warmly of our abilities and our great efforts to date. He complimented us on how much we'd already achieved. If I'd been carrying my pocketbook, I'd have held it in both hands. It didn't take him long to reach the payoff.
Stripped of its decorations, what he wanted us to do was to jury-rig the program so that it would pass the acceptance test, whose terms we knew, without actually providing those features that had been promised but were as yet undeveloped. He did his best to dress it in the colors of reason. He hinted at dire consequences should we demur, and bright prospects should we agree. He played it very well indeed.
As he came to the end of his pitch, I caught myself holding my breath. Nothing that could have come from this could be good. I wasn't an employee, I was a freelancer, and there's no one easier to dispose of. If a scandal should erupt over this affair, I would be the most convenient hook to hang it from. I might never work in the field again.
When the director ran down, he waited through a long, uneasy silence for our reply. I forced myself to remain calm. I kept looking inquisitively at him, as if he simply had to have more to say. Some twenty seconds passed before my partner spoke.
"No."
Again the silence stretched, while the director adjusted to having been refused. I kept my mouth shut.
"That's not an acceptable answer." The director's voice was chilly.
"Too bad."
I looked over at my partner in surprise. His look of icy concentration was on him, but I had no difficulty sensing the explosive rage behind it.
The director rose from his chair. He's a large man, and he might have thought to add the element of physical intimidation to his ploy. My partner did not flinch.
"The project will be completed as we contracted for it, and within the estimate we gave you."
The director's glare would have blistered paint. "The customer is raising holy hell, and I have to --"
"We will NOT!"
That was the first time I had ever heard him raise his voice. He hadn't raised it all that much, but the effect was terrifying. I'd seen men fight before -- I'd even been the reason for it, once or twice -- but I didn't want it to happen there. I had this sick feeling that it would be to the death.
The director started to round his desk. He halted, stood still for a moment, and returned to his chair.
"You know, no one's ever successfully appealed a dismissal for insubordination." His tone was maliciously casual.
My partner sneered.
"Suit yourself." His voice was rich with scorn. He glanced at me; I bit my lip and nodded. We rose and left.
------
He was silent as we returned to our lab bench. He sat at his usual workstation, but did not set to work. He stared at the blank screen for several minutes. All I could do was watch him.
After a while he shook himself, as if trying to emerge from sleep. He gave a great sigh, put his hands to his keyboard and resumed where he had left off. I tried to do the same, but without success.
"We'd better just try to leave everything in good order."
"What?" His sudden statement had startled me.
"The terminations won't take more than a few days to process. We can't finish by then. Better just tidy up so the customer can finish it himself, if he ever decides to."
