The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions #2)(41)
“You thought I was a Leacher, and you still employed me?” I say, surprised. “I thought they were public enemy number one in Guide society.”
“I’m not sure what Liz told you, but we’re not so dogmatic in this group.”
“Right. She said that you guys are quite open-minded. But there’s a difference between being open-minded and hiring your enemy,” I say, genuinely puzzled.
“Having Leachers investigate companies seems natural to me. They can cut through the bullshit and just read people’s minds. Direct and effective. Seems like good business to me,” he says, his eyes crinkling with mirth. “If I could ask someone for that skill in the job application, I would.”
From the corner of my eye, I see a girl approaching us. She seems to have overheard the last thing Bill said, and instead of being shocked, she’s nodding approvingly. This whole thing is a huge contrast to Mira’s hatred for Pushers.
“So you’re the new guy?” says the girl, handing me her tiny hand for a handshake. She’s extremely short and petite. I’d guess she’s under five feet, even with high heels.
Bill graciously introduces us. “Hillary, it turns out that I have known Darren for a number of years. He was right under my nose, so to speak.”
“It figures,” Hillary says, furrowing the eyebrows on her small face. “You’ve had one of us working at your hedge fund, and you didn’t even notice. People are just cogs in that financial machine of yours, aren’t they?”
Bill sighs. “Please, Hillary, can we have one conversation without your Occupy-Wall-Street rhetoric?”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Hillary,” I say in an effort to change the subject. “What do you do?”
“I’m an anthropologist. I’m also involved with a couple of charities,” she says, turning her attention from Bill to look up at me. Her big blue eyes twinkle, and with the yellow cocktail dress she’s wearing, she looks a bit like a doll.
“Right, and she has nothing to do with the spread of veganism in New York,” Bill says. “Or with the bans on ape research.”
Am I hearing what I’m hearing? Is Bill being playful? I never thought I would witness such a thing.
“I make a difference for the better,” Hillary retorts. “I’m sorry that what I do is something someone like you wouldn’t be able to understand. Certainly, protecting the animals isn’t profitable. That’s your favorite word, isn’t it? Profit. Or is it bottom line?”
“Bottom line is two words,” Bill corrects her, grinning at the annoyed expression on her face.
He’s clearly pushing her buttons, and she’s falling for it. It’s a very odd exchange. If I didn’t know that Bill is happily married, I’d think he was flirting with Hillary. Flirting in a juvenile, pulling-the-girl’s-ponytail style. Something I learned early on they do not appreciate. And speaking of his wife, is she one of us? I wonder, but I don’t feel comfortable asking at the moment.
Bill’s phone rings. He looks at it, then at us, and says, “I’m sorry—I have to take this.” And with that, he walks to a corner of the room to get some privacy.
“So you guys don’t get along?” I ask Hillary as soon as Bill leaves.
“I wouldn’t go as far as to say that.” Hillary shrugs. “William is just William, bourgeoisie personified.”
Politeness would dictate for me to say something affirmative about Bill’s inadequateness, but I don’t want to. In a lot of ways, I admire the guy. He’s on a very short list of people I’ve always looked up to and respected. In fact, seeing Bill at this party dispels all of my remaining doubts about the Guides. If he’s a Guide, that fact, more than any of Liz’s reassurances, tells me that they’re not all members of some evil cult. They’re just a group like any other, with good and bad types in the usual distribution—with the Pusher hunting me being on the scumbag end of the spectrum. Returning my attention to Hillary, I say, “Since I work for him in that hedge fund, what you say about him could easily be applied to me.”
“Somehow, I doubt it. You don’t look like the type. Besides, you didn’t know your nature. Now that you do, you might change your profession to something more meaningful.” She gives me a hopeful smile.
I think she means this as a compliment, so I don’t argue with her. I also wonder what I would do if money weren’t a variable at all. I went to work for Bill because I wanted to work the least and make the most money doing it, not out of some burning passion for stock picking. Would I become a detective like my mom, perhaps? I think I’d consider that, especially if the job weren’t so dangerous.
“So, anyway, Darren, tell me about yourself,” Hillary says, bringing me out of my musings. Her earlier smile transfers to the corners of her eyes, and the last remnants of annoyance disappear from her face.
I tell her a little bit about my life. I assume she’d be interested in my being adopted and discovering phasing into the Quiet on my own, so I focus on those things.
As I tell the story, Hillary’s little face continues to be highly animated. Though petite girls aren’t my type—at least if Bert is to be believed—I think they have a unique cuteness about them. If I had a girlfriend like this, I’d mentally call her Nano, like that iPod Nano I had as a kid. Back then, as now, everything was becoming more and more portable, and a pocket-sized girlfriend like this is just the next logical step.