David tells the reporter what drives his love of business.

Outside, snow was falling in the dark. Traffic was all but stopped, cabs and cars and buses all pumping out clouds of vapor into the cold air as they idled in front of jammed intersections. Snowflakes blew against my face and each time I looked down at the navy topcoat I was wearing it had more crystals of white clinging to it. I shuffled along through the slush toward the restaurant, moving faster on foot than anybody on wheels, Lynne's tape recorder in a pocket of my suit jacket.

When I found the restaurant, she was sitting at a table near the door and waved as I came in. She didn't get up as she said hello, but sat composed with every golden hair in place, a glass of wine, which she seemed to have been nursing, in front of her. I came over, windblown and dripping, brushed off the snow, reached under my coat, and brought out the tape recorder, which she took and immediately put away in her purse.

"Thank you for finding it," she said. "Would you like to sit down?"

"Don't mind if I do," I said. "It's a blizzard out there."

A waiter came by and I asked for brandy. Lynne ordered another chardonnay.

"How is Gene Cherson doing?" she asked.

"Looks like he'll recover," I said.

"Good. I'm glad to hear that," she said.

"Tell me," I said, "how is what happened this morning going to affect the story you're doing about us?"

"I talked to my editor and we've decided to hold off on the story for a while," she said. "Not just because of what happened, but some other things, like the release of fourth-quarter earnings."

"I see."

Nice to know that sentiment had nothing to do with it, I thought.

"You had some good questions this morning," I said.

"Thank you. I wish you guys had had better answers."

"We may have some in a few months," I said.

"Why? What's going to change in a few months?"

"Not much in terms of results; that'll take a year or more. But we may have a whole new marketing strategy," I said.

A look of intense skepticism crossed her face: Right, big deal. Then she softened. "I'll stay in touch with you, just to see how things are coming along," she said.

"I'd like it if you would," I said.

I found myself feeling a bit warm, but it wasn't just the brandy. She was nice. Maybe I should ask her to dinner. But asking her seemed to be crossing a line. This was business, after all. Or was it? I could have just left the tape recorder with the building security guard; she could have suggested something like that herself. Instead she wanted to meet me here. She seemed to like me. Maybe if I phrased the idea just right . . .

"Where were you before Elemenco?" she was asking me.

"A little company in California," I said. "Well, not exactly tiny. About $100 million in sales. Morrison made his mark there in the late 1970s, before he came to Elemenco."

"Why did you leave?"

"Walking across town tonight, I asked myself the same question," I said. "We never had weather like this in SanJose."

"Seriously, why did you leave? If you don't mind my asking, that is."

"Because I wanted to be with Elemenco."

"They must have offered you a lot of money," she said, almost teasing.

"Enough," I said. "But I really didn't come here for the money. Not for the money alone, anyway."

"What else then?" she asked.

"The chance to turn Elemenco into a great company."

She froze for half a second, not really believing that I'd said that. "You're kidding, aren't you?"

"No, that's really why I came here."

"Is that your life goal or something?"

"It's my goal for right now," I said.

She laughed. "How noble of you. And of course the money means nothing."

"Okay," I said, "why did you go into journalism? Was it for the money?"

"Well, I needed a job," she said.

"But there are lots of ways to make a living," I said. "My point is that you've got idealists who want to make the world a better place, and so they go into journalism or government or maybe join the Red Cross. And those are all worthwhile. But, in its own way, business is one of the strongest forces for positive change in the world. I want to be in a company that makes great products and does great things. I want to be part of making that happen. Which is why I'm here."

"You really believe that," she said.

"Yes, I do," I said. "And I like being in a business that makes things. To tell you the truth, I'm tired of seeing American industry retreat from manufacturing. I think Elemenco can be one of the companies that stops retreating and starts advancing."

She gave me a look I couldn't quite interpret, and we started talking about other things. I had just about made up my mind to ask her about dinner when a tall, handsome man came up to the table and stopped just behind my right elbow. His sandy hair had that styled look, short on the sides and long in back, muy cool.

"There you are!" said Lynne. "This is my friend, Kurt. Kurt, this is David Kepler, the guy I said I had to meet."

"Good to meet you, Kurt," I said.

"Same."

They kissed. He took a seat next to her and immediately moved his chair very close and put his arm across her shoulders. It wasn't affectionate. It was possessive, definitely first-person possessive. He didn't look at her, he looked at me.

"Where were you?" she asked him. "I thought you'd be

here an hour ago."

He shrugged. "Had some clients who just wouldn't leave."

"Kurt has an art gallery," she said.

"Interesting business," I said.

"I'll sell it to you," he said. It was supposed to be funny; he laughed.

Fantasies of dinner and whatever else dissolved to nothing. I endured a couple of minutes of polite conversation, then said, "I'd better be going. Take me a while to get home."

I tried to pay for the drinks, buy Lynne insisted they were on her, as a favor for returning her tape recorder.

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