Luck of the Draw

Chapter 1- Very bad News

The little man paced nervously in front of the polished, uncluttered desk, ranting his concern in a panicky voice and waving about a tightly clutched sheaf of papers. With each brisk turn, the tails of his white lab coat fluttered like trapped doves.

"I tell you it's a failure, Malcolm. These results just prove that we have wasted millions of dollars on this study, manufactured a product costing hundreds of thousands more, and it doesn't work! It never will!" The pacing constricted to shorter lengths.

"Calm down, Richard, calm down. You're saying it doesn't work, but we have labs filled with results that are working, and working well."

Richard stopped and banged the papers down on the desk. "That's in the lab, Malcolm, not out in the real environment! Take those results out of the laboratory and see how long they survive."

Malcolm H. Wagner stroked his baby smooth chin and pursed his lips. He picked up the research papers and glanced at a few of the pages then tossed them down. As CEO of NaturGro, the country's largest biotech firm, leading the field in redefining the garden nursery business, he didn't like to hear this kind of news. The research under discussion was actually a series of products including seeds, plant foods and nursery stock, all developed by NaturGro using a new genome program for creating one time seed, feed, and plant lots.

Targeting residential communities where foundation plantings were most prolific, the company planned to flood the market with foundation plants that would not only grow to a specific height but also last forever. This was accomplished with seed or rooted starter plants. Only NaturGro's feed products would guarantee size and longevity and that was where the money would be made.

A greenhouse farm of trees ready for the Christmas season already represented a massive investment and was to be the red carpet launch of the new lines. The marketing theory being that when people enjoyed the experience of perfect, live Christmas trees for as long as they wanted to have them up, the craving for similar behaviour in foundation plants would send their sales rocketing.

Now, his chief chemist was telling him that after four years of intensive research and development, their tests were showing less than conclusive results. A failure he called it.

"Which part of the program is failing, Richard?"

"Which part! The whole thing, Malcolm. The whole thing!"

"Impossible, we've seen results," he insisted again. "We've got a whole greenhouse full of Christmas trees ready to move. I've seen them; they look great!" He watched his chemist tear his glasses off and mop his face with his sleeve.

"You're still enthralled with Mendel's laws, Malcolm." Richard stated accusingly. "Well they don't work in the manner we've forced them. His second principle, which was his law of independent assortment, is where we are blocked. Think epistasis. That is the problem, Malcolm. We can tinker 'till the cows come home'; we can't overcome that fact." Richard shoved exasperated fingers through a mop of wild hair. "While they are rooted and growing on our test site things are fine, it's when we harvest them the problem will show. Our specimens won't do perceptibly better in the real world than any natural plant—probably worse."

Malcolm felt his heart thumping in his chest. He tilted his chair back and covered his face with his hands.

"Richard, it has to work. It has to. I go before the board and the shareholders today to announce our launch. Why the hell am I hearing this now?" He saw himself on a suicide mission, committing seppuku on the boardroom table.

"If you had read my memos, they all caution against launching too soon. You have to tell them, Malcolm."

He sat up with a jerk and banged his fists on the desk. "Abso-friggin'-lutely not! Do you realize what would happen? We'd lose everything! Everything!"

"What can you do? Everything is already lost!"

"Find a solution, Richard. I'm going ahead like nothing's wrong. I have to."

"That's suicide!"

Malcolm stared at the red-faced man. Did he read his mind? He stood and came around the desk. "Richard, this meeting never took place. As far as you are concerned, the program is working fine and on schedule. I will deal with the rest. Do you understand?"

Seeing his warning as futile, and completely cowed by his employer, Richard nodded and left knowing he had done his duty and all he could in reporting the facts. What Malcolm did was now on his own ticket; Richard made sure his backside was covered by the small pocket recorder he'd brought to his meeting, along with notes he'd filed on disks, dated and printed out.

Malcolm buzzed his secretary and told her to get the head of distribution to his office stat. He gazed out the window and contemplated how the biotech industry would react to the implosion of their largest competitor. With glee, no doubt about it, and Malcolm's own downfall would be wildly cheered. Riding the wave of huge past successes, Malcolm was not a popular figure in the biotech community; his penchant for rubbing the competition's noses in the wake of his achievements made him a figure of great dislike.

He worried about whether this might be the right time to bail and immerse himself in his other life, the fallback he had built for when he retired. This program was supposed to provide the financial kick-off for that career change he'd secretly kept on simmer. Some serious economic homework would have to be done on that very soon.

The immediate concern was how to handle the board. He would need a plausible reason for taking a measured approach to the launch; something that suggested caution without dampening any hopes. He needed something to blame—or laud. Something like a field test... and a scapegoat.

!!!!!

Barclay Hanover thought his instructions were more than strange for such a huge program unveiling, but he wasn't one to question the instructions of Malcolm H. Wagner. Find a suitable market that's relatively exclusive for their Christmas tree launch and assign someone other than the top salesperson . . . someone with a less than stellar record.

This new instruction was a one hundred and eighty degree swing from the original memo he had received earlier. Malcolm had the big report to the board today, and instead of urging banners and clarions, he was sounding more like someone looking for a parachute. It was troubling and Barclay's first action was to make copies of the original memo as well as his covert recording of this latest request.

Previous political activities within the company had prompted the survivalists to arm themselves with the necessary technology to achieve that end. Satisfied he had all he needed on record, he began poring over potential markets, and personnel files of the sales staff from different territories, hunting for that one place and person who would fit his boss's curious demand.

Teddy Playford fairly jumped off the page, and he wet his lips with a relieved satisfaction. Barclay saw the perfect choice for both Malcolm's request and perhaps a safety net. As the son of the leading shareholder and head of the board, Edward Playford became the absolutely perfect choice. His record was dismal. His accounts were pitiful, and when he failed, which seemed to be his tendency, he failed big time. Teddy wouldn't have a job at NaturGro as a stock boy if it were not for his father.

Enthused by his choice, Barclay turned his attention to a suitable market and found another satisfactory choice. The chosen market was mainly a bedroom community for a large industrial packaging company. Glen Springs, population twenty-six thousand four hundred and ten, most of who were in single-family dwellings, the perfect target for their products.

It was far enough from the big markets to command attention, yet could be pointed to as a good choice for the product line NaturGro was planning to launch in the spring. He called his aide in and carefully, without arousing suspicion explained precisely what he wanted.

Barclay relaxed and rubbed his hands together. "Teddy Playford, come on down!" If Malcolm wanted a plausible, relatively exclusive market, and a less than adept representative, for whatever reason, he had to be happy with these choices.