On Monday morning Kapitoil continues generating hourly profits. By noon, out of a possible 2.1 % profit based on how much the oil futures have vacillated per hour, we have made a 1.7 % profit, which is not full efficiency but is still robust.
Mr. Ray emails me:
Meet me in the conference room on 89 at 1:30.
Possibly he has reconsidered that Kapitoil might still be too risky. There are rumors that layoffs will soon occur, and maybe they do not have the money to continue high-risk programs like mine.
Or possibly they do not even have the money to retain me as an employee.
I omit lunch because my stomach is turbulent, as it frequently becomes when I am anxious, and do not run Kapitoil at noon, because I do not want it to lose money suddenly and give Mr. Ray more reason to kill it.
At 1:30 I knock on the door of the conference room. Mr. Ray says “Come in” from inside, and I open the door.
He is sitting, and at the head of the table is an older man. He has tan skin and black and white hair, and his nose slightly curves down like a vertical asymptote. His suit is gray and blue and his tie is dark red like blood that has dried.
It is Mr. Schrub.
“Karim,” he says. He stands and extends to a few inches taller than I am. “Glad to meet you.”
I am afraid to look into his eyes as we shake hands, so I look at his red tie. “It is my honor to meet you, Mr. Schrub.”
Mr. Schrub puts out his arm to signal his permission to sit down opposite Mr. Ray.
“George tells me,” he says, “that you can see the future.”
I look at Mr. Ray for help, but he is not looking back at me. “The program has been successful so far at predicting pricing variance,” I say.
“What’s the 1,000-mile view on this thing?”
“I am unfamiliar with that term,” I say.
“What are its long-term prospects?” he says.
“It is employing a market signal from news reports, and it should function for the duration of that signal’s strength,” I say, and I am no longer nervous because I am in the intersected world of programming and finance. “But if the signal converts a great amount, I will have to write a 100 % new program, and that new program might not function as efficiently.” Because I am uncertain if he is familiar with these terms, I translate them to a sports analog: “It is parallel to predicting the strategy of a racquetball opponent. If you compete against him for a long time, you can predict his strategies. But if you receive a new opponent, you have to adopt new tactics because your old predictions will be obsolete.”
He smiles, possibly because he does understand the jargon terms and does not require the racquetball analog. “Is there a chance our competitors could catch on to what we’re doing?”
“If we continue making anonymous desk transactions through offshore holdings and keep them frequent but minimal, then no one will know it is Schrub, and therefore our market entry will not cause fluctuations in the market,” I say. “We can still make strong profits, as long as we practice restraint.”
Mr. Schrub taps his fingers on the desk. It makes a loud sound in the large room. Then he says, “I’ll level with you, Karim. We took a big hit in the fourth quarter. We bet the lion’s share of our capital that the bubble would finally burst, but it didn’t, and it burned us. Now we need to rebound, and from what George has told me, Kapitoil might be the way. So, as long as it keeps returning profits, we’re going to plough a lot of money into your program.”
I knew from released reports that Schrub suffered losses in the fourth quarter, but I assumed they had rebounded since then. If Mr. Schrub wants to plough money into my program after it has worked for just 1.5 days, then they must truly be in the red and not have other options.
Mr. Ray says, “You’ll receive a raise and promotion.”
“Therefore I would not be working on the Y2K project?” I ask.
“No. We want you working full-time on Kapitoil, doing everything you can to keep it humming.”
“I do not think we should tell my coworkers about this,” I say.
Mr. Ray says, “Absolutely. We can’t let on what you’re doing. We’ll just say you’re working on futures.”
“Speaking of which, how is the program protected?” Mr. Schrub asks.
“I have formally copyrighted it in my name, although I am not patenting the software, as that would force us to disclose its contents to the public,” I say. “And it is encrypted, so only I can enter into the code.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way,” he says. “I know you two are very busy, so I’ll let you get back to your work,” he adds, although of course he is much busier than we are, but it signifies control if you give permission for the other person to exit the conversation, e.g., Jefferson always ends personal calls by saying “I’ll let you go.”
He shakes my hand again, and his grip is strong but not too strong like some businessmen’s grips are to prove they are powerful. “A pleasure meeting you, Karim. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.” He looks closely at my left eye, and this time I do not allow myself to look away, although my blood simultaneously seems to stop and accelerate in my veins.
Then he leaves, and Mr. Ray and I discuss technical issues and how to enable him to utilize the program as well, and he terminates by saying, “Why don’t you finish up the Y2K work you’ve been doing over the next few days, and then I’ll let your podmates know we’re transferring you to another project next week.”
This is positive news, as I was truly non-stimulated by the Y2K project, but I feel bad about abandoning my podmates, especially Rebecca. But Rebecca also seems careless about which project she works on and is not envious of others, so maybe she will be happy for me.
When I return to my pod, people are whispering to each other and scanning the room. Rebecca explains to me that Mr. Schrub was just in the building. “He only comes in a few times a year, so it’s a big deal,” she says. “I’m having trouble containing my excitement. It’s like Christmas morning on floor 88.” She stops smiling and returns to her work and adds, “Or something like that.”
Near the end of the day, Jefferson and Dan discuss their plans to go to a nightclub. Jefferson asks me, “Karim, you want to come with?”
Although it is a Monday night and this is when I should be finessing Kapitoil even more, this may be my solitary chance. I can feel Rebecca listening to me even though she is pretending to focus on her computer, and I want to suggest that she should attend as well, but it is not my place to do so. “I would be delighted to come with,” I say.
At 6:30 p.m. they are ready to leave, and I say good-bye to Rebecca, who is staying late. Without looking up from coding, she says, “Have a blast, Karim.”
We taxi to Jefferson’s apartment near Rockefeller Center and Radio City Music Hall. It is the first taxi I have taken here, and the driver is African, although I am afraid to ask what country he is from, and I think of Barron, as the only two people who have driven me in a car here are black men. When we arrive I retrieve my wallet, but Dan says, “Don’t sweat it,” and he and Jefferson divide the cost.
Jefferson’s building is classy, but not as classy as mine (e.g., he does not have a doorman), so I feel bad about not paying for the taxi. His apartment structure is similar to mine inside, although it is smaller and the furniture is less expensive. He has posters in frames on his wall of some of the movies he has on postcards in his pod, as well as a painting of an obsolete Japanese soldier with a sword on a horse. Over the television on the wall is a true silver sword that curves at the ends.
Jefferson has a record player but not a CD player, and he cautiously removes a record from its case and centers it on the player as if he is carrying an infant. I hear a saxophone. Dan says, “Can we please play some rap for once?”