Disclosure by Michael Crichton

problem, or little problem? I've got to know,” Sanders said. “It's going to come up in the meetings tomorrow.”
    “Wel , at the moment, the answer is we don't know. It could be anything. We're working on it.”
    “Arthur thinks it might be serious.”

    “Arthur might be right. But we'l solve it. That's al I can tel you.”

    “Don . . .”
    “I understand you want an answer,” Cherry said. “Do you understand that I don't have one?”
    Sanders stared at him. “You could have cal ed. Why'd you come up in person?”
    “Since you asked,” Cherry said, “I've got a smal problem. It's delicate. Sexual harassment thing.”

    “Another one? It seems like that's al we have around here.”
    “Us and everybody else,” Cherry said. “I hear UniCom's got fourteen suits going right now. Digital Graphics has even more. And MicroSym, look out. They're al pigs over there, anyway. But I'd like your read on this.”
    Sanders sighed. “Okay.”
    “In one of my programming groups, the remote DB access group. The group's al pretty old: twenty-five to twenty-nine years old. The supervisor for the fax modem team, a woman, has been asking one of the guys out. She thinks he's cute. He keeps turning her down. Today she asks him again in the parking lot at lunch; he says no. She gets in her car, rams his car, drives off. Nobody hurt, and he doesn't want to make a complaint. But he's worried, thinks it's a little out of hand.
    Comes to me for advice. What should I do?”
    Sanders frowned. “You think that's the whole story? She's just mad at him because he turned her down? Or did he do something to provoke this?”
    “He says no. He's a pretty straight guy. A little geeky, not real sophisticated.”
    “And the woman?”
    “She's got a temper, no question. She blows at the team sometimes. I've had to talk to her about that.”
    “What does she say about the incident in the parking lot?”
    “Don't know. The guy's asked me not to talk to her. Says he's embarrassed and doesn't want to make it worse.”
    Sanders shrugged. “What can you do? People are upset but nobody wil talk . . . I don't know, Don. If a woman rammed his car, I'd guess he must have done something. Chances are he slept with her once, and won't see her again, and now she's pissed. That's my guess.”
    “That would be my guess, too,” Cherry said, “but of course, maybe not.
    “Damage to the car?”
    “Nothing serious. Broken tail ight. He just doesn't want it to get any worse. So, do I drop it?”
    “If he won't file charges, I'd drop it.”
    “Do I speak to her informal y?”
    “I wouldn't. You go accusing her of impropriety-even informal y-and you're asking for trouble. Nobody's going to support you. Because the chances are, your guy did do something to provoke her.”
    “Even though he says he didn't.”
    Sanders sighed. “Listen, Don, they always say they didn't. I never heard of one who said, `You know, I deserve this.' Never happens.”
    “So, drop it',”
    “Put a note in the file that he told you the story, be sure you characterize the story as al eged, and forget it.”
    Cherry nodded, turned to leave. At the door, he stopped and looked back. “So tel me this. How come we're both so convinced this guy must have done something?”
    `Just playing the odds,” Sanders said. “Now fix that damned drive for me.”
    A six o'clock, he said good night to Cindy and took the Twinkle files up to Meredith's office on the fifth floor. The sun was stil high in the sky, streaming through the windows. It seemed like late afternoon, not the end of the day.
    Meredith had been given the big corner office, where Ron Goldman used to be.
    Meredith had a new assistant, too, a woman. Sanders guessed she had fol owed her boss up from Cupertino.
    “I'm Tom Sanders,” he said. “I have an appointment with Ms. Johnson.”
    “Betsy Ross, from Cupertino, Mr. Sanders,” she said. She looked at him. “Don't say anything.”
    “Okay.”
    “Everybody says