This Is Not a Game Read Online Free PDF Page B

reasonableness, that and the excellence of his grammar, avoiding the dangling preposition even in speech.
    “I can talk to my partners about the changes,” Don said. “And they’ll be okay with it.”
    “Ask yourself,” Austin said, “if they’ll be okay with finding another source of start-up money after I refuse to give you any further capital.”
    “But we agreed . . .”
    Austin’s reply was lazy, airy, while he thought of cowgirls.
    “Why do I have to follow the agreement, Don, when you don’t? ”
    While Don, with greater intensity, explained his ideas all over again, Austin thought of cowgirls riding in slow motion through fields of daisies.
    “Don,” Austin finally interrupted, “if you follow the business plan and achieve every benchmark and every deadline, and the firm establishes itself in its market niche, and the IPO happens and everyone leaves rich, you can buy all the buildings you want . And hang around and make all the new implementations that strike your fancy. No one will argue with you— you’ll be rich. ”
    “But—”
    “So for now you need to follow the strategic plan. And if you don’t”—Austin smiled at the thought—“I will join your partners in voting you off the board, and you’ll get nothing. And please don’t think I can’t do it, because I can. Ask Gene Kring.”
    There was a moment of puzzlement.
    “Who’s Gene Kring?” Don asked.
    “Exactly my point,” Austin said.
    Honest to Christ, he thought, this guy was almost as bad as BJ.

CHAPTER FOUR
    This Is Not a Rescue
    In midafternoon Dagmar heard tramping outside and peered out to see a double line of police marching down the street in line abreast, followed by police cars and vans. The police were dressed more seriously this time, in khaki, with long batons, shotguns configured to fire tear gas grenades, transparent shields marked POLISI, and round helmets that looked as if they were designed by samurai, with plates hanging down to cover the ears and back of the neck.
    The kid with the Frankie Avalon hair was awake by then, if still unwell. He slouched against the wall beneath one of the shelves. His eyes weren’t very focused yet, but he didn’t seem about to drop dead.
    Dagmar saw as the police passed that they were heading in the general direction of her hotel. She figured this was about as safe as her day was going to get.
    She went to the door and rolled the screen up to waist height, then ducked down beneath the screen and out into the street. The rotating lights on the vehicles flashed on broken windows. Dagmar followed the police line down the street.
    At the next intersection the police paused for directions, and that’s when someone noticed her. One of the cops in a car saw her, blipped the horn, and gestured her over. She bent toward him, and—talking around the cigarette in the corner of his mouth—he asked her a question in Javanese.
    “Royal Jakarta Hotel?” she said hopefully.
    The cop looked at her for a long, searching moment, then motioned her to stay where she was. He thumbed on his radio mic, spoke briefly with someone Dagmar assumed was a superior, and then turned back to Dagmar and spoke to her while gesturing at the rear door.
    It seemed he wanted her to get in his car.
    “There’s a man back there,” she said, pointing, “who’s hurt.”
    He squinted at her and pointed at the rear door again.
    She pointed at the download store. “Ambulance?” she said.
    “No ambulance.” The cop was losing patience.
    Dagmar thought she should insist on an ambulance. Instead she got in the backseat and hoped this wasn’t her last moment of freedom.
    The car smelled strongly of the driver’s harsh tobacco. The driver put the car in gear and it sprang away, turning onto a side street. They were still heading in the general direction of the Royal Jakarta, which was encouraging.
    A second cop riding shotgun turned around and grinned at her. He seemed very young.
    “How are you?” he