Carl Andretti was having a difficult time shaking the cobwebs out of his head. He tried to remember details of the previous night’s celebration, but his recollection became very hazy after the third bar he and his coworkers hit. Must have been a pretty good time, though. His mouth felt as if it were stuffed with dry cotton and his head thumped ominously. It took a considerable party to do that much damage anymore.

He reached into the little refrigerator behind the bar in his office and grabbed the ever-present bottle of Dewar’s. Nothing like a little hair of the dog to get the blood flowing once again. He poured a water glass full of the cold amber liquid and took a large gulp. It was cool on his tongue but burned as it went down.

Good medicine. His stomach growled and began to ache. Soon he would be better. Much better.

There was still no sign of that damn uppity Brit Alan Smythe. Strange that he hadn’t been around since the OptiMarx opening ceremony yesterday. He was usually first in line when it was time to pass around the congratulations. Andretti figured he would at least have put in an appearance at the office celebration the previous afternoon. Bad form for the CEO to neglect telling all the staff what a great job they had done. How unlike Smythe to pass up a chance to bask in a little limelight.

Andretti took another mouthful of the Scotch and smiled. Smythe had probably gone off with some of his stuck-up, highbrow friends rather than hang around with the rabble at OptiMarx.

Him not showing up this morning was troubling, though. They had work to do. Andretti needed the effete son of a bitch for once. Mark Stern wanted a report about the progress of the system on its first full day of activation and damned if Andretti was going to talk to the venture capitalist by himself. Not after the chewing-out he had gotten the last time. It was Smythe’s job to deal with the moneyman. Let him do it.

The OptiMarx CTO set down the now-empty glass and turned back to his computer. He ignored the throbbing in his gut as he entered a series of digits on the keyboard and watched the screen flash to life.

The market was down, but that didn’t matter anymore. With his special “in” with the system, he would make a fortune no matter which way the market was headed. Yesterday had been little more than a taste of what glories were about to come. Over fifty thousand dollars had made their way into his secret offshore bank account. Not bad for a partial day’s work. Today promised to be even better.

So what if Alan Smythe was too busy with his snobbish friends to remember to show up for work? If he was not here, then there was no reason to split the profits with him.