the fuming chief of staff said. Hiccock avoided the burning stare by taking in the objects on Reynolds’s credenza. There on a wooden pedestal was a baseball autographed by Carl Yastrzemski. “Thirty years ago she predicted exactly what’s happening now.” “Aw come on, Bill. The woman wrote an anti-technology thesis when the cutting edge of technology was a five-tube table radio … and the Navy canned her ass.” “The Navy was attempting to secure congressional funding for new ASROC shipboard computers. They didn’t want the doves in Congress using the Admiral’s writing to sink their programs.” He jutted his chin out toward the prized baseball. “Did you ever meet him?” Reynolds turned his head to see what Bill was talking about. “You mean Yaz? Sure.” “My father took me to see him when he played against the Yankees.” “Don’t change the subject, Hiccock.” The telephone rang, and, picking up the receiver, Reynolds listened for a second, then relinquished it to Hiccock.
