Programmed for Peril

confident women. Researchers had lately arrived to illuminate its secrets. After Emma she had been graduated from Brown, major in computer science (a snicker now; how little she had known—and not just about computers).
    Right about then she “snapped,” as she said over the years to come when characterizing her rapid departure. What did it was the ride home from Providence, cap and gown stowed in the trunk atop a debris of dorm room furnishings. Mom had taken the trouble to research computer-related firms, not on the basis of growth or earnings, but on the number of male employees. “The more men, the more eligible men, Patricia.” When she balked Marylou went on, her Savannah inflection deepening as she entered familiar lecture mode. “You mustn’t tell me you subscribe to this liberation chimera. You’ve studied history in two of America’s best schools. Surely you’ve noticed that men and women related successfully to each other over the last five thousand years by doing what nature decreed. Look between your legs, Patricia, if you need a hint about your role. And don’t be a fool. Play it.”
    The next day Trish got on a plane for Los Angeles.
    Marylou was running on about the private club where she thought the reception would go “in a style that the Palmers would appreciate.” Trish found the Palmers—Foster particularly—a lot more laid back about “style” than her mother. Maybe that came with being able to buy whatever style suited at the moment, then going on to the next. From burgers to entrecôte bearnaise, from tenting to renting Alpine chalets, from sailing Sunfish to sloops, the Palmers had no adjustment problems. They just slid along atop the thin oily film of their dollars.
    “…now, I know the place sounds a bit dear, and the manager is a snob, but...” Trish pushed the disconnect stud and put the cellular phone back in its cradle. No problem hurting her mother’s feelings. She was as sensitive as a tombstone. The wedding to which Trish looked forward so eagerly would before long demand that she deal with its details. Or was it Marylou with whom she had to deal? In either case, not today.
    Midway through her afternoon solo planning session she took a brief break and queried the telephone computer for her messages. It played them back. Three were from vendors that could be ignored. The fourth was from Rocco DeVita. Her mouth dried at the sound of his rough voice. Though bom in America, he still spoke with the inflections of old Italy. When she had met him at a chamber of commerce get-acquainted party he was startled to discover she was in the same business as he. He called his outfit Computer Service. His dark eyes narrowed as she described PC-Pros. She didn’t like the way his glance moved over her, as though she were a pork chop in a display case. He had to look up to do the full job because he was shorter than she. His burly frame rocked heel to toe, and his thick mustache twitched. He could scarcely wait to play the old familiar song, like the organ grinder immigrant he could have been: “Woman looks good as you do should be home with children.”
    “It’s almost two thousand, Rocco. Not eighteen seventy. Women decide what they’ll do with their lives. Not men.”
    He sniffed away her rebuttal. “So I’ll buy you out.”
    “What?”
    He nodded. “Everything you got. Maybe I hire your people, too.”
    Trish scowled. “I can’t believe this! PC-Pros isn’t for sale.”
    “Everything’s for sale, Gray Eyes. It’s just a question of price.”
    “ Please! I’ve heard that line only about a hundred times.” She began to move off.
    He held her sleeve and named a figure. “I’ll give you, say, three months to think it over.”
    “Rocco, I don’t need three months. I don’t even need three seconds. My business isn’t for sale.” She hurried away, flushed and annoyed. She hadn’t spoken to him since then.
    Until now. Why was her finger shaking as she keyed the number he’d left? She knew why but wouldn’t face it directly at that moment.
    Before she could get a word in, he said, “I talked to my people. They said I should offer you twenty thousand more. So I’ll do it. I called to let you know. Come on over my place. We’ll sign the papers. Have a wine over a done deal.”
    “Rocco, your memory isn’t very good. I told you PC-Pros isn’t for sale. Second, it’s worth a lot more than what you’re offering.”
    A moment of icy silence, then he said,