Tokugen Numataka stared out his window and paced like a cagedanimal. He had not yet heard from his contact, North Dakota. Damn Americans! No sense of punctuality!

He would have called North Dakota himself, but he didn'thave a phone number for him. Numataka hated doing business thisway—with someone else in control.

The thought had crossed Numataka's mind from the beginningthat the calls from North Dakota could be a hoax—a Japanesecompetitor playing him for the fool. Now the old doubts were comingback. Numataka decided he needed more information.

He burst from his office and took a left down Numatech'smain hallway. His employees bowed reverently as he stormed past.Numataka knew better than to believe they actually lovedhim—bowing was a courtesy Japanese employees offered even themost ruthless of bosses.

Numataka went directly to the company's main switchboard.All calls were handled by a single operator on a Corenco 2000,twelve-line switchboard terminal. The woman was busy but stood andbowed as Numataka entered.

"Sit down," he snapped.

She obeyed.

"I received a call at four forty-five on my personal linetoday. Can you tell me where it came from?" Numataka kickedhimself for not having done this earlier.

The operator swallowed nervously. "We don't havecaller identification on this machine, sir. But I can contact thephone company. I'm sure they can help."

Numataka had no doubt the phone company could help. In thisdigital age, privacy had become a thing of the past; there was arecord of everything. Phone companies could tell you exactly whohad called you and how long you'd spoken.

"Do it," he commanded. "Let me know what you findout."