The Tree of Knowledge Daniel Miller (best android ereader TXT) 📖

the long, tubelike glass hallway of Culebra headquarters, he attempted to steady himself. He had scheduled the meeting with the candidate under the auspices of reviewing her “closing argument”—the speech she would give at all her rallies in the final days of the campaign. However, this was merely a cover to secure a one-on-one meeting. What Eric really wanted to discuss was something much more personal and important.

Riding up in the glass-lined elevator, the slim speechwriter inspected his outfit. His ensemble of khaki pants, striped shirt, and navy blazer reminded him of how long he had been underpaid and overworked. How he wrote words that moved millions but was paid money that could barely support one. Closer inspection of his shoes, covered in spilled cocktail stains, added to the perception. His snub-nosed face was boyish looking, with a short upper lip, big teeth, and a chin that just missed being weak. Nonetheless, as Eric brushed aside his sandy-brown hair and cleared the sleep from his eyes, he felt confident that today would be the beginning of the next stage of his career.

Eric reached the top floor of the facility and exited the elevator to a sight he had always envied: an entire floor dedicated to one person. Cristina Culebra’s office on the thirty-third floor consisted of nothing more than an oversized waiting room with pure-white leather chairs and floor-to-ceiling windows displaying a glorious view of Long Beach harbor. Her icy blonde assistant, Claire, whom the speechwriter had hit on mercilessly to little effect, greeted him with a forced smile.

“Hello, Eric. Cristina will see you now.”

Eric smiled. He had carefully timed his exit from the car to arrive at Cristina’s office exactly on time. The candidate abhorred tardiness because it revealed a disorganized mind, which could not be tolerated. She had equal disdain for those who arrived early, as it raised questions concerning one’s ability to efficiently manage time. Crabtree buttoned his blazer, took one long breath, and entered the candidate’s office.

“What do you have for me, Eric?” asked Cristina Culebra, not looking up from her computer screen.

The speechwriter was reminded how his candidate could be so delightful and charming when campaigning but so staggeringly curt and dictatorial with her staff. Yet for some reason, like an emotionally abused spouse, it made him crave her approval even more.

“I’ve got the latest draft of the closing argument for you.”

“Good. Let’s have a look,” said Cristina, finally glancing up from her computer.

“Before we do that, I’d like to discuss something else with you.”

Cristina looked at Eric with a knowing smirk and positioned herself in her chair like a tiger settling in for a meal.

“Oh really? What is it you’d like to discuss?” she said, placing the pad of her long, thin pointer finger on her lips.

Eric carefully absorbed the look on his candidate’s face and in that instant knew that he had grossly underestimated his opponent in this negotiation. He had worked with presidents far less intimidating. But like a batter who has started his swing, he had come too far to stop.

“I—I’d like to discuss the position that I’ll have in your administration when you are elected.”

Cristina Culebra made one simple movement—taking her index finger from the tip of her lips to the side of her cheek. She said nothing.

The silence in the massive office drove Eric forward, goading him into continuing like a palm in the back.

“I think I’ve more than proven myself as a speechwriter and that it’s only appropriate for me to be awarded the position of head of communications in the new administration,” said Eric, now barely able to stifle pubescent cracks in his voice. “And if you don’t think that’s fair, then—”

“Eric, let me stop you right there,” interjected the candidate, rising from her desk and looking out the windows of her magnificent office.

She paused as if to decide what approach to take with the impudent challenger. “Oh, Eriiiic. In the back of my mind, I always knew this day would come, but a part of me hoped that you would be able to contain your ambition just a little bit longer.”

The speechwriter looked around him as though a SWAT team were coming through the door. He interlocked his fingers, sliding them back and forth together.

“Let me guess,” said Cristina, now turning to face her protégé. Her black eyes, made larger with a surrounding coat of black eyeliner, shone like an oil slick as she sized up the young visitor. “You were planning on using our final campaign speech as your bargaining chip to secure the communications job. If I didn’t give you the job, then you were going to withhold the speech. Is that about right?”

The speechwriter continued to wriggle in his chair, but uttered not a word.

“I thought so. See, the problem, Eric, is that you don’t understand one very simple truth about me. And that is that whatever you are plotting at any given moment, I’ve thought of, months and sometimes years in advance. You must remember, Eric . . . I grew up on a farm. And when you grow up on a farm, the seasons are everything. You plan for the winter, plan for the harvest, plan for the rain, and plan for the drought. Now, only God can create the weather, Eric . . . so if I can handle him, I can certainly handle you.”

“No, no, I just wanted you to know I was interested in the job, ma’am. I had no intention of withholding the speech.”

“You see, Eric, I knew you would try and weasel your way out of this. Just like I know you hit on my assistant multiple times, just like I know that you lied on your resume, and just like I know that in your weakest moments, you seek the companionship of older men because they flatter and spoil you.”

Eric couldn’t move. His body was bolted to the chair in stark embarrassment and horror.

The candidate glared at him with her wolf eyes and smiled, knowing that she had achieved