Hewlett-Packard Offices

Palo Alto, California

June 12, 1964 - 3:30PM

The Conference Room at Hewlett-Packard was small, and had barely enough room for 6 chairs and a table. Dave Packard, Bill Hewlett and Patrick Moller, the head of HP's research and development team, sat clustered together on one side of the table, and Peggy, Don, and Stan sat on the other. In the centre of the table, a small plate of cut sandwiches sat; two of which had been scarfed down by Stan. Don's glass of whiskey was half empty. The meeting had been going on for 30 minutes and not much had been discussed about the business relationship between HP and SCDP. Most of it was taken up by Dave Packard reminding the team of what a long-shot Quadrangle had been at the Stakes. He also spoke highly of Betty a few times; Don smiled.

"So what can we do for you gentlemen?" Don asked during a slight pause after some laughter.

"I'll be honest, Draper. I'm not quite sure. The reality is that we're waiting on the whole stunt we pulled last week to kinda set in." Bill said. "When Dave told me about his bet, I mean, I was intrigued, but I don't know how much there is to get going. We're kinda happy with what we've got."

"The stunt, you mean the whole cesium clock thing?" Stan asked.

There was a short pause.

"I'm not sure if you grasp how monumental an achievement that is, son." Bill said.

"I'm sure I don't." Stan smoked. "I mean to say you want to piggyback off the success drummed up on it."

"Well, frankly we're not sure what success can be drummed up." Pat Moller said. "It was more of a stunt to demonstrate what abilities our 5061A could complete. Hopefully some other militaries around the world will be interested in guidance clocks and items of that manner."

"So you're just happy with what you've got then?" Peggy asked.

"I mean, we're happy with what we're doing. And we're willing to take assistance to point us in the right direction." Packard said.

"Then you're happy with mediocrity." Don said. "You're happy with just enough."

He pulled out his carton of Lucky Strikes, and slid one between his lips. Reaching into his pocket he removed his lighter, and lit it.

"I didn't say that, I said we're happy with what we've got and where we're going." Hewlett replied.

"Last year, IBM helped NASA complete their flights of the Mercury program, bringing a man into orbit and back again." Don began.

He stood up, and paced the room.

"Next year, there's already talk of them using their computers to run guidance on the Gemini Program, and then further into helping NASA get to the moon, just like Kennedy talked about. Back on earth, here in California, Fairchild Semiconductor is dominating the analog integrated circuit market and they are well on their way to becoming the only profitable semiconductor company in the history of the United States. Hewlett-Packard? Who cares." He smoked.

The men sat silently. They looked tensely at each other, as if under interrogation. He continued, looking down to the sandwiches on the table, then peering over to the HP team.

"Myself and my team, we may not understand the complexities of creating computers, or much in the world of semiconductors. But what we understand is people. We know how people work. If we are uninspired about your products, so is everyone else. Don't get angry if we don't understand why your atomic clock matters; no one in California does. IBM matters because whatever they do is the next step in the process of this country becoming the first to put a man on the moon. Fairchild matters because they have military contracts all over the place, and their semiconductors are being used by IBM and the like. It took me a few days to read about this stuff in various magazines my secretary drummed up for me. IBM is synonymous with the cutting edge. Fairchild means cheap dependable parts. HP?"

He scoffed.

"HP means nothing outside of southern California. New York barely knows you exist. And we only heard about you through a friend of a friend. Sure, you had some success with previous products, and your cesium clock stunt is neat. But the luster is going to wear off really fast, and luster doesn't pay the bills." Don pulled the cigarette from his mouth, flicking ash into a nearby tray.

"So what are you suggesting? Why did you even come to us in the first place? Are you suggesting we go after IBM? We chase down Fairchild?" Bill Hewlett piped up. He smiled comically, turning to gauge the reception amongst his partners.

"That's exactly what I'm suggesting." Don smoked. The smiles disappeared. "If you wanna die, that's fine with me. Mediocrity is a slow painful death, so pick your torture wisely."

"Are you coming in here, telling me how to run my company? The gall." Bill raised his voice.

Dave was silently smoking a thick cigar, analyzing Don.

"I'm not telling you how to run your company. I'm telling you how to sell your company. All of the hard work that you, Mr. Packard, and Mr. Moller put in each day will be for nothing if Hewlett-Packard closes its doors. If no one ever hears about HP, IBM, or Fairchild, or some other company that's starting in some other garage in some other neighbourhood, will swallow you whole. So what's it gonna be? Is Hewlett-Packard going to go gently into that good night?"

Silence came over the room.

"You have our attention, Mr. Draper." Packard spoke quietly between puffs on the cigar. "Now what do you propose we do about this predicament?"

"What do you have to offer?" He replied.

Patrick Moller leaned back in his swivel chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Most of our semiconductors are built for internal use. We build them, then put them into our own products. We don't make money on the sales outside of the company. Fairchild has that market cornered."

Moller looked over to his superiors.

"What about the 9100 project? The one we have Tom on?"

"Is it ready?" Packard asked.

"The prototype's done. We're working out the kinks now." Moller replied. "We could have a serviceable model by year's end."

"What is it?" Stan asked.

"It's a programmable calculator." Moller said. "A personalized computer of sorts. A compact model, that would take the place of comptometers on accountants desks."

"What's the difference?" Stan asked.

"What's the difference!" Moller smirked. "Just about everything. Comptometers are purely mechanical. They use steel rods and stampings to calculate values as you depress the keys. This is a computer, there are no internal mechanisms to do computation. In the simplest terms, you press a button, it sends a signal. The signal is converted into a number, and then displayed on a screen. The 9100A will be able to compute extremely complex equations; logarithms and the like, in a fraction of a second."

"So it could revolutionize the industry." Peggy said.

"It will revolutionize the industry. The first of its kind." Hewlett said proudly.

"Show us the prototype." Don said.

Pat Moller led the Sterling Cooper team from the conference room down a series of hallways through the building, eventually ending in a small laboratory. It had shelving units everywhere, along with what appeared to be televisions screens sitting on desks. There were keyboards scattered everywhere and wiring coming from nearly every object in sight. A few men in white shirts and slacks stood around their workstations, soldering wires and gluing parts together. Moller brought the team to a turquoise painted steel box with a small one inch by three inch screen on the front. It had typeface buttons and resembled a calculator.

"This is it. The prototype 9100A." Moller grinned. "Tom! Get over here."

One of the white-shirted men looked up from his desk where he was soldering, flipping up his magnifying visor. He removed it from his head, and walked over to the team.

"Sterling Cooper team, this is Tom Osborne, the lead engineer on the 9100 project." Moller said.

Tom shook their hands quickly.

"Can you give us a demonstration?" Moller asked.

"Sure." Osborne quipped.

He walked to the rear of the machine, and plugged it in. A loud buzzing sound rang in their ears momentarily, and then the little screen lit up. After thirty seconds of waiting, he spoke.

"Give me a number."

"Twelve." Stan said.

Osborne reached down and pressed the 1 and 2 buttons. The number 12 lit up the little screen.

"Give me another number."

"Three hundred forty-two." Peggy said.

Tom reached to the other side of the machine and pressed the large "X" button. He then typed in 342. In a momentary flash of green, 4104 appeared on the screen.

"Twelve times three hundred forty-two is four thousand one hundred and four." Tom said.

Stan grinned.

"Now that's pretty cool."

"That's not even the best part. The ANITA can do that. But what it cannot do, is this."

Tom leaned over and typed through a few of the buttons, ringing out a stream of numbers on the screen.

"It's computing logarithmic functions. If it had a screen that could display the information, you could see graphs, extrapolated functions that-"

"You're thinking an early '65 launch then." Stan interrupted.

"-I, I mean it's theoretically possible." Osborne stuttered. "We'd have to divert a ton of energy to get it done in time. I was thinking more like a '66 or even '67 launch."

"Do you have mockups of what the real thing could look like?" Stan asked.

"Sure." Tom said. "Our modeling man, Rich Gorney, has already made some modeling clay models, and some really nice drawings in colour. It's shaping up to be only slightly larger than your average desk typewriter."

"I'd like to meet your man, Gorney." Stan said.

"I'll have Tom introduce you." Pat Moller interjected. "Any more questions for Mr. Osborne?"

"I didn't catch what you all were doing here?" Tom faced the team once more.

"We're going to turn your computer into a commercial success." Don said, moving to stand in front of his team. "We're going to put HP on the map."


Room 104

The Fairmont San Jose,

170 South Market Street, San Jose California

June 12, 1964 - 6:08PM

With a final guttural grunt, Herman "Duck" Phillips rolled off of Peggy Olson. Their naked bodies peeled away from each other in a drench of sweat. Peggy sighed loudly, looking over to Duck, and smiling. He returned the smile, then reached over to the side table where a phone sat.

"Room Service?" He asked.

"I already got that." Peggy said coyly. Duck laughed.

"Order whatever you want." She continued.

Duck put through an order for two full steak meals with champagne to drink. They estimated 30 minutes until the bellhop came up with the cart. He hung up the phone, and leaned over to plant a long French kiss on Peggy. She received it, turning her body to face his, and ran her hand down his sides.

They made love once again for a short amount of time before Duck finished and pulled away from her, heading to the bathroom with a half-smoked cigarette in his mouth. He started the shower and got in. Peggy's hair was let down, so she grabbed a band and put it up. She covered her body as she began to get cold.

The telephone rang.

Peggy reached across the bed, nearly falling out on Duck's side as she lifted the receiver to her ear.

"Please don't tell me the food will be late." She said in a sultry tone.

"What food?" Stan asked.

Peggy's face fell. Her eyes widened and her chest tightened instantly. The breath was nearly pulled from her mouth.

"Oh nothing… sorry. I thought you were room service." She managed quietly, listening with her other ear to the shower sounds of Duck humming along to a Sinatra tune.

"You're eating in tonight? Joey and I were going to Coyote Creek on the Bay tonight for beer. Don's busy. We were gonna ask if you wanted to come."

"Uh…. I… yeah. Okay." She sat up against the headboard, grabbing her hair and rolling the band back. "Sorry, yeah. What time?"

"You got better plans?" Stan laughed. "I'm starving, and Joey could always eat. Why don't I call a cab, and swing by your room?"

"No, no. That's fine. I'll meet you in the lobby. I need to get dressed. I'll tell them to wrap up the food for later. I'm sure we'll be up late some night and need it anyway."

"Okay, see you down there." Stan hung up.

Peggy threw the covers off the bed, and walked over to her undergarments, sliding them on. Her dress was rumpled but still wearable for a fashionable night out. Her makeup had run all over the place. She pushed into the bathroom, opened her makeup bag, and began fixing it.

"Where do you think you're going?" Duck said, moving aside the curtain to look at Peggy's body.

"I got a call from the team. We're having a creative meeting. I have to go."

"We just ordered food! Tell Don he can get bent."

"I would but this one is… important. We just nailed down a serious client offer and we don't have a lot of time."

"I don't envy you." He continued, leaning back into the shower. "California has a nice market though. I just hate thinking of you beholden to that indulgent prick, Draper. You could do something on your own, you know. You have the brains, and the talent in spades."

Peggy smiled.

"Maybe one day." She curled her eyelashes. "For now, I'm happy with where I am. It's not always the most glamorous, but it beats being a secretary and constantly under Joan's thumb."

"Oh Joan. If her ego wasn't just as large as her assets." Duck laughed.

"Don't be so crass. She's been there for me, in a weird kind of way." Peggy leaned away from the mirror. "I'm sure we'd all be under water if it wasn't for her at some point."

"It doesn't seem to me that Roger hired her for her brains."

"Maybe not at the beginning." Peggy said. "But everyone learns the value of another overtime."

Duck killed the water in the shower and flipped the curtain open. He walked up behind Peggy, pressing himself into her back. He kissed up her neckline and she closed her eyes, moaning softly.

"I've certainly learned of your value overtime" He said lowly.

"I've got to go." She whispered.

"One more round?"

"Maybe just one for the road."

She turned quickly, kissing him passionately, and allowing him to carry her forcefully to the bed.


Poplar Beach,

Half Moon Bay, California

June 12, 1964 - 7:00PM

Just over a half-hour east of the Four Seasons San Jose, taking the 101 north and the 92 eastbound, lay the small township of Half Moon Bay. It was a tourist spot, with three main beaches along its coast; the hideaway was a destination chosen ahead of time by Don for his family.

There was a seaside fish and chips place where they had eaten, and were now back on the shoreline as the sun hung low in the sky. A bar was nestled along the boardwalk, between the sand and Poplar Street. It had a small patio with some wooden picnic tables as seating. Sally and Bobby were just a few feet from the bar, in the sand, building a castle with a large moat; Bobby fetched the water with a large blue pail from the ocean. The breeze was warm, and neither of the children complained of chills.

Donald Draper and Betty Francis were seated across from each other at the picnic table. Each of them had a drink in front of them and cigarettes burning away in an ashtray in the centre of the table. Don had his Old Fashioned, and Betty was drinking a Mint Julep.

"Are you glad you came?" Don asked, inhaling on his cigarette.

"It's been beautiful." She drank. "Reminds me of 1950."

"Why's that?"

"Everything was easy. I was at Bryn Mawr. What a time that was." She laughed. "I still had dreams of becoming a professor, or a model."

Don drank.

"Why don't you?" He asked.

"If I didn't have children, I would have."

"Do it on the side. I could get in contact with Glamour. I'll show them your Heller's shoots."

"Oh god, no." She smiled. "I looked so young. Now they think I'm an old saggy maid."

"You look just as beautiful as the day we met."

Betty bit her lip, looking over Don's shoulder.

"Maybe in another life." She said. "I wonder how Gene is doing. I'm always worried, leaving him."

"He's fine. Henry's raised his own children. He knows how to change a diaper. How is he, by the way."

"He's still exhausted. He hobbles around. The night of the party, when you dropped the kids off, it really wore on him. He's getting better each day. But he's not normal yet. I don't know if he'll be up to it for a long time. Elenore, his daughter, came by this week from college. She took care of him while I was out with the kids." Betty said.

"That's good." Don drank his whiskey.

"What about you? Is there anyone serious in your life?"

"Other than you, no."

Betty's cheeks flushed. She looked down at her hands.

"Are you glad you came?" Don asked.

"Of course I am." She said quickly. "It's beautiful here, the beaches are perfect. The kids love it."

"California is different from New York."

She looked into his eyes. They held hers for a long moment.

"It is." She said slowly.

Sally Draper watched her parents from the corner of her eye intently. Bobby was too busy carving his moat out, and filling it with water which slowly disappeared into the sand, to notice them. She saw her mother, grabbing the fringes of her hair and twiddling them in between her fingers. She saw her father stare with great intensity and speak unflinchingly.

Two young boys, perhaps just older than Sally approached from behind her. They kneeled down greeting both Bobby and Sally.

"Nice castle." the taller one said. He had brown hair and blue eyes.

"Thanks." Sally said.

"We built one near the shore, but the tide destroyed it." the shorter one said. He had brown hair and brown eyes.

"Why would you do that?" Bobby asked.

"Easier for the moat!" the boy replied. "I'm Keith by the way" the short one said.

"Jack." the older brother said.

"I'm Sally, and this is Bobby. We have another brother, Gene, but he's just a baby."

"Cool." Jack said. He leaned down beside Sally. "Where are you guys from? L.A? You look like city goers."

"New York." Sally said.

"What makes us look like that?" Bobby said.

"I can just tell the difference." Jack replied. "It's not a bad thing."

"We're from Stockton." Keith said.

"Where's that?" Bobby asked.

"Two hours west of here." He continued. Jack reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette, passing one to his brother. He gestured towards Sally.

"My mother would kill me." Sally said.

"Is she here?" Jack said, putting the cigarette in his mouth and lighting it with a match, passing the match to Keith. Keith lit it quickly, and snubbed the match into the sand.

"Yeah, they're at the bar." Sally turned, and looked over to her parents forty feet away.

"Ours too." Keith said, blowing out a plume of smoke.

"Doesn't that taste bad? It smells bad." Bobby said.

"Yeah at the start. Gets better as you go." Jack said. "How long are you guys here?"

"I think we leave Sunday. We're staying at the Four Seasons San Jose."

"Oh you guys are uptown then. Swanky. Shame you're going home. You're quite pretty." He continued, looking at Sally.

Sally grinned, looking down to her feet and her cheeks rang bright red.

"How old are you?" Sally asked timidly.

"Thirteen." Jack boasted. "Keith's twelve. You?

"Oh, I'm eleven."

"No you're not, you're ten." Bobby protested.

"I'll be turning eleven eventually. Don't be such a square, Bobby."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"I'll try it." Sally looked over to Jack. He passed her the cigarette, and she took a long inhale. She immediately began coughing and passed it back to him. Both Jack and Keith laughed lightly.

"It's not for the faint of heart." Keith said.

"I want to try!" Bobby said. Keith gave him his cigarette, and a cackle of coughing and spitting ensued.

"Those are disgusting." Bobby added.

"Told you." Keith said.

"Where's your parents?" Sally asked.

"Told you already, they're at the bar too." Jack said.

While Don and Betty spoke, a couple approached their table. They were around the same age. The husband was shorter, with long brown hair and bright blue eyes. A scruffy beard clung to his face and a great smile crossed his lips. The wife was short as well. She had brown eyes and bright long blonde hair. They wore loose-fitting white cotton shirts and canvas shorts. They were both in sandals.

"Those are your kids?" The husband asked, pointing down to the beach. Sally and Bobby were sitting next to two young boys around their age. Don took notice of them for a long moment.

"Yes, they are." Betty interrupted.

"You're very lucky." the wife said. "Your daughter looks like the perfect mix of both of you. Very beautiful."

"Thank you." Betty smiled.

There was a momentary silence.

"Those are our boys, Jack and Keith down there."

Betty now looked out at the foursome, sitting around chatting. The couples' sons were smoking.

"How old are they?" Betty asked.

"13 and 12. Irish twins nearly." the wife laughed.

"May we sit with you?" the husband asked.

Don hesitated, looking at Betty. She said nothing. He finally looked up to the couple.

"I don't see why not." he said.

The couple sat down beside them, the man on Don's side, and the wife on Betty's side.

"Kip Girling, this is my wife Annabelle."

He extended his hand to Don's and they shook.

"Don Draper. My wife Betty."

Don removed a cigarette from his carton, lit it, and smoked. Betty looked at him and said nothing. She pursed her lips.

"You're from California?" Don asked.

"What gave it away?" Annabelle said.

"Sun tanned skin, I suppose."

"Where are you both from?" Kip said.

"New York." Betty said.

"You look like one of those couples we'd see in ads." Kip continued. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket. It was scrunched up, but still usable. He unfurled the edges and reached into his other pocket for a match. Don leaned over with his lighter, snapping the lid open. Kip leaned in, and inhaled.

"Much obliged." He added. "How's your vacation going?"

"It's beautiful here." Betty said. "Feels like an endless day. The Pacific is just very different from the Atlantic."

"We'll have to take your word for it." Annabelle said. "We've never been out there."

"My family is from Indiana, but that's as far as I've been." Kip said.

Don drank his whiskey, and tapped ash from his cigarette.

"What do you do?" He said.

"All sorts of things, really." Kip smoked. "I tinker mostly. I paint, I draw and write a lot. Poetry, fiction, anything that comes to mind. When you really let yourself be free you'd be surprised what you can come up with."

"And you can survive?" Don said.

"Yes, absolutely. I've sold quite a few pieces for even up to a hundred dollars. We have a little plot of land outside of Stockton." Kip said.

"It's beautiful, you'd love it there." Annabelle interrupted. "Right nestled in the trees, a tiny little house and a huge garden in the backyard."

Betty sipped her drink.

"It sounds lovely." She said.

"Oh it is. We've been there for a few years now. Best decision for us and for our marriage."

Don raised a brow.

"What did you do before?" Betty asked.

"Salesman. Worked for Fridgidaire. What a lifeless, soul-sucking, job that was." Kip started. "I was one of the regional sales reps in Stockton. Dealing with whining managers, complaining customers. Just the whole system, you know? I felt like I could never control anything, that my whole life was decided for me. Now, I feel free."

He smiled while smoking. Don drank.

"Have you ever considered modelling?" Annabelle asked Betty.

"Actually, I have modeled. Before… before we were married, and the children came along. Life gets in the way."

"You could easily go back now! You don't look a day over 27." Kip managed.

"Thank you. That's kind of you." Betty smiled.

Don looked over to Kip, eyeing him.

"I mean, with yourself and Don here, you could easily be models for pictures, painting, whatever you wanted. I'd bet there's money to be made in it too." Kip finished.

"There's money to be made in everything." Don said.

"Art is where the new money is at." Annabelle said. "It's where you let your creativity flow, where your energy goes to it's most useful place."

"What do your boys think of it?" Don looked out to the children. "Your life."

"Fine so far. Haven't heard many complaints from them." Kip said. "They've had a lot of time to adjust. They seem to be very happy about it."

"I see." Don said, finishing his whiskey.

"Do you come here often?" Betty asked from a short silence.

"Much as we can. There's a surf shop up on Francis Beach. We go there most weekends; came to Poplar tonight because it's less crowded in the evenings. It's more of a local spot I find." Kip said, smoking.

"You know, every Friday night just up the cliffs there's a get together. Some like minds, meeting together for conversation. Sometimes we paint, sell art, smoke, things of that nature. Would you want to join us?" Annabelle offered.

Don smoked.

"It starts around 9:00." Annabelle continued. "Goes until whenever you're bored, and then you can leave. The only thing you bring is yourselves. Everything else is there to be used."

"I… I don't know. We do have to get back to the hotel at a reasonable hour, right dear?" Betty looked at Don. She held his gaze.

"Yes, I suppose we should put the kids down." Don said, butting his cigarette. "Bobby, Sally. 5 minutes."

The children looked up and nodded.

"That's a shame." Kip said. "If you change your minds, it's on Redondo Beach Boulevard, south of here near the bluffs. Last house on the street. You can't miss it."

"Thank you for the offer." Betty said. "It's nice to meet people who are… down to earth."

"Anytime." Kip smiled, flicking his cigarette into the trash bin nearby. "Boys! Car." He hollered.

Both Annabelle and Kip stood from their seats, bidding Don and Betty and quick goodbye.


Mount Sinai Hospital,

New York City

June 12th, 1964 - 5:35PM

Kaye Sharpe was sitting up in her bed, bringing a spoonful of bland hospital stew to her lips. It didn't have nearly enough salt. She asked for a shaker but it never came. The nurses constantly forgot her requests. Her legs were covered in blankets, and she was getting acclimatized to the cast on her left leg. It was difficult to move it, but it got easier as her strength returned to her. The swelling had reduced, the chest tube had been removed, and the bandages were changed over daily on her wounds. She was being closely monitored.

The whole affair with Kaye had been swept under the rug. Only a handful of Sterling Cooper staff knew about her whereabouts and what had truly transpired. Megan was silent, and Donna had been instructed to work on other projects in the interim. Joan Harris was the key intermediary in the situation. She visited Kaye in the hospital at least once a day for a half-hour, most consistently at the end of the work day upon her departure. She brought news from the office, updates from Don and the team, and generally pleasant conversation.

"Lane signed off on your severance package today." Joan said during a lull in conversation. She was sitting in the chair across from Kaye, her hands folded in her lap over her purse. She wore a bright orange dress. It was not low cut, but showed skin beneath her neck.

"Oh?" Kaye quipped.

"I have the package here for you to sign. I'll stop at the bank on the way home, and drop off the paperwork pertinent to them. The funds will likely be deposited on the 25th." Joan reached into her purse, and removed a packet of paper. She handed it to Kaye.

It appeared to be about 15 pages in length, all neatly typed. At the top of the first page was "SEVERANCE of KAYE SHARPE" in bold. She ran her fingers along the lettering. Without reading much further, she flipped until she reached the final page. It contained the signatures of all partners of the firm, with one single line empty; her own name underneath. The number

$55 416.67 was nestled into a paragraph just above the signatures.

"Pen?" Kaye requested.

Joan reached into her purse and removed a golden pen, she stood, and handed it to Kaye. She took it and signed along the line, handing the packet back to Joan.

"You don't want to read it?"

"I trust everything is in order. You did the homework."

Joan took the packet and folded it to fit appropriately into her purse.

"Roger is particularly regretful about this." She spoke.

"Not regretful to do anything about it, I suppose?"

Joan said nothing.

"The sooner I get out of this place, the sooner I can get on with my life." Kaye said.

"I wish there was something more I could tell you. Some reassurance I could offer." Joan said.

"I've heard it all before." Kaye said.

"Well, I know it is perhaps unorthodox, considering the situation." Joan began. "But I called Frank Gleason, of CGC. They're a rival firm-"

"I know who they are."

"Right… Well, I asked him if there were positions available at CGC available for you. He indicated they would be very interested in an interview, and meeting with you."

"What was the reason you told him I left?"

"Creative differences with Don." Joan said. "Not far from reality sometimes."

"What's the position?"

"They're currently looking for a Chief of Copy."

"So a demotion."

"It's a job, Kaye." Joan said quickly. Kaye was shocked by the ascerbicity of her response. "You need to start weighing your options."

"I guess so, then." Kaye said monotonously.

"Look, I don't want to be short. But there really is nothing that can be done. I've exhausted every avenue you've suggested. No one is willing to go out on a limb. Lucky Strike is just too important to lose at this point."

"And what about Pan Am?" Kaye raised her tone. "You're all sitting in the office I got you. You're all squatting on my success! Doesn't that mean anything?"

"I'm sure it does. And I know every single person in the office is grateful for what you've done. Without Lucky Strike though, the partners are spending their own money to stay afloat. Even with Pan Am. If there really was anything that could be done, it would be done. I thought that you might be content knowing I went searching for you."

Kaye sat silently for a moment, collecting herself. The blood drained away from her face. Her knuckles unclenched.

"I'm sorry." She managed. "I'm not entirely well yet. I am happy, Joan. Thank you for doing that."

Joan smiled.

"You're batting a thousand for me." Kaye mumbled. "I know what you've done."

"Good, and I will continue to try."

Kaye ruffled the sheets over her legs. She spoke suddenly.

"I need you to bring a Private Investigator to me. Someone discreet, I don't care what they cost. The best the city has to offer."

"What would you need a PI for? I'm sure I can dig up whatever you'd need."

"While I appreciate the offer, I'm certain you won't be able to find what I need. I'll pay you some commission for finding them."

"Alright." Joan said. "I will find someone. Is that all?"

"Yes," Kaye said. "Thank you tenfold."

"Of course."

Joan stood up from her chair, carefully pleating her dress as she stood so as not to expose too much of her thigh. She clipped her purse shut, smiled at Kaye, and then left the small hospital cubicle.