Gibson let the group squeeze past. The usual suits and a gaggle of white-coated scientists clucked around an older man that Gibson recognized as Don Dolaruble, Time Magazine’s, Man of the Decade, made famous by forging of an empire from humble beginnings as fishmeal factory worker.

What did their consulting firm have to do with the multi-billion dollar Fantail Group?

As the door closed behind him he heard a dull metallic ring followed by someone asking, "So these are welds are watertight, you say?”

A week later Gibson was called in to a meeting with the Corporate Affairs' manager, Marty Swencote.

Gibson had heard rumors of takeovers and restructuring, but hadn’t expected them to amount to anything. Seeing Don Dolaruble standing in Marty’s office brought it all sharply into focus. Things were much more serious than he’d thought.

Panic seized him.

"Are you okay, Gibson?” Marty reached out a hand and pulled Gibson into a chair. "You’ve probably heard all the rumors. Well, they’re mostly true. We’re being taken over and will soon be part of the Fantail Group.” Marty grinned. “There’s a bit of streamlining to do, but in the end, we’ll all be better for it.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

Marty went on. “Yes, well. As part of the process, we’re conducting interviews with all the section heads. That’s why you’re here.”

Gibson felt the weight of Don Dolaruble’s appraisal.

“Marty has told me a lot about the good work you’ve been doing for the company, Gibson,” Dolaruble said. “I hope I can call you that?” Dolaruble didn’t wait for a reply. “The Fantail Group is one big happy family and we like to keep things informal. You’re in Human Resources, Gibson so you’ll understand where I’m coming from.”

Gibson wasn’t sure if Dolaruble wanted a response or not. Still suffering from shock, he gave a vague nod and hoped that would suffice.

Dolaruble turned to Marty’s gold fish bowl, beckoning for Gibson to stand with him. "What I see in this firm is potential but no drive. A lot of good people crying out to be more productive.” Dolaruble lightly tapped the fish bowl. “The goldfish, Gibson, is nature's production masterpiece. No other creature can achieve more with less energy output, and convey such a sense of effortlessness. What about the sloth, I hear you say? Ha! What does a sloth produce? Goldfish, Gibson. Goldfish are the answer. The Goldfish produces more,” he stressed his words by pointing a finger at the steady stream of fish turd being ejected from the rear of one of Marty’s pets, “per joule than any other creature alive. At the Fantail Group, we understand productivity better than most because we learned that lesson early on. And when I’m finished here, Gibson, your firm is going to be such a paragon of productivity, such a streamlined masterpiece, that every other company in the Fantail Group will come to look at you. I guarantee we’ll have people flocking in from all over for a peek.”

Gibson nodded, not quite sure where this was going.

“We have a vision, Gibson,” Dolaruble was saying. “And your firm is just what we need to make it reality. So, are you with us?” Dolaruble extended his hand.

Part of him was sure that this was some sort of TV-dinner induced hallucination, and that he would soon wake, slightly embarrassed but relieved that it was nothing but a dream. But just in case, Gibson took the extended hand and tentatively gave it a shake.

The nightmare continued over the next few weeks as the buyout proceeded. Gibson signed a mountain of forms, each time giving away more of his rights to Fantail management. The only consolation was that he wasn’t alone.

At the clinic he’d stood in line with four hundred other employees, all holding the same yellow paperwork in one hand and flimsy paper hospital smock in the other.

Just a few tests, they’d said.

Later, as he lay on the gurney and a mask similar to the ones the flight attendants used to demonstrate safety procedures lowered towards his nose and mouth, Don Dolaruble’s words echoed in his mind. “Goldfish, Gibson. Goldfish are the answer.” There was a hissing sound as gas flowed through the mask, then all went dark.

It was the second week of work post-buyout and there’d been a lot of changes. The corporate logo had been subtly altered and other changes had been made to the building. Compared to life before the takeover, things were far simpler. Complaints were fewer and people seemed to spend more time working and less time squabbling.

All in all, Gibson found the new environment refreshing. His memories of life before Dolaruble’s arrival were filled with chaotic images of last-minute deadlines and endless paperwork. Compared to that, things were great. There were some vaguely disturbing memories of a frightening medical procedure, but even those seemed unimportant...

He smiled and returned to work.

Don Dolaruble swept out his arm in all-encompassing pride, “And this, gentlemen, is our flagship consulting firm. We like to say that we don’t have glass ceilings here at Fantail. We do however have glass walls. But as you can see, our policy is clear--transparent, even. If you are a productive member of the team, male or female, you need never fear the glass. Welcome to a new age in corporate restructuring.”

The visiting CEO’s watched in fascination. Workers floated happily behind glass walls, streams of bubbles billowing from their gills. Wires inserted into units on the backs of the workers’ heads connected them to a central supercomputer.

A sign bolted on to the front of the glass read, Think Tank.