"Undo"
a novel by
Joe Hutsko
COPYRIGHT 1996, by Joe Hutsko
RESTRICTIONS
The author, Joe Hutsko, retains the copyright to this novel.
This novel may be freely distributed as long as there is no
charge for its distribution. You may read this novel, make copies
of it, and distribute it exactly as it is, unchanged, via any
media, as long as you do not receive money for it.
If you wish to include this novel in a CD-ROM collection, please
contact the author to obtain written permission for its
inclusion.
Thank you.
Joe Hutsko
76703.4030@compuserve.com
"UNDO" ON THE WORLD WIDE WEB
The WWW version of "Undo" is located at
http://www.vivid.com/undo.html
(Special thanks to Nathan Shedroff, Drue Miller, and Anita Corona
of San Francisco-based Vivid Studios, for kindly creating and
maintaining the "Undo" WWW page; you folks are a many splendid
thing.)
NOTE TO NEWTON USERS
A Newton Book edition of "Undo" is available in the Newton/PIE
Forum on CompuServe (GO NEWTON), in the Newton Forum on America
Online (KEYWORD: NEWTON), and in the Newton Books Forum on eWorld
(SHORTCUT: NEWTON).
(Special thanks to Patty Tulloch, of Apple Computer, Inc., for
her kindness, her commitment, and most of all, her friendship.
Without her assistance, the Newton Book edition of "Undo" would
not have been possible.)
DOWNLOADING THE ETEXT EDITION OF "UNDO"
The complete Etext edition of "Undo" may be downloaded from the
World Wide Web in the Project Gutenberg library, located at
http://jg.cso.uiuc.edu/PG/welcome.html
The Etext edition of "Undo" is also available in the Newton/PIE
Forum on CompuServe (GO NEWTON), in the PDA Forum on America
Online (KEYWORD: PDA), and in the Newton Books Forum on eWorld
(SHORTCUT: NEWTON).
TABLE OF CONTENTS
AUTHOR'S NOTE
DEDICATION
INTRODUCTION TO THE ELECTRONIC EDITION
PROLOGUE
PART I
Chapters 1 - 6
PART II
Chapters 7 - 11
PART III
Chapters 12 - 16
PART IV
Chapters 17 - 20
PART V
Chapters 21 - 24
THE END
AUTHOR'S NOTE
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, companies,
products, places, and incidents are either the product of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, companies
and/or products, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
This novel is dedicated
to the loving memory of my father
Stephen M. Hutsko
INTRODUCTION TO THE ELECTRONIC EDITION
"What a long, strange trip it's been."
-- The Grateful Dead
As nearly as I can remember, I began writing this novel in the
summer of '88, after leaving my job at Apple Computer, Inc.,
where I worked for almost four years for former Apple chairman
John Sculley, as his personal technology advisor. It was a neat
job title and a lot of fun, but somewhere in there I decided I
wanted to become a novelist. Eight years and two title-changes
later, the first novel that I set out to write, known these days
as "Undo," is finally available to readers in this special
electronic edition, free of charge.
Electronic books, or e-texts, have been available for some time
now so this is hardly groundbreaking news. Or is it? For me,
it's a pretty big deal. Primarily because the electronic books
that are available to download from the Internet, the World Wide
Web, and online services such as CompuServe and America Online,
were published previously in hardback or paperback editions, or
both. Bruce Sterling's "The Hacker Crackdown: Law and Disorder on
the Electronic Frontier," for example, was first published in
hardback by Bantam in 1992, then in 1993 in paperback, also by
Bantam. Sterling wisely retained the electronic rights to his
book so that he may - electronically speaking - do as he pleases
with his work. To the best of my knowledge, Sterling is the first
author to give away his published, in-print book for free on the
Net.
I don't know how many people who download e-books actually read
them from cover-to-cover, though I suspect the number is rather
low. Mainly because the medium isn't as easy on the eyes as
traditional paper-based books. I would bet that most people who
download e-books - and I'm talking about novels, vs. reference
works - browse them part of the way, then delete them from their
computer or PDA. As for works of non-fiction, such as Sterling's
book, or the enormously serviceable "Elements of Style" (which
has recently appeared in e-book format), readers refer to these
works on a need-to-know basis. But novels, they're another story.
A novel is something you curl up with and, if it's a good one,
lose yourself in, much the way Alice found herself getting lost
in that fantastic looking glass. Perhaps the valuable thing about
publishing a novel as an e-text is that it gives readers a taste
for the story and for the author's style, so that the reader can
then go out and purchase the published edition if they want to.
But let's get back to "Undo," and why making it available for
free in this electronic book version is so important to me. The
reason is simple: I want people to read it, and this is - so
far, anyway - the only way to make that happen. For, despite the
hard-fought efforts of not one, not two, but three very reputable
literary agents, the book, unlike Mr. Sterling's works, has not
found a trade publisher it can call home.
Why? The answer to this question is best summed up by Bantam
editor Brian Tart, in his recent letter of rejection:
- - - - - - - - - -
Ms. Juliet Nicolson
Juliet Nicolson Ltd. Literary Agency
71 Chester Row
London England SW1W 8JL
Dear Juliet:
Thank you for dropping off Joe Hutsko's ms. while you were in New
York. I must say that I am impressed with Mr. Hutsko's writing
and believe him to be a talent to watch in the future. His story,
however, seemed to me to be a bit stale - it seems to be about
six or eight years too late in the making - as I could see, and
indeed have seen, this kind of corporate intrigue take place in
the world of non-fiction. Because the plot was not as timely as
it would need to be to succeed in the commercial marketplace, I
will have to pass.
Please do keep me informed of Mr. Hutsko's projects, should he
decide to embark upon writing another ms.
Sincerely,
[Signed]
Brian Tart
Associate Editor
Enc.
- - - - - - - - - -
Give or take a few sentiments, the gist of Mr. Tart's
encouraging but ultimately downer letter was repeated by all of
the top trade publishing houses. A number of enthusiastic editors
- in particular a young editor named John Michel, who pleaded
with his senior editors to acquire the novel first at
HarperCollins, then later when he moved to Crown (and who has
since become a friend, so something good has survived those
battles) - tried their best to acquire the book, and in one case
an offer was extended to my then-agent, but then two days later
the publisher backed out, apologizing that the editor who'd made
the offer was in no position to do so, please forgive the error
in our ways.
The really troubling thing for me was that when I set out to
write my novel, another novel called "The Bonfire of the
Vanities," by Tom Wolfe, had taken the reading population by
storm. Was not Mr. Wolfe's novel inspired by real-life, by the
bond trading schemes that at the time were making front page
news? Readers of fiction turned the book into a best-seller, and
as one of those readers, I cannot say that I would have read the
book were Tom Wolfe to have written it as a non-fiction title.
That it was inspired by actual characters and events, and turned
by Wolfe's expert hands into a compelling modern-day tale of
murder and mortality, were enough to convince me that I could
pull off the same sort of magic with my own "what if" scenario,
swapping Silicon Valley for New York, and the personal computer
business for bond trading.
That this was my first attempt at writing a novel goes a long way
toward explaining the earliest rejections of the work, then
titled "Silicon Dreams," by editors unlucky enough to have had it
land with a thud on their desks. Somehow I'd lost sight of Mr.
Wolfe's excellent illustration and found myself mimicking, all at
once, the likes of Sidney Sheldon, Arthur Hailey, Jackie
Collins, and, believe it or not, Stephen King (who happens to be
my favorite mainstream read). With so many influences at play in
the already befuddled head of an aspiring young writer with
dreams of hitting the number one spot on all of the best-seller
lists, you (and of course I, this much later) can understand how
my storytelling ability left something to be desired.
Still, I pressed on, heeding suggestions I believed were valid
(such as: "How dare you kill that character in the middle of the
book just because you don't know what to do with her next!").
More than once I put the whole thing on the shelf to give it, and
myself, a breather; to put a little space between us so that our
respective flaws could be considered the next time around with a
clearer, colder eye. Four rewrites later, including a
no-holds-barred excising, I finally had a book, still known then
as "Silicon Dreams," that I believed was as good as it was going
to get.
And then it happened. A publisher bought it. I had the literary
critic Digby Diehl to thank for this good news. At the time Digby
was a book reviewer for "Playboy," and also a daily book
columnist for the Prodigy online service (where I'd done a brief
stint ghost writing for a highly paid high-tech analyst who will
remain unnamed). Via e-mail I asked Digby if he'd read my novel
and, if he liked it, to suggest editors who may want to take a
look at it. Well, Digby'd read it and liked it - enough to
personally pass it along to the head of a new and
small-but-going-for-the-big-time publisher named Knightsbridge
Publishing, an imprint distributed by the reputable Hearst
Corporation. Knightsbridge was founded around the time of the
Gulf War, and made its killing, so to speak, with a mass market
paperback best-seller, "The Rape of Kuwait."
The deal was for both hardback and paperback rights, and the
publisher himself called me to offer $5000 for the whole package,
which I came close to accepting. However, I knew that money
matters were best handled by my agent - despite the fact that I
had fired her a few months earlier for not having sold the novel
herself. Fortunately she forgave me my actions and signed me back
up, compelling Knightsbridge to increase its offer to $25,000.
Too bad neither of us ever saw most of that money.
Unfortunately, Knightsbridge went out of business - but not
without first boosting my expectations through the exhilarating
prepublication process. I was assigned a marvelous editor named
Lynette Padwa, whose keen suggestions helped me to make the book
a better read. There was even a glossy lavender and gold embossed
book jacket with my photo on back atop Digby Diehl's encouraging
blurb, and two months before the publication date I received my
first bound galley copy, to double-check for typesetting errors
before it went off to the printer. The prepublication buzz
started up, and a Hollywood producer named Andrew Karsch, who'd
just released "The Prince of Tides" with Barbra Streisand, was
considering buying a film option on the novel to adapt for a
possible a feature film or television miniseries. And just when
things couldn't possibly look brighter, they did, when both
Kirkus Review and Publishers Weekly asked to see advance reader's
copies of the book.
And then the impossible dream turned into a nightmare. I should
have known the end was near when instead of receiving the
signing advance in one lump sum, as agreed upon, it was coming in
smaller and smaller portions (and then only after my hounding the
accounting department every day telling them my rent and phone
bill were late). You see, I wanted to believe. It was difficult
enough to accept that this was finally happening to me - that my
first novel was about to be published in hardback to building
fanfare. To think otherwise, that something might stop the novel
from being published, wasn't a "happy thought," and anything but
happy thoughts, my agent advised, would seep disagreeably into
the novel's successful launch. But unhappy did things turn when
Knightsbridge announced that it was closing shop.
But I was not to be put off. Armed with ten bound galleys, my
agent appealed to several hardback publishers...and when they
all said no - in almost every case for the same reasons Brian
Tart at Bantam gave us - we tried paperback publishers, lowering
our expectations and hoping then for a paperback original deal.
Twice we came close. First Ace, then Berkley, however editors at
both houses met resistance from editorial boards who felt that
the novel would find no audience.
Feeling dejected and down on my luck, I had to blame someone for
this conspiracy, so once again I contacted my agent and told her
I would be seeking representation elsewhere. This time she told
me she wouldn't take me back if I changed my mind, and who could
blame her. My next agent, who'd left an old and very successful
New York literary agency to start her own agency, was young and
fresh and building a name for herself as one to watch in the
business, with editors chasing her all over the floor at the
first American Booksellers Association conference she attended on
her own. She had a more focused approach: Talk up the book to a
few editors she knew very well and try to get something of a
rivalry going for it - before any of them even read it.
Brilliant thinking; this was the kind of agent I wanted on my
side. Shooting for freshness, we decided to change the novel's
title from "Silicon Dreams" to "Double Click," and off it went to
the waiting editors. The long and short of it: Neither Random
House nor Viking wanted it. Adding insult to injury, one even
suggested that if I were to write a non-fiction book he would
publish that. What a depressing thought.
Before she'd signed me up, my agent and I had agreed to treat our
relationship as a trial agreement. After the rejection, I decided
that though she was fast becoming a very hot agent, mainstream
fiction wasn't her area of expertise; what I really, really
needed was an agent who represented best-selling mainstream
authors.
My friend Gloria Nagy, a splendid novelist with seven novels
under her belt (one of which, "Looking for Leo," is on its way to
becoming a CBS miniseries), put me in touch with her then-agent,
Ed Victor, who is based in London, and enjoys a long client list
of acclaimed literary and mainstream authors. After Gloria's
introduction, I sent my novel to Ed Victor, and although he'd
rejected the novel six years ago, suggesting it needed a lot of
work (advise I took to heart), this time he responded positively,
saying he had enjoyed it.
Yet, because his client list was so full and active, he was at
the time not taking on new fiction writers. He did however
direct me to an agent named Juliet Nicolson, with whom he had
begun a working alliance, and to whom he would be happy to send
my novel for consideration. A spirited British woman, Juliet had
lived and worked in publishing in the United States for many
years, and had decided to return to London to start her own
agency. Several weeks later she faxed me to say that she
thoroughly enjoyed the novel, and that Ed Victor lends his full
support to her should I decide to have her represent me. I called
her back thirty seconds later and shouted "Yes," and, another
long and short of it, despite their combined efforts, their long
careers of landing huge book deals, the novel "Double Click"
still found no publishing house.
After sending the novel to a long list of hardback publishers,
then trying, as before, to secure a paperback original deal,
Juliet felt it was time to put the book away and concentrate on
my next novel, which I had in fits and starts tried to get off
the ground for the last however many years. She stressed that
someday we would sell "Double Click," possibly after my next
novel or the one after that, and assured me that this was how
first novels sometimes turned out (after all, although John
Grisham's blockbuster "The Firm" made him a household name, his
first novel was the small-press-published "A Time to Kill," which
Doubleday/Dell then rereleased to astonishing success). So I put
"Double Click" away once more and went back to writing the video
game strategy guides I'd found my way into to pay the rent, and
that was the end of that...
For about six months, anyway.
Then I was struck by an idea: To rewrite "Double Click" just one
more time, but this time around, fix the number one complaint
that editors had voiced: That the story was too dated. So instead
of playing out the trials and tribulations of my characters on a
stage set in the by-now commonplace (and therefore, predictable)
personal and mainframe computer market, I decided to shift the
backdrop to a more modern setting: advanced handheld computers
and pocket communicators, also known as PDAs, or personal digital
assistants.
I told my agent none of this, and quietly set to reworking the
plot and backdrop to accommodate my change of heart. To make the
story feel fresh to me I changed most of the characters names,
but other than that each of their stories and struggles remained
the same. To ensure that I didn't date the story before I even
finished it, I wove in a number of not quite ready for prime time
technologies, including practical speech synthesis and voice
recognition. The final rewrite in effect put the novel ever so
slightly into the future, and as far as I could tell squashed
the criticism that the story was too stale.
Taking my agent by complete surprise, I sent her the new
manuscript, which I had retitled "Undo" (a contemporary term,
recognizable to readers, that represents the novel's premise and
the underlying theme at play in each of the primary characters'
lives - and, a little closer to home, sums up my own story in
trying to turn around the mysterious forces that have stood in
the way of getting this novel published). Well, she was shocked,
to say the least, and complimented me on my patience and
perseverance.
While my agent was busy reading and considering what to do with
the new and improved "Undo," I'd begun, and have since
completed, my second novel, "r.g.b." The book's first chapter,
which I'd written a few years ago, was excerpted in a small
literary journal called "Puck," and represents for me my "other"
style of writing, which, for lack of a better word, I can only
describe as more...intricate and challenging to read, less
mainstream.
Which brings us to the present. Because "r.g.b." is not what my
agent - make that, former agent - considers commercially viable,
she has decided to drop me as a client, suggesting with a wish of
good luck that I find myself an agent who wants to represent both
of my "voices" - the mainstream style of "Undo," and the less
mainstream style of "r.g.b."
So, here we are. My old friend John Michel has offered to help me
find a new literary agent, and I'm about to begin writing a
screenplay called "Misguided Angel" that I've wanted to write
for years. Plus, I'm already thinking about the second screenplay
I'll write after that, and the next mainstream novel, and the
next less mainstream novel too. So I'm anything but down for the
final count.
Have I learned anything in all these years? Tons. For one thing,
my first two agents weren't so unfit after all - each did the
best job she could in trying to sell the novel, and in the end
even my third, highly esteemed agent met with the same
resistance that the previous two encountered. Second, the
publishing business is more a mystery to me than ever. That this
book has not found a home has somehow turned in my heart from a
troubling fact of life, to something of a testament to optimism,
a proud eccentricity, a character-building battle scar of sorts.
I suppose that's just how we fragile beings adapt to unrealized
expectations, dashed hopes. Still, having just completed my new
novel, I'm all juiced up and feeling groovy, raring to give it
another go - after all, it's all anyone who decides to try to
make a living telling stories can do...try, try again.
Will "Undo" ever find its way between the sheets of pulpy paper
and glossy covers? Will it ever find its way onto the big
screen, or, if I had my choice, the little screen? And, perhaps
most important of all, does this novel really matter to anyone
besides me? The first two questions I have no way of knowing the
outcomes of - both are in Fate's all-knowing hands and only time
will tell.
As for that last question, whether this novel matters to anyone
besides me, I can only answer by saying I hope so.
What you're about to read is a novel I have labored over for a
very long time. It gives me great pleasure to hand it over, once
and for all, to you, gentle reader, whoever, and wherever you
are. I hope you like it.
Joe Hutsko
76703.4030@compuserve.com
January, 1996
PROLOGUE
It was once a sprawling flatland, dominated by fruit tree
orchards and nestled safely between protective hills.
This tranquil scene slowly vanished as trees were felled,
concrete poured, and new seeds planted, each the size of a large
beetle and filled with thousands of microscopic circuits, sown by
a new breed of farmer, with dreams of growing the future.
The new electronic produce, capable of performing millions of
calculations in the blink of an eye, was harvested.
The new technology farmland: Silicon Valley.
Viewed from high above, the Valley looks like a schematic
drawing of the very seeds from which it has grown, thousands of
technology orchards, connected by the roads and highways etched
into the golden surface of the land.
PART I
Chapter 1
As he guided the black BMW coupe onto Highway 280, Matthew Locke
felt as though his mind was spinning as quickly as the wheels
propelling him onward. Whether the one functioned as precisely as
the other did not occur to him.
Appraising his position, he wondered why there were so few cars
to contend with this afternoon. Having lived in Northern
California for more than two years, he had never headed home on
280 without confronting ricocheting tail lights, jockeying for
position in the fast lane. Bright sunlight and warm air rushed
through the sunroof and windows as he gained speed and activated
the cruise control upon reaching sixty-five miles per hour.
Then Matthew noticed the clock, and he remembered he was two
hours ahead of the commuter traffic that congested the highway
every day. He also remembered why.
He took a few deep breaths to relax his nerves. He had tried one
last time, to no avail, to compromise with Peter Jones, the
stubborn young founder of Wallaby Computer, Incorporated.
Matthew Locke did not want things to end like this. Not exactly.
But there was no alternative. The confrontation that had just
taken place was more like a vicious counseling session between a
distressed married couple than a meeting between two senior
executives of the decade's most important and innovative high
technology company.
Matthew had informed his secretary Eileen that he was walking
over to Peter Jones's office to try to talk with him one last
time about the upcoming board of directors meeting. As Matthew
neared Peter's building, his anxiety sharpened. He paused for a
moment and thought about his place at that very instant,
standing at the very center of the Peter Jones legacy.
Surrounding Matthew were a number of Spanish-style, single-story
buildings, each painted white and topped with a red tile roof.
What began as a seedling idea in a garage nearly a decade ago had
blossomed into the cluster of buildings stretching a quarter-mile
in either direction from where he stood, and even farther, to a
number of locations throughout the world. And now he was on his
way to the epicenter of this campus-like complex that was Wallaby
Computer. Matthew arrived from his journey west with the feeling
that he had entered a fairy tale, so full of wonder was this
place. But now, as he resumed his step along the gently curving
sidewalk that ran up either side of the block, he felt as though
the set were changing. Full of dread, he approached the end, and
the beginning, of the rainbow, where he would confront the man
"Time" magazine called the "Computer Wizard."
Peter's secretary cut short her phone conversation the moment she
saw Matthew.
"Peggy, is Peter in?"
Before she could respond, Peter's own voice answered from behind
him. "No!"
Matthew turned just in time to see Peter's office door slam
shut. He knocked gently.
"Nobody's home," said Peter Jones in a calm voice from behind the
closed door. "Please leave a message at the tone. Beep."
Matthew Locke was not amused. Like a father exercising his right
to open any door in his own home, he entered the office.
He was met with the sound of continuous clicking from Peter's
keyboard. The office was small and sparsely furnished, with
simple overstuffed furniture and gray carpeting. Peter was
sitting before his computer at a black lacquered desk against the
wall, his back turned to Matthew. He closed the door behind him
and waited for Peter to turn around.
"Nobody's home," Peter repeated over the sound of his staccato
typing.
Matthew eased himself into the chair beside the couch,
remembering the first time he had sat in this very office, more
than two years ago, when Jones had hired him to run the company.
My God, Matthew thought, how he has changed - how everything has
changed.
All at once, the room was silent. Peter Jones turned around in
his chair.
One thing had not changed: Peter's eyes. Deep and black and
seemingly bottomless, certain and sharply focused, like the eyes
of a young boy determined to win a swimming race. Matthew felt
his toes grip at nothingness inside his dock shoes, felt his feet
slide silently backward a fraction of an inch across the natty
carpet, as if he were taking a step back from the edge of the
board for fear of diving once again into that dark pool. And with
this thought came another...of water, and splashing, thrashing,
losing grip... Loss. Determined, Matthew quickly sobered himself
of the troubling memories that had momentarily distorted his
focus.
He stood. "Peter, unless you and I can come to some
understanding about how we're going to run the business, I'm
going to suggest some drastic changes at tomorrow's board
meeting." To avoid Peter's eyes he glanced at the computer
screen.
Peter smoothly turned the screen's dimmer knob and stared at
Matthew. "There'll be some changes, all right," Peter said.
The gravity of the younger man's tone went unnoticed by Matthew.
His attention had been captured by what he'd seen on the screen
before it darkened. It appeared that Peter was working on some
sort of graphic. A drawing with little boxes. Probably a sketch
of a new computer design, Matthew concluded. The pang of pity he
felt changed to frustration when he recognized the root of the
problem: Why can't he understand that this is exactly what he
should be doing, designing new computers, and let me run the
company?
"It's too late for any more discussion," Peter said, flicking
away the shock of dark brown hair hanging over his brow. "I know
all about your plan to suggest a reorganization, Matthew. What,
you're surprised? I know everything that goes on here." He made a
disgusted noise. Then, as if to signal the end of the
discussion, he took a pen in hand and directed his attention to a
legal pad. With intense concentration, he began drawing a line
spiraling round and round from the middle of the page outward.
"It's not too late. That's what I'm trying too tell you,"
Matthew said. "I don't think you realize the severity of things
around here. How bad it's gotten."
Peter began humming a tune to himself.
"The board is very disturbed about the schedule slips, and
furthermore, the weak sales - "
Peter's meditation ended. The pen flew within inches of
Matthew's face. He leaped to his feet. "Don't you dare come into
my office and tell me how to run my company." The younger man was
all tensile, his body resonating with indignation. "Now leave me
alone! Just get out of here!"
Matthew held his place. "Peter, please."
"Out!"
It was hopeless. There was no way Matthew would be able to reach
him. "Okay, Peter," Matthew said with a resigned sigh. "You
win."
The room was silent. Peter stood there with his eyes closed,
waiting for Matthew to go.
Matthew turned to leave, then paused, his hand on the door
latch. He waited half a minute, until Peter opened his eyes and
looked at him.
"What?" Peter asked, wearily.
"That's what I want to know."
"What's what you want to know?"
"What went wrong. Why." Prepared for more flailing, Peter's
reaction surprised him.
Without looking at Matthew, Peter came toward him. He picked up
the pen he had moments before used as a missile. He lowered
himself down onto the sofa and casually crossed one leg over the
other. He held the pen bearing the Wallaby logo by each end
between his fingers. Emphatically, yet softly, he explained. "You
don't understand. You just don't get it. You don't know the truth
about inventing products like Wallaby's. In the long run, it's
all that really matters. That the products are true to the
visions that inspire them." He gently placed the pen in his
pocket, shrugged. His glazed eyes drifted across the room to rest
on his docked Joey. "My visions are my products."
He remained there for a few moments with a rapt, slightly
smiling expression lighting his face, gone inside himself to a
place where, the way he saw it, everything was sharp and clear,
where he could see things no one else could see.
The only thing Matthew saw was a man gone. Gone mad, perhaps.
Although they'd had arguments in the past, Peter had never seemed
so unhinged. In a way, Matthew felt relieved. Having witnessed
Peter's distracted state, he was resolved to proceed with his
plan.
The young founder blinked. He looked at Matthew with clear eyes.
He was back. He bit his lower lip, and with an expression at once
sad and perplexed, he said, "What is it that you see, Matthew?
What is your vision?"
The car phone jingled, snapping Matthew out of his musing.
Was it Peter? If so, he could turn around at the next exit and be
back in just a few minutes. Though he had every intention of
proceeding with his plan as it now stood, Matthew would
nevertheless give Peter until the very last minute to see things
his way.
"Peter?"
"Matthew, it's Eileen." His secretary. "I called Peter's office.
Peggy said you left ten minutes ago. What happened?"
"I've decided to go home for the rest of the day," he said. "If I
have any calls - "
"You already do. Laurence Maupin."
"Is it urgent?"
"The two of you were scheduled to discuss tomorrow's meeting.
She's in your office now, holding on the line."
"Okay. Put her on."
There was a click, then Laurence's voice. "Hi, Matthew. I've
prepared a short press release to send over the business wire
after tomorrow's board meeting." She spoke quickly, considerate
of his time. "It reads: 'Wallaby Computer, Incorporated today
announced a realignment of executive responsibilities. In
addition to his current position as president and CEO, Matthew
Locke will now assume the responsibilities of chairman of the
board, and vice president of the Joey division...'"
At this last, his heart suddenly quickened. "'Peter Jones,
former chairman and cofounder of Wallaby, will stay on as the
company's leading visionary, focusing on advanced technologies
and future product designs.'
"Still there?" she asked, giving him an opportunity to comment.
"Go on."
She continued immediately. "'Locke has expressed great
confidence in Jones's ability to drive Wallaby to the position of
technology leader in the desktop computer and personal
interactive assistant industry.'" When she finished reading
Matthew's statement, she paused. "Is that suitable?"
"Yes. That's fine. Thank you."
"If you'd like to conduct any phone interviews with key press
constituents, I'll need to know that now so I can make
arrangements."
"No. None. What you've done is fine for all parties."
He waited to be sure she was through, then said, "Thank you,
Laurence." Before taking her call he had been eager to be alone
so he could mentally review his plan, but now he felt oddly
unwilling to end their conversation. Something about her voice,
the words about him spoken so decidedly, was having a softening
effect on his anxious mood.
"Listen," he said, "when this settles down, let's spend some time
together to work on my strategy for the press and Wallaby's new
PR plans."
"Absolutely."
"Great. And thanks again," he said. With nothing left to discuss,
he said good-bye. As he moved the phone from his ear he heard her
call his name. "Yes?"
"I almost forgot," she said, slightly exasperated. "Where do you
get your car serviced?"
"My car?" Matthew said, a little dumbfounded.
"Yes. My steering is making a terrible noise. It's a BMW, like
yours. Well not exactly like yours. I mean, mine is a lot
smaller."
"Wallaby does mine," Matthew said. "They arrange for its service,
near my house. The place is called Bavaria Motor Systems, in
Woodside. It's just off Woodside Road."
"Right. I know where that is," Laurence said. "It sounds more
like a high tech company than a car shop, doesn't it? I'm finally
getting used to all these sys's and gen's and tech's and mem's,"
she said with a chuckle.
Her laughter caught Matthew by surprise. Until now, Laurence had
conducted herself in a strictly-business fashion. In light of the
seriousness of the situation he faced with Wallaby, her easy
laughter was a welcome breath of fresh air. He hadn't heard
laughter, or laughed himself, in a long time. He thought of
perhaps thanking her for... But for what? For laughing? Sure.
"Well, again, thank you, Laurence," Matthew.
"No, thank you," she said. "And Matthew, you can call me Lauri if
you like. It makes things less formal."
"All right. Good-bye, Lauri..." And for the second time he heard
her call his name as he went to hang up the phone. "Now what?" he
said, affably.
"I'm sorry, Matthew. There's one more thing. The picture in your
office, of your wife and her horse. Where is that? I mean, where
does she keep her horse?"
"You ride? I had no idea. It's Woodside Ranch. About a half-mile
north of the BMW shop. There's a turnoff, with a sign. You can't
miss it. That it?"
"Yes," she replied.
"You're sure?" He laughed. "Okay, then. Good-bye." He snapped the
phone back onto its cradle and settled into the comfort of the
leather seat. Tomorrow's meeting. The press. The future.
Laurence's certainty and control helped him strengthen his own
hold on the immediacy of tomorrow's meeting, and his overall
plan.
His plan. He'd spent the past six months analyzing and plotting
its current phase. If the vote was successful, Peter Jones would
be removed from his position as Wallaby's chairman and
engineering division vice president. Company-wide responsibility
would be turned over to Matthew.
All the pieces were in place. To begin with, Matthew had gained
tentative agreement from Wallaby's vice chairman, Hank Towers, to
consider "repositioning" Peter within the company. He had then
spent many hours with each member of the executive staff over the
last several months, subtly gaining their confidence as he
explained his strategy for the company's future, one that would
increase Wallaby's profitability and competitive position in the
industry.
Dissolving the executive staff's confidence in Peter Jones as a
leader, while building its trust and gaining its loyalty for
himself as company president, had been an extremely delicate
operation. Resistance from even one member of the executive staff
could have prevented his plan from advancing to its present
place.
The first phase of Matthew's plan, to gain support after his
arrival at Wallaby, had been successful. He had become a credible
and qualified champion of Wallaby's high technology platform of
computer products, a status he would have never reached without
Peter's focused coaching and friendship.
Just a year and a half earlier, "Business Week" had touted Peter
and Matthew as "The Brains and Brawn of Silicon Valley." Gracing
the cover was a jocular photo of the two, an insightful,
undisguised shot whose overall effect was similar to that of a
Hollywood buddy film promotion poster. On the left stood Peter,
wearing jeans and a white Oxford shirt. His shirtsleeves were
rolled to the elbow and his arms were folded nimbly across his
chest. Of slight build and tenuous stance, his physical composure
was that of a lanky high school student, yet his eyes had the
depth of a twenty-coat lacquer finish. They were the eyes of a
man older than his years, whose mind performed at a
cycles-per-second rate equal to that of three men combined. He
was thirty-one.
Beside Peter stood Matthew, one arm hung loosely over the younger
man's shoulder. He wore khaki pants and a chambray work shirt
whose sleeves, like Peter's, were rolled to the elbows. The
sparse, light-brown hair, high, time-worn forehead, and the
creases of his face, especially around the eyes, did not belie
his age. His eyes, more gray than blue, burned with the
determination of a college graduate who, with diploma fresh in
hand, sprints eagerly toward The Challenge. He was forty-two.
Tensions began to surface just six months after that cover shot
appeared on newsstands, when after its introduction, the Joey
personal interactive assistant met with only mild commercial
success. Though the device won accolades from the industry for
Peter and his team of engineers for its breakthrough technology,
buyers were skeptical. The dream that Peter shared with Matthew
in their first meeting was to make the Joey the hottest-selling
portable computer device in the world, displacing market share
completely dominated by Wallaby's biggest competitor,
International Computer Products.
The dream was never realized. Though users of ICP's own
best-selling portable computer admitted that the Joey was
technically more innovative and expertly designed, there were few
key software applications available for it at the time of its
introduction. At the root of the delay was a frustrating paradox:
While the Joey was by far the easiest to use portable interactive
assistant, it was also the most difficult computer to develop
software programs for. The Joey employed a radical new method of
operation and many of the software developers had trouble
learning the new system. As sales of the Joey dropped off, the
pressure on Peter's team grew more intense. Enhancements that
would make the Joey easier to develop programs for were behind
schedule, and Matthew held Peter responsible for the delays.
During this precarious period, Peter ran for cover. Embarrassed
by his own shortsightedness, he left Matthew to contend with
Wallaby's share-sensitive executives and board members. It wasn't
unnatural for the president of a company to contend with its
board of directors, but it was radically different from the way
things had worked at Wallaby in the past. Peter Jones held a dual
role as chairman of the board and vice president of the Joey
division. Until the development dilemma, Peter had always been
the primary voice in front of the board. So while Peter recovered
from his temporary loss of balance, Matthew soothed board
members' nerves by committing all of his energies to building a
strategy that would move Wallaby back into a secure, high-sales
position. He assured them that Peter was on track and would come
through with the necessary improvements. He produced impressive
development trend studies that described how it often took two
years for a new product to gain market acceptance. His methodical
East Coast style had an interesting effect on the anxious
principals: They believed him. In the past, Peter has wowed them
with his enthusiasm and technological prowess. There had never
been cause to question the young man's business acumen; the
company was less than ten years old and had been profitable for
just as long. But suddenly, Peter's passionate efforts seemed
empty; the numbers were declining. Those numbers needed turning
around, and Matthew was the board's man. Now that he had their
confidence, it was time to give them an ultimatum.
It was really quite simple. Matthew would propose that Peter be
removed as the leader of both Wallaby and the Joey group. Matthew
would personally oversee the accelerated development of the new
Joey Plus, enforcing a strict schedule to complete its design and
production in just three months. Matthew knew Peter that would be
utterly shocked by his proposal at tomorrow's meeting. Though
Peter would be stripped of all his power, Matthew hoped that
after his feelings healed, the executive staff and board of
directors would be able to persuade him to concentrate his
visionary skills in a research capacity, which Matthew could draw
upon when the core Joey technology began showing signs of
obsolescence.
To fulfill his promise to fix the company's stalled position,
Matthew intended to unify the engineering groups, ending the
elitist conditions Peter had created when he began developing the
Joey more than three years ago. Peter had chosen only the
brightest, most proven people and moved his new team to a private
building, which he had surrounded with tight security. Only the
Joey team had been allowed to enter the building, a first in
Wallaby history. Before the Joey project, employees had been free
to enter every building. Most employees had no reason to enter
buildings other than those in which they worked, but the freedom
of being allowed to do so represented the company's trust in its
people. Matthew, of course, was free to roam wherever he pleased,
and he instantly understood the reason for Peter's rule the first
time he entered the off-limits building. Peter had created a
project-team paradise. The Joey engineers were supplied with
exotic and luxurious amenities that Peter felt nurtured their
creativity and rewarded them for their intense work.
Matthew intended to put an end to the Joey team's Club Med work
environment by integrating it with the company's other
engineering divisions. A newly consolidated engineering division
would focus its energies on expediting completion of the Joey
Plus.
In the quiet of his own car, the plan seemed logical and simple.
But as he thought about tomorrow's meeting and about the
confrontation that would ensue, he became aware of the dampness
under his arms and his flush face.
He changed lanes as he passed the Woodside exit. High golden
hills, peppered every ten or so acres with colossal mansions,
passed on either side as sidled to the right lane. Passing the
auto repair shop, he thought of Laurence Maupin. She had been
hired into the newly created position as his personal public
relations assistant one month ago. The timing was perfect for
positioning her loyalties in his favor. He had revealed to her
his plan for tomorrow's meeting, and asked her to secretly
prepare his press statement under the assumption that everything
would go perfectly. There was no guarantee that tomorrow's board
decision would favor him over Peter, yet he was betting his
career on his plan. He reminded himself of his discussion with
Laurence a few minutes earlier, about the over-and-done-with tone
of her voice as she read Matthew his statement on the other end
of the line, speaking in a nearly conspiratorial tone as she sat
in his office, holding his telephone in her hand. He felt his
spirits lift.
He felt something else lift, too. His mind's eye fixed on an
image of the young and beautiful Laurence sitting at his desk,
her hand clasped around his handset, her lips close to the
mouthpiece, her words forging a new alliance between them. He
focused on his memory of her hands. Was there enough time? He
pressed his palm to his groin and considered opening his trousers
and taking care of himself, as he sometimes did on his way home
from work. Usually the act required about as much time as it took
to reach the Palo Alto exit, but he had passed that turnoff miles
ago and was nearly home. No, he would have to let his desire go
unsatisfied...though instead of letting go, he indulged his
imagination anyway, a little longer, fantasizing. Had she touched
his computer while she sat there talking to him? Had she rested
her soft, pretty hand on his mouse and slipped its pointer across
the screen to his private folders, opened his files? The only
other hands as lovely as hers were those of his wife...
Were.
And with that recollection, his daydream terminated. He had
arrived at the beginning of the road that wound its way up to his
home. The car's transmission automatically down-shifted as it
climbed. And so did his mood. As if commiserating with the
machinery that had helped him reach this point, Matthew let out
an exhausted sigh.
On either side he passed huge concrete gates that fronted the
estates of some of the most powerful entrepreneurs and business
people in Silicon Valley, including Peter, whose home was only a
half-mile from his own. It had been more than six months since he
had been to Peter's home. And ever since Matthew's wife Greta had
told him more than a year ago that she did not want Peter in her
house again, Matthew and Peter spent less and less time together.
Recently they had only seen each other in formal meetings.
Looking back now, Matthew was actually appreciative for his
wife's restriction. After all, had it not been for her, he might
never have distanced himself far enough from Peter to get where
he could realize his own power.
He made a mental note. When all of this was settled, he would do
something nice for her.
* * *
Reaching for the door handle of the dark blue 500SL convertible,
the parking attendant was momentarily struck with a small
surprise: A rather gaudy but finely tailored purple gloved hand,
wildly flapping at him like some exotic bird. Before he had a
chance to open the door, the woman to whom the gloved hand
belonged was climbing out of the car. She was dressed in black
designer sweats and lavender sport sneakers. Purple sunglasses
shielded her eyes, and a madras scarf protected her hair from the
wind. As she turned and reached inside the car for her purse, the
attendant understood at once, from this angle, that she was not
wearing this outfit to pursue an athletic regimen. Still in his
first two weeks of summer employment, he had begun to regard the
ladies who shopped here with amusement and fascination. He paid
special attention to mannerisms and hair color. The intended
overall look sought by women like this one was, he had come to
believe, that of carefree, understated elegance. Most of them
pulled it off beautifully. But this one? Not quite. The gloves
were definitely a first, and a definite give away. She wasn't the
type, he was certain of it. Too unrefined.
Or so he thought, until she removed her scarf. He observed the
loose chestnut ringlets of hair, which appeared to be her natural
color. Pausing for a moment, she casually shook down the curls,
which were surprisingly long and appeared soft to the touch. At
the same time she pointed her face directly up into the shaft of
sunlight cutting through the rows of large buildings on either
side of the street, and with obvious pleasure basked in the
warmth for an instant. The effect was striking, as though the
rays somehow transformed her into something more attractive,
which imposed a temporary snag in his analysis. Until she spoke.
"I'll be just a few secs," she said, gesturing at the store with
her Chanel wallet. "I have to pick something up."
"Of course, madam," the attendant said, touching his hat. Indeed,
the woman's tone was all wrong, too rough, as was her accent, or
lack thereof. Yes, his initial estimation was correct. Her wealth
was definitely nouveau. The worst wealth of all.
A second attendant smiled as he opened the large glass door that
announced Gump's, in gold leaf lettering. Removing her
sunglasses, she headed straight for the elevator. As she waited
for its arrival, she lifted an antique hand mirror from a
display. Taking in her own reflection, she shook her hair and
checked her teeth. Her brown, Bette Davis eyes grew even more
expansive at the discovery of a pinpoint blemish just above her
eyebrow. She touched it and clucked. Swearing under her breath,
she returned the mirror to the glass counter and replaced her
sunglasses. She had to get out of these bright lights.
A bell chimed, signaling the arrival of the elevator. Turning
from the counter, she noticed a small, smiling elderly woman.
"Madam, can I show you some of our other fine silver mirrors?"
Greta Locke spun to hold the elevator door open. Wearing an
expression intended to come off as playful, she turned back to
the saleswoman. But when she noticed the woman staring at her
gloved hand holding the jutting elevator door, Greta's response
was anything but playful. "The last thing I need is an expensive
silver mirror to remind me to stop eating chocolate."
She boarded the elevator.
"Why Mrs. Locke, what a pleasant surprise!" said the attractive
salesman, all smiles, as Greta approached. He stood before the
Steuben crystal room situated at the end of the mercifully
subdued second level. Behind him there stood a row of ghostly
illuminated glass cases containing spectacular pieces of some of
the world's finest crystal. His modest platinum name badge said
he was Mr. William Armond.
"Billy," Greta said, pausing one step before proceeding past him,
"there's something I'd like to see in the Houston collection."
"Of course," Mr. Armond said, trailing her. He glanced at his
associate, Ms. Olson, whose territories were the Lalique and
Baccarat rooms. Reluctant to catch his eye, she pursed her lips
and busied herself at her desk, addressing small, golden
catalogs.
Greta Locke was Mr. Armond's best customer, one of Gump's best
customers, and everyone who worked there knew it. She had spent
several hundred thousand dollars at Gump's in the two years Mr.
Armond had had the good fortune of knowing her. Last year she had
arranged a deal between Gump's and Wallaby, Incorporated, to
purchase corporate gifts at a special quantity discount. A
discount of five percent can be quite sizable, she noted to her
husband, when he purchased eight Steuben flower vases last year
as Christmas presents for the wives of the Wallaby board members,
at four hundred dollars apiece.
She removed her sunglasses and studied the curves and artwork of
a large bowl displayed in the glass case. She'd had her eye on it
for some time now. It was a James Houston original, engraved with
painstaking detail. Circling the bowl's rim were salmon swimming
against an invisible current, surrounded by tiny air bubbles. The
piece was breathtaking.
"Perhaps a closer inspection?" Mr. Armond said, producing a small
ring of keys. But before he managed to insert the small key into
the case's lock, Greta stopped him.
"Don't bother. I'll take it."
"A splendid piece, Mrs. Locke," he said. "May I have it
gift-wrapped for you?"
"No," she said, "That's not necessary." Without removing her
gloves, she deftly slid her credit card out of her wallet and
handed it to him. "It's a gift to me. For all my hard work." She
lingered behind him as he moved to his clerk's desk. "Anything
new?" she asked, over her shoulder.
"There are some lovely new crystal animals," said Mr. Armond,
indicating one of the other cases. The collection consisted of
exquisite, palm-size creatures. A dog...a cat...a bird...a bear.
All resting peacefully on a black velvet blanket.
She seemed uninterested; she'd gotten what she came for. However,
as she was exiting the parlor, a little farther along the
display, she saw something, reclining on a green felt pasture,
that captivated her attention. Larger than the other pieces, but
small enough to hold in two hands, there lay a knobby colt, its
translucent mane flared back from its muscular neck, forever
frozen in the wind. She thought of her own horse, a gift from
Matthew when they had moved to California. Wouldn't this crystal
beauty look wonderful beside her bed, on the night stand....
She remembered her car, double-parked out front. Another day
perhaps, she decided, seating herself before Mr. Armond at an
antique table while he called downstairs and instructed one of
the vault attendants to have the piece brought to her.
"Billy, I've worked so hard," she said, fingering her forehead
above her eyebrow. "This is my reward."
"Of course you have," Mr. Armond said. "The piece you have
purchased is one of a limited number created by Mr. Houston.
He'll be pleased to know it will be enjoyed by you and Mr.
Locke."
"People just don't know how difficult it is being married to a
successful businessman. It absolutely drains a woman. I swear, I
feel like half the time I do his thinking." She removed her right
glove and inspected her nails, and, as the credit card machine
beeped twice, she casually turned hand over, palm up, to receive
the sales slip.
Mr. Armond transcribed the approval code onto the form and handed
her the pen. As she signed her name, he mentally calculated his
five-percent commission on the sale: $1,200.
Ms. Olson, carrying the small catalogs in a stack that reached
from her midriff to her chin, managed a polite nod as she passed.
"Darling," Greta called, pointing in Ms. Olson's direction with
her index finger.
As the saleswoman turned, her expressionless face metamorphosed
into a struggled smile. "Yes?"
"Can I please have one of those?"
"Madam, I am certain you will receive one in the mail shortly,"
Ms. Olson said. She blinked delicately, twice.
"I want it now."
Mr. Armond jumped from his seat. "Of course." He slid one from
the pile. Quickly discarding the little protective jacket, he
handed the booklet to Greta, who immediately began flipping
through it.
"Thank you, dear," she said, without looking up.
Mr. Armond returned the addressed, empty coverlet to Ms. Olson's
pile and sent her off with a grateful wink. He collected the
cord-wrapped box containing her new bowl from a stock attendant,
and handed it to Greta. "Anything else today, Mrs. Locke?"
"I think this is all for today."
"Always a pleasure, Mrs. Locke."
She strolled out onto Post Street, the pleasantly heavy box
beneath one arm. Her car had been moved several yards up the
block and into a loading zone. She waved her scarf to the parking
attendant, but he was already on his way to the vehicle.
He held the car door for her, and she placed the box on the
passenger seat and secured it with the seat belt. Tying her
scarf, she realized she had forgotten the catalog. She had left
it on the clerk's desk. No fuss. She would receive one in the
mail soon anyway.
Climbing into the car, she smiled, recalling the day she drove it
off the parking lot. Another little gift to herself, for all her
hard work.
* * *
Now that Matthew Locke was gone from his office, Peter Jones
twisted the brightness knob on his computer monitor and returned
to his work.
Beneath his hand he rolled the mouse and pressed its single
button, causing the screen to scroll. Small connected boxes drawn
on the electronic document rolled from the bottom of the display
to the top. He stopped when he arrived at the top of the chart.
With the pointer he selected the uppermost box and clicked the
mouse twice on the name that currently occupied it. Peter looked
at the highlighted name for a moment, then pressed the Delete
key. MATTHEW LOCKE disappeared instantly.
Peter smiled to himself at the literalness of this small,
effortless action, of deleting from his computer the very man who
threatened to ruin its bright future. He typed in his own name
into the vacant box and, beneath it, added the word ACTING before
the title that was already there, PRESIDENT & CEO. Beneath this
box were others, connected to the uppermost with straight black
lines, each titled with the name of the corresponding division
vice president. His name was titled in one of these other boxes
as, VICE PRESIDENT, JOEY.
The man Peter had hired two years ago to act as his partner had
failed. Matthew Locke's role at Wallaby, defined by Peter and
Hank Towers, Wallaby's cofounder and vice chairman, was to act as
the company's business leader and Peter's assistant. While Peter
understood the power of his own vision and the importance of his
skill at inventing remarkable products, he admitted to himself
that he lacked the business experience to develop the company
from a handful of engineers to a large and profitable
organization. Which was why he had decided to hire Matthew Locke.
But something had gone wrong.
Matthew, for all of his management strength, did not fit in at
Wallaby the way Peter would have liked. Looking back, he
remembered Matthew's suggestion, about a year ago, that perhaps
Wallaby's portable computers could become more compatible with
ICP's systems. That was what had started Peter wondering if, in
the long run, Matthew was right for Wallaby. Dismissing Matthew's
idea as a naive insult, Peter only wished now that he had paid
better attention. How could Matthew think Wallaby should abandon
its founding vision of giving high technology power to the
individual with a personal computer or portable interactive
assistant in favor of creating mere peripherals that connected to
ICP's dictatorial, impersonal desktop and mainframe computers?
What's more, at about this time their friendship began to
deteriorate. Up until the disagreement over the company's
direction, the two had spent nearly every Saturday afternoon
together, going for long walks or drives. Apparently because of
Peter's reaction, Matthew stopped spending Saturday afternoons
with him. When Peter would ring the gate bell at Matthew's
mansion, the housekeeper would divulge that Mr. and Mrs. Locke
had gone out for the day. Peter had felt wounded. Matthew had
been the first person with whom he had experienced any sort of
real friendship. Or so he'd thought. Scolding himself for having
allowed his feelings to become personal, he displaced his hurt by
pouring himself more intensely into his work, in an all-out
effort to substantiate his side of the contention that had cost
him his only friend.
The real challenge now was to get the Joey Plus quickly out the
door and into the user's hands and, put to rest once and for all
the criticism the original Joey had received. The Joey personal
interactive assistant was the product of three years of hard work
and engineering magic. Peter, the inventor of the original
Wallaby Mate personal computer, had created the Joey as a
radically different and intuitively designed portable computer.
Named after the Australian word for baby kangaroo, the Joey was
compact and thin and easy to transport, and it lasted for days on
a single charge. In its simplest configuration, the basic Joey
was about the size of a slender hardback book and almost as
light, and it slipped easily into a briefcase. It worked as
either a traditional notebook computer, or as a keyboard-less
slate computer, and its built-in modem made it easy to access
on-line services and the Internet, or send and receive faxes.
Users interacted with Joey using either a stylus by "drawing"
directly on its color active-matrix screen, or with the full-size
keyboard and trackpad that stealthily slid out from its
underside. Or with a combination of both stylus and keyboard, if
they preferred. That was what made the Joey so unusual and
compelling - its flexibility. Especially when the owner returned
with it to the office, or took the Joey home. There, the Joey
attached easily to a variety of snap-on peripherals that turned
the base unit into a more powerful desktop system. Expanded
keyboards. Mice. Monitors. Printers. Scanners. CD-ROM players.
Stereo speakers. Enhanced network peripherals. And most any other
peripheral device available for ordinary personal computers.
But the machine had its faults. Though it was technically
superior to ICP's portable computers, software developers
hesitated to invest the costly technical and human resources
required to create new programs for it. Because its design was so
new and different, many software developers were fearful of
straying beyond the safe boundaries of developing programs for
anything but ICP's series of computers, regardless of their
plain-vanilla functionality. In the few short years since they
had become players in the portable computer industry, ICP had
attained an installed base of millions of portable systems
worldwide, which dwarfed the few hundred thousand Joey systems
Wallaby had sold since its introduction. To a software developer,
ICP's user base numbers were too great to ignore, regardless of
what the future potential of a device like the Joey might be.
Peter clicked the print button on the computer screen. The laser
printer on his desk hummed. A few moments later the revised
company organization chart rolled out of the printer.
Nowhere in the drawing did Matthew Locke's name appear.
In tomorrow's board meeting, Peter intended to surprise the team
by proposing his newly drawn organization. Peter himself would
temporarily fill the president-and-CEO slot until a qualified
replacement was found. Though Peter had spent little time with
the members of his executive staff over the past few months, he
knew that they had faith in him. He was their leader, the
company's crown jewel. In founding his company he had founded an
industry, one that had made every member of his senior executive
staff a multimillionaire. Without a doubt, their loyalties rested
with him. Any other possibility never occurred to him; he had too
many more significant issues to contend with, like leaky
batteries.
Leaving his office, Peter stopped for a moment to appreciate the
sharp and elegant lines of the Joey prototype resting on the
shelf beside his desk. In just two months, according to his plan,
the world would finally benefit from his original Joey vision:
the new Joey Plus. His plan for providing the Joey engineering
group with more engineers was precisely what was going to move it
off his shelf and onto buyers' desktops.
Peter's secretary Peggy looked past her computer screen as she
heard his office door close.
"I'm leaving for the day," he said.
Peggy had worked for Peter since the company began. She had been
nineteen years old then, a year younger than Peter, and one of
the first employees in the company. Like Peter, she had attained
massive wealth when the company had had its public stock
offering. She wore a colorful Wallaby T-shirt and jeans, and one
would never guess that this young woman, worth slightly more than
one million dollars, was executive assistant to the man who had
started the fastest growing new market in the computer industry.
However, looking at Peter's longish hair, customary faded blue
jeans and Oxford shirt, would anyone guess that he was worth
eight hundred million dollars?
Before heading to his car, Peter decided it wouldn't hurt to
bolster his confidence in his plan by checking the status of a
few key Joey Plus projects.
"How's it coming?" Peter asked, leaning over an engineer's
shoulder.
"Good," Paul Trueblood answered. He blew at the trails of smoke
that rose before him as he lifted a soldering iron.
"I think I've got the battery problem fixed." The engineer
returned his attention to the electronic components scattered
about his worktable.
"Great," Peter said, noticing the pile of tiny batteries beside
the main Joey unit. Each was charred with a caramel-colored
resin. In the original Joey design the battery was located too
close to the power recharger unit, and occasionally the excessive
heat caused the battery to leak and burn.
Peter had tremendous faith in Paul and his work, and he was one
of the first engineers who had started the company with Peter.
The battery problem would be fixed, and thinking about it
reminded Peter of a similar problem that Paul had corrected
several years ago, in the all-in-one Mate personal computer.
Unlike the Joey's battery, which powered the unit away from the
desktop, the Mate's battery was deep inside the computer, and its
sole purpose to keep track of the date and time when the computer
was turned off. During extended use, the Mate's interior would
occasionally reach high temperatures, causing the tiny battery to
leak. The obvious solution was to install a small cooling fan
inside the computer, like every other brand of computer had. But
Peter wouldn't allow it. They said it couldn't be done, that you
couldn't build a computer without putting in a small noisy fan to
keep it cool. "If they say it can't be done, that's because
they're not smart enough to figure out a way to do it," was
Peter's standard reply. That was how Peter Jones challenged his
engineers to do the impossible. After two days of no sleep, and
having sustained himself on soda and popcorn, Paul had revealed
to Peter a design that would cool the machine by natural
convection.
Peter leaned in over Paul's shoulder for a closer look. "I'd sure
hate to see us go back to the drawing board on that sweet little
power recharger..." he said, hanging a mild warning in the
burnt-smelling air of the engineer's office.
"No problem," Paul said, and blew out a breath that hinted mild
frustration. Not catching the drift, Peter stayed right where he
was, perched over the engineer like a hawk. Paul set down the
soldering iron and retrieved a Walkman from his drawer. Loading a
tape into it, he held the headphones just above his ears and
raised his eyebrows at Peter, as if to ask if he had any more
comments.
"All right, all right," Peter said, grinning behind raised palms.
"Just making sure we do it right." He left the engineer with his
head bobbing rhythmically through little smoke clouds. It was
little triumphs like this that excited Peter, doing things people
said couldn't be done. The engineers were the only people in the
company for whom Peter felt any admiration and respect. And,
secretly, awe. They were the conveyers of his visions, the ones
who possessed the power to turn his radical ideas into real
products.
He swung through the software testing lab. Several test
engineers, each seated before a prototype Joey Plus, were running
system software programs through their paces. The inhabitants
were oblivious to his presence as screens rolled and flashed,
styluses scribbled and tapped, speakers chirped, and printers
printed.
Satisfied that all was rolling according to plan, Peter exited
the building and climbed into his BMW coupe. His natural
appreciation for simple and beautifully designed products had
prompted his decision to make BMW the company car for senior
executives. When Matthew had gone out and ordered the exact same
style and color coupe for himself, Peter was flattered. Until
their friendship curdled. Now he'd begun to wonder if Matthew had
only chosen the car because he was trying to prove to the
executive staff that he and Peter were in some way equal.
As he drove down Clyde Avenue he passed the many single-story
stucco buildings that comprised Wallaby's international
headquarters. Eventually he passed the larger and more
corporate-looking three-story sales and marketing building, where
Matthew and the other senior executives resided.
Peter preferred to have his office among his engineers rather
than on the third floor of the larger corporate building. Though
his title was chairman, his job was to create Wallaby's
computers, and to do that, he wanted to be right in the trenches
with his team. Especially lately. The last thing he wanted was to
have to sit near Matthew Locke. If he had been any closer, he
might have taken pity on the man he'd hired, and not gone through
with his new plan to remove him from the company.
Leaving the complex, he headed for Highway 280. Waiting for the
traffic signal to change, he looked in his rear-view mirror at
the main corporate building with its Wallaby banner. The Wallaby
logo featured a sketched pocket with a baby kangaroo, a joey,
poking its head out.
He felt a small gush of pride whenever he looked at the company
logo, at the thought of how many pockets he had filled with
riches, in how many lives. And though tomorrow he would have to
essentially sew shut one of those pockets, he was already
beginning to feel the sense of relief that would come very soon,
when he regained complete control of the company he had built.