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.