Chapter 10
"Mr. Harrell, Mr. Locke has arrived."
"Send him in, please," came William Harrell's voice thinly from the intercom on his secretary's desk.
Matthew was surrounded by the kind of opulence afforded only by companies at the highest reaches of the Fortune 500. Plush carpets, deep, rich wooden desks, fine art originals, and people referring to one another as Mr., Ms., Mrs., and "sir." It was a sobering contrast to Wallaby's compact, Herman-Miller modular partition offices, open-air buildings, and first-name protocols. Had it been only three years since Matthew had occupied an office at International Foods very much like this one, so expansive it was more like a penthouse apartment than an office? Matthew's own office at Wallaby was no larger than the standard manager's office, just big enough to move around comfortably in. He felt queerly out of place entering the ICP building, surrounded by such abundance, such magnitude. He had even forgotten how long it took for elevators to climb tall buildings; Wallaby's tallest building was only three stories high, and almost everyone used the central atrium stairs to travel between floors.
He shrugged his shoulders to straighten his suit - yet another difference between casual West Coast wizardry and starchy East Coast Big Business. He had felt uncomfortable walking through the city, unable to see more than a few blocks in any direction, surrounded by noise, exhaust, and serious faces. Indeed, California, with its rolling hills and vistas, mild weather, and no-hurry attitude had affected him more deeply than he had realized.
In one hand he carried his briefcase, in the other a large binder containing all of Wallaby's product plans, financial summaries, and forecasts, as well as the strategy he had worked on two nights ago. He had finalized the strategy on the plane yesterday and printed the finished copy in his hotel suite last night with his Joey Plus and portable printer.
He had come to think of the binder as his clay, molded into the shape of a new Wallaby, a grassroots company deemed a serious player by the most important counsel of all, based in this very city: Wall Street. Since last week's introduction of the new Joey Plus, Wallaby's stock had climbed four points, and reviews were glowing.
It was all very exciting. So much so it had affected him in his sleeping hours. Last night he had had a shadowy, romantic dream, that he was as a gemologist transporting precious jewels for Sotheby's of London…then it shifted, and the gems had changed to secret documents for the CIA…then it turned out that he was working not for the CIA, but for them…the other side. When he left the hotel this morning for his meeting, he felt as if he were holding in his hands his fate, his life. Many lives. And then a macabre thought entered his mind, left over from his exotic dream: Where was the cyanide pill? He had no cyanide pill if he was caught. It was a preposterous notion of course, his imagination getting the better of him. Nevertheless, still a little intrigued by the role his dream had cast him in, he strode into William's office with his life in his hands and a feeling of pure elation, and just a little fear. Good fear.
"Hello, Matthew," William said heartily, rounding his wide desk with his hand extended. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal business suit, a crisp white shirt, and a burgundy tie. The man's entire appearance exuded sharpness, Big Business. In other words, ICP.
Matthew set his briefcase on the thickly carpeted floor, clutching the binder in his left hand. He noticed William's impeccable manicure as they shook hands. Matthew's own fingernails were chewed and dry, and he could not remember the last time he had had a manicure himself. He was beginning to feel as if he were underdressed, as if he had underestimated the importance of this date. Gripping the binder with both hands, he grasped all at once that it was not his costume that should match William's incomparability; it was the binder's contents: Wallaby. This was not just his life in his hands, it was his love. And it was perfect.
William's secretary returned with a tray of coffee, tea, and pastries. She placed the tray on the table, and Matthew asked her for a glass water.
"What's the matter? No more city fuel?" William said as he poured himself a cup of steaming coffee.
"Haven't touched the stuff in over two years."
"Next thing you'll tell me is that you're into flotation tanks and sushi."
"The sushi part, yes," Matthew said with a light laugh.
"How's Greta?" William asked, sipping his coffee.
"Oh, she's fine, thank you." Matthew accepted the glass of water and finished half of it in one drink.
"And how does she like California living?"
"She likes it. She keeps quite busy."
"Sounds nice."
"Yes," Matthew said, setting the glass down. He placed his briefcase on the table. With the mention of his wife, he thought for an instant of what he had hidden inside his briefcase. Since he had placed it there, he had never once taken it out again and looked at it. Would he ever?
"Let's get started," William said. "I got your e-mail, and I'm pleased to hear everything went well with your executives and board. It hasn't been easy on my end. My advisers keep scratching their heads, thinking their boss has gone crazy, especially after your introduction last week. They want us to build something to 'blow the doors off the Joey Plus,' as my technology adviser puts it. But, to his dismay, I've not approved any new development, other than revisions and enhancements, since you and I had our first meeting."
Matthew was pleased with this confirmation of the Joey Plus's success. It meant that to William and ICP, Wallaby, and he, Matthew, were even more valuable now than when they had first met to discuss their secretive pact.
"I'll tell you," William said, indicating the binder with his eyes, "I'm glad I can finally reveal our plan to my board of directors and the executive staff. As I've assured you already, they will vote unanimously in favor of our plan. They'll have no choice."
"Here it is. The complete strategy, as outlined." Matthew handed the binder to William, who opened it in his lap and was silent for a few moments as he browsed through the various sections.
"Oh yes," he said, "this is a trade after all." He lifted a folder from the table and handed it to Matthew. "Here are all the connectivity specifications for the 990 series, as well as the file compatibility specs for the BP series."
Matthew took the slim nearly weightless folder in his hands and all of the sudden felt a bit let down. The folder felt like nothing compared to the binder he had just turned over. No girth. No satisfaction. No substance between his fingers. This information would go to Alan Parker and his engineering organization, and perhaps to them it was attractive, but Matthew already missed the extensive, intricately organized volumes in the thick binder now in William's possession. The exchange felt uneven, unbalanced. Unfair.
"I especially like your idea of calling our plan a 'strategic alliance,' " William said. "Tell me more about how you plan to handle the announcement."
Matthew stood up and removed his jacket. "I think what we should do is announce our relationship in three months, when we have a working prototype of the Joey II, which will be the first Wallaby portable computer that's compatible with your computers."
William nodded, crossed his legs, and continued to browse through the lengthy document, glancing now and then at Matthew.
"We'll announce that we're working together on strategic connectivity products from an engineering, marketing, sales, and customer service standpoint. We'll reveal that you and I met, several months ago - and by the way, my executive staff and board are aware of today's meeting - and you will explain ICP's election for Wallaby Joey II systems as an alternative to your own portable computer, and that you will continue to support the older ICP BP computer, as well as facilitate co-sales with our people for Joey II computers. And finally, once you begin the merger process, we'll determine Wallaby's value, and you'll follow up about a year later with the acquisition announcement."
William snapped the binder closed. "Excellent."
"Yes," Matthew agreed under his breath as he seated himself. He felt a little dizzy. Perhaps the building's height and the change in environment were getting to him. He wanted to finish this meeting and get back down on the ground as soon as possible.
"It's exactly how I had envisioned it, but better," William said. "You've managed to smooth the transition with the alliance aspect, so we're careful to unveil our deal a little at a time."
"That's the idea."
"Very good." William placed his cup and saucer on the table. Rubbing his hands together he sat a little more upright. "Now, there is one small detail that I'm curious about. Have you spoken with Peter Jones?" His eyes locked on Matthew's.
"No," Matthew said, barely able to contain his surprise.
"I see," William said. "Has there been any communication between the two of you? A letter? An e-mail?"
"None."
"Hmm."
"Why do you ask? Is there a concern?"
"Well, it's more a curiosity than a concern really. Nothing to worry about. What's he doing now?"
"He's been in seclusion in Maine, at his vacation home. He still owns a large amount of Wallaby stock," Matthew added in an attempt to reassure the other man.
"Yes, well, that's no guarantee, is it." William said. It was not a question. He removed his glasses and lightly massaged his eyelids. "What I'm wondering about is the same thing I was curious about when I first contacted you, proposing this venture."
"Which is?" Matthew asked, fully knowing the reason before
William delivered the words.
"My biggest - " William started, but then paused abruptly to select his choice of words. "My initial motivation for wanting Wallaby was, of course, Jones's product in the pipeline, the Joey. And what is the Joey, really, but the physical evidence of Jones's vision? So naturally, I'm curious about what he's up to, now that he's not spending his time at Wallaby."
This concern had never occurred to Matthew, and apparently his expression said as much.
"Matthew, don't worry, it's not going to change our arrangement," William said. "We want Wallaby, and especially the Joey technology."
Joey technology. Peter's invention. Matthew was at once overcome by a wave of jealousy and loathing. When would Wallaby be considered his? Once Wallaby was merged with ICP, would people still call it "the company founded by Peter Jones?" Would he, Matthew, be forgotten, like some sort of middle man?
William poured Matthew another glass of water. As he accepted it,
William said, "There's no way you can persuade Jones to return to
Wallaby?"
"That seems unlikely," Matthew said calmly, but what he really wanted to say, to shout, was that Wallaby was his now, and Peter Jones was gone for good.
"I see." William nodded and closed the binder, shutting with it any further discussion of Peter Jones. "When do you fly back?"
"Tomorrow."
William tapped the binder. "I'm going to have to spend some time with this before I'll have any questions for you." He glanced at his watch. "Do you have any other meetings while you're here?"
"None. I allotted a full day for us, and intended to go back tomorrow. However, if we're through, I'll go back tonight, and you can contact me when you're ready."
"Fine," William said, rising. He offered a few words of reassurance. "It's all coming along well, Matthew." They shook hands outside William's office, and Matthew exited the suite.
Pressing the down elevator button, he noticed his hand was a little unsteady. Now that their meeting was through, he was grateful to be leaving New York City a day sooner than planned. "Come on," Matthew whispered, pressing the button again and again.
As he stood brooding over William's surprise concern for Peter Jones, waiting for what felt like an eternity for the elevator to arrive, he absently chewed his thumbnail, wishing in earnest for things to move more quickly.
* * *
"Hey, where're you off to so early?" Kate said, lifting her head from the pillow.
Climbing into his jeans, Peter nearly tripped himself in his pants legs as he turned to face her.
"Oops, sorry," he whispered, "I was trying to be quiet." He knelt next to the bed and kissed her. Her eyelids fluttered, wakefulness coming slowly. "Would you mind if we took a rain check on our trip to Boston today?" Her hair lay spread around the pillow, and he combed it with his fingers, smoothing it around her head.
She opened her eyes and shook her head, then smiled slowly, joyfully.
"Why the big grin?"
She lifted a hand from beneath the comforter and gently knocked her knuckles on his head. "Circus is in town," she said, cupping his chin.
"Well, I've been thinking," Peter said, running fingers through his hair.
"Mm hmm."
"When Byron and I talked the other night, you know, outside, I started thinking about some things."
"You don't say?" she said, with mock surprise. "Like when I kept trying to talk to you yesterday at the park and you were in another zone?"
"Yeah," he said, nodding, "then too. I started coming up with a concept I think he could help me work through. There's something missing, a link I guess, and if I talk to him about it he'll probably be able to help me come up with some ideas."
"Hey, you're going to be busy, it sounds like. Maybe I should just go down to Boston myself, then home. That okay?"
"If it's okay with you. I mean, if you want. I'm sorry," he said, planting his hands on either side of her head and looking into her eyes. "I just have to talk to him about this."
"Petey, I'm ecstatic you want to see Byron this morning. I'll be back next weekend. If, that is, you'll still want to see me."
"You're a goof sometimes." He thanked her with a kiss, then went back to getting dressed.
"Hey," she said, propping up on one elbow as he slipped on his dock shoes.
"Hmm?"
"Who's calling who a goof?" She tossed a pillow at him. "You're inside-out, Einstein."
He looked down at his shirt, pulled it over his head, reversed it, and put it back on. "Thanks," he said, then leaned over and kissed her good-bye.
"Don't mention it."
On his way out of the house he stopped in the kitchen and wrote "I'm a lucky guy," on a little yellow Post-it note. He signed it with a tiny heart and pressed it onto the coffee machine.
He walked the short distance to the Holmes house quickly, his thoughts turning round and round. With the tourist season over, the town was somber and cool. Here and there a car occupied the driveway of one of the homes along the inlet, and even fewer boats remained docked. He arrived at the Holmes place just as Grace was coming around from the side of the house carrying a potted plant in her hands. "This one isn't going to make it," she said, holding the sickly plant up for him to see.
"Sure isn't," Peter said. "Is Byron here?"
"He's in back," she said. Then, with a smile, she confided, "I'm glad you came by. Yesterday he was mumbling about some idea he said he's got to talk to you about. He was going to head over to your house in a little bit. He'll be glad you're here."
Peter rounded the house and trotted down the dock. He could see the top of Byron's white-haired head. "Hey," he said, leaping from the dock to the boat.
"I see you got your boat shoes on," Byron said, looking up from his work, as he finished oiling the boat's teakwood bulwarks. "Good," he said, making a few last wipes. "You're ready to sail."
"If you say so."
"I say so. You saved me a short walk, you know, 'cause I was going to come over and talk to you today after I took a little sail." He replaced the lid on the can of oil and tossed the sodden rags in a plastic bag, stuffed both into a canvas sack. "Here, stow this, son," he said, pointing to an open bin just inside the cabin. Peter caught the small sack and put it away. The boat's teakwood and brass cabin was clean, classy, elegant, and sharp - much like its captain, Peter thought.
"Cast off," Byron told him, indicating the boat's mooring lines.
Peter jumped to the dock and unwrapped the lines from the cleats. The engine churned alive. "Now give us a good shove," Byron ordered.
Once Peter was back on board, Byron applied power and the boat lurched once, then smoothed, and they motored for the inlet, the water ahead rolling in small swells, the day clear and crisp.
"Is it going to be windy enough?" Peter asked, shading his eyes and squinting out at the ocean that lay a half-mile ahead.
"Here," Byron said. He tossed Peter a spare pair of sunglasses. Peter put them on and looked again. He could see a few boats in the distance whipping along at a respectable clip, their sails puffed fully.
"Sail much?" Byron said.
Peter shook his head. He gripped the rail behind him with both hands, anchoring himself in a leaning position as he watched Byron work the wheel.
The older man smiled and pulled his pipe from his shirt. Holding the wheel steady with his elbows, he expertly applied his lighter to the pipe's bowl. "You'll get used to it," he said, pointing his pipe at Peter's rigid knees. "Just gotta go with the flow."
When they reached the ocean, Byron began yelling orders to Peter, who followed them with colt-like shakiness. Within minutes the mainsail and jib were swollen fully in the eastern wind.
Byron shut off the engine, and Peter observed the silence, the power of the wind as it pushed the sleek vessel along quickly and quietly, as if by magic.
"Here," Byron said, stepping back from the wheel. "Hold it where my hands are."
Peter placed his hands over Byron's, ready. When Byron let go, Peter's body gave a slight jerk. "Just keep her steady," Byron said, returning his hands. He held them there until Peter adjusted to the boat's pull.
Byron disappeared inside the cabin for a moment, then returned
with two cans of beer. He popped the lids and handed one to
Peter. "Top of the morning to ya," he said, tipping his can to
Peter.
The two men shared a couple of minutes of silence between them as they sailed some distance. Peter was the first to speak up. "I've got an idea," he said simply.
"Me too," Byron said. His gaze was focused behind Peter, at the distant shoreline. He took a sip from his beer and gave Peter a nod. "You first," he said.
"Okay. I was thinking about what you said the other night. You know, about our differences, good ones."
Byron took a thoughtful suck of his pipe and nodded, then expelled a plume of aromatic smoke.
"So I started thinking," Peter went on, his speech coming quickly, "that with your experience in big system stuff, and with what I know about little system stuff, what if we put our heads together?"
Byron made a gesture with his pipe for Peter to go on.
"Okay. See, I've been thinking about portable computers, and PIAs - you know, personal information managers. And as much as I think they are helpful, like the Joey, they're not really as helpful as the could be. They don't so much help you, not directly anyway, as serve you, so to speak. I mean, they're really just smaller, more tightly-integrated computers than real helpers."
"Mm hmm."
"So, what if there was a way to make a portable computer really help you? To really assist you, by anticipating your next move. By knowing you better and better the more you work with it?"
Byron took the small metal wind cap off the bowl of his pipe and checked the tobacco. He leaned over the side of the rail and tapped it carefully against his weathered palm, spilling the black ashes into the ocean. Then he leaned against the cabin, took a long swallow of his beer, and pushed his sunglasses higher on his nose.
"What you're talking about is agents. Agent technology. Little 'intelligent' software buddies that run on your computer in the background and pay attention to what you're doing, and what you're not doing, and then act on their own, on your behalf, to help you by anticipating your next move. Sound about right?"
"That's exactly right. We were just starting to play around with the concept before I left. But my lead programmer was really into them, and he had a bunch of friends at MIT who were studying them in a big way."
"Right. And what I was thinking about fits in nice with what's got you all juiced. See, all this poppyshit everyone's going on about, the world wide web and the Internet, it's got me a little ticked off. It's supposed to be the world's greatest 'new' information source, yet getting connected is a bitch. And what with those snappy little computers you make, well, a person should be able to hook up to the net and web by just plugging in the phone. It's too damn complicated the way it is now. It needs to be simpler."
Peter jumped in excitedly. "You know, that's incredible, I was thinking that that would be my next step at Wallaby, to make net stuff easier for people. And now that you mention it, think about the two. I mean, combining both the net stuff and the agent stuff. I've seen demonstrations of net-savvy agents that go off and find information and articles you are looking for, seeking out news that you know you are interested in, and news that you didn't know you were interested in, but based on your previous interests, the agent finds related items for you. That's what I call a real information assistant."
"Yep, that's a damn good idea," Byron agreed . "And that net stuff, you know, is what this old geezer knows best. Hell, I was cruising the net while you were doo-dooing in your diapers. That was when the government was the biggest Internet user and text and numbers ruled the world. Now I log-in and whew, it's like walking into a virtual playhouse, all the stuff that's on there these days. Just the other day I took Gracie for a 'tour' of Prague, thanks to that city's new web page, created by this group of expatriates who just up and moved there. It was all there: snapshots, video clips, restaurant and hotel guides, travel information, the whole works."
"Wow. Sounds like you've really kept up on all this stuff."
"You better believe it. What, you think a guy like me retires and then just unplugs? No siree. And as for those snazzy little agents you're all worked up over, I've got a recent report on them back at my office in New York. In particular, the ones with net smarts."
Peter smiled and gave an amused shake of his head. "You know, it looks like you were right. I mean, that you and I have more in common than I thought."
Byron shrugged and looked off into the distance for a few moments, then looked Peter in the eye.
"Guess it's time I fess up," Byron said. "See, I'd been watching you sit in that cafe for a couple of months. I knew who you were. I saw the way you looked. I saw the way you didn't look, too, at anything around you. It was in your face, that you wanted to be left alone. I knew I couldn't introduce myself to you, not for a while, anyway. So I waited. Until the other day, when that new Joey Plus was introduced. Hell, I figured it was as good a time as any to throw a line to a fellow sea dog. All along I've been hoping since I saw you the first time that we'd get it on in the brain, like we are now. You know?"
A beaming grin peeled across Peter's face. "Yes. I know. And so what I was really wondering is, do you think maybe we could work on some of this stuff together?"
Byron scratched his head. "Sounds like I've got a new hobby," he said. He raised his can of beer. "Partners?"
Peter felt a little sting in his eyes. It was the briny ocean mist, he told himself, blinking behind his sunglasses to rid his eyes of the moisture that had abruptly formed there as he touched his beer can to Byron's.
"Partners."