Chapter 18
"Matthew, it's all so positive," Laurence Maupin said with smiling allegiance as she closed the copy of the "Wall Street Journal" resting on his desk. "You've got the press in the palm of your hand these days."
"I'd say you've had more than a little to do with that."
"Just doing my job."
"And more," he said with a mischievous grin.
His secretary opened his office door and leaned in. "Matthew, your meeting with the executive staff has been moved to one-thirty."
He thanked her and she returned to her desk. He closed the issue of "Business Week" he had been reading, which featured an article Laurence had pitched. He appraised his young assistant appreciatively as she flipped through a manila file folder. She looked at him.
"How about some lunch?" she asked, closing the folder.
"Sure. What are you up for?"
"You pick."
"I haven't had sushi in a while."
Laurence wrinkled her nose. "Hmm. I've somehow managed to avoid sushi all these years. Well, I guess it's time I tried it."
"You'll love it," he said, escorting her out of his office. To his secretary Eileen, he said, "We're going next door for lunch."
They boarded the elevator. "I'm curious as to why the executive staff pulled together for a meeting this afternoon," Matthew said. "No one has indicated a problem or situation of any sort to me."
"Perhaps it's to congratulate you on the fact that the Joey II is shipping two months ahead of schedule, with thousands of orders waiting to be filled."
"Maybe," he said, without conviction. "But we usually don't call together an executive staff meeting without some prior notice. And I'm usually the one to call them."
They crossed the Wallaby parking lot and walked along the sidewalk. "Who did call this one?" she asked.
He stopped in his tracks, and looked at her. "You know, I don't know," he said with mild astonishment. "I hadn't thought about it until you just asked. I suppose it was Hank Towers."
"Well, I can't imagine it being anything but good. Things have gone up, up, up since you've taken control."
"Yes, and I can thank you for that too," he quipped, shifting the topic from business to pleasure.
She touched her fingers to her lips to stifle a laugh as he opened the restaurant door for her. The Japanese hostess greeted them with a bow, and indicated for them to follow her. She led them into the dining area.
"I'd prefer a room in back," Matthew said when the hostess presented a table in the crowded general dining area, occupied mostly by Wallaby employees.
She nodded kindly and led them to the rear of the restaurant, to one of the more private rooms, screened off from the rest of the place with sliding rice paper and teakwood partitions.
"This is much better," Matthew said, stepping up to the low platform. He and Laurence kicked off their shoes and handed them to the hostess, who placed them outside the private room. They seated themselves side by side in the sunken pit, facing the sliding door.
The door slid closed and they opened their menus. A moment later
Matthew felt Laurence's stocking feet resting on top of his own.
He scanned the menu briefly then folded it. "How about I order?" he said, noticing she was having some difficulty choosing among the unusual dishes. "Trust me," he said, and kissed her forehead.
He felt like a man on top of the world. This was how things should be. In the past couple of months his wife had calmed down, just as he had known she would, and was off again doing her projects and things. Whatever it was she was occupying her time with he did not care, so long as she remained placated. As for her affair, he supposed she was still carrying on with it, but with whom, and where, he could not say. Nor did he care.
The rice paper screen silently slid open, and the waitress entered carrying a tray. She handed them each a moist hot towel and filled their mugs with green tea, and Matthew recited their order.
The waitress exited, and he gave Laurence's knee a little squeeze. "Don't worry, I picked a nice variety. No appalling surprises, I promise."
* * *
"Amazing!" William Harrell said excitedly as the ISLE system looked up a name he asked it to find in its sample phone directory. "And what did you say ISLE stands for?"
"Intelligent Speech and Language Environment."
"Right," William said. "Tell me more about the recognition interface."
"It was what really shifted our focus on this whole new design," Peter began. Byron, Paul, and Rick sat at the table also, listening as Peter explained their design. "We had already decided that intelligent agents were the next big step in portable computers and devices, but it didn't seem like enough to us. We wanted more. And when we encountered the ISLE hardware and software, the pieces just sort of fell in place."
He paused for a moment, picked up the small black box sitting on the table before them. "In its final configuration, this circuitry will fit on one single PC card, that slides into one of the portable's available slots. It contains the core recognition software, speech synthesizer, and 74,000 word English language library. The card's extra RAM stores up to 5,000 additional words, such as last names or companies or terms you commonly refer to. Additional libraries, ones that are industry-specific, for example, medical libraries, can be stored on another PC card, or on the hard disk."
"Incredible," William said. "But really, do people want this sort of interface? Will they really use it? In tests we conducted in our labs, we found that while users often asked for speech recognition, few actually used it once we installed it on prototype systems. What makes this any different?"
Peter nodded in agreement. "You're right. It's true. While people think they want to be able to talk to a computer, have it take dictation, we believe what they really want is to give it simple commands to make certain small tasks simpler. But listen, instead of telling you all of this, why don't we show you instead. Guys?"
Paul and Rick arranged the hackneyed Joey Plus computer in front of William and Peter handed him a microphone.
"In a final product," Peter said, "we'll of course build-in a microphone for hand's free operation." He hit a few keys. "Now, say you are driving in your car and you remember that you need to send an e-mail or fax to an associate to confirm an upcoming appointment."
"Okay," William said. "How do I start."
"Do what comes naturally."
William thought about this for a second then spoke into the microphone. "Pip, create an e-mail."
The Joey's hard disk was busy for an instant and then a blank e-mail form popped up on the screen. The Joey said, "To whom?"
William turned to Byron with wide eyes. Byron nodded and whispered, "Go on, give the little fella what he's asking for."
William said: "Peter."
Joey: "Peter Jones? Or Peter Smith?"
"Peter Jones," William said, then he covered the microphone and was about to say something, but Peter anticipated his question before he could ask it.
"That's the agent at work, behind the scenes. It found two Peters in the address book and didn't know which one you wanted, so it asked you to decide."
The Joey filled in the 'To:' field and skipped to the next line. It had already filled in the 'From:' and 'Date:' fields automatically.
"Subject?" the Joey said.
"Meeting confirmation."
The Joey considered this for a few seconds and then the monthly calendar view appeared on the screen, layered above the e-mail form.
"Do you mean your meeting scheduled for this Friday?"
"Yes."
The Joey automatically keyed in the subject field with: "Meeting
Confirmation, July sixth."
"Dear Peter," the Joey said, then "Please begin your message,
William."
William recited a brief note, saying that he was looking forward to the upcoming meeting. When he was done, he covered the microphone with his hand again and turned to Byron. "How do I tell it I'm done?"
"Just say it's name first, and it will know that you want to give it a command. That's why we named this one Pip. It's a word it would probably never encounter in your normal correspondence and so it knows that you are talking to it, rather than giving it text to put on the screen."
"Pip," William said into the mic, "That's all."
The Joey did not respond.
"Pip," William tried again, "Thank you."
Nothing.
William looked at Peter, who looked at Rick.
"What's the word for done," Peter said.
"Done," Rick said. "Looks like we'd better put in a few more ways of saying done," he said, scribbling a note to himself.
William said, "Pip: done."
"Thank you," the Joey said. "Shall I send this fax now or later?"
"Now," William said. He looked at Peter. "Is that okay."
Peter nodded.
"Sending," the Joey said. A few moments later the portable's built-in modem dialed the phone line plugged into it. They heard the line ring through the computer's speaker, and a half-second later the fax machine in the workroom rang. It picked up on the next ring, and William got up and went over to it. The fax he had just dictated, properly dated and addressed, whispered out of the fax machine and lay in the tray, complete. William picked it up and let out a pleased whistle. He heard two beeps behind him and he turned around.
"Fax transmission complete," the Joey said.
"Pip," William said, "thank you."
"You're welcome, William," the Joey said.
William laughed and shook his head. "Incredible," he said. He switched off the microphone and laid it down on the table. "Well, I guess that proves your point. You're right. For simple busy-work like sending a fax or creating an e-mail, being able to speak to the computer directly does make the job easier."
"Right," Peter said. "And some people will use it for longer documents, like a traditional dictation system, but without the need to transcribe it. And in order to avoid being interrupted in the middle of your brainstorm it will wait until you are done to ask you to clarify any words it did not understand."
"What about the handwriting stuff," William said.
"That's another enhancement," Peter said, ready to explain how it fit in with the rest of the product. But just then, Grace came into the room.
"Come on, boys, lunch is ready."
The men stood and stretched, and Peter went on as they headed out of the room. "Like the speech interface, we think the handwriting recognition, which we've vastly improved over the standard Joey version, will be used for smaller tasks, jotting down notes and contact information, that sort of thing. But not necessarily for writing long letters. For that, they can use the keyboard. However, for editing an existing document, using the stylus like a red pen to mark up the page and scribble in corrections or move text around, we've put in standard editor pen-strokes to make revisions a snap."
William removed his glasses. "It's amazing. The way these enhancements - the agent technology, and the speech and improved handwriting recognition - have upped the ante, making an already pretty smart portable system truly intelligent."
"Right," Peter said. "And the vertical application possibilities are endless. Publishing, using the editorial mark-up features I described. And any business that relies on forms. We're already collaborating with a doctor friend of mine at Stanford," Peter said enthusiastically. "She's building a system that lets doctors and nurses track patients' vital signs and prescription orders on a prototype system we've hacked together for her."
The group seated themselves around the dining table, with Peter and William sitting side by side.
William said, "But what about the computer itself? I see you've cracked open a few Joeys in there and put in your own custom hardware. Is that how you intend to deliver the product? As a Joey peripheral?"
Peter let out a big sigh on this one. "That's a good question. One I tend to get a little too worked up over. See, I want to do our own thing. It would take longer, but it would be ours, and not a part of Wallaby's. Let's just say I'm still a little sensitive on the subject. Byron, why don't you handle that one." Grace handed Isle to Peter and he gently rocked her in his arms.
"She's precious," William said. "I didn't know you were a father."
"Yep," Peter said. "Her name is Isle. She's the little jewel behind everything you just saw." He kissed her fuzzy head.
Byron took a sip of his water and addressed William's question. "That's not a bad idea, Billy. Petey and I have been talking about it between us, and we're not exactly sure how we're going to deliver the final product. We could do it as a Joey add-on. Or we could create our own new computer. That Joey in there that you were playing with is only the basic guts. For more reliable net and web access, we've slipped in a faster, 28.8 KB modem with a wireless option so you can send and receive e-mails or do paging through the airwaves, without plugging into a phone line. And we've come up with a sharper, lower-power thin-film transistor display, a longer-life battery pack, and an infrared port too, that lets you beam information to your desktop system or to other Joeys and IR devices, like printers, or hell, to your TV even, when we get the home-entertainment interface software we're kicking around up and running."
William put down his fork and took a sip of his water. "Well, there is another option that you have not mentioned." He paused. "You could integrate the ISLE design into a next-generation ICP product."
Everyone around the table stopped and looked at him. Then they looked at Peter.
Peter, gently rocking Isle in his lap, looked at Byron. Then he turned to William, and he smiled.
"Now there's an interesting idea."
* * *
She pulled into a handicapped parking space beside Matthew's car, then flashed her Wallaby VIP badge to the security guard sitting behind the lobby desk. Matthew had gotten the pass for her a few years ago, after she had once been accosted by security when she had arrived and marched right past the desk carrying a basket of flowers, a surprise for her husband. As far as she was concerned, she was still the boss's wife, and she could go anywhere she damn well pleased. She ignored the guard's pleasantries and boarded the elevator. A moment later the door parted, and she was on the top floor.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Locke," a handsome receptionist said cheerfully.
"Hello, Sheldon," Greta said with an effusive smile. Such a charming young man. He knew how to treat a distinguished woman. As she headed away, her peripheral vision caught the young man lifting the telephone handset, warning the executive secretaries that she was on her way.
So well trained, she thought, a sudden hush falling over the executive area. As she marched along the row of offices, each of the secretaries graced her with a smile and a greeting.
"Greta," Matthew's secretary Eileen said with deliberate flatness.
Greta marched past her desk without so much as a glance and went straight into her husband's office.
Eileen came in behind her. "He's gone to lunch next door," she said. "Can I help you with something?"
Lingering for a few moments, she examined several documents on Matthew's desk with feigned interest. Satisfied, she cleared her throat and walked out of the office. Neither of the two women wished the other any sort of day, good, bad or otherwise.
She made her way back to the elevators.
The elevator rang, and someone ran past her and boarded it. "Please hold that," she called out. Taking her time to reach the elevator, a pleasurable knowledge swept through her; whoever the person in the elevator was, he or she would hold the door for her.
"Thank you, dear," she said to the young man aboard the elevator. Because she had participated in all of Wallaby's major functions, whether on stage with Matthew as he wished the employees season's greetings, or during congratulatory speeches and celebration events, everyone in the company recognized Greta Locke - the head-honcho's wife.
Reveling in this notoriety, she strolled into the sushi restaurant and searched among the tables for her husband. Conversations quieted among the diners as they noticed her. Mrs. Matthew Locke pretended indifference to the attention she drew as she started through the dining area and headed for the back room, where on past occasions she and Matthew had dined with some of the other Wallaby executives and their wives.
"May I help you?" the hostess inquired politely, treading alongside Greta.
"I know my way around," Greta said. She went in back and stopped before the group of private partitioned rooms. The doors to three of the intimate little rooms were open, and she could see they were empty. She went for the first closed door, but just before sliding it open she noticed Matthew's shoes, as well as a pair of heels, sitting on the floor by the last room, which overlooked the carp pond at the restaurant's atrium center.
As she neared the room, she heard Matthew's voice. "Here, try this one," then a foolish giggle, presumably belonging to whoever it was who fit into such tiny heels.
Greta stepped up to the platform and slid the door open, just in time to see Matthew, chopsticks in hand, placing a dripping pink piece of raw fish into the mouth of a young pretty thing. The girl sat with her eyes closed and head titled back slightly, wriggled her tongue in anticipation. Matthew's other hand was hidden beneath the girl's hair, supporting her neck.
Looking up and encountering his wife's stunned expression, Matthew jerked impulsively, and in doing so plunged the chunk of raw fish into the girl's mouth. Her eyes snapped open, and she made a revolting sound. Her hands flew to her throat. She was choking.
Matthew struck the girl sharply on the back, and with a great popping cough, the pink thing flew from her mouth into her cupped hand.
Seeing that the girl's airway was free, Matthew turned to his wife. Getting up, his napkin fell into the tray of sushi. As he reached for it, his feet encountered an obstacle, and in an effort to prevent himself from crashing through the window, he caught the edge of the table, managing to tip over their mugs of tea, as well as knock most of the remaining sushi onto the floor.
"Sit down, Matthew," Greta said with a disgusted flap of her hand. She gave him a look. "I must say, darling, I'm very impressed with your technique. I would have thought you'd need a hook to catch this sort of fish."
The girl sucked deep gulps of air, alternating her wide, watery-eyed gape between husband and wife.
"Poor thing, so sorry you don't care for the selection," Greta said with a pout. "I think there's some more on the floor. Go fetch, dearie."
"Greta," Matthew snapped, "close that door!"
"Oh, relax, Matthew. This will only take a minute. However," she said, seating herself in the pit across from them, "I'm not leaving until I see this live one swim through a hoop and catch a chunk of that bait in the air."
Matthew glared at his wife as she opened her purse and withdrew the pink bank form.
"This is Laurence Maupin," Matthew said, attempting to explain himself. "She's my public relations assistant."
Ignoring the girl's flawless extended hand, Greta slid aside the tray and dropped the form on the table before Matthew. She made sure to use her left hand.
The door slid open and the hostess poked her head in. "Would you like a menu?" she asked graciously.
"Go away," Greta snapped. The door slid closed.
"We were just going over some notes," Matthew said, still indulging in his farce. "For a speech I'll be giving in a few weeks."
"Is that so?" Greta said. "And where will you be speaking,
Matthew, Sea World?
More composed now, Laurence eyed her tormentor with plain contempt. "This is not what you think, Mrs. Locke," she said.
"Butt out. This business is between my husband and I." She flicked the form into Matthew's lap, then slapped a gold pen down on the table. "Sign it."
"Greta! This is for a quarter-million dollars," he said, his voice disbelieving. "What the hell are you doing?"
She gave her husband an impatient look. "Matthew, either you shut up and sign that, or I walk out there and announce your fishy little affair with Flipper here."
He considered this, looked down at the form. "I hope you know what you're doing," he said, and picked up the pen.
"What the hell is so funny?" Greta asked, noticing Laurence's apparently merry expression as she watched Matthew's hand squiggling across the form. For the briefest instant, Laurence's smile intensified when she met Greta's eyes. At this stare-down, Greta lost.
Matthew shoved the pen and the transfer document across the table, then crossed his arms and stared down at the ruined lunch like an angry child.
Greta collected the form and folded it neatly, a triumphant smile on her face. Matthew shook his head in disgust as the slip disappeared into her purse with a snap. His anger was complete. At this point he was only thankful she was leaving immediately, without causing him any further embarrassment.
"I'm so sorry I can't stay to see the rest of the show - " Greta started, calmly.
Or so he thought.
"I'll especially hate missing the part where you balance his balls on your nose."
Matthew lunged for her, but she escaped his grasp with a titter and left the room, not bothering to close the door. She swept past the mute diners, her victory plain for everyone to see. She even paused at the door for a moment to take a few mints at the hostess desk.
But when she pressed through the doors, leaving her stunned audience behind, she felt strangely unmasked in the bright sunlight. Something inside her shifted, and her elation quickly drained.
She was overcome by a sudden panic. And then it hit her. Was this her last hurrah? Would that young girl take over her reign as Mrs. Matthew Locke? she wondered covetously.
She pressed her fist to her mouth and forced herself to concentrate on her task at hand. She had to get to the bank with the signed transfer. Then she would feel better. Yes, she told herself, catching Matthew with his little tart would strengthen her decision, would reassure her. She couldn't wait to tell Jean-Pierre she had caught him, red-handed.
But this small euphoria was as short-lived as the last. As she raced up the highway, a disturbing realization mocked her, prodding obscenely at her sensibility. That all this time, contrary to her reasoning, Matthew had had the capacity to love more than Wallaby, and he had chosen to share it not with her, but with another woman.