"Greta?" Matthew called, stepping from room to room on the lower floor of the house. He climbed the stairs. Soft, pleasant music drifted out from the bedroom. He closed in on the bathroom, and found his wife in the tub. She raised her face from some sort of picture book or atlas propped on a silver bath tray table.
He lowered himself to the closed toilet seat. "It's over," he said.
"Thank God," Greta said. She closed her eyes and stretched her right arm out of the tub. Bubbles and soapy water dripped from her perfect hand onto the floor. "Darling, would you pass me the oil please?"
He handed her a bottle of spiced bath oil. She held it there, out of the tub, until she caught his eye. She led his vision to the bottle's cap and he uncapped it and held it while she squeezed the red liquid into the water. It spurted from the bottle and he was suddenly mesmerized by the mixture as it bled into the water. He studied his wife with sullen fascination as she lay there with her eyes closed, gently oscillating her shoulders and legs, mixing up the oil and water. With her eyes still closed, she held out the bottle to him again. Accepting it, his hand touched hers for an instant. He shivered, and felt a sudden need to urinate. He could not remember the last time he had seen her other hand naked, which was presently hidden somewhere under the water in the tub. Nor could he remember the last time they had made love, though he was pretty certain it was the evening before International Foods had thrown the yacht party for him to celebrate the success of Orange Fresh. Thinking of these things, he was momentarily hypnotized by the sight of her there in the tub, moving in the frothy pink water. His mind roared with the horrific image of her as she had appeared when the accident had occurred. Underwater. Stillness. Then her eyes bulging as her head splashed up out of the sea's redness. The screaming. The flailing. The blood. Splashing -
She was flicking bath water at him. "Matthew, are you here? I said I'm happy for you. Did everything work out okay?"
"Yes. Yes," he said, blinking. A few droplets had landed on his trousers. He brushed them away and said, "He's gone. It's over. They all chose me over Peter."
"There," she said, "you see. I told you everything would work out just fine."
He thought about how she saw things. A few months ago, when he had felt doubt, she had helped him regain his focus and set the stage for today's meeting. Her persistent belief in him had finally won out, and ultimately he had believed in himself enough to begin the painstaking maneuvers necessary to topple Jones after he'd balked at Matthew's suggestion to make the Joey more compatible with ICP's computers. That, he understood now, was when it must have happened, when he had begun to live in his wife's presence without really noticing her anymore, focusing wholly on his work. The first stage of detachment had been after the accident. The second was after he had gotten his plan underway. He had finally and completely shut her out, without ever really meaning to. In both cases he had told himself that it was temporary, that things would eventually return to the way they had been. But now he understood that those times would never return. They couldn't, for it seemed all was lost on that day of the accident. He thought of the object - that was precisely how he thought of it, an object of his lost affection - which he kept hidden in the inside pocket of his briefcase. Lost. What was he going to do? How would he end up? How would they end up? He knew what she was thinking, what her own hopes were. That now that Peter Jones was out of the way, he'd spend more time with her.
Turning his wedding band round and round on his finger in his lap, hidden from her sight, he spoke. "This is just the beginning, honey," he said, cautious. "Now, slowly and carefully, I have to reveal my plan for engineering our products to connect with ICP's systems to the board and executive staff so that they believe I'm doing it to increase sales and market share." He watched her expression.
Sponging her neck, she said, "Well darling, now that that pest is out of your way, I'm sure you'll have no problem." There was an edge of warning in her delivery.
"Yes," he paused. "But there are many people in the company who still carry Peter's belief that ICP is bad and that Wallaby should concentrate on competing more firmly rather than yield to them."
"Darling, you've come this far, and you'll make it to the glorious end of your plan just fine. I just know it. Have you contacted William yet?"
"I sent him a message," Matthew said. He realized that he needed to check to see if William had received the memo and replied to it. His concern asserted itself. "William's not going to be pleased. He wanted me to exhaust every possibility to keep Peter onboard. But after seeing the way he reacted I doubt he'll stick around." Matthew stood. He had to use the toilet…but rather than use this one he wanted to use the one downstairs. "I better go check my e-mail," he said, excusing himself.
He hurried downstairs to his library office. He turned on his computer and hung his jacket over the chair. His Joey was outfitted with every add-on option, including a color monitor, a CD-ROM drive, a laser printer, and a mouse. Seeing the mouse lying there, he abruptly remembered Laurence and the thoughts he'd had of her yesterday in his car; he recalled too the image of her lovely hand clutching the manila folder less than an hour ago in his office. While the computer started up, he went into the library's small toilet. He stood before the toilet and opened his fly. At the same time he closed his eyes, concentrating. There came no flow. Instead, he felt himself hardening in his own hand. He locked the door, dropped his trousers to the floor, and seated himself. At the age of ten, Matthew Locke had had the good fortune of discovering masturbation. It had altered the course of his life forever. For whenever he became distracted from his studies, thinking about girls instead of geometry, he had simply relieved himself. It was to this dedication that he owed his success. It had enabled him to focus all of his energies on important things. He had achieved autonomous coupling - a boy and his hand. Even in college he favored this method. Of course there had been girls, but none of them ever proved worth the time or effort. Though this was the price he paid in order to come so far so fast, he had never seemed to fully grasp its relevance until the day he'd met Greta. The instant he'd laid eyes on her, her hands, he determined it was time to think about marrying. It was important to his career, and if he was going to do it, then why not with a woman who's hands were more alluring than his own?
Were.
But hers were not the hands he thought of now, holding him, stroking him. No, the hand he imagined in place of his own belonged to another woman, a girl, really, who he told himself he must resist.
He came, and she went.
* * *
It was one o'clock in the afternoon, and Peter was in bed.
He lay there staring at the ceiling. Time didn't matter anymore. Every now and then he took a gulp of Scotch from the bottle he had opened after Ivy left. Normally he never drank hard liquor. But today it seemed like the most natural thing to do. He needed something to help him escape from his own mind, something that would inevitably force him into sleep, where he could hide, even if just for a couple of hours, from his dilemma. It was too soon to try and think things through. Through? How, he wondered, does one think through being through? With every swallow from the bottle the reality of it all slipped a little farther away.
What he wanted to know was, what would they do for the future? His instinctive reaction to anything that threatened Wallaby - in this case, his being flung from the company - provoked fear and anxiety for its future, beyond the potential misery of his personal fate.
He had given nearly ten years of his life to Wallaby. The time when it all began seemed like a lifetime ago.
He drifted.
Never socializing with the jocks, pot-heads, or any other group, Peter Jones was considered an oddball student. He had been an orphan most of his life, living in a Los Gatos home governed by an elderly couple. He was used to spending time alone, reading or going for walks in the nearby woods, imagining he was Henry David Thoreau, observing nature, lost in his own thoughts. Whenever he was forced to spend a few trial days with potential foster parents, he affected a sullen and despondent mood, saving a tantrum or explosive outburst for the last day of the test period. He had gotten by just fine on his own, and he didn't need anyone, or anything, except maybe his science fiction novels.
Clayton and Clara Dodson, the owners of the orphanage, had had their hands full with Peter. Eventually they stopped sending him off to potential homes. The youngster pretty much took care of himself and was always willing to help out around the orphanage. One day the Dodsons's acceptance of Peter went from resigned to delighted when he burst into the house and told them he had invented the world's first truly portable computer. Peter had recently begun to hang around with the "gear heads," students who were involved in clubs fostering fans of rockets, automobile engines, and electronics. At the club meetings he met several kids like himself - bright, introverted; some of them would eventually become his first employees at Wallaby, right out of high school. During his senior year, while checking out some of the other student projects an hour before the science fair, Peter met two gawky fellows who had built a device they called the All-In-One Computer. The invention was primitive at best, but all the right parts were there: keyboard, screen, disk drive. Captivated, and without a project of his own, Peter persuaded the boys to include him in their project which, five minutes before the show began, he renamed the Portable Personal Computer.
The project won first prize, and after the show an older gentleman named Mr. Towers introduced himself. He told the boys that they were on to something and that they should give him a call sometime if they advanced the design of the box. Peter shoved the man's business card in his pocket.
Peter became more and more intrigued with the concept of a computer you could take with you wherever you went. Theirs came close, but it required a wall socket to power it so the only place you could really take it was from room to room. During the summer after his high school graduation he reread all of his science fiction books featuring robots and computers as their main characters. In his mind's eye he fashioned a small computer that could be his friend, like the ones in the books. He imagined taking his computer with him for walks in the woods, telling the computer about the things he saw, and what he thought. His computer would keep these things in its memory, and the more it learned about him and the world, the more loyal and dependable a friend it would become. He would make a lot of them, inexpensively, so that everyone could afford one and use it for whatever they wanted. He envisioned the computer and how it would work, how people would approach it and work with it. When he felt he had realized the computer as clearly as if he already owned one, he sat down to start designing. But when he picked up his pen, he could do little more than sketch crude boxes with screens and keyboards. He realized that he didn't know how to design the circuits and parts necessary to actually fabricate the machine. He called the two boys from the science fair, Paul Trueblood and Rick Boardman, and invited them over to the orphanage one afternoon. When he described his idea, the boys grew excited. Pushing his eyeglasses up on his nose, Paul began rambling about how he could do the hardware part, maybe even squeeze in a modem for calling up other computers, and Rick described how he could write a integrated program for the computer so that it could do real work for people, like keep track of important names and addresses, right out of the box.
Three months later the three boys stood in front of their first prototype, the Mate, and ran their first program, an all-in-one organizer and word processor and communications program that they dubbed Easy Does It.
When the Mates development was well underway, Peter contacted Mr. Towers, the man he had met a few months before at the science fair. Towers invited him to his nearby office. Two hours later, Towers had become the primary investor in the Mate's development, and overseer of the startup of a new company.
Within a year the boys were building as many computers as they could in Peter's garage. Towers remained in the background, working deals with parts suppliers through his electronic instrument company to provide the boys with what they needed for production. Eventually they had so many orders that they had to relocate to real offices in nearby Sunnyvale. Peter moved out of the orphanage and created a minimal living space for himself in one of the building's corner offices. Together, Hank Towers and Peter, then twenty-two, founded their new company, which Peter named Wallaby, which everyone knew was an animal that had a pocket in which it carried its joey…the little friend that Peter had always dreamed of having, and knew someday he would create.
He snapped awake to a high-pitched warble. The telephone. Reaching for it, he knocked over the bottle of Scotch, spilling its contents onto the hardwood floor.
"Hello?" The voice on the other end was anxious.
"Yeah," Peter said, pressing his fingers to his eyelids.
"Peter? Are you all right? Petey?"
"Kate." This came out as a moan.
She spoke very fast. "What's happened? I caught the tail end of something about Wallaby on the CNN, something about a reorganization, and called your office, Peter, and they said they had not seen you. Peggy put me on hold and called the boardroom and they told her you had bolted and that something happened but she wouldn't tell me what. What the hell is going on?"
"It's over," he slurred.
"What's over?"
"Me. Wallaby. Everything."
"Petey, talk to me. Are you there? Petey?"
"I've been fired. From my own company."
"I can hardly hear you. I don't understand. What do you mean fired?"
"Fired," he shouted, and immediately regretted it. The sting in his head and heart diverged, spread. As if on cue, the secret thing in his heart asserted itself again. With its arrival, an abstraction formed in his drunken mind. He thought of the word "mate." It represented the start of his life. Because of the Mate, he had met Kate. She was his soul mate, and with her he had experienced his coming of age. And wasn't she, in some ways, the inspiration behind the Joey? Wasn't their nomadic relationship what had inspired him to design a computer you could take with you when you went away? Now it had been taken from him. How long, he wondered, before Kate was gone too? The more aware he was of this feeling, of losing the things close to his heart, the more aware he became of his newest mate, the disagreeable feeling that had burrowed inside him. At this moment it was troubled, like a tiny caged creature suffering from hunger spasms, nourishment lying within its line of sight, in its owner's hand, beyond its reach, so close, yet so far away.
Kate shouted his name into the phone, breaking him out of his stupor. "Tell me what happened."
"Matthew's in control. They want me to sit in an office. Be a thinker." He became outraged by his own account. "A fucking thinker."
"Then you're not fired, right, Peter. Then you're not fired?"
"Good as. Nothin' left for me to do there."
"Baby, I'm in LA at the studio. I'm leaving right now. I'll be there as fast as I can. No more than a couple hours."
"Okay," he said softly.
"I love you."
"You too." Chest pains. He hung up the phone and picked up the bottle.
"It was the Scotch," he said to the empty room, then uttered a painful chuckle that bordered on hysteria and threatened to overtake him if he didn't get a grip. He busied himself looking for the bottle's cap, but saw that he wouldn't need it. The bottle was empty.
And so was he.
Wallaby. Kate. These things came to a man only once in his lifetime. Had become his lifetime. Once you've lost them, he reckoned as he began to drift off to sleep, you never again get, or deserve, anything as good.
Teetering on the edge of consciousness, he struggled to remember the lyrics of an old song he used to listen to, something about you can't always get what you want, but if you cry sometimes, you get what you need.
Not quite, but close enough.
And so he cried.
William Harrell's meeting with his advisers had been taxing. Both had recommended that ICP begin the accelerated development of the prototype BPX ultra-portable computer - a product, were William to give its development the go-ahead, that they felt could compete directly with the advanced features of Wallaby's Joey. And, his technology adviser stressed, the BPX wouldn't suffer from the problem that currently plagued the Joey, of too few available third-party software applications. ICP's magnitude could garner pre-announcement commitment from software developers, said the adviser, to begin creating BPX programs for the computer immediately.
If he hadn't had his secret plan in place, William would have been mad not to heed his advisers' advice and implement exactly what they had presented. But he'd had it all figured out for a long time. What he wanted now, more than anything, was for them to leave his office so that he could go home and check his e-mail.
When he uttered his response, "We'll continue evolving the current BP design," he could see in their expressions that they thought he was crazy. Both stared at him with incredulity. His business adviser flapped pages of figures and charts that projected the market penetration Wallaby could achieve if it were successful in getting the rumored Joey Plus computer to market within three months. According to one chart, Wallaby could begin by tapping some of ICP's largest customer accounts, which could lead to sizable market penetration over the next three years. Within five years, another chart predicted, the Joey Plus's superior design could earn half of ICP's portable computer market share for Wallaby.
William held firmly to his decision. What they were telling him was precisely what he and his secret partner, Matthew Locke, already knew. What his advisers didn't know was that their fears of Wallaby gaining monumental market share would hardly be a worry to ICP in the not-too-distant future. On the contrary, it would be cause for celebration.
Returning to his palatial home, he proceeded straight to his impressive office. He exhaled an appreciative sigh as he powered on his Wallaby Joey and sat before it, quite literally on the edge of his seat. Matthew had sent William the computer when it was introduced last year. They had made arrangements before Matthew had moved to California as to how they would communicate the progress of their secret merger plan, which the men had originally formulated here in William's home. It would stun the business world, William reflected for the hundredth time. He'd experienced so many moments of pleasant anticipation since the course had been set two years ago.
After the jolting squash match with Rolland Worthy, William had returned to his office and had his secretary cancel his remaining meetings. He asked his driver to take him to Central Park. He intended to force himself to relax and think through the possible effects that Worthy's news could have on ICP's future portable computer strategy. During the short trip, William watched the miniature television in the passenger compartment, hopeful that the commercials and nonsense soap opera dialogue would lighten his frame of mind. Just before getting out of the car, he caught a commercial that froze him in his seat for its duration. A notion flashed in his mind. An instant later, the breadth of it nearly bowled him over in its force and irony, and he was thankful to be sitting down. The spark that ignited the idea was the infamous Remington electric shaver commercial, in which Victor Kiam says, "I liked the product so much, I bought the company." William's heart doubled its cadence, and wave after wave of adrenaline coursed through his system like gasoline spurting onto an open flame. His brain was a bonfire. Of course! That was it! He would buy Wallaby, for the very same reason Kiam had wanted Remington, because he really did like Wallaby's product so much. From his car phone he placed a call to Matthew Locke's office at International Foods. Matthew's secretary informed him that Matthew was out of the office for two days, but said that she would have him call when he returned.
In his excitement he had forgotten what Rolland Worthy told him, that Matthew was in California right now, visiting Wallaby.
William spent the next two days devising a plan. Rarely was there an occasion in which he had the pleasure of acting on impulse. Everything at ICP was planned several years in advance. The jubilation he felt over the merger idea was no less than a gift from above - the first diversion to come along that was powerful enough to ease his grieving over the loss of his wife Martha, who had passed away eight months ago, after a blessedly short battle with pancreatic cancer.
After losing Martha, William had secluded himself, inviting no one into his home. His new idea would change all that. He sank into his idea with pure obsession.
Matthew Locke accepted William's dinner invitation after returning from California. The two businessmen sat with drinks in the library. Perfunctory conversation planted the seeds that they carried to the dinner table. Once the first two courses were completed, William got the real discussion underway.
"As I told you on the phone, Rolland mentioned to me that you were visiting Wallaby in California as a candidate for president."
Matthew had his own preface: "Rolland has been my mentor at International Foods for more than ten years. I don't feel any ill will toward him for telling you, as long as you respect the fact that my trip was confidential."
"Of course," William said, and took a drink of water. Then he began. "Matthew, an unusual feeling swept over me when I heard this." Already his enthusiasm was quickening. "I realized that Wallaby must be up to something really big if they were calling on someone of your caliber. It's been a long time since Peter Jones has made any brash statements about us, the industry, or anything. Too long.
"I thought it would be interesting to meet you when you returned. You see, a plan began to unfold in my mind, one that you may find interesting." A smile lighted William's face, and he leaned forward a little. In a lowered voice he revealed the heart of the matter: "I've always had a strong admiration for Wallaby. But of course it's the sort of thing one must keep in check at ICP.
"Sure, we currently have a great portable computer. But we're not innovative the way Wallaby is. And I suspect that they're up to something new. Something exciting."
Matthew saw the purity of William's candor and honesty. His intuition was waking, and he was beginning to understand where this conversation would take them. With this sureness, he offered a teaser.
"I don't think I'm giving away any secrets by saying yes, you're correct. They're up to something. And yes, it is something very exciting."
William pushed his untouched plate aside. The two men shared a moment of heavy silence, each considering his own tactics. Maintaining a hint of a smile, William was the first to make a move. "Matthew, I would like to suggest a possible business arrangement."
Matthew gave an agreeable nod.
"ICP is gigantic. Everything we do is planned many years into the future. Although our personal computers are outselling Wallaby's Mate system, I suspect that whatever they have coming down the pipeline will be completely unexpected and radical."
"Correct."
"Yes," William said. "That's what I figured." He paused thoughtfully. When he spoke, his voice was casual and revealing, the way a man's voice becomes when he is dead certain of the object of his desire.
"I've always envied Peter Jones and his company. But of course I've got my own company to worry about. For my own entertainment, I've been looking for some time at Wallaby as a case study. I've toyed with the idea of spinning out a rebellious group of engineers and forming a new subsidiary with the charter to build radical new portable computers. However, members of the board to whom I've casually mentioned this have not responded positively. They're focused on bigger systems and desktops, which, along with service, account for most of our business. I must concede that I understand their lack of enthusiasm. We are an East Coast company. We're buttoned-down numbers people. Out west, they do things differently. Profits follow passions."
Matthew's eyes narrowed. "I think I'm beginning to catch your drift."
"I'll get to the point, then. Wallaby's products are not compatible with our systems. Ours take a lot of time to learn how to use. Granted, Wallaby's Mate isn't a whole lot better, but there's something about it that makes it friendlier, and it's certainly easier to lug around."
"You ain't seen nothing yet," Matthew quipped.
"Right. So I'm not going to beat around the bush. I've got nothing to lose by sharing my fantasy with you." He took another gulp of water, then went for it. "Matthew, I really like Wallaby. I think it has created, and will keep creating, exciting technologies. Peter Jones has an absolute vision of what small computers should be. We at ICP can't do that. We are a big company, with big computers." William's hands unfolded before him. It was a gesture of offering. "So what if Peter Jones and Wallaby became a part of ICP, but were left alone in California to do their thing?"
Matthew was speechless.
"Say you, Matthew, were to go into Wallaby, the strong leader that you are, and begin bending Jones and the company toward becoming compatible with ICP's systems? Then, when the company is oriented in a compatible direction, so that Wallaby's computers can work with our big systems, ICP and Wallaby merge, but let Wallaby maintain its freedom as an independently operated subsidiary."
Matthew's mind raced at the prospect of this outrageous coup. If it were successful, it could be bigger than anything he ever dreamed could happen at International Foods. He had a million questions to ask, and his eagerness was written all over his face. But before he could utter a word, William raised his hands.
"Wait. Just one more thing to think about. For you it would eventually mean the opportunity to move into the highest ranks of ICP." In earnest, he said, "My expiration date isn't too far off into the future." There, William thought, he'd said his piece. He felt himself relax a little. There was nothing more he could say. While respecting Matthew's silent deliberation, he stole a woeful glance at a portrait of his beloved Martha, smiling from where she sat framed in silver on the antique china closet. I need this, my dear, he said to her silently, I need to have this.
Her sanction came out when Matthew spoke: "It's brilliant."
William breathed a silent sigh.
Matthew advanced his own view of the overall premise, and when he finished he sat back and clasped his hands in his lap, his face glowing with certainty.
Any concerns William might have had for Matthew's strategic ability and comprehension now departed. "Bravo," William said. "Of course, there's much we'd have to discuss." Then, cautiously: "And this plan must remain a secret between us. You and I will guide it along privately through its early stages, until we reach the point where a merger makes perfect sense." He studied Matthew's expression for any sign of consternation, and was pleased to find none.
"You know, its funny," Matthew said, with no hint of humor in his voice, "The big concern I've had about considering this job at Wallaby was ICP. Now your big concern and my big concern may very well wind up becoming the computer industry's single biggest concern ever."
"Quite," said William, raising his glass to toast his new secret partner.
The touch-tone sound of the computer's modem brought William back to the present.
As planned, Matthew had sent him an e-mail message that validated the decision he had voiced earlier to his advisers.
However, when he read the last part of the message, about Peter Jones's possible departure from the company, he felt a shiver. Granted, he was relieved now that Matthew had won support, and that the secret merger plan could proceed. He favored a scenario whereby Jones stayed with Wallaby and continued to lead the development of the company's future products.
Pondering this, he studied his finger on the Joey's trackpad. Sliding his fingertip across the smooth surface felt natural and intuitive, a genius design. Peter Jones's genius design. Without the trackpad, the Joey would not function as it did. Elegant. Silky. Smooth. Right.
Staring at the small flat black space beneath his finger, a dark thought prodded his sense of certainty. Without Peter Jones, could Wallaby operate as smoothly and naturally as a peripheral of ICP?
* * *
Peter blinked awake in the room's gauzy afternoon brightness.
Whiffing a good, familiar smell, he shut his eyes for a little while, listened to her moving around, moving things around.
"Hi."
He opened his eyes. Kate was crouched before him. He propped himself up on one elbow.
"Oh," he moaned, touching his fingers to his temple.
"How you doing?"
He shrugged and his eyes met hers, then shifted past her shoulder. Several pieces of luggage sat by the doorway. "What's all that for?"
"We're going away for a bit."
He yawned. "We are?"
"Yep. I'm taking you to the Maine house for a little while."
"Okay," he said, offering no argument.
"First, we're going to treat you to a nice hot shower. Come on."She gently helped him up and out of the room.
In the bathroom she went about undressing him.
He stood before her naked, watching her dip her hand in and out of the shower, adjusting its temperature.
"Kate," he said, his voice rubbery.
"Hmm?"
"You're an artist."
"Mm-hmm."
"Well, I was wondering. About when you've created something. When it's something really good. You know, like a new CD. And when it's all done, you have it and hold it in your hands. And there it is. All said and done. You can keep going back to it, but no matter how great it is, it's past. History. So. What I want to know is, do you ever feel like you'll never be able to do it again? Do anything again?"
"All the time, love." She took his chin in her hand and kissed his forehead. "But no matter how hard it seems at the time, if you did it once, you can do it again."
"Promise?"
"You know it."
"Good. Will you come in here with me?"
"Yes."
Eating breakfast in the cafe had become part of Peter's daily routine. The waitress greeted him as he sat with his usual pile of newspapers. She returned with a cup of coffee, a scone, and a glass of orange juice.
He was grateful for the privacy his vacation home offered. It was Matthew who had introduced him to the quaint town of Camden, Maine, a place popular in the summer with executives and their families from Boston, Philadelphia, and New York, and over the last three months he had been recognized by only a few executives around town. Today, however, anyone reading the "Wall Street Journal" would see on the front page of the business section a small picture of Peter's face, positioned three paragraphs below one of Matthew Locke's face. Perhaps, after giving it a little thought, the reader would realize that he or she had seen him there in the cafe or in one of the town's small shops, or walking along the inlet. And after reading the story, the next time they spotted him they might even feel a pang of sympathy.
It read:
- - - - - - - - - -
SUNNYVALE, CA - Wallaby, Inc., creators of the first all-in-one portable computer, announced today an improved and more powerful version of its Joey computer, introduced just one year ago. Wallaby's founder, the young and mercurial Peter Jones, was the inventor of the company's first computer, the Mate, nine years ago and was the driving force behind both the Joey and the enhanced version unveiled today, the Joey Plus. The new version is easier to program, offers a faster processor, and boasts more built-in memory configuration for running more powerful software programs, which are now becoming available. It also features a slim, built-in CD-ROM drive for accessing multimedia titles and reference works, a faster 14.4K data/fax modem, and a brighter backlit active-matrix display, all for the same price as the original Joey, which the new model replaces.
Analysts view the introduction of the Joey Plus as a feather in the cap of Wallaby Chairman and CEO Matthew Locke, who took the company reins from Jones after a boardroom showdown three months ago.
"This demonstrates Locke's ability to manage a new products company," said Michael Kolohan of Quest Market Research, Inc.
"We're very excited about the Joey Plus computer," Locke said in a telephone interview. "Now there are no hurdles between developers and users in offering powerful applications that compare to those available for ICP computer users, our value-added being the easier to use design of the Joey Plus, and its more attractive, more convenient form factor."
In his new role as leader of Wallaby, Locke reorganized the formerly separate engineering groups, consolidating resources on the Joey Plus project, which accelerated the device's introduction to market by three months. To enlist the support of software developers, Locke took to the road, evangelizing with prototypes of the powerful new Joey Plus to stimulate new software development prior to today's announcement.
One developer, PowerBase, Inc. of Cupertino, California, will soon introduce an program for compound document and forms processing, and advanced communications abilities. Said Paul Kupiec, president of PowerBase, "Wallaby really delivered with the new Joey Plus. We're ecstatic, now that it's got so much room for bigger applications, which means corporate clients we could not previously appeal to are now more apt to consider Wallaby over ICP.
"We were all worried when Jones left the company," Kupiec continued, "but Locke came to our offices in person with his engineering managers and offered us an early prototype unit of the new Plus. We dropped everything and already have ninety-eight percent of our program completed, which we ported from our ICP BP version. I think he [Locke] may fare well in his new role."
Jones, on sabbatical in New England, was offered a "visionary at large" role after being ousted by Locke and the company's board of directors, according to one source. However, Wallaby officials declined to comment on Jones's plans for returning in his new non-management role. "Matthew Locke hopes that Peter will return to Wallaby soon," said Wallaby spokesperson Laurence Maupin. "We all miss him and look forward to having him back at work soon."
Jones could not be reached for comment.
- - - - - - - - - -
Peter folded the newspaper and sipped his orange juice. The sun was hot and the air smelled fresh and clean. All around him, people in summer dress clothes walked leisurely about the village, and the news of Silicon Valley felt very, very far away. He closed his eyes…and a moment later he sensed a shadow blocking the direct sunlight.
"Think you'll go back?" asked the elderly man standing before him. Beneath his arm was a folded copy of the "Journal."
Peter eyed the stranger. "I don't know."
The man placed his large, tanned and weathered hand on the back of the vacant chair beside Peter. "Okay if I join you?"
"Sure," Peter said, leaning back in his own chair.
The man removed his cap and signaled the waitress. He fixed his gaze on Peter for an instant. "Congratulations on the new product," he said with a wink. He unfolded his own newspaper and laid it over Peter's copy. "Your whiskers threw me for a second or two, but I used to slack off now and then on the shave - though not because I was masquerading."
"It wasn't my product introduction," Peter said, stroking his light beard unconsciously.
The man pulled a pen from his pocket, then lifted his thumb and winked one eye shut like an artist gauging his subject. "Hold still. I want to get this right." He proceeded to draw a mustache and beard on Peter's picture in the newspaper.
Peter was beginning to feel amused.
"Well," said the old man, taking up their conversation without looking up from his artwork, "you weren't there for the show, but it is your product just the same. Good work, son."
"Thanks."
The waitress arrived. His portrait completed, the man shoved the paper across the table for the waitress to see. "What do you think? Look like him?"
She looked at the photo and smiled politely, unaware that it was really Peter in person and in the newspaper. "A mineral water?" she said.
"Thank you, my dear. Anything for you, Mr. Jones?"
"No thanks."
The man closed his eyes and turned his smiling face into the sun. As Peter studied him, he felt a dim glow of recognition. Had he met him before, perhaps seen a photo of him somewhere? There was something about the cynicism in the man's eye. No doubt he was a former businessman well into his retirement, for with his eyes closed, he looked maybe seventy-five.
"Here you are, Mr. Holmes," the waitress said.
With his eyes open, however, the man suddenly looked ten years younger. Pouring the mineral water over the ice cubes in the glass, he fixed his gaze on Peter. "It isn't easy walking away from something you've given birth to, is it?" He squeezed some juice from the lime slice floating in the glass.
"No. It sure isn't," Peter said. Except for Kate's weekend trips away from Los Angeles, Peter had been completely alone for the past three months in Maine. During this period he had spoken with hardly anyone, except when necessary - ordering food in restaurants, paying for goods at the general store, or collecting his bundles of forwarded mail at the post office. He had forgotten how good it could feel to talk to someone, even a stranger. Especially a stranger. But Peter sensed that this wasn't just any stranger.
"Yep. Same thing happened to me. Gave them fifty years. Started when I was twenty, not that different from you. Yes sir, I remember how it felt."
"How?"
"Like someone ripped my heart out and chopped a chunk off it." For a few moments the man's gaze turned introspective as he poked at the lime in his drink. "Sound about right?" His lively blue eyes revealed sympathy, understanding.
This man knows, Peter thought. He managed a small smile and a nod.
"Son, you're a bright boy. I know all about you. How old can you be, thirty?"
"Thirty-two."
"Hell," the man said with a guffaw, "when I was that age I'd just got going."
Crossing his arms over his chest, Peter considered the man with curiosity and puzzlement. What had the waitress called him?
"Yes sir. That's how old I was when I invented a new system design that went on to become our standard for the next many, many years." He took another sip from his glass. "Still is," he said, jutting his lower lip out proudly.
"What design was that?" Peter asked. But before the man answered, Peter deduced that there was only one computer standard that had been in existence that long, and that was -
"The 990."
Peter tossed his head back, and for the first time in months he let go a huge, cleansing laugh. Of course! Byron Holmes, inventor of ICP's 990 series, which had become, and still formed the foundation of, the architecture upon which all of ICP's mainframe computers were built. Byron Holmes, son of Jonathan Holmes, founder of ICP.
"What's so damn funny?"
Peter touched the man's arm in apology. "I was just thinking how funny it is for us to meet. Go on, please. What did you do after the 990?"
"Revise, revise, revise."
"Things moved more slowly back then, didn't they?"
"Back then? You make it sound like I figured out how to add three wheels to one, so that families could take kids to the dinosaur races."
Peter could see that the man was enjoying this as much as he was.He became wholly attentive and invigorated.
"You kids from the Valley think your teensy computers are going to replace our Goliath machines someday, don't you?"
"I wouldn't know anymore. I'm out of the business."
"Poppyshit!" Holmes said, rapping his hand down on the table. "Don't give me that sour-faced hurt-boy story. Doesn't fly with me."
"I made that company what it is," Peter said, instantly somber."And then it was taken away from me."
"That's craziness," Byron said, moving his chair closer. "Boy, I'll tell you something. After I made the 990 what it is, they moved me into big management. Sure, it was my dad's company. But I had the right education for it, so I could have done it anyway if my heart had been in it. But it wasn't. All I wanted to do was make those big, beautiful machines. After a short while I stepped down, moved in another fella, a guy that managed the schedule and all that stuff. Kept our friendship golden after all these years. Now he's the big cheese there.
"I stuck around for a long time. I was vice chairman, and spent years evolving the 990 design into what it is now, which'll probably see them through to the year 2000. As I was nearing the age everyone says is the time to leave, I had a heart attack. Guess I thought I was still a youngster. I retired, and me and my wife have been enjoying ourselves and playing around like kids ever since. Not bad for seventy-four years young, eh?"
"But it's not the same. I could have run the company. With all due respect, you inherited yours. I started mine from scratch. They just didn't give me a chance," Peter said.
The older man discounted the younger with a wave of his arm."Nah. You'll come around eventually. Can't have both, you know."
"I could."
The older man's tone turned serious. "That's just pure, one-hundred percent poppyshit, is all." He pointed his finger at Peter with rigid authority. "You need to squeegee all that anger out of your system so you can get back out there and do something. Again."
Just then a handsome smiling woman appeared at the table, dressed in a light, summery outfit. In one hand she held her wide-brimmed hat, in the other a bag of vegetables and groceries. Byron's face brightened at her arrival.
"Is this man filling your ear with World War II stories?" She handed the bag to Byron.
"I haven't even gotten to those yet," Byron said as he stood."Another day."
He made introductions. "Gracie, this boy is the one who invented all those pesky little computers littering everyone's desks out there," Byron said. "He's also been the best conversation I've had here in awhile. Mr. Jones, it's been nice talking to you."
"Likewise," said Peter. The two men shook hands.
"Why don't you come by our house for dinner. Saturday night."Byron said, tapping his shirt pocket for his pen.
"Thank you, that's very kind. But I've been sticking pretty much to myself, and I'm not much company - "
"Nonsense! Eight o'clock," Byron said, scribbling his address on a paper napkin.
"All right then, I'll be there. But I have a friend coming. Would it be okay if I brought her?"
"Can she dance?"
"No, but she can sing."
"Of course," Grace said. "Please bring her along." The couple said good-bye and then strolled off holding hands.
With some amusement, Peter settled into his chair and thought about the irony of meeting Byron Holmes here. It wasn't all that unusual, since Camden was where so many men like Byron spent their summers. Yet, of all the people in the world, he'd never guessed he'd shake hands with the man whose surname was synonymous with the world's first tabulating machines. Small world, Peter thought. No, he corrected himself, I'm from the small world, and he's from the big world. But, as he'd just learned, it didn't seem to matter how big or small your baby. When it's yours, it's yours. And this man understood that.
* * *
The horses walked side by side, each carrying a rider through the secluded wooded path.
"I don't believe you, that the only love you have ever felt has been for horses. Nonsense," Greta said.
"It is true," said Jean-Pierre, crossing his heart with his finger.
"Ridiculous."
"Greta, I tell no lie when I say that I have been in love only with horses. Nothing has ever come between us," he said, patting his beast's neck affectionately.
"Frenchmen," she said with a dismissing wave of her gloved hand. "Such talkers." Had he noticed? She took a breath, reminding herself to keep her left hand on the saddle.
And, she wondered, had he noticed her color when he'd crossed his heart? Unless he was psychic, she knew that he could not see what was going on inside her when he spoke of things such as his country and horses.
"Your husband, he is doing something very important today, no?"
"Yes. It's important. To him. Some new computer."
"Indeed. I read about it in the paper. You must be very proud,Greta. Yes?"
"Yes, of course. He's done very well since he's been in control. Very busy," she said. She wished this topic to go no further. She let herself look at him, into his eyes.
"Yes," Jean-Pierre replied with a nod that said, without words, that he understood. It was the same look he had given her when they'd first met after they had shaken hands, when his arm had been in a sling.
They continued along in silence at a trot, and Greta renewed their conversation with enthusiasm. "Jean-Pierre, tell me more about your country. Is the French countryside similar to Northern California, as everyone here seems to think?"
"Ah, it is beautiful," Jean-Pierre said. "All year is green out in the countryside where I was born. And clean when you inhale, and pretty, all fresh and tingling in your nose, in your heart. You ride on and on and see no one for very long stretches of time. Here and there, children are playing or doing chores, you see a woman carrying a basket, a man with an ax. They wave when they see you." Smiling, he waved to her as if to illustrate, but all at once his expression changed into a grimace, as though he were suddenly in great pain.
"What is it?" Greta asked.
"This damned shoulder. If I cannot even lift it to wave, how willI ever hold a mallet again?"
"Isn't there anything you can do about it?"
"Oh, sure. There are procedures. Surgery."
"Then why don't you get it fixed?"
"It is complicated."
"Yes, but it's worth a try, isn't it? Wouldn't it be better to try to save it, so you could play again, rather than give up your livelihood?"
"It's not that simple."
"Why? People get things like that fixed all the time, don't they?You're a champion. How can you just stop playing?"
"That's not what I mean. I don't want it to be like this."
She persisted. "I still don't understand. What's so complicated about your case?"
Abruptly he reined his horse to a halt and she brought her horse around. He was looking off into the hills. For all of his broadness and strength, his maleness, she saw that she had unknowingly struck a sensitive chord in him. "Jean-Pierre," she said, trying to catch his eye, "I didn't mean to upset you. If I have, I'm sorry."
"No. That's not it. You see," he said with a faint smile, "I am an independent."
"I'm sorry, really. You don't have to go on if you don't want to."
"But I do. I do want to go on. Right now, in Deauville, where I have lived most of my life as a polo player, the tournament is underway. Eight teams converge to compete for fifteen cups. The most coveted is the Coupe d'Or. There is money as well. I, of course, was on the French team. I had a sponsor for the tournament, but because of this damned thing, I had to drop out."
"But if you get it taken care of, can't you play again, and make next year's competition?"
"That is the problem, getting it taken care of. It costs money. And because I am an independent and I had to drop out, I lost my sponsorship. What I am saying, Greta, is that I cannot afford the surgery and therapy. That is why I agreed to come here as a consultant to look into developing a polo club. I need the money."
"Jean-Pierre," Greta said, "I understand how you feel." She felt compelled to tell him about her own suffering. However, glancing down at her gloved left hand, she couldn't bring herself to go on. Hers was no common ailment. Granted, he was suffering, losing the use of his shoulder, but her loss, she could not help feeling, was greater. It was not the same. It was worse. And, she feared, it might repulse him, and end the acquaintance they had begun.
They continued along the trails leading back to the stable, back from her escape.
For the past three months she had gone riding every couple of days with Jean-Pierre. It had started with his insisting that she try some jumping, but she dashed that idea at once. However, she did agree to go riding with him once, and had continued ever since. The early mornings frequently found her on these paths with Jean-Pierre, before he began his day. In addition to his polo club project, he trained a number of students. With each day they spent together, riding along the lush trails, she acquired more knowledge of horses and Europe, and of things she had never imagined before - most of all attraction, for the first time since her marriage to Matthew, for another man. While she knew he was here to research the potential for a polo club, he was not specific about the details of his private life. Whenever she pressed him for more information, he turned the conversation back to her, or went into one story or another that was full of adventure and intrigue. He told her that, like most polo players, he was a thrill-seeker; his attitude was that all of life was a game, one big gamble, there for the playing. When she asked him how long he thought he would stay, he told her he was not really sure. All she wanted, she reminded herself continually, was to be able to keep spending a precious hour or two with him each day riding. But lately, when she left him after their ride, she had begun to allow herself a little more; she had now and then found herself thinking about him during her midmorning bath, or just staring out the bedroom window, across the treetops and off into the near distance, at the ranch's gable rooftop. And sometimes, after a morning ride, she would awaken on her bed, not remembering having lain down, his face the first image to appear to her, her mind studying and touching him before opening her eyes and getting on with the day. Although she relished these moments in his company, she could hardly wait to be away from him today, to be alone with him in her secret way.
"I have thought how good it would be to go back to France after my project is through here, taking my meager savings, and my meager arm, and finding a small ranch in the country."
She tightened her grip on the reins. "Well, if you want it badly enough, you'll find a way to get back into the game."
"Yes, maybe. But for now I am a slave to this project. It's paying the bills, as Americans are fond to say."
With mild dread, she knew he would be gone sooner than she wanted to admit. Of course it would be better if he were gone, she told herself. She was married to a very successful man, and that meant security and stability.
Yet as if to discourage her rational thinking, a burst of enthusiasm whipped through her. "Let's race," she shouted, then pressed her heels into Mighty Boy's sides. Before Jean-Pierre could answer, her horse bolted forward.
"Cheater!" he hollered, and gained on her quickly. They rounded a turn in the path and flew past wild calla lily flowers, the tall stems batting their horses' legs. She looked over her shoulder, excited, and pressed Might Boy harder. Jean-Pierre narrowed the distance between them and his horse fell into a synchronized gallop with Mighty Boy. She laughed at him and saw that he was hiding something behind his back. He saw that she saw.
"Not until you slow," he said, reining his horse to a trot.
She obeyed, dropping beside him. He leaned from his saddle and handed her a single calla lily. She felt touched and overwhelmed, and closed her eyes for a moment, forgetting he was there riding right beside her. Then, suddenly aware of her obvious pleasure, she felt embarrassed. Carefully she tucked the flower between her leg and the saddle, then raced off for the final stretch, hoping the distance would allow her a moment to regain her composure.
He called after her, yet, when she turned once, she saw that he was letting the stretch widen between them, as if he had seen her flustered condition and had, once again, understood what she was feeling.
The soft black path turned dusty as she neared the barn. Her car was parked in the lot. Jennifer's truck, parked in front of her house, was the only other vehicle there.
She brought Mighty Boy to a halt before the stable entrance and wiped her brow with the sleeve of her chambray shirt. Carefully holding the flower, she lowered herself from the horse. Jean-Pierre had dismounted by the far ring and was walking toward the barn. Normally, the horses would be hosed down, to both clean and cool them, but the groom had not yet arrived, so they allowed some time for the horses to cool down a little in the chilly morning air.
"I'd better be going," Greta said after some time had passed, taking Might Boy's bridle in her hand.
In silence, they led the horses into the barn. The animal bodies were lathered with sweat, and the fine layer of dust that covered their muscles was beginning to dry and crinkle in the shadowed coolness. She reached behind her head and unclipped her barrette, allowing her hair to fall loosely over her shoulders. It was as if everything had changed as they walked through a near-dark silence, like day into night. Her senses sharpened, like those of a nocturnal creature. She knew he was looking at her, and she felt awkwardly exposed. She glanced quickly at him. His eyes gazed at her with peaceful, deliberate regard. She maintained her lead into the barn with Mighty Boy, then Jean-Pierre stopped at his own horse's stall, and she hastened her task at hand, in an attempt to be done and out of the stall before he had a chance to come to hers. But as she worked with Mighty Boy's halter, she felt his presence at the entrance of the stall. He pulled the double door shut behind him as he entered, closing them in together in nearly complete darkness.
Her insides tightened as he slowly approached, the very act of breathing becoming more difficult the closer he came. She blinked to adjust her vision, and busied herself with releasing the girth of Mighty Boy's saddle, but she was clearly having problems; she had not thought to simply put down the flower for a moment while she worked with the snaps. And, as always, there was her hand, which forever burdened even the simplest tasks.
He came to her rescue, and she froze at the touch of his large strong hands on hers. And before she had to even consider retracting her flawed hand, he moved her aside and set about unfastening the girth and removing the saddle, leaving her to just stand there and watch, holding the flower.
Time stopped. Even Mighty Boy was still. His stare was on her again, but she willed her gaze to remain fixed on the hay-strewn floor. If she looked up into his eyes, there was no telling what would happen. Yet she made no effort to alter what was happening. Instead she shut her eyes, and tried not to think about how much time was passing between them without words. What were his thoughts? Were they the same as her own? What were hers? She could not focus on any of these blind musings. Unaware of her own action she had raised her head, as though all of him would become clearer if she trained her closed lids in his direction. She opened her eyes. Nothing in her mind could prepare her for what she faced. The emerald intensity of his eyes pierced through her, instantly warming her neck, her nipples, her loins.
"Come," he said, motioning to her with one hand, the other flat against the horse's side. "Feel this."
She allowed him to lift her right hand and pull her closer. He made her feel the animal's hot, damp flank, flattening his own hard hand over hers. She focused on his dusty manicured nails, his long fingers, weathered knuckles, and tanned skin. This was the hand she had fantasized about, touching her as it was now, and more.
"The strength of this animal, it can all be felt through his heartbeat. So strong," he whispered. She felt his breath on her forehead, and inhaled to try to bring it inside of her.
Mighty Boy stood steady as she experienced the bold breathing and strong heartbeat drumming beneath her hand. "Yes," she managed, barely, willing her hand to stop trembling beneath his.
He slowly lifted her hand from the horse and turned her so that they were facing each other. The flower fell from her free hand. He removed the glove from the hand he was holding, then he reached for her other hand.
"No," she said, a little panicked. "Not that one."
He nodded to let her know that he understood, then guided the ungloved hand beneath his shirt. He pressed her palm to his chest, over his heart. "It is no different," he said. Then she had the other, gloved hand in his shirt. She felt his insistent heartbeat, so powerful in its pounding, the pulse of his life beneath her hands. She raked her fingers over his muscles. The wild scent of horses mingled sharply with his spiciness. She closed her eyes and took a deep, heady breath, and experienced a wave of pleasant dizziness.
He gripped her wrists and pressed her against Mighty Boy, touched his lips to her ear. "Perhaps this attraction I feel for you is the first to come between me and my love for horses," he said with a little laugh.
She shifted her head back. A bead of sweat jiggled on his chin, beside a tiny flake of hay. She dabbed the droplet with the back of her bare hand, touched the hay flake away and pulled it past his lips, yet did not let herself touch them. He took her hand from his cheek, then curled her fingers into his own. He inhaled the fragrance on her wrist, kissed it.
She began trembling as he lowered his arm around her waist and pressed her harder into Mighty Boy, layering her between the heat of two powerful bodies. She pulled her fingers free of his grip and plunged her hands into his long hair and down his neck, across the hard muscles of his shoulders.
Then, just as their lips drew near, Greta reeled her head away with a shake, as if snapping awake from frightening dream - he had taken her gloved hand in his own.
"No," she said, struggling.
He tightened his hold on her. "What are you hiding, Greta? What is it you are so afraid to show me?" Then suddenly, Matthew's image appeared in her mind's eye.
An agonized moan escaped her, and she let out a small, frustrated cry. She had to leave, at once. "I can't," she said, bringing her lips closer to his. "Do you hear me, I can't."
Or could she? Could she just once, to have him completely in her memory forever? Yes, just this one time. Quickly, she thought, before Matthew returns and makes it impossible for her to go any further.
Lips parting ardently, she hungrily drew in his breath as their mouths joined.
"Matthew, this is everything." Eileen said, placing a manila folder before him on his desk. "You've got about ten minutes before the meeting begins," she said, then closed his office door. He opened the folder. Before him was an assortment of transparencies, his presentation to the board of directors and executive staff.
Yesterday's introduction of the new Joey Plus, which was warmly received by the press and the user community, would certainly work in his favor this morning when he detailed his plan for ICP connectivity.
He flipped through the films. They were perfect. He felt armed and ready to face for the first time all of Wallaby's power players in the very room from which three months earlier he had ejected Peter Jones.
His intercom beeped softly, and he looked out of his glass office at Eileen. She tapped her wristwatch. It was time to start the meeting.
He nodded and shuffled the films and his notes together into the folder and headed for the meeting. Just as he reached for the boardroom door, it opened. Hank Towers appeared carrying a small plate.
"Good morning, Matthew," Hank said brightly. "Give me just a second for seconds," he said, gesturing at the remaining treats arranged on the long table outside the conference room.
Matthew laughed good-naturedly and went inside. "Good morning," he said, addressing everyone seated around the table. He set down his materials beside the overhead projector. Finishing sentences or the last bite of a muffin or looking up from their agendas, the board members and executive staff voiced their good mornings.
"We're just waiting for Hank," Matthew said. Just then Hank entered the room smiling sheepishly over a plate of fresh fruit salad.
"Matthew, congratulations on the Joey Plus," Hank said. The others followed with congratulations, and someone clapped. Another pair of hands joined in, and then another, until the entire room was applauding his success.
"Thank you," Matthew said. "But the congratulations should go to all of your people who made the development of the Joey Plus successful." His smile swept each face at the table.
Martin Cohn stood and announced the agenda, a copy of which rested before each person. Four items down the list was "The Whole World In Your Hand: Wallaby's Future - Matthew."
After ninety minutes of standard status reports, discussion, and voting, it was time for Matthew's presentation, and he stood. "Should we break for a few minutes before I begin?"
He knew his agenda title had them all intrigued - this would be the first time anyone but Peter had revealed a major future strategy for Wallaby. No one stood or motioned departure.
He dimmed the room lights, then switched on the overhead projector and advanced to the first slide, a modified Wallaby logo. Normally the logo depicted the baby kangaroo poking its head out of a pocket, but Matthew's slide showed only the joey and no pocket.
"At Wallaby," he began, "we've always been intensely focused on the idea of people using a portable computer for their personal tasks and needs. This had been a successful strategy, inherent in our culture because we got our start by giving people the power to use our portable personal computers for exactly that: very personal computing.
"But to some degree, we've been in the dark. In the early days we succeeded because we were the only players. But we lost our number-one status to our largest competitor, ICP."
He changed to the next slide and paused for a moment, allowing the visual analogy depicted to sink in. The slide showed the same lone joey, offset to the bottom left corner of the frame, and a sketch of the earth with the initials ICP stretching around it.
"International Computer Products is everywhere. They own the world of mainstream computing. There's hardly any big business, organization, or function in the world that doesn't in some way use ICP's products for its information processing."
The next slide showed the Joey Plus screen with little filing cabinets and documents positioned here and there. "By design, Wallaby's Joey Plus is the choice method of computing. The user community has stated that, and we all know that.
"But competition from ICP with its BP system, regardless of its inferior technology, continues to grow at a steady rate. The ICP logo on the front of its desktop and portable computers makes them mentally compatible with its mainframe computers. And for the past decade at Wallaby, we've all held a resentful attitude toward ICP. This is due, in part, to the premise upon which the company was founded. We're a small, free-spirited company, providing people with personal mobile computing tools contrary to what ICP has represented throughout its history - people acting as slaves to headquarters and mainframes."