"Stop," she said in a rasp. "We're not done." She was sitting up. Her eyes were dry now, awake yet unalive. "We're gonna make a deal. You've got a baby to take care of now, Peter. I can't do it. Not right now, at least. I can't even piss on my own. I have to push a button to get one of them to help me. How the hell'm I gonna take care of a baby? I can't even name the thing. That's your call, too. You get to call all the shots, Peter. Shoot, bang, bang, I'm almost dead. You're holding the gun, man. Don't go shootin' your own head, though. Oh, don't worry, I'll get better - it's the only way I'll get you. Get back at you is what I mean. You got a cigarette?"
He shook his head.
She made a disgusted face at him and waved her hand, scratching her fingers through her hair. "Then there's the other thing. I can't do any more about it. Not for a while. You might as well take a look at it."
"What other thing?"
Like a drunkard at a bar, signaling for a particular brand, she gestured to the corner of the room. "In there. In my pack. Get it."
He opened a narrow cabinet door and pulled her blue knapsack from the shelf. He held it to her. She smacked it with her hand. "Open it yourself."
Inside he found several notebooks and pens.
"The disks, dick."
And he found a large stack of diskettes, bound together by rubber bands.
"What is it?" he said.
Once more she turned her head on the pillow so that she was facing away from him. "What's it say on the label?"
"You can read."
"Ivy," he started, but then held his tongue. She had every right to be treating him this way. But she was saying things he didn't want to hear her say. She was heavily drugged and needed rest. They could deal with all this in a few days. "Why don't we do all this later?"
"There is no 'later.' I don't want to see you again. Not for a long time, till I'm able to look at you without all this shit in me and coming out of me."
"Then what? What is this? What do you want me to do with it?"
"That ride I told you about, from LA back up here with the idea of somehow meeting you? I heard 'Teach the Children' on the radio on the way up. It hit me like a cyclone. I had to stop in Fresno to find the tape. I played it over and over. I thought, yeah, teach them well, and do it with computers. I mean, it's what I knew I had to do, with what I was thinking about language, the idea of it applied to Joeys and letting kids learn with them. And somehow my hormones and whatever else was in me when I met you thought, 'Do it with your own kid, like with him, you, make a baby out of it all and the program will write itself.' I waited until it was the right time of the month to make you that dinner I made, so we'd do it, and get it all going the way I saw it."
"You did this on purpose? This baby?"
"Yes. But stop it. I mean, we're talking about the other now.We're on that, what's in your hands."
"What's it got to do with what you said?"
"It means Intelligent Speech and Language Environment. There's a little box in there too, synthesizer and recognizer all in one. But it's not just for kids, or learning. It's whatever you want it to be. You'll see what I mean. Go ahead, take it, the notes and code lists and everything, it's all in there. See if it's worth anything to you. Hell knows, I'm gonna have a shit load of bills when I'm through with this rinse cycle."
"Okay."
"'Okay' is all you say. No thanks? Jesus. That's just like you."
"Thanks. I mean, we'll figure this all out. We will."
"Blah, blah, blah."
The door opened behind him. He turned. The nurse and a middle-aged couple entered the room. "Mr. Jones, Ivy's parents would like to be with her now."
He looked at Ivy. He could not see her face.
"Get better," he said to her and she responded with a huffing sound.
The man came before Peter. His face was tanned and pleasant, and the woman at his side was attractive. Her hair was bright, like Ivy's. She looked at Peter sadly, and pressed her husband forward an inch.
He spoke. "Mr. Jones, we'd like to know how you intend to take care of this."
"Dad," Ivy said to the window, "lay off. We're dealing with it."
"We had hoped you wouldn't come," Mrs. Green said. "We would be the child's guardians if you hadn't. We'll gladly take care of her."
"Get out," Ivy said, poking Peter in the ribs. "Just get out with it all."
"This child's an enormous responsibility," the father said."Please let us take her."
"Right, Dad. Like you know all about it. Got a joint on you?"
"I can take care of her," Peter said, clutching the knapsack with both hands. "And I will provide for Ivy."
"You sure will," Ivy piped in. "I'll send you the tab." She snorted and laughed, then she started crying. Her father glanced her way, then looked at Peter. He shook his head in disappointment and went to his daughter's side.
"I'm so sorry," Peter said to Mrs. Green.
"To say the least," she said, joining her husband and daughter.
Peter exited the room carrying the knapsack. From the hallway he took one last look at Ivy and her parents before the door closed, shutting out the image huddled behind it. He was dazed by the events of the last forty-eight hours. He slowly made his way down the corridor, turning once to look back at the closed door to her room. The first thought to surface through his haze of emotions was of the baby. He had promised these people that he would care for her.
He paused before the nurses' station and asked how to reach the neonatal care unit. He tramped down the corridor, rounded the corner, and pushed through a set of swinging double doors. To the nurse sitting at a small desk, he said, "Pardon me, which baby is the Jones-Green baby? I'm her father."
The nurse led him into a clean room and instructed him to put on a sterile gown and a face mask. He followed her orders in silence. Dressed in the sanitary outfit, he followed the nurse into a room containing a row of clear plastic bubble-like incubators, one of which held his baby's fragile baby. It was a strange setting, surreal, like something out of a science fiction film.
"Here she is," the nurse said.
Encased in the hygienic shell lay his baby girl. She was tiny, and he could see thin, pulsing veins through her skin and bruises all over her body. Her head! It looked so huge and unnatural, he thought with alarm. He leaned closer, panicked.
The nurse saw his aghast expression and touched a gloved hand to his arm. "Oh, don't worry. That's normal," she said. "All the rest of her will catch up in the next couple of weeks. The head develops a little faster at this stage. It's perfectly ordinary."
"What is all this?" he asked, studying the clear tubes entering her nostrils and poking into her arms and belly, the wires and probes taped to her impossible little body.
"Respiratory, protein, waste, heart," the nurse said, indicating the various points, all of which appeared crudely connected and held in place by swatches of white tape.
"How is she?"
"We're keeping a close eye on her. It was a difficult birth, but she seems like a fighter."
"Hang in there, little girl," Peter whispered.
"I'm afraid we have to leave now. We need to be extremely careful about exposure."
Peter and nodded, and through his paper face mask he kissed his gloved fingers and touched the plastic shell. He straightened and followed the nurse out of the room. Pulling himself free of the green scrub outfit, he glanced one last time back through the glass window into the neonatal room. He collected the knapsack and pushed through the doors.
Sitting outside the room in one of the hard plastic waiting chairs, was Kate.
Without a word she stood and caught him in her arms. She held him for a moment, stiffly, then guided him to the seat beside her.
"Jesus, Kate. How did you - ?"
"I called Peggy. She told me you were here."
Peter looked at the silver doors. "She's so tiny. "
"I heard," Kate said. She pressed her folded hands into her lap and cleared her throat. "Peter, why? Why didn't you tell me?"
He closed his eyes. He felt precariously close to throwing up, surrounded by riddles and agony. Ivy. The baby. Kate.
"Kate," he said, "I didn't think this would happen." He opened his eyes and looked at her. "You have to believe me."
"How many does this make?" Kate said, bitterly. "We could have adopted."
He tried to put his arm around her, but she pulled away and stood, hugging her arms tightly around herself.
"Kate, none," he said, moving closer. "There have never been any others. I didn't plan this to happen."
"And she did?"
"No. Yes! I don't know," he said. "She was desperate. It just happened. I didn't want it to, but it just did. We'd had too much to drink. It was the wine - "
She slapped him hard across the face.
Without a word, he dropped his chin to his chest. He knew that the blow he had struck her, this whole situation, had cut deep. The damage would take a very long time to heal. But he had to have her forgiveness, because without her he would never get through this.
"Kate, please. I don't know what we'll do," he said. "But please don't leave me. I need you."
Dr. Chen appeared from around the corner. "Mr. Jones?" he said. He looked at Kate and gestured politely for her to sit down. Then he led Peter away, around the bend in the corridor. They sat down.
"Mr. Jones, we need for you to name your daughter."
No name. Their baby girl had no name. This thought seemed to be the final blow to drain him of his last ounce of energy. It was real, and final. His life was changed now and forever. Somehow the knapsack fell from his hands, its contents spilling onto the floor. Kate. He had to ask her.
"Wait," he said to the doctor. He jumped to his feet and ran around the corner, calling out her name. But she was gone.
His shoulders slackened and he went back to the doctor, who was collecting the contents that had spilled out of the knapsack. Peter bent down to take over. He was overcome by a wave of dizziness and the nausea. Then, just as abruptly, the spinning halted and the sickness retreated, forced back by a keening sound that arose in his throat.
There, among the clutter of notes and pens and the little black box with its exposed circuits and wires, he found, written in her mother's own hand across the label of the topmost disk, their baby's name.
"Isle," he whispered.
"Mr. Jones?" the doctor said, not sure he had heard correctly.
"I said, Isle," Peter said, louder this time, taking the disks in his hand. "My daughter's name is Isle."
"That's a good girl," Peter said, cradling the tiny Isle in his arms. He checked her bottle. "Almost done."
For one and a half months she had been home with Peter, deemed well enough leave the hospital after a touch-and-go stay for the same length of time. She weighed a scant six and a quarter pounds. Her eyes were curious and alert, just like her mother's. Peter longed for her eyes to keep the clear sapphire color, a glittering reflection of Ivy. Isle's hair was beginning to outcrop in satiny brown whorls, the same color as her father's.
"Your little jewel," Grace said all smiles as she came into the living room. "Go ahead, I'll finish up with her."
"Okay, shrimp, over to Grace," Peter said, handing over the little pink bundle.
Peter stood beaming at his infant in Grace's lap, her tiny mouth puckering the nipple of the bottle, tiny hands clutching and uncurling, tiny stocking feet kicking. So fragile, yet strong.
"Petey!" Byron boomed from elsewhere in the house. "Let's go!"
"Better hurry before the bear comes out of his cave looking for you."
"Coming," Peter called, and hurriedly kissed Isle's fuzzy head.
Having temporarily moved into Peter's California mansion since they had come back from Maine after Isle's birth, the Holmeses had been a godsend. Grace was all too happy to help out with Isle, and Byron and Peter had resumed their project. He had still not seen or heard from Ivy, and she had refused his calls at the detoxification clinic where she was recovering.
Byron and Peter and their small team worked all hours of the day on the design they had settled on. The day Isle was born, Ivy had provided him with the missing link, the distinct component that he had been seeking. With the ISLE interface, they now had a model from which to refine the hardware, honing its design to provide the ultimate platform, the perfect stage upon which Ivy's invention could perform.
"Come here," Byron said enthusiastically, "Get a look at this." He was standing before a Joey Plus computer. It was connected to a small, open black box filled with a convolution of wires, circuits, and components. Peter stood beside his mentor in the makeshift partitioned lab they had set up in one of the large bedrooms.
"We've got the agent tied in to the speech recognizer and it's working like a charm. Here," Byron said, handing Peter a small microphone, "tell it you want to make a date."
Peter cleared his throat. "Computer," he said, the keyword that the ISLE speech recognizer listened for to carry out spoken commands, "lunch with Byron on Friday."
On the screen, a small month-view calendar opened and the upcoming Friday flashed. A moment later "12:00PM Byron Holmes / Lunch" appeared in the date box.
The Joey Plus's built-in speaker came to life with a robotic voice. "Lunch with Byron Holmes, noon, confirmed. Is there an agenda?"
Peter grinned and looked at Byron, who lowered his voice. "A little something we threw in this morning."
Peter spoke into the microphone. "Yes. Discuss computer enhancements and - "
"Computer," the Joey said, interrupting Peter, "is unrecognized."
Peter gave Byron a puzzled look. "What happened?"
Byron was scratching his head. "Well how do you like that. We never considered that. I mean, that if we call the computer 'computer,' then we can't use that word once it's listening to whatever we tell it."
"Ah," Peter said. "Right. Hmm." He thought about this for a second, then sat down before the Joey and started typing.
"What are you doing?" Byron said.
"Well," Peter said, lifting the microphone, "since the word computer won't compute, all we need to do is give it a unique name that we wouldn't normally use in an everyday context."
"Of course," Byron said. "Good thinking."
Peter pressed a key and the Joey spoke: "Please say my name so that I know who I am."
"Pip," Peter said, loud and clear.
"Please repeat my name again, faster this time."
Peter said the name faster. The Joey Plus asked him to repeat it once more, slowly this time, so that it knew three slight variations on of its own name, thereby making recognition more accurate.
"Pip?" Byron asked.
"Sure," Peter said. "Pip. Like in Dicken's "Great Expectations."One of my all-time favorite characters."
"Then Pip it is," Byron laughed. "Let's give it a try."
Peter repeated the test and the Joey Plus, a.k.a. Pip, pulled off the scheduling task without a hitch.
"Well done," Peter said, congratulating Byron.
"That's nothing. We got the net lookup voice stuff working too."
"Hey, come look at this," Paul Trueblood said, appearing from behind one of the partitions used to divide the huge room.
Peter had contacted his two favorite engineers, Paul Trueblood and Rick Boardman, after he and Byron had relocated the project to California. During a dinner Peter had arranged, Byron had talked about the ISLE vision, providing the engineers the opportunity to get to know him. Both were excited by what they heard, and the very next day both engineers resigned from Wallaby and returned to Peter's home, ready to dive into the project.
In one hand Paul held a short stylus pen, and in the other a flat display unit that connected to another Joey Plus portable computer. With the stylus he began "writing" directly on the display. As he scribbled, the computer converted his script handwriting into clear text.
"Looking good," Peter said, watching the software do its thing quickly and accurately. "Hey, no mistakes," he said when Paul finished jotting down several lines. It took him a moment to realize that what Paul had written were the lyrics to a song. A Kate McGreggor song.
Byron applauded and, noticing Peter's ruminating, elbowed him.
"Good stuff, Paul," Peter said quietly.
"Hey, Ricky," Byron called, "how'd you manage to speed up the recognition so much?"
A smiling Rick peered over the edge of another nearby partition. "You can thank my pals at MIT. They were kind enough to slip me some new algorithms at that conference I went to last week," Rick said. "It zips up the language translation stuff, too. Watch." He punched a few keys and the text on the display suddenly changed to Spanish, accents and all, then, a keystroke later, Cyrillic.
"Okay, come on now," Peter said with a clap, putting an end to the show. "We've only got another forty-five minutes," he said, checking the clock on the wall. "I want you guys to run through it once more to make sure there aren't any glitches."
"It's all working," Paul assured him, a little defensively. Just like old times.
Peter smiled. "Okay, okay."
Byron said, "We've got the whole works all ready to show him.It's gonna knock his socks off."
Peter had been skeptical about meeting Byron's old friend, who was due to arrive shortly. However, trusting Byron's judgment, he had ultimately given in.
"I hope so," Peter said, then, "I'm going to check on Isle." He excused himself.
"She's asleep," Grace whispered, glancing up from her book. Isleslept peacefully beside her on the sofa.
"Any calls?" Peter said. The house and lab phones were on separate lines, so that the men were not distracted while working.
Grace gave a sympathetic shake of her head.
Peter had not heard from Kate since Isle's birth. He had called her the night she'd departed, and tried to persuade her to return. She had declined, and that was the last time they had spoken.
He now had Isle, and Byron and Grace, a family of sorts, and ISLE. The project had crystallized into a wondrous thing. This afternoon's meeting could signal the beginning of something great, something bigger than anything he had ever done at Wallaby. Yet, if he could, Peter would trade all of it to have Kate back. If only he could undo his mistake…
As if reading his mind, the older woman laid a hand on his wrist."Petey, you can call her, you know."
He shrugged. "I told her I would leave it up to her. That she's eternally welcome, and we want her back. But I think I've lost her for good, Grace."
"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure. You know, after Byron had his heart attack, I almost left him."
"Really? How come?"
"His pride. He felt so incapacitated by the fact that he couldn't help himself, and that he was nearing retirement, that he sort of turned against me. When he was bedridden, I set up a room in the house with all his favorite things, maps and model ships, books he loved. But all he could do was reject my help, hurt me."
"But it's not the same."
"Isn't it? Didn't what happened between you and Ivy happen because you knew, in the back of your mind, that you were losing control at Wallaby? And maybe you thought Kate would not want you once that happened?"
Peter stared at her. What she said had never occurred to him, but when he considered it, it rang true.
"Petey, I know my husband better than anyone. And I know when I see someone who's like him. I made a decision many years ago to be his partner, till death do us part. We came close to breaking that promise, until he told me one simple thing."
"I think I know what he said."
"Then why don't you say it?"
He hesitated, then it. "I was scared."
"And so was he. But when he told me, when he came right out and said it, I understood. Yes, it's different. Infidelity is harder to forgive. But if you tell her why, as you just told me, maybe she'll give you a second chance."
"It's all so mixed up. There's the baby, and the project and everything going on today. I'm not sure now is the right time. Everything is so up in the air."
"But if she were back in your life, Peter, wouldn't these things seem a little more tolerable?"
He looked at his baby. "Yes," he said. "You're right. I'll do it.I'll call her."
* * *
Greta walked into the bank and faced the long line of customers."Ugh," she sneered, settling her sunglasses in her hair.
Resigned, she labored to the end of the line, a dozen or so people between her and the front. She fished through her purse, looking for a stray form left over from a past visit. She found none, and besides, she wasn't sure which form she needed anyway. There has to be a better way, she thought, glancing anxiously at the multitude of forms stacked on the podium beside the line. Just then, the branch manager appeared from a small room behind the main counter, carrying a handful of papers in his hands. Ah! There it was, a better way. She managed to catch his eye.
"Bruce! How are you?" Greta said affectionately, catching him lightly by the arm.
"Well hello, Mrs. Locke. How are you?" he said, patting her hand.
She leaned close to his ear. "I was fine, until I walked into this. It's becoming so difficult to bank."
Taking advantage of her impairment, which, before falling in love with Jean-Pierre, she would have never considered, she fluttered her four-fingered hand in the air. She sighed. "Oh well."
Managing to restrain his surprise, he glanced pensively at the papers in his hand, then at the woman who stood in front of Greta. Like the others in line, the woman's attention was fixed on the front of the line. Greta read the young manager's mind with delicious knowing: She is Matthew Locke's wife, with a history of enormous deposits. And very large balances. And, she knew, he had never before seen her disfigured hand. Pity.
He leaned closer. "Wait over at my desk. I'll be finished with this transaction in just a minute, then I'll take care of you."
She graced him with a thankful smile and casually strolled over to the manager's desk and seated herself. She opened her purse, busied herself emptying old receipts and gum wrappers. A few minutes later the manager returned and seated himself opposite her. He collected her litter and, all business, discarded it in the wastebasket beneath his desk. Clasping his hand together atop the desk blotter, he beamed with anticipation, plainly expecting a big deposit. "Now, what is it I can do for you, Mrs. Locke?"
She produced her checkbook and flattened it on the desk before her. "I'd like to withdraw some of my funds," she said.
His expression seemed to flatten a little. "How much would you like to withdraw?"
She looked from side to side, then leaned forward, her chin an inch above her poised pen. "A quarter-million dollars," she whispered.
"I see," he said, blinking, looking personally offended. "Is there something wrong with our service?"
She gave a little laugh. "Oh, no. No, no. You're always so kind and friendly. It's really not that much money - relatively speaking," she said with a shake of her shoulders, a subtle reminder of their overall balance.
"From which account will you draw the funds?" he asked, his fingers working quickly over the keyboard of the computer terminal beside the desk. "Your personal checking account balance here doesn't total that amount."
"I know. I'd like you to arrange to collect it from the market fund account, and then deposit it into this," she said, indicating the account number in her open checkbook. She unfolded the small slip of paper Jean-Pierre had given her and showed it to the manager. "Then I'll write a check, which I'd like wired to this Swiss account."
"Very well, Mrs. Locke." He opened one of the desk drawers. "We'll just need to fill out this form," he said, tearing off a small pink sheet. "Are you and Mr. Locke traveling?" he asked casually as he transcribed her account number onto the form.
"Nope. Just me. It's to help set up affairs in Europe before I depart for an extended trip."
He tapped the account number into the computer terminal and a moment later the account activity unrolled on the display. "Oh," he said, frowning. "Mrs. Locke, this is a joint account. I'm afraid we're going to need Mr. Locke's signature on this form before we can provide wire authorization."
She straightened. "But the account is in my name," she said, puzzled.
"Yes, Mrs. Locke," he said patiently, "your checking account is in your name, but the funds are coming from your joint account with Mr. Locke."
"But they are leaving from my account," she insisted, as if this made a difference.
"Yes, they are, but to get into your account they must first come out of the market fund, which is in both names."
"Is there any other way?" she said, distressed. "I mean, It's really such a small amount. Couldn't we just this once make it work somehow?"
"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Locke. We must have Mr. Locke's signature on this form before we can proceed with the transaction. I'm sorry."
The manager wrote an X beside the line that needed Matthew's signature. "Normally, Mr. Locke would have to appear in person. But if you can just have him sign this and then come back with it before three o'clock, we can complete the transaction today."
Pulling out of the bank's parking lot she decided to drive to Wallaby and have Matthew sign the form immediately. It was best to just get the whole transfer done and over with.
When she had asked Jean-Pierre why he couldn't first go over to France and open a joint account in both their names, he had told her that this was the best way, something to do with interest rates and international rules and regulations and other things she didn't understand, or care to know more about. The long and short of it, according to Jean-Pierre, was that a delay would cause them to lose thousands of dollars in interest. He obviously knew what he was talking about, and she had agreed to do it his way. After all, she rationalized, it was for their future. And besides, he had promised he would make no decisions without first consulting her. This way, if he found something that they liked, he would be able to act fast, securing the property quickly, without having to wait for signatures to arrive via slow, international means.
She pressed hard on the accelerator, hoping to catch Matthew while he ate lunch in his office, as he customarily did this time of day.
"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 laterMatthew 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: "MeetingConfirmation, 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.
"Then we have a tentative agreement," William said with plain satisfaction in his voice. Isle lay slanted across his knees, her tiny hand now and then batting his tie.
Peter and Byron, seated on a sofa, both nodded in agreement.
"Wonderful," William said. "You hear that, young lady? Your name is going to be famous!" As if on cue the baby yawned, and everyone laughed.
"Speaking of tired, you men must be working yourselves to the bone with all the progress you've made," William said, handling Isle to Peter. "When do you expect to have a final design?"
Byron considered for a moment. "The hardware design is nearly complete. We've got a lot of software work to do. Six months?" Byron ventured, turning to Peter.
"If you say so, chief," Peter said. "We'll need some engineers, administrative support, that kind of stuff."
William assured the men that he would get them whatever they needed to see their project through to completion as quickly as possible.
Peter was nearly satisfied, but there was one last thing he wanted to clarify. "What about the strategic alliance?"
"That stays, for now." William said, then: "But when the ISLE system is ready for production, we'll be less dependent on Wallaby. There's an important difference between what we've got with Wallaby, and what we are proposing for ISLE. With this, ICP will have invested hard cash in your baby. So don't worry, we'll see to it that she's a success."
"Then we're on," Byron said.
William beamed. "Excellent," he said. He checked his watch. "I'd better get moving if I'm going to catch my plane." The trio walked to the door together. They shook hands, and William departed.
"You see, Petey," Byron said after closing the door, "the big guys aren't all so bad after all, eh?"
"I like him," Peter admitted.
"Man, we've sure got our work cut out for us. I just hope we don't have any setbacks."
"How did it go?" Grace asked.
Byron kissed her on the cheek. "Like a charm."
"Congratulations," she said. "Peter, this man called while you guys were out in the yard." She traded a Post-it note for Isle. There was a name written on it that Peter did not recognize, and a phone number. "Thanks. I'll call him later. Let's go tell the guys the good news."
* * *
"Did Greta find you?" Eileen asked, rising from her chair asMatthew returned from lunch.
"She found me, all right," Matthew said, winded, rushing past her and into his office. He gathered his pen and notepad and hurried to the boardroom. There was only a minute to spare before the meeting began.
The entire Wallaby executive staff was seated around the table. "Good afternoon," Matthew said, sweeping the group with a smile. For an instant their inexpressive faces reminded him of the day they had voted Peter Jones from the company, and the hairs on the back of his neck tingled as he seated himself at the head of the table.
All eyes drifted to the assistant chairman, Hank Towers.
"Matthew," he started affably, "we're all pleased with the large volume of sales orders for the new Joey II."
A few heads nodded. A smile here, another there. The room seemed to loosen a little, and Matthew smiled broadly. Laurence had been correct. The meeting had been called to applaud his success with the Joey II, and the strategic alliance with ICP.
"Thank you," Matthew said modestly. Then he became serious, scanning the room expertly, locking briefly on each person's eyes. "But I couldn't have done it without all of you."
Nods. A few brief smiles of genuine affection. Then all eyes gravitated once more to Hank Towers. There was an unsettling air of deference, protocol.
"Matthew, you've been very busy with the ICP alliance," Hank said, "which is perfectly understandable. So the executives and I have been working on our three-year plan."
Matthew nodded.
"However," Hank said, "there is some concern among us, particularly in the area of future product engineering."
Matthew glanced at Alan Parker, who had been Matthew's assistant in getting the Joey division back on track after Peter's ejection. Alan had directed the reorganization of the Mate and Joey divisions, and managed the day-to-day development operations, while Matthew had championed the project's overall mission of delivering the new Joey Plus, then the Joey II, to the public. At present, Parker seemed to be very interested in his disposable pen.
"What kind of concerns?" Matthew said, relieved to hear that his own voice sounded authoritative.
Hank said, "With the work we've all done, focusing on the Joey Plus, and especially the II, none of us had much time to think about the future. Now that you've gotten the Joey II out the door, we've come to an important realization. Matthew, the truth of the matter is we have no realistic three-year plan."
"What do you mean no plan?" Matthew said, his voice splintering in mid-sentence. It was as if he were being shaken awake while in the midst of a pleasurable dream, suddenly confronted with the bafflement that comes with the knowledge that it was just that, a dream. Because he had spent all his time securing the alliance with ICP, he had never considered what Wallaby would think about after the relationship was announced.
Actually, he thought in the silence of the room, that was not altogether correct. In truth, he had not cared about what Wallaby would face after the ICP strategic alliance, because after that, according to the original plan, ICP would have bought Wallaby, and the future strategy would have become their concern. At that stage he would have been protected behind his big desk in his luxurious, apartment-sized office. How could he have made such a simple oversight? After contacting William to cancel the final stage of the eventual merger, hadn't he realized that following the Joey II, there would have to come new, future products from the innovative Wallaby?
Sometime during his reverie, the meeting had resumed.
"…among us is an awareness that we're all but succumbing to ICP as a maker of compatible systems. Our days as a radical portable computer company, a company for the people, may be over."
As Matthew considered this implication, that he had crumbled their fairy-tale company by moving them successfully into big business, he felt as though he were somehow slipping back in time, to the meeting in which he had forced out Peter Jones. Only this time, he was playing the part of Peter. Wasn't that what he had always wanted?
"Each one of you," he charged, sweeping his index finger around the table, "approved our plan to build systems that could tie-in to ICP's computers and share the same information!" He stood up, shoved his hands into his pockets.
"We did," Hank said calmly, speaking on the group's behalf. "As well as granting you the authority to run the shop. And all this room wants to hear is that you've got a product strategy, a vision, that goes beyond where we are today."
"Of course I have a plan," Matthew said indignantly. "We will evolve the Joey II, incorporating more powerful features." His voice turned shrill. "ICP is at our mercy. Think about it! The orders indicate that we are now the maker on the rise, that Joey is the one that people want for doing their work and accessing other systems, if even those systems are ICP's!"
"Matthew, be realistic," Hank said. "ICP could drop our arrangement at a moment's notice and introduce their own system." His manner became grave. "Or worse."
Matthew pressed his hands flat on the table, ready to challenge the group's faithlessness. "Worse? What worse?"
"Denise?" Hank said with a deferential nod to Denise Campbell,Wallaby's chief financial officer.
"There's a rumor circulating" Denise said. "Supposedly one of our engineers heard from his former colleague, Paul Trueblood, that Jones was demonstrating some new product to an official from ICP today."
Matthew paled. ICP? William Harrell? Was it possible that William had teamed with Peter in the few short months since Matthew had pulled the plug on the acquisition plan?
"That's what could be worse," Hank said. "In my estimation, it's possibly the worst thing that could happen to Wallaby. Our own founder leaves and builds a product that directly competes with his own invention."
They all stared at him, waiting. If he didn't think quickly, there was going to be another vote. "But the ICP alliance is our vision," Matthew said, groping for a solution.
Hank met this revelation with a gentle shake of his head. He looked down at his leather portfolio, at some notes. "Matthew," he started, sounding very tired.
If he didn't come up with something in the next few seconds, Matthew knew they would be asked to place their ballots. Resorting to the thing that had brought him to Wallaby in the first place, he decided his only chance was to resurrect his original secret plan.
"Wait," he blurted, cutting off Hank before he could continue. "I have a solution," he said, trying to sound confident. "I propose that we merge with ICP."
Their faces around the table disclosed either total confusion or total shock. Hank gave an astonished chuckle. "What on earth makes you think we would do a crazy thing like that? Or that they would?"
"They would, and they will," Matthew said firmly. "When we announced the strategic alliance, William Harrell had expressed ICP's interest in possibly merging our companies. I told him we weren't interested," he said, shifting the details to accommodate his story. A funny feeling hit him just then. That regardless of today's outcome, the act of finally revealing his compulsion felt like a great weight off his shoulders. At least his original plan was no longer a secret.
"Why weren't we told of this?" Hank demanded.
"I didn't seriously think it would be something any of us would want," Matthew said. "Harrell knew he couldn't acquire us without our consent, so I never feared a hostile takeover. An attempt to create a monopoly would be prevented by the FTC, and more seriously, the employees would rally against it, and our culture would be lost."
"But that's just it, Matthew," Hank said. "Without any real future products in the pipeline our culture is essentially doomed. You've succeeded in convincing the employees that coexisting with ICP was the right thing to do. No one has given back their profit-sharing checks, for crying out loud."
"Hank, this is business, not a fraternity. Business is sales, and we're finally making them, big time. Why not go all the way with it? We're a grown-up company now, in with the big boys."
If Wallaby were to merge with ICP, no one seated around the table would have a financial care in the world. Their stock options would stack additional millions upon the millions most of them had already accrued. And looking around the room, at the calculating faces, he knew that that was exactly what each was thinking. All except Hank.
"Now then," Matthew said, "I propose we vote. How many people would agree to the initiation of a merger with ICP?"