>CHAPTER 3
  
It was going to be a hot one. Not yet seven oÕclock, it was already humid as hell, and summer was still weeks away. William Harrell braced himself for the cool comfort of the limousineÕs air-conditioned interior. He nodded to his driver, and the car briskly pulled away from the stately brownstone.
  The commanding executive settled in for the half-hour crosstown commute, his course and destination the same today as they had been each business day for what felt like the last hundred years. His regal face had the precisely aged features of a character actor cast in the role of president of the United States. He wore glasses for reading fine print. At sixty-four, William HarrellÕs looks suited his position perfectly.
  He stretched his legs until they touched the facing seatback. His calves responded wearily. Last eveningÕs workout, the first in more than a week, had taken its toll. Busy working up his companyÕs portable computer strategy, he had had no choice but to take a break from his ordinary workout routine. The sacrifice had been worth it, despite the small aches and pains it had caused. He hadnÕt felt this charged up in years.
  He picked up his copy of the Wall Street Journal and turned to the ÒWhatÕs NewsÓ column. There they were, as expected, the analystsÕ speculations on todayÕs Via board meeting and quarterly earnings report. Harrell read with keen interest.
  Sources revealed that the companyÕs top two men were not getting along as famously as previously reported. A Via engineer who had asked to remain anonymous had this to say: ÒJones has created a rivalry between his division [At Hand PC] and ours [Mate]. ItÕs really distressing. Jones invented the Mate, yet he refers to anyone who isnÕt working on the At Hand as a Ôbozo.ÕÊÓ
  Analysts aired theories on how the company could turn around its dwindling market share. They cited Matthew LockeÕs prior career at International Foods, where his fondness for drastic reorganizations had more than once had a positive effect on the bottom line. A sidebar on the At Hand detailed the productÕs rocky first few months in the marketplace.
  William Harrell folded the newspaper and tossed it to the floor. He smiled. Everything was going according to plan. His companyÕs conservative strategy for its portable computer line was about to take a dramatic turn. But no one inside the company knew this. Not yet. It was all in his head. Where it would remain. For now.
  The car turned onto the commanding block that boasted one of ManhattanÕs most extraordinary buildings. The driver parked before the enormous glass-and-granite tower, then climbed out to open his occupantÕs door. But Harrell was already out. Straightening the sleeves of his charcoal pinstripe suit, he squinted up at the world-renowned structure of corporate prestige and power, solely occupied by the company whose name was cast in stone above the buildingÕs entrance: ICP.
  He entered the building and rode the elevator to its highest level, greeted his secretary, then took his seat in his exquisitely appointed office, where he began his day as chairman and chief executive officer of the worldÕs largest computer company.
  
  >>>
It was the very title and position that Matthew Locke envisioned for himself.
  Gathering his notes for the board meeting, he looked through his wall-size office window at the conference room halfway down the floor. The area just outside the boardroom was vacant. Apparently none of the members of the board or executive staff felt like engaging in the idle conversation that usually took place outside the room prior to the meeting.
  His secretary, Eileen, was stationed at her desk just outside his office. She caught his attention with a small wave and pointed at the clock on the wall beside her. It was time. He nodded, picked up his notes and yellow tablet, and stood up. Eileen wished him luck. Unsure whether or not he would need it, he thanked her.
  As he neared the boardroom he observed the huge table that had been set up outside, piled high with food: fruit salad, bagels, muffins, and juice. By the looks of things, no one inside the room had much of an appetite this morning, either.
  He strolled in. The room fell silent, and he immediately noticed that Peter hadnÕt arrived yet. He nodded his greetings all around as he seated himself in one of two vacant leather chairs positioned at either end of the long glass-and-steel table. The roomÕs amenities were simple and high-tech. Bleached wood paneling stood in stark contrast to a dark rug patterned with an abstract interpretation of the Via logo. The roomÕs far windows offered a panoramic view across housetops and low buildings to the Santa Cruz Mountains, which rolled north toward San Francisco.
  The six Via board members and most senior executives faced this view, while the remaining vice presidents sat with their backs to the window. All were busy flipping through agendas on their At Hands or scribbling notes on the yellow tablets placed around the table. He sensed their unease. Even Hank Towers, ViaÕs cofounder and vice chairman, appeared unusually distracted, glancing up only briefly from his leather portfolio to acknowledge the CEOÕs arrival.
  MatthewÕs confidence began to waver when it occurred to him that each person seated around the table had been handpicked by Peter Jones for his or her role in the company. Though Matthew was second in command, the others had all been with Via longer than he had. Did he honestly believe he could unseat Peter Jones from his place in this room, from these lives?
  He abruptly shook off the thought and, glancing at Hank Towers, quietly comforted himself by recounting the preparations leading up to this day. It all came down to Towers, who for the most part had agreed with MatthewÕs ideas on how to run the company. Towers had pored over the reports that heÕd put togetherÑparticularly the Harvard Business School study, which found that by the time a business is ten years old, its original founders are almost invariably gone. There were exceptions, most notably Hewlett-Packard, whose founders had held directorial roles. And, closer to matters at hand, there was ICP, whose founder, Jonathan Holmes, had directed the company for a half century before turning it over to his son, Byron. The study went on to say that most departures were amicable, that the founders left to begin a new venture. However, in the remaining cases the founders were forced out because of their inability to grow with the business.
  The door opened and the room went still.
  Peter Jones strolled in wearing a faultlessly tailored Armani suit, crisp white shirt, and floral-pattern tie. He looked well rested and cheery as he scanned the table warmly and greeted the members of his team. Except Matthew. It wasnÕt until Peter took his seat at the opposite end of the table that the two men made eye contact.
  Neither looked away, and all eyes were on them as Martin Cohen, general counsel and liaison to the board of directors, called the meeting to order. Peter and Matthew maintained their locked stare as they waited for Cohen to proceed, neither willing to relent in this silent test of wills.
  Cohen cleared his throat. ÒI wonÕt be going over the usual agenda today,Ó Cohen said, announcing a break from the meetingÕs customary pattern. ÒMatthew?Ó He nodded to Matthew, then diverted his attention out the window, escaping PeterÕs bewildered expression.
  
  >>>
Greta Locke awoke with a genuine sense of purpose. She hadnÕt felt this focused in a long time. She looked at the clock and chided herself for not getting up sooner, when sheÕd heard Matthew getting ready for work. Poor thing. HeÕd tossed and turned all night. By now his meeting had begun. She said a little prayer for him, that everything would turn out the way heÕd planned. For both of them.
  She tossed off the blankets and hopped out of bed, stretched. Glancing outside the bedroomÕs rear window, she took in the rolling estateÕs sloping hillside lawns and gardens. The last flowers of spring were blooming nicely, and she briefly considered spending the morning out there among them. But she recognized this small change of heart for what it wasÑprocrastination. No, today was the day. No matter how challenging it would prove, today was definitely the day to learn new things.
  Strolling down the broad stairway, she took a moment to appreciate the lovely atmosphere she had created for them. Matthew had left almost every aspect to her, trusting her judgment in furnishings, fabrics, artwork, all of the things she was passionate about. And she left him to his few but all-consuming passions. His small but well-selected library. His cars. And of course his computer. Which today she intended to get to know more intimately.
  She thought about what sheÕd told Matthew last night, why she hadnÕt taken an interest in ViaÕs products sooner. She hadnÕt told him the whole truth. About her undeniable fear of the keyboard more than anything else, all those orderly keys waiting to be struck in a certain, orderly way, the way anyone else would strike them. But she was different; her hands made it so. Since her accident her life had changed, and she had adapted accordingly, making little adjustments as necessary, accommodations that, with considerable care, went unnoticed by others. However, the At HandÕs touch-type keyboard was not something she could convert to fit her special needs. She was at its mercy. And that cold reality more than anything else was what had kept her at armÕs length from ever getting to know the computer better.
  The LockesÕ housekeeper, Dolores, came through the foyer carrying a bucket of ammonia water. They wished each other a good morning and then Dolores went back to her work. Greta strolled down the parquet hallway to the expansive, airy kitchen tiled in black-and-white marble. She opened the refrigerator and grabbed a cup of yogurt. An open bottle of Mumm caught her eye. TheyÕd had most of it with last nightÕs meal, a good luck toast to Matthew and todayÕs meeting. She hated to see the little bit that was left go to waste. Why not, she decided, setting the yogurt and bottle on the counter. She went back for a can of Orange Fresh, and used a butter knife to pop open the metal tab. She poured the champagne into her glass and topped it off with the Orange Fresh. Her own version of a mimosa.
  As she went to set the can back on the counter she paused to stare at the container in her imperfect grip. She rarely drank the beverage, but when she did it never failed to remind her of its peculiar consequence in her life. She experienced a moment of both pleasure and pain. Her therapist had advised her to always reflect only on the former at moments like this?.?.?. to the first time she had met Matthew?.?.?. their first toast.
  It was at an advertising agency. SheÕd been on assignment as a hand model, her occupation before sheÕd become Mrs. Locke. There she was, holding a can of Orange Fresh, then an all-new, all-natural carbonated orange beverage. Over in the corner stood the up-and-coming Matthew Locke, whoÕd dropped in on the agency to discuss the sodaÕs advertising launch. One of the camera assistants told her who he was. His eyes had locked on her lovely hand, bearing his newest marketing vehicle, then followed up her arm to the face. They exchanged a look, and he hung around until the shoot was over. It was early evening by then, and he offered her a cocktail: International FoodsÕ Winter Vodka over ice. She accepted the drink, then nonchalantly poured in some Orange Fresh. In that instant, in that spontaneous mixing of the two fluids, Greta had single-handedly invented a multimillion-dollar market segment for International Foods, one which would later garner considerable praise for Matthew.
  She blinked away the moisture in her eyes and took a sip of the champagne-and-orange drink. It tasted funny this early in the morning, but she finished it anyway, rationalizing that it would help ease the apprehension she felt over what she was about to do. She took her breakfast into the adjacent sunroom and seated herself in one of the chaise lounges. She used the remote to turn on the TV, and between spoonfuls of yogurt she flipped channels, pausing for a few beats on the different talk shows. She was stalling, and she knew it. There was nothing left to do but begin. Yet she couldnÕt quite bring herself to leave the comfort of the soft chaise just yet. She surfed a little longer until a commercial stopped her in her tracks.
  It was a fast and colorful montage, quick cuts between a computer screen and what looked like everything in the world. Exotic locales. The solar system. Culinary spectacles. Artwork. Attractive men and women, darling children, spry grandparents. The rapidly flipping pages of an encyclopedia. A universe of possibilities. The ad ended with a spinning globe, around which the World Online logo revolved. She recognized World Online as the service Via had a special arrangement with, and she knew it was what Matthew used to access the Web. According to him, it was the most popular online service in the world. HeÕd encouraged her to try it, but she never felt any real desire to do so. Until now.
  She clicked the TV off and tossed aside the remote, plucked her special pair of gloves from her jeans pocket, and marched straight for MatthewÕs home office, where his At Hand PC waited, ready to usher her into the well-connected Web set.
  She felt energized and a little terrified, unusually optimistic about the notion that she was about to change her life. What she had no way of knowing was that her actions would change her husbandÕs life, too. Neither for the better.
  
  >>>
ÒThank you, Martin,Ó Matthew said as he rose from his seat at the head of the table.
  Peter abruptly turned to Hank Towers for an explanation. This was a break in custom. Normally, Martin Cohen would read the agenda, then turn the meeting over to Peter. But TowersÕs attention, along with everyone elseÕs, had shifted to Matthew. He began speaking.
  ÒAs you are all aware, Peter and I have been at odds over how to manage Via. In particular, how to see us through this phase of unprofitability.Ó
  Peter rigidly pushed himself away from the table. ÒWhat the hell is going on here?Ó
  Matthew ignored the outburst and went on, his eyes roaming from person to person with measured fairness.
  ÒSimply put, Peter and I have different styles, different strategies. Unfortunately, these differences are putting the rest of you in the middle. And this is bad for Via, making it impossible to move forward.Ó
  His throat was dry and he needed to wet it. A pause now would add just the right dramatic effect, and he poured himself a glass of water. However, seeing that Peter was about to interrupt, he hurriedly set the glass down and proceeded with his discourse.
  ÒI see only one way to settle our differences. So I have decided to ask you, the board of directors and executive staff, to accept my resignation.Ó
  Just as he was about to protest, PeterÕs jaw dropped. He couldnÕt believe his ears. Here heÕd thought Matthew was going to attempt to reorganize the company and take control of the At Hand PC Plus project. Instead, he was quitting. The unanticipated revelation was like an answer to PeterÕs prayers, and it saved him from the unpleasant business of having to fire Matthew. He felt a sudden pang of pity, his own anger and hurt turning to a strange mix of compassion and guilt for Matthew, and he wasnÕt sure how to respond. He searched for the right words.
  ÒJesus, Matthew. I donÕt know quite whatÑÓ
  Before he could say more, Matthew Locke held up his hand. Apparently he hadnÕt finished. He shifted his focus from Peter to the people seated around the table.
  ÒUnless, however, you approve my recommendation. To have Peter relinquish his duty as group vice president of At Hand. And as chairman of the board.Ó
  The room spun and suddenly all eyes shifted to Peter. He blinked and tried to focus on a single pair, but none held. He leaned back heavily in his chair. It made a strained sound. He looked up at the ceiling, and suddenly it all became clear to him. MatthewÕs little game. He recalled yesterdayÕs confrontation, and how Matthew had phrased it: drastic changes.
  He tried to comprehend the full meaning of what Matthew had just announced. It was preposterous. He was this companyÕs founder, its crown jewel, and he wasnÕt going anywhere. Except where he damn well pleased. The audacity. It was laughable. And that was exactly what Peter did. He laughed. So hard that his shoulders shook.
  No one joined in on the fun. They simply sat there and stared, waited for him to pinch his eyes and straighten up in his chair and settle his clasped hands on the table, no more giggles. He spoke around an irrepressible grin.
  ÒPhew. Sorry. I didnÕt mean to laugh. I mean, I know none of this is funny. ItÕs just that you had me going there for a second. I really believed you were going to make my job easy.Ó His smile vanished as he bored his famous blue eyes into MatthewÕs.
  ÒBut I guess youÕre not going to make it easy. So IÕll spell it out for you, Matthew. YouÕre fired.Ó There. It was done. And now, out of courtesy, he would explain why this was the only option.
  Matthew held his ground at the opposite end of the table, his fingertips resting calmly atop the yellow legal pad.
  ÒIt hasnÕt all been a wash, Matthew. You did a fair job of helping get the organization in place. Tightening the budget. Beefing up the sales force. And the other things you did. We donÕt need to recount them all here, but you did them. You did. But if I let you stay in your position any longer, this company will fail. IÕm afraid I just canÕt do my job with us arguing the way weÕve been, Matthew. IÕm sorry. I really am.Ó
  Unsure what to do next, Peter reached into one of the folds of his leather portfolio and extracted a sheaf of copies of his new organization, which, in addition to his current duties, showed him in the role of acting president and CEO. He was distressed to see that Matthew was still standing at the head of the table.
  Peter sighed. ÒIÕm sorry, I forgot.Ó He glanced quickly around the table. ÒIÕm sure among us weÕll come up with a substantial severance package, Matthew. Full relocation, of course. Amicable references. The whole nine yards.Ó
  Finally, Matthew spoke up.
  ÒPeter, stop.Ó
  Oh, wonderful, Peter thought. Now heÕs going to beg. He had no experience with this sort of thing, and he wasnÕt sure what to say to make it clear to Matthew that his mind was already made up. He apologized again, hoping that would do it.
  Matthew took a slow sip of his water, casually returned his fingertips to the tabletop, and then went on.
  ÒYouÕre a brilliant young man, Peter. YouÕve made this market what it is. We all know that were it not for you, this company would never have happened. Everyone here recognizes that, and is grateful to you.Ó He was surprised by how easily his words were flowing.
  It was turning worse than Peter had imagined. He considered using the power of his title to stop Matthew. But since heÕd already said his piece, perhaps it was just best to let Matthew say whatever he wanted to get off his chest. After all, heÕd hired the man, and if anyone was to blame, it was him, for not realizing sooner that a guy who knew potato chips couldnÕt be expected to understand silicon chips.
  At this last observation he nearly started laughing again, and he bowed his head so no one would see. What he didnÕt notice were the sympathetic glances in his direction.
  As crucial as todayÕs meeting was, he found it difficult to concentrate on MatthewÕs drone. He wondered briefly again if he was losing some of his finer abilities to stay sharp, not miss a thing. He fought to pay attention, but his mind kept jumping to important matters that needed his attention. The battery problem, which this morning appeared to be fixed. Brighter screens. Easier-to-service keyboards. And, as always, faster performance?.?.?. With an imperceptible shake he forced himself to focus on the session.
  He sat up a little straighter in his chair when he sensed Matthew was winding down, and in his head prepared a thank-you to the departing executive for his candor, his service, et cetera.
  Ò.?.?.?and finally, because of your inability to effectively manage your organization, the At Hand PC Plus project has fallen behind schedule,Ó Matthew said. His voice rose a notch. ÒAll that must change.Ó
  Peter couldnÕt agree more with MatthewÕs last comment, and nodded to say so.
  ÒSo I have decided to ask each person here to vote,Ó Matthew said calmly.
  Peter Jones looked at the executive with genuine curiosity. ÒAnd what are we going to vote on, Matthew?Ó
  ÒOn us, Peter. On which of us is going to run Via.Ó
  
  >>>
For a few minutes she just sat there before it, warily considering its parts. SheÕd watched Matthew working on it enough to understand how it functioned. The basics, anyway.
  Drawing on her tight gloves, she concentrated on the core device. The At Hand, with its light gray On/Off button on the front lip. The unit was closed, and seated neatly in its dock. This, Matthew had told her, was what turned the At Hand PC into a full desktop system. The other peripherals were all in place. The keyboard, which she merely glanced at. The mouse. Printer. CD-ROM drive. Scanner. And the monitor, which, she observed, was turned on but asleep.
  The stylus pen, for drawing and writing directly on its screen, was stowed in the little tunnel in the side of the unit. Thank God, she thought. Because she was a lefty, the stylus terrified her. The mouse, she supposed, was more forgiving, since it only had two buttons. She picked it up and moved it to the left side of the keyboard, then touched the power button to wake everything up. The screen blinked on, revealing the orderly At Hand workspace.
  She made a few adjustments to her left hand, working the unique gloveÕs special fitting into place. She settled her hand over the mouse and, taking a deep breath, moved the pointer to the Via logo. She pressed the button, moved the pointer to the writing program, and clicked. Moments later a blank page appeared. She lifted her hand from the mouse and poised it and her other hand over the keys. Since the accident, she had never touched a keyboard.
  She toiled for an hour, relearning. Her impediment made it all the more challenging. The w, s, and x keys were particularly trying. She sweated, cursed. Willed her fingers to think differently. And eventually, she accomplished what sheÕd set out to do. Two letters. One to her widowed mother in Brooklyn, the other to MatthewÕs parents in Connecticut. In both she offered a brief greeting, and casually mentioned that sheÕd typed the letter all by herself, that she was finally catching up with the rest of the world on the Net.
  The Internet in turn provided a welcome relief to the arduous letter writing. A few clicks of the mouse and she was connected to World Online. The colorful menu of icons appeared, each pointing out a different category. With so many to choose from she didnÕt know where to begin. So she began with the familiar, a subject she felt very at home with: shopping.
  She spent half an hour roaming through virtual boutiques, browsing catalogs full of photographed merchandise. Before long her initial anxiety melted away and she considered running upstairs for her credit card. But then she remembered what Matthew had once said about online scams. Something about security. How only some services were reasonably safe. SheÕd have to ask him later. Just looking was enough fun for now. And when she spotted the clock, she realized that she had been online longer than she would have imagined. She couldnÕt believe it. Her throat was dry, and she had to urinate.
  She moved the pointer to the Goodbye button and clicked it. The program asked if she was sure she wanted to disconnect. But before she was able to click the Yes button, the At Hand beeped and a small paned window appeared in the middle of her screen, blocking the Goodbye box. She gave a startled gasp when she read the words in the new box.
  ÒYou bastard!Ó
  She was momentarily frozen. And frightened. What had she done? She searched the small window for some explanation. Its title identified it as ÒChatÓ message, from a person named ÒSFScooper.Ó She could only assume this Mr. or Mrs. Cooper had mistaken her for someone else.
  Seeing the reply box, she ventured to explain, wording her response carefully.
  ÒI think you have the wrong number,Ó she typed, then pressed the Send button.
  ÒFuck you, bastard!Ó
  Her mouth dropped open. Brand new to this strange form of communication, she resorted to straightforward language. The sort used to address a child.
  ÒI am no such thing you nasty person. Who are you? And why are you calling me bad names?Ó
  ÒYou know who I am, fuckface!Ó
  It had to be a joke. A stupid joke. And sheÕd had enough already. Now, where was the Goodbye box? But before she could figure it out, the Chat box flashed again.
  ÒYouÕll be sorry, Locke.Ó
  Oh dear. Suddenly she understood, or close to understood anyway. She was using MatthewÕs computer and online account. And somehow this rude person thought he or she was talking to Matthew.
  ÒI am not Matthew Locke. I am Mrs. Locke. And I resent your behavior.Ó
  She quickly clicked the Goodbye button again, hoping it would disconnect her. She gave a grateful sigh of relief when the confirmation box reappeared.
  But before she could click the Yes button, SFScooperÕs chat window appeared on top again. This time, however, it contained no profanity. Just one word:
  ÒOh.Ó
  She went to click Goodbye again, then reconsidered. This person had frightened and offended her, had called her husband terrible things. No, she was not going to let the creep get away with a simple ÒOh.Ó
  ÒYou should apologize,Ó she typed.
  She waited for a reply, staring at the little window. And waited. Had the person on the other end signed off? Was he or she sorry now for behaving so rudely? Or thinking of another foul response? She waited another minute or two. Still nothing. It was just as well. The last thing she wanted was to spoil her first day as an online citizen with this immature person.
  Who then responded.
  ÒIÕm sorry. I made a mistake. I meant it affectionately. You know, ÔYou bastard.Õ Like, playful.Ó
  ÒYou were wrong. My husband is not a bastard.Ó
  There was another pause, as though the person on the other end was weighing her response very carefully.
  ÒYou should create a personal ID for yourself. Your own online name. So people donÕt mistake you. Do you want me to show you how?Ó
  She didnÕt know what to say. This person who had just offended her was now trying to help her. It didnÕt add up. Yet she certainly didnÕt want what had happened to happen again. She had no idea how to do what this person suggested, how to create her own identity. What would it hurt to accept his or her offer to help, a sort of truce.
  ÒCan I pick any name I want?Ó
  ÒSure. Anything. As long as it isnÕt taken. Think of something fun.Ó
  ÒOK,Ó Greta typed, no longer aware of her thirst or full bladder. She was hooked.
  ÒShow me,Ó she typed.
  
  >>>
  
ÒNow youÕre pissing me off, Matthew,Ó Peter said as he rose from his seat. He picked up his pen and began pressing the button up and down. It sounded very loud in the nearly silent boardroom.
  ÒIÕm sorry, Peter,Ó Matthew said. ÒBut IÕm perfectly serious. As president and CEO, itÕs in my power to conduct a vote. And thatÕs what I intend to do. Unless you agree to what IÕve suggested.Ó
  Peter scoffed. ÒMatthew, youÕve lost it. A vote. I donÕt believe this. You want to vote. Hey, if thatÕs what you want, go ahead. Make a bigger fool of yourself. Go on, Matthew.Ó He waved his pen through the air, taking in the entire room. ÒVote, then.Ó
  Peter shoved his hands in his pockets and began pacing. Then he halted and spoke excitedly. ÒNo, wait. IÕve got a better idea, Matthew. IÕll ask. Okay? IÕll conduct your little popularity contest. ThisÕll be fun.Ó
  Matthew gave an indifferent shrug. He had nothing more to say just yet.
  Peter addressed the nearest executive, Alan Parker, general manager of the Mate division and ViaÕs first executive hire. Short and rotund, Parker looked visibly upset as Peter set a hand on his shoulder.
  ÒHey, Al. What do you think of all this? Pretty awkward, I agree. But nothing we canÕt take care of nice and quick, get back to work. I donÕt need to repeat the question, do I, Al? Or am I just stupid? Am I crazy thinking you and everyone else here want me out of my company?Ó
  Alan Parker swiveled in his chair to face Jones. ÒItÕs gone too far, Peter. You and your At Hand team have created a rivalry with my Mate group. Mate was this companyÕs bread and butter up until At Hand PC was introduced. YouÕve made us feel like second-class citizens. And now your product is practically driving us into the red.Ó
  Peter could barely hide his surprise at the restrained anger in ParkerÕs voice. ÒWell, youÕve always been a little sensitive, Alan. Admit it. At Hand is where this company is going. Listen, you want in on it, fine. WeÕll shift you over into my group, soon as we can.Ó He brightened, warming to the authoritative sound of his own voice. ÒAnd IÕll tell you what: WeÕll throw a big party for the Mate team, okay? A big thank-you sort of thing. IÕll even drop by to personally announce it. What do you say?Ó
  ParkerÕs face reddened. ÒThatÕs not the point. DonÕt you see? YouÕre doing it right now, Peter, just like you always do. Twisting things to suit you. Only you. And IÕm sick of it.Ó
  Peter drew his hand away, incredulous. ÒYouÕre kidding, right? I mean, okay, weÕve got our differences. Look, I know I leave something to be desired in the social graces department. ItÕs something I have to work on. Yes, I admit it, I treat my engineers like gods. To me, they are. But you canÕt mean youÕre on MatthewÕs side. Tell me youÕre not, Al.Ó
  Parker turned back around in his seat and quietly cast his vote. ÒIÕm sorry, Peter.Ó He gathered his hands together and settled them on the table with a small thud.
  Peter let out a disbelieving chuckle. ÒYouÕre serious.Ó
  Parker nodded, then abruptly spun around to face Peter again. ÒBut Peter, wait. I donÕt think you should leave the company. We need you too much. To work on our future products. Just let Matthew handle what heÕs proposingÑÓ
  Peter lifted a hand to cut him off. ÒSave it, Al.Ó He gave Parker a gentle pat on the shoulder and then stepped over to the opposite end of the window from Matthew. He crossed his arms and looked outside, the lord of his empire. No one said a word. They waited a full minute for him to turn around and face them once more, now wearing a bemused smile.
  ÒSo everyone thinks IÕm a jerk, is that it? And our big-shot businessman here is a savior?Ó He flung a hand in MatthewÕs direction.
  Matthew took a step toward him. ÒPeter, please. Alan is right. IÑweÑall want you here at Via. But you need to let me have the power to do whatÕs right for our business.Ó
  Peter made a disgusted noise. ÒAnd I suppose you have that all figured out? Forget it, Matthew. And letÕs cut all this bullshit too, okay? Okay. Fine. If this is how you want to play the game, letÕs do it then. Around the room. No small talk. No sentimental crap. Just yes or no.Ó
  He pressed himself firmly against the warm window and looked over the table. ÒAll right, whoÕs next. LetÕs just move on down the line, why donÕt we. Denise. You. Me or Matthew, whoÕs it gonna be?Ó
  Denise Campbell had enjoyed a stellar career with Via. SheÕd started as a financial analyst. Brilliant with numbers, sheÕd eventually been promoted to chief financial officer. With anguished eyes, she turned around to face Peter.
  ÒPeter, I know I donÕt have to tell you that as a publicly held company our first obligation is to our shareholders. AndÑÓ
  He shook his head rapidly, eyes blazing. ÒNo verbosity, please. Me or Matthew?Ó
  ÒMatthew.Ó
  Peter gave a single nod and quickly moved to the next person. ÒPaul.Ó
  Regarded for his no-nonsense manner, sales and marketing VP Paul Crane uttered a single word. ÒMatthew.Ó
  And so on, the same name repeated again and again.
  Through it all Matthew held his position at the opposite end of the window, his heart racing, rivulets of sweat running down his sideburns and into his collar while his face betrayed nothing. Until Peter, exhausted, exasperated, had come to the last person at the table.
  Peter knelt before Hank Towers, the man whoÕd originally taken a chance and bankrolled PeterÕs dream.
  ÒHank,Ó Peter said, his voice barely audible. ÒJesus, Hank. Can you believe this is happening? I mean, can you honestly believe this? I canÕt.Ó Peter drummed his chest. ÒYou and I, Hank. You and I made this company. Made Via what it is today.Ó
  Towers sat perfectly still, but Matthew could see that PeterÕs words were having an effect on him. And on some of the others, as sounds of sniffing and little coughs, throats clearing, filled the room. He forced himself to not let his feelings get in the way of his own manner. It was important that he appear strong, stable.
  What was going on inside was another story. His pulse doubled. Despite the so-far unanimous votes in his favor, HankÕs influence was not to be underestimated. A vote for Peter would cause everyone in the room to reconsider his or her own vote, and possibly prompt a second vote.
  ÒHank, you have to trust me on this one.Ó Peter gripped the armrest of TowersÕs chair. ÒMatthew isnÕt right for Via. If you let him have this, heÕll turn Via into a second-rate company. All I want is what any of us wants, Hank. To be the best.Ó
  Matthew struggled to read TowersÕs stoic expression. It was impossible. Another cold stream of sweat trickled down his back. He felt his stomach rumble when it occurred to him that he might have been wrong in his assessment of HankÕs support. Had he been kidding himself in thinking he could turn TowersÕs loyalty against his cofounder?
  PeterÕs voice was a rasp. ÒDamn it, Hank. Look at me. DonÕt you see what he really wants? His long-term plan? For ChristÕs sake, he tried to convince me that we should become compatible with PC-fucking-SoftÕs operating system. He even suggested once we should license our own OS to ICP. If thatÕs not selling out then what the hell is? Come on, Hank. IÕm your main man, and you know it. ItÕs just you and me.Ó
  Matthew felt close to throwing up. While not entirely accurate, PeterÕs spontaneous assessment laid bare MatthewÕs ultimate motivation for all in the room to consider. TheyÕd come down to brass tacks. It was now or never, and he held his breath.
  Hank Towers looked the younger man in the eye, and slowly shook his head.
  Peter made a terrible wrenching noise and dropped his head onto the arm of Hank TowersÕs chair. He stayed like that for a minute, trying to catch his breath. He could barely speak.
  ÒHank, no. You canÕt. We got through the tough spots before. We can run Via. Until we find someone who can cut it. Oh God, Hank.Ó
  Towers set a fatherly hand on PeterÕs bowed head. ÒNo, Peter.Ó
  Peter looked up, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. ÒBut this is my life here. IÕll die if you donÕt save me, Hank. YouÕre my only hope. Please.Ó
  ÒCalm down, Petey. Deep breath. Come on, now. Listen to me.Ó He gave PeterÕs shoulder a bracing squeeze. ÒWeÕre a big company now. At our most critical point in all our history. ItÕs a big game out there now. One youÕre not equipped to compete in in an executive capacity. But youÕve got to stay on to do our big thinking. YouÕve got to. All weÕre asking is that you let Matthew do his job. YouÕll think itÕs all bad for a while, but then youÕll understand. And youÕll wind up a lot happier for it. Mark my words. YouÕll see, Peter.Ó Towers let out an exasperated sigh. ÒDamn it, Peter, we love you.Ó
  There wasnÕt a dry eye in the room. Except Matthew LockeÕs. Pale with anxiety, lips pressed firmly closed, heart racing, he struggled to remain unaffected by the raw emotion in the room.
  Peter took a deep breath and stood, struggling to get himself under control. The lapels of his suit were shining with wetness. His tie was askew. He rubbed his sleeve across his forehead and cleared his throat. He looked down at Hank, and with what little defiance he could muster, he spoke.
  ÒAnd if I refuse to agree to all of this?Ó
  ÒPetey, IÕm afraid itÕs the only option youÕve got.Ó
  Peter let HankÕs words sink in for a moment, then turned to look around the table. Everyone sat as they had through the whole meeting, avoiding his eyes. Staring at their fucking yellow pads. Maybe itching to lift their pens and start calculating what their stock options might be worth after todayÕs news got out.
  And wasnÕt that what it all came down to? he asked himself as he stood there unable to move or say anything. WasnÕt that what heÕd used to lure each of them here? The bottom line. The riches. But none of them understood that for him, it wasnÕt the money. It was more than that. It was Via, and everything it meant. It was his life.
  And it was over.
  He looked at Matthew, who mistakenly interpreted the glance as a gesture of reconciliation. ÒPeter. It doesnÕt have to end like this.Ó He took a step toward the younger man.
  ÒDonÕt come near me,Ó Peter shouted, causing everyone to jump in their seats.
  He locked eyes with Matthew. ÒI canÕt believe youÕre doing this. YouÕre destroying my life.Ó He shook his head in disgust and quickly returned to his place at the table. He picked up his portfolio and hurried to the door, ignoring Hank TowersÕs plea to wait.
  He paused at the doorway and turned to face the room one last time. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. Instead he merely shook his head in disbelief, then departed.
  The door slowly swung closed, sealing the executives inside the boardroom for the first time without Peter Jones at the helm.
  All eyes were on Matthew Locke now.