Then the soundtrack became more discordant. Television footage of Synapticom’s dashing twenty-six-year-old CEO, competing for America’s Olympic snowboarding team last January. In a news clip all too familiar to everyone present, the young man somersaults over a ravine but misses his landing, digging the tip of his board into the wall of rock just short of the other side. His arms flail desperately, as if to propel himself to safety as he careens down the cliff, slamming repeatedly into the jagged rocks, his board flying free behind him. The audience gasped in unison as His head hits one of the protruding rocks, snapping his neck back so far, so fast, that his chin smacks against his own back. The micro-moment of agony is repeated again from a closer angle, then again, even closer, before the video resumes and the limp body continues its descent, landing lifeless in the stream at the ravine’s bottom.

  Silence. The lasers faded to an orange glow as the synthesized female voice resumed. “The company’s board of directors initiated a global search for a new executive capable of continuing the Synapticom mission into the next millennium. Hundreds of candidates were interviewed, but when they met the man you are about to meet, they knew instantly that they had found a candidate so unique, so prescient, and so fully aware of the impact of technology on the evolution of the human spirit, that Synapticom would be shepherded to even greater heights.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the computer intoned, “it is with great pleasure that I introduce the new CEO of Synapticom, coming to you live from his mountain villa in his native Stockholm: Thor Thorens.”

  Of course! He was a legend in the gamer community. Thorens Interactif made wildly popular games that taught kids about ecology and nature. The company had been absorbed by Viacom back in the nineties, in a stock swap that made Thorens a billionaire. After that, he spent his money funding environmental causes. He even worked for the UN, then volunteered as a consultant to the G8’s developing nations program. Word was he became a Buddhist after that.

  Before anyone had a chance to applaud, Thorens’s image appeared on the giant screen. He was about forty-five, with straight brown hair and crystal-blue eyes. The hunter-green shirt beneath his off-white suit jacket explained where his company’s fashion trend had come from. Thorens smiled humbly and cleared his throat.

  “I am delighted to be with you all,” he said calmly, with a slight Scandinavian accent. “I’m sorry I could not be with you in person, but we only negotiated my options package this morning.” He laughed, and the audience chimed in. I did, too. The joke only worked because Thorens’s reputation was so to the contrary. I felt myself empathizing with the new CEO’s plight, and hoped the well-principled European would be up to the challenge of competing with the assembled robber barons. If the column of greenshirted young men staring at their new leader with rapt attention was any indication, Thorens would have no problem.

  “Our team will now be distributing a demonstration disk of Synapticom’s new prototype technology, what we affectionately refer to in-house as Version Six.”

  The Synapticom troops dispersed through the crowd, handing out stylish black plastic envelopes, each containing a single CD-ROM. 70 The black plastic was something my friend El Greco had always talked about as the ideal CD wrapping. Jude said he was working there—maybe he was the one who had designed it, I mused, fingering the envelope. I scanned the green shirts, but couldn’t find El Greco among them.

  “As you’ll see,” Thorens explained, his own video image receding to the upper-right-hand corner of the screen in order to make room for the graphics demonstration, “Version Six operates in any dynamically driven website environment. As long as your site assembles itself in real time, and has the ability to track the user’s responses as they are made—and if it was built this century, it better . . .” There was more laughter from the crowd. This time, nervous laughter from executives who had no idea whether their own company’s websites were dynamically driven. Tobias turned to his son, who shrugged. Thor waited for everyone to stop shrugging, and continued. “As long as it does, you’ll be able to exploit the impulse-response algorithm of Version Six.”

  Several of the old men dressed as cowboys abandoned the pretense to put on their glasses for a better view of the screen.

  “For example, once a user logs into this sample e-commerce site, his identity is noted by the server and is cross-referenced with his other Internet use, as well as any consumer information we already have, including credit card purchases, insurance records, library activity, brain scans, what have you.”

  The list of possible databases with information on the consumer appeared along the left side of the screen. As each database name was highlighted, the appearance of the Web page changed.

  “This user owns two dogs, sees a Jungian psychologist, takes natural vitamins, lives in a two-bedroom split-colonial, earns a hundred forty-two thousand dollars per year, et cetera. Thus the text and images on the screen, as well as the offerings and price points, adapt and arrange themselves to maximize probability of click-through. Further, the information recorded during the session itself becomes part of the greater database, not just for this user, but for all users with profiles containing similar or analogous consumption parameters. And it’s available to all Synapticom-enabled media properties.”

  In spite of the enthusiasm with which Thor spoke, his presentation amounted to little more than an extension of one-to-one marketing, albeit with a little psycho-pizazz thrown in for good measure. A customized website based on cross-referenced user data. Whoopee. Mine was better.

  “Where it gets interesting, though,” Thor said, as though responding to me, “is when we begin interpolating the moment-to-moment analysis of our reactive architecture program in real time. For instance, how long did the user take between clicks? Did he utilize the right half of the button, indicating rational left-brain activity, or the left half of the button, showing a propensity for more emotionally based decision making? Once we establish a preliminary neurolinguistic template, we can begin to utilize real-time entrainment techniques, such as altering the frequency at which the cursor blinks in order to target particular brain states, pulsating menu bars subtly along the color spectrum, and, of course, utilizing images and sounds that appeal to or stimulate the underlying psychological propensities for sex, survival, profit, or even personal fulfillment, depending on the user’s mindset at that moment. Secondary reinforcement.”

  As he spoke, the Web page slowly adapted itself to the fictional user’s psychological profile. It looked like an organic wall of graffiti, a near-psychedelic display of colors, images, and pulsating light, all directed toward the “buy” button.

  “Once the user makes a return visit, we can proceed using the earlier calculations as a starting point. Our preliminary tests of consumer confidence and personal wealth optimism following reactive architecture immersion have been most promising. In fact, subjects in our focus groups regularly refused compensation altogether. Over ten percent of them applied for jobs at the company just so they could work with the interface on a daily basis! It appears that the program actually induces such a profound state of well-being that consumers feel rewarded simply for interacting with it. But not so rewarded,” Thor added with a brilliantly executed smirk, “that they don’t feel compelled to come back for more at the earliest possible convenience.”

  The entire crowd laughed. I heard myself laughing, too.

  “And best of all, gentlemen,” Thor said as his image enlarged to fill the entire screen, “the data we gather for our concatenated consumer database, not to mention information we gather about transactional psychology, is more than enough to make this venture into reactive architecture a veritable cash cow of intellectual property. This is why Synapticom is prepared to make our program available to the networked sales industry . . . for free.”

  All at once, everyone rose from their seats and applauded. All but a few of the older men, including Birnbaum, an Asian man in the second row, and Tobias Morehouse, who just sat among the cheering crowd, scratching his head. Maybe they were outside the parameters of the target audience for whatever compliance techniques Thor was using in his demo.

  “Thank you for your attention,” Thorens concluded as his image faded to black and the Synapticom logo was rendered on the screen in trademarked green. The same hue as money, but brighter. Almost neon.

  It was brilliant. Only a card-carrying humanist with the Third World and environmental credentials of Thorens could pull off a technology as blatantly dehumanizing as Synapticom. But why had he chosen to do it?

  No time to worry about that now. The announcement of my presentation was lost under the still-tumultuous applause for Thorens. What could I possibly do to compete with that, anyway? Show my ripped-off slides tracking consumer uptake of new technology? I decided to go for broke. Thor exploited every piece of presentation technology known to man—from lasers to God-knows-what sorts of hypnosis techniques embedded within that video presentation. I’d dispense with the PowerPoint altogether, and adopt the fireside chat technique I used that time when I appeared on Oprah 71 as a reformed hacker telling parents the ten warning signs of Internet addiction.

  “Hi,” I began simply, pretending that the tail end of Thor’s applause was meant to welcome me up to the podium. “Thanks a lot.”

  Alec looked worried. He motioned toward the big screen, trying to tell me the presentation wasn’t up. I demonstratively put my remote control down on the table, then slowly gripped the sides of the podium. I leaned in toward the microphone—much in the way my father did at the pulpit on high holy days, when he’d implore the congregation to feel guilty for all their transgressions. This was my opportunity to reach to the most powerful men in the world—and to change the way they thought about the Internet forever.

  “I used to be a hacker.” It was a daring opening, I thought. I proceeded to recount my personal history with computers. How I played with them as a kid, and reveled in the freedom they offered. How I hacked through networks, got in trouble, and eventually designed games through which people could experience some of the thrill of a networked environment without the legal consequences. My laugh line didn’t get the response I expected. They all just sat there, confused.

  “The beauty of networks is the freedom they afford us,” I continued. “It’s about liberation, autonomy, and the ability to communicate with anyone, anywhere, at any time.” Alec made a circular motion with his finger for me to get on with it. “And that’s why I’m proud to announce the arrival of the Internet’s first truly wireless, cell-free, absolutely infrastructure-independent network: TeslaNet.”

  That got them. Several of the businessmen murmured questions to the younger technology advisors at their sides.

  “That’s right,” I went on, “no modem, no satellites, no cell towers. TeslaNet is a piece of software that allows any device to access the Net through the ground itself. Just install the program, connect the computer to any grounded electrical outlet, or even just drive a metal spike into the ground itself, and you are online. It will make paying for Internet access a thing of the past.”

  The audience was hushed. Stunned. I decided to leave them wanting more.

  “I’ll be available to speak to any of you about it at your convenience.” I smiled and gave a little bow of the head. “Thank you very much.”

  As I returned to the table in self-appraised victory, Ruth Stendahl, the ex-CIA investment analyst, leaned toward her microphone on the dais.

  “That’s an impressive technology,” she complimented me, “if it works.”

  “Oh, it does.” No one heard me. I pulled a microphone across the table toward me. “It does work.”

  “But what I want to know,” she intoned from the top of her register, “is what sort of revenue model you’ve developed.”

  Revenue? I thought no one was supposed to talk about revenue.

  “Why I’d be happy to explain.” I spoke as politely as I could, even though I was stiffening from her attack. “We sell the software for money.” I loved using sarcasm on people like Stendahl, who used it so often themselves. “We’re anticipating a price point of about fifty dollars, and a viral marketing strategy that will cost us under a million dollars, total.”

  “But, if you’ll pardon me for asking . . .” Stendahl spoke as if ripping me to shreds were a terribly painful procedure for her. “How do you think such a technology would impact the viability of the telecommunications industry?”

  I shouldn’t have let myself get so provoked. “That’s their problem, don’t you think?”

  The audience shuffled uncomfortably. Morehouse had closed his eyes. One of the other men in the rows of benches raised his hand. A girl ran to him with a microphone.

  “Mr. Cohen,” the man said, scratching his moustache uncomfortably, “I’m sure you’re aware of the Telecommunications Industry Consortium . . .”

  I was utterly unprepared for the assault that followed. One by one, businessmen dressed in cowboy clothes rose to condemn TeslaNet as a “category killer,” an “irresponsible act of piracy,” and “just another open-source nightmare.” The only thing that saved me was the clock.

  Ruth Stendahl restored the crowd’s enthusiasm with an optimistic assessment of the Eastern Bloc’s cash flow potential, after which the men dispersed to ready themselves for the evening’s barbecue. I just sat at the dais with my head in my hands, hoping no one would try to speak to me.

  I felt a big hand on my shoulder. “It happens to everyone, kid.”

  It was Tobias. He pulled me up out of my chair and gave me a hug. It was good.

  “You’re going to be okay,” he told me. I felt even more profoundly sorry for letting him down.

  “But the technology really works,” I said. “It could change everything.”

  “I know, Jamie,” Tobias said with compassion. “I know. But sometimes doing good business means not changing things too much.”

  “What do we care if we fuck things up for other companies?” I asked. “That’s called competition. It’s how technology evolves.”

  “Then why do you think no one’s manufactured a solar-powered car? Or even a decent electric one?” Tobias asked. “You think the kids at MIT 72 don’t come up with new ways of doing that every year?”

  “But if they do . . .”

  “Then one of the oil companies buys it from them,” Tobias smiled. “For good money, too. Just to keep it from reaching the market.”

  Alec sidled up next to us. I think he was surprised to see his dad’s arm around me. “You two okay?”

  “We’re going to be just fine,” Tobias said. “We’ve got a trump card now. Let’s use it wisely.”

  7

  Prairie Oysters

  I rocked back in my chair and looked up. Something about the altitude, the general flatness of the high plains, or maybe just the country air made the sky look genuinely bigger than it did in the city. And now, at night, the stars looked more like a substance than little lights. Sugar on slate. This is why the rich come here, I thought—or to Aspen, or Sun Valley. Summers at the Concord couldn’t compare with this.

  Dad. Shit. I’d forgotten all about him and now it was too late to call. Well, good. That’s what trips were for: to forget about real world concerns. Besides, I had work to do.

  “You going to the bonfire?” Alec joined me on the front porch of Cabin Four, holding one hand over his stomach as if he had eaten too many ribs at the barbecue. In the other he held a joint. A bloated, preppy, pot-smoking cowboy. The screen door clacked shut, and the planks creaked beneath Alec’s feet.

  “I guess I’ll check it out. You?”

  “I dunno. It’s mostly the older guys. But I hear it might be the last year they do it. And it is, well . . .”

  “The thing to do?” I finished for him. He handed me the joint, and I took a hit.

  “Cheer up, Jamie, okay? Everybody’s been talking about your presentation, you know.”

  “They’re probably angry you guys brought me along.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he joked.

  “Ah, fuck. What am I gonna tell the guys?”

  “The truth. It’s better to find out now something’s not going to work than after we’ve put money into it, right?”

  “But that’s the whole point,” I could feel myself whining. “It does work. It’s probably the only thing developed in the last three years that really does.”

  “If the people here don’t want it to work, Jamie, then it doesn’t work.”

  “The people here have nothing to do with it. We release a program like TeslaNet, and it will spread like a virus. No one can stop it. Welcome to the networked world.”

  “Well then, why did your friends turn to you for help?”

  “Maybe they shouldn’t have,” I tested his premise. “Maybe I’m just insinuating myself into something. Teslanet is part of a revolution, Alec.” I tempered my rhetoric by exaggerating it. “The revolution will not be monetized.”

  “It already has been, Jamie. The chaos of the nineties is over. Order’s been restored. Where were you? It’s not a networked world anymore; it’s a networked economy.”

  “Technologies still spread by the laws of evolution, Alec. Survival of the fittest. Ideas compete for dominance.”

  “Technologies spread based on their ability to generate a better story—for everyone at the table. It’s a team sport. What do you think this Bull Run is all about, anyway? It’s to set the rules.”

  “Then why wasn’t Bill Gates ever invited here? He’s set more rules than anyone.”

  “He was invited. He just didn’t show up. He thought he could make it on his own. And he had a good run of it, too, until the Justice Department was convinced to take him down. No one has dared try it since.”