Undo, Joe Hutsko [e reading malayalam books .TXT] 📗

said, propping up on one elbow as he slipped on his dock shoes.

“Hmm?”

“Who’s calling who a goof?” She tossed a pillow at him. “You’re inside-out, Einstein.”

He looked down at his shirt, pulled it over his head, reversed it, and put it back on. “Thanks,” he said, then leaned over and kissed her good-bye.

“Don’t mention it.”

On his way out of the house he stopped in the kitchen and wrote “I’m a lucky guy,” on a little yellow Post-it note. He signed it with a tiny heart and pressed it onto the coffee machine.

He walked the short distance to the Holmes house quickly, his thoughts turning round and round. With the tourist season over, the town was somber and cool. Here and there a car occupied the driveway of one of the homes along the inlet, and even fewer boats remained docked. He arrived at the Holmes place just as Grace was coming around from the side of the house carrying a potted plant in her hands. “This one isn’t going to make it,” she said, holding the sickly plant up for him to see.

“Sure isn’t,” Peter said. “Is Byron here?”

“He’s in back,” she said. Then, with a smile, she confided, “I’m glad you came by. Yesterday he was mumbling about some idea he said he’s got to talk to you about. He was going to head over to your house in a little bit. He’ll be glad you’re here.”

Peter rounded the house and trotted down the dock. He could see the top of Byron’s white-haired head. “Hey,” he said, leaping from the dock to the boat.

“I see you got your boat shoes on,” Byron said, looking up from his work, as he finished oiling the boat’s teakwood bulwarks. “Good,” he said, making a few last wipes. “You’re ready to sail.”

“If you say so.”

“I say so. You saved me a short walk, you know, ‘cause I was going to come over and talk to you today after I took a little sail.” He replaced the lid on the can of oil and tossed the sodden rags in a plastic bag, stuffed both into a canvas sack. “Here, stow this, son,” he said, pointing to an open bin just inside the cabin. Peter caught the small sack and put it away. The boat’s teakwood and brass cabin was clean, classy, elegant, and sharp - much like its captain, Peter thought.

“Cast off,” Byron told him, indicating the boat’s mooring lines.

Peter jumped to the dock and unwrapped the lines from the cleats. The engine churned alive. “Now give us a good shove,” Byron ordered.

Once Peter was back on board, Byron applied power and the boat lurched once, then smoothed, and they motored for the inlet, the water ahead rolling in small swells, the day clear and crisp.

“Is it going to be windy enough?” Peter asked, shading his eyes and squinting out at the ocean that lay a half-mile ahead.

“Here,” Byron said. He tossed Peter a spare pair of sunglasses. Peter put them on and looked again. He could see a few boats in the distance whipping along at a respectable clip, their sails puffed fully.

“Sail much?” Byron said.

Peter shook his head. He gripped the rail behind him with both hands, anchoring himself in a leaning position as he watched Byron work the wheel.

The older man smiled and pulled his pipe from his shirt. Holding the wheel steady with his elbows, he expertly applied his lighter to the pipe’s bowl. “You’ll get used to it,” he said, pointing his pipe at Peter’s rigid knees. “Just gotta go with the flow.”

When they reached the ocean, Byron began yelling orders to Peter, who followed them with colt-like shakiness. Within minutes the mainsail and jib were swollen fully in the eastern wind.

Byron shut off the engine, and Peter observed the silence, the power of the wind as it pushed the sleek vessel along quickly and quietly, as if by magic.

“Here,” Byron said, stepping back from the wheel. “Hold it where my hands are.”

Peter placed his hands over Byron’s, ready. When Byron let go, Peter’s body gave a slight jerk. “Just keep her steady,” Byron said, returning his hands. He held them there until Peter adjusted to the boat’s pull.

Byron disappeared inside the cabin for a moment, then returned with two cans of beer. He popped the lids and handed one to Peter. “Top of the morning to ya,” he said, tipping his can to Peter.

The two men shared a couple of minutes of silence between them as they sailed some distance. Peter was the first to speak up. “I’ve got an idea,” he said simply.

“Me too,” Byron said. His gaze was focused behind Peter, at the distant shoreline. He took a sip from his beer and gave Peter a nod. “You first,” he said.

“Okay. I was thinking about what you said the other night. You know, about our differences, good ones.”

Byron took a thoughtful suck of his pipe and nodded, then expelled a plume of aromatic smoke.

“So I started thinking,” Peter went on, his speech coming quickly, “that with your experience in big system stuff, and with what I know about little system stuff, what if we put our heads together?”

Byron made a gesture with his pipe for Peter to go on.

“Okay. See, I’ve been thinking about portable computers, and PIAs - you know, personal information managers. And as much as I think they are helpful, like the Joey, they’re not really as helpful as the could be. They don’t so much help you, not directly anyway, as serve you, so to speak. I mean, they’re really just smaller, more tightly-integrated computers than real helpers.”

“Mm hmm.”

“So, what if there was a way to make a portable computer really help you? To really assist you, by anticipating your next move. By knowing you better and better the more you work with it?”

Byron took the small metal wind cap off the bowl of his pipe and checked the tobacco. He leaned over the side of the rail and tapped it carefully against his weathered palm, spilling the black ashes into the ocean. Then he leaned against the cabin, took a long swallow of his beer, and pushed his sunglasses higher on his nose.

“What you’re talking about is agents. Agent technology. Little ‘intelligent’ software buddies that run on your computer in the background and pay attention to what you’re doing, and what you’re not doing, and then act on their own, on your behalf, to help you by anticipating your next move. Sound about right?”

“That’s exactly right. We were just starting to play around with the concept before I left. But my lead programmer was really into them, and he had a bunch of friends at MIT who were studying them in a big way.”

“Right. And what I was thinking about fits in nice with what’s got you all juiced. See, all this poppyshit everyone’s going on about, the world wide web and the Internet, it’s got me a little ticked off. It’s supposed to be the world’s greatest ‘new’ information source, yet getting connected is a bitch. And what with those snappy little computers you make, well, a person should be able to hook up to the net and web by just plugging in the phone. It’s too damn complicated the way it is now. It needs to be simpler.”

Peter jumped in excitedly. “You know, that’s incredible, I was thinking that that would be my next step at Wallaby, to make net stuff easier for people. And now that you mention it, think about the two. I mean, combining both the net stuff and the agent stuff. I’ve seen demonstrations of net-savvy agents that go off and find information and articles you are looking for, seeking out news that you know you are interested in, and news that you didn’t know you were interested in, but based on your previous interests, the agent finds related items for you. That’s what I call a real information assistant.”

“Yep, that’s a damn good idea,” Byron agreed . “And that net stuff, you know, is what this old geezer knows best. Hell, I was cruising the net while you were doo-dooing in your diapers. That was when the government was the biggest Internet user and text and numbers ruled the world. Now I log-in and whew, it’s like walking into a virtual playhouse, all the stuff that’s on there these days. Just the other day I took Gracie for a ‘tour’ of Prague, thanks to that city’s new web page, created by this group of expatriates who just up and moved there. It was all there: snapshots, video clips, restaurant and hotel guides, travel information, the whole works.”

“Wow. Sounds like you’ve really kept up on all this stuff.”

“You better believe it. What, you think a guy like me retires and then just unplugs? No siree. And as for those snazzy little agents you’re all worked up over, I’ve got a recent report on them back at my office in New York. In particular, the ones with net smarts.”

Peter smiled and gave an amused shake of his head. “You know, it looks like you were right. I mean, that you and I have more in common than I thought.”

Byron shrugged and looked off into the distance for a few moments, then looked Peter in the eye.

“Guess it’s time I fess up,” Byron said. “See, I’d been watching you sit in that cafe for a couple of months. I knew who you were. I saw the way you looked. I saw the way you didn’t look, too, at anything around you. It was in your face, that you wanted to be left alone. I knew I couldn’t introduce myself to you, not for a while, anyway. So I waited. Until the other day, when that new Joey Plus was introduced. Hell, I figured it was as good a time as any to throw a line to a fellow sea dog. All along I’ve been hoping since I saw you the first time that we’d get it on in the brain, like we are now. You know?”

A beaming grin peeled across Peter’s face. “Yes. I know. And so what I was really wondering is, do you think maybe we could work on some of this stuff together?”

Byron scratched his head. “Sounds like I’ve got a new hobby,” he said. He raised his can of beer. “Partners?”

Peter felt a little sting in his eyes. It was the briny ocean mist, he told himself, blinking behind his sunglasses to rid his eyes of the moisture that had abruptly formed there as he touched his beer can to Byron’s.

“Partners.”