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plan would never materialize. Finally, Peter expressed doubt in Matthew’s overall vision and qualifications, saying he was personally hurt that Matthew could even hypothesize such a thing for Wallaby. That said, Matthew halted his friendship with Peter, and drew heavily from his wife’s support to rebuild his confidence in the secret plan.

She felt wanted again. However, her expectation of spending more time with Matthew was unfulfilled. Instead of spending weekends with her, he spent more time than ever in his little home office, next to the library. And when he wasn’t holed up in there, he was constantly reading about big computers and the latest technologies, his face often closer to the pages of a book than to his wife’s face when they were in bed.

After tomorrow, after Peter was truly invalidated, she knew that Matthew would start spending more time with her. She had to believe that. After all, it was she he had to thank for rectifying his temporary shortsightedness. At least that was how she saw things.

Raising a glass of wine to her lips, she heard the automatic garage door open. He was home. She twisted the knob of the recessed ceiling-mounted quartz lamp to full intensity. The salmon bowl sparkled.

He appeared at the living room entrance, hands at his sides. She pretended not to notice his arrival.

“Greta.”

“Oh, darling,” Greta said, pretending to be surprised.

Without remark, she quickly took in his tired expression. His eyes seemed half closed, as if the reflection thrown off by the glittering object were blinding. Studying him, she searched for the foundation of the man she had married, the man with the strong and sinewy build, the confident posture, the sharp aristocratic features. Today his cheeks appeared blanched, his stance tentative. With her glass of wine in hand, she strolled casually across the room.

“What’s that?” Matthew said.

She pecked his impassive lips. “That,” she said, toasting the bowl with her glass, “is pure brilliance.”

“How much brilliance?”

“A steal, Darling. I got it to celebrate your success. Let me get you something to drink.” She left him alone with “his” present.

He inspected her newest purchase. He had to admit, it was magnificent, and as he scrutinized it more closely, he began to forget about his labored day and the impending showdown. He studied one of the etched salmon that circled the bowl’s rim. It swam against a powerful, unseen force, compelled onward with inner strength, driven by instinct to fulfill its obligation. It was that way in business, he reflected, one had to be driven by instinct and a sense of obligation, plain and simple -

But that word, simple, was like a hook that snagged his mind and reeled him from the peaceful waters that were his thoughts. Once more, his thoughts returned to the damnable Peter Jones, his excited voice raiding Matthew’s mind like an unwelcome visitor.

“‘If you get simple beauty and naught else, you get the best thing God invents,’” Peter would wistfully recite, the poet Robert Browning’s words, during design meetings. Forever distrusting complexity, Peter made it his utmost priority that Wallaby’s products were unaffected in their design and easy to use.

Once more, apprehension washed over Matthew like a shifting tide. If only he could convince himself that everything would go exactly according to plan. It would, wouldn’t it? He felt as though his life depended on it. He just didn’t feel one-hundred percent sure.

“Here,” Greta said, handing him a small bottle of Perrier. Taking the drink, he avoided looking at her bare hand…or at the other, which was concealed inside a silky white glove. He took a sudden and uncomfortable interest in the tiny bubbles that formed and rose in the bottle.

Greta sat on the flowery chintz settee and patted the cushion next to her. “Come.”

Before joining her, Matthew twisted off the bright lamp. Nighttime descended on the salmon, their struggle temporarily suspended. He sank into the softness of the sofa and rested his eyes.

“Well? Is everything all set?”

He nodded.

“Good, Matthew,” she said. “I can’t wait for you to be able to relax once this all settles down.” She thought of the time she would have with him after tomorrow’s meeting and smiled, more at this thought than to comfort him.

Matthew frowned. “He says I don’t know what I’m doing. That I don’t have a clue.” He stared into the bottle. “He says I don’t have instinct. No vision, guts. Unless I’m wrong, I don’t think he realizes what’s going down tomorrow.” He met his wife’s eyes. His expression soured; then half resentfully, he sought her reassurance. “Have I been wrong? What if I’ve misread everyone’s loyalties? What if he has his own plan to spring on me tomorrow?”

A voice inside Greta’s head roared No! No matter what Peter Jones had up his sleeve - yes, certainly he had something - her husband’s well thought out plan was more powerful. It was too late now, anyway, to start worrying about the enemy’s strategy. That she never seriously considered it probably meant that her instincts about Peter were correct. He was blind to what was coming.

“No sweetheart. Don’t think that way.” She gently pushed back some hair from Matthew’s forehead. “You’re doing exactly the right thing. And after tomorrow, everything will be fine.”

He offered her a dim smile, then closed his eyes.

For the briefest instant there she had felt his need for her. It had been so long since he’d called to her for help. However cursory, she had served him nevertheless. And now it was her turn, tit for tat. “Let’s go for a walk down by the stables. What do you say?” She grasped his hand as she rose.

Too weary to protest, he rose to his feet and let his wife lead him off.

 

*

 

Walking into his home, Peter heard Ivy playing the grand piano in the drawing room. She was singing softly, a verse he did not recognize. One of her own? The pleasing sounds bellowed and echoed through the more or less empty mansion. She did not hear him enter the room.

Her fingers settled on the last chords of the score. Peter smelled the sweet fragrance of her long white-blond hair, brightened and warmed by the sunlight streaming in through the French windows behind her. Coming closer, his shadow gave him away and she turned her head to greet him.

“Hello,” she said, through the last fading chords of her music.

“That was wonderful. It’s as if this entire house is joyful and alive when you’re playing.” He casually rested a hand on her shoulders, a simple expression of admiration.

She turned her cheek to his hand, and he went to move it, but before he was able to she stood and stretched. He took her seat then, resting his hands on his lap. Looking past her and through the windows, toward the hills that rolled beyond his estate, he could see Hoover Tower in the distance, rising high above the treetops of the Stanford University campus. Three weeks earlier he had been there to give the commencement speech to the graduating class. Afterward, at the reception, a striking young girl had introduced herself. Her name was Ivy, she said, and she proceeded to tell him about the speech and language interface that she was developing for the Wallaby Joey computer. When it was finished, she promised, the interface would allow people to interact with the Joey by speaking to it, and it would reply in kind, in its own “voice.” The Joey’s intuitive and portable design, she told him, was what had inspired her to develop the speech recognition and simulation interface software. When he asked what were her eventual ambitions for the project, she said she wasn’t sure. She had no agenda for the summer and, for lack of a more tempting course, had halfheartedly committed herself to traveling across the country with some friends. He was intrigued by her knowledge of linguistics, particularly when she revealed that she had never used a computer until the Joey. That part was especially touching, and he somehow felt compelled to help her, so he offered her the opportunity to continue developing the Joey speech and language component in his home. The next day she arrived with her duffel bag, a couple of books, a few boxes of floppy disks, and a backpack. Peter often had guests straying in and out of his home, usually students to whom he offered the use of his thoroughly equipped computer lab. In return he asked that they respect the privilege by picking up after themselves. He let them come and go for as long as they liked, and his doors were never locked. Alice, his maid and cook, always kept herself abreast of the various artists in residence.

She appeared now in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. She was a small, voluminous Spanish woman with pulled-back black hair and a gorgeous smile. “Hello, Mr. Petey,” she said with plain affection. She turned to the young girl. “I finished preparing your meat and spices.” Peter looked at Alice for an explanation, and she nodded to Ivy.

“I’m making you a special Mediterranean dish tonight,” Ivy said, taking Peter’s hands in hers. “My way of saying thanks, for being so kind and letting me stay here with you.”

“Great,” he said, and casually withdrew his hands.

Usually it started out, as it had a number of times before, as a rent-free working environment. Peter received both pleasure and satisfaction from being around artists and other creative types who crafted amazing things from the technology he had invented. Except for his work and Kate, when she was in town, his life was surprisingly spare. Having the students in his home filled the spacious mansion with the lives and passionate works of others. And with little effort, he was helpful to them. In several cases the projects they worked on became marketable products, and sometimes he nurtured them in getting started as software or hardware developers by introducing them to the appropriate managers at Wallaby. But to some of the students, staying at Peter’s became more than just a neat place to crash. Once a couple of young men had taken off with some of the equipment and a few of Peter’s personal valuables. And then there were the girls, who often presented their own set of problems. And right now, Ivy was the mansion’s sole nostrings boarder.

“Come on,” Ivy said, taking him by the hand once again. “I want to show you what I’ve been working on this afternoon.”

As they passed, Alice busied herself with a tissue in her apron pocket. Peter noted the uncertain look on her face; she was all too familiar with the course that Ivy’s stay was taking.

 

*

 

Dressed in a violet silk camisole, Greta Locke sat on the edge of their large bed and brushed down her thick chestnut curls. As she did this she observed herself - her hair, her face, but never the movement of her hands - in the mirror above her bureau. Though it was early, she had nonchalantly followed Matthew upstairs to the bedroom when, after dinner, he had said he was going turning in early. She had a modest face that she considered robust rather than pretty. It was satisfactorily oval in shape, though a little too fleshy in the cheeks. Her nose was sized accordingly, yet if it had been a little longer, straighter, perhaps she would have been a real model - but then again, her face had never been her selling point…

While she scrutinized her complexion, her right hand, as if guided by its own vision, encountered the crystal lotion dispenser resting on her bureau. With a light press she dispersed two long, corpulent worms