"What's what you want to know?"

"What went wrong. Why." Prepared for more flailing, Peter's reaction surprised him.

Without looking at Matthew, Peter came toward him. He picked up the pen he had moments before used as a missile. He lowered himself down onto the sofa and casually crossed one leg over the other. He held the pen bearing the Wallaby logo by each end between his fingers. Emphatically, yet softly, he explained. "You don't understand. You just don't get it. You don't know the truth about inventing products like Wallaby's. In the long run, it's all that really matters. That the products are true to the visions that inspire them." He gently placed the pen in his pocket, shrugged. His glazed eyes drifted across the room to rest on his docked Joey. "My visions are my products."

He remained there for a few moments with a rapt, slightly smiling expression lighting his face, gone inside himself to a place where, the way he saw it, everything was sharp and clear, where he could see things no one else could see.

The only thing Matthew saw was a man gone. Gone mad, perhaps.

Although they'd had arguments in the past, Peter had never seemed so unhinged. In a way, Matthew felt relieved. Having witnessed Peter's distracted state, he was resolved to proceed with his plan.

The young founder blinked. He looked at Matthew with clear eyes.

He was back. He bit his lower lip, and with an expression at once sad and perplexed, he said, "What is it that you see, Matthew?

What is your vision?"

The car phone jingled, snapping Matthew out of his musing.

Was it Peter? If so, he could turn around at the next exit and be back in just a few minutes. Though he had every intention of proceeding with his plan as it now stood, Matthew would nevertheless give Peter until the very last minute to see things his way.

"Peter?"

"Matthew, it's Eileen." His secretary. "I called Peter's office.

Peggy said you left ten minutes ago. What happened?"

"I've decided to go home for the rest of the day," he said. "If I have any calls - "

"You already do. Laurence Maupin."

"Is it urgent?"

"The two of you were scheduled to discuss tomorrow's meeting.

She's in your office now, holding on the line."

"Okay. Put her on."

There was a click, then Laurence's voice. "Hi, Matthew. I've prepared a short press release to send over the business wire after tomorrow's board meeting." She spoke quickly, considerate of his time. "It reads: 'Wallaby Computer, Incorporated today announced a realignment of executive responsibilities. In addition to his current position as president and CEO, Matthew Locke will now a.s.sume the responsibilities of chairman of the board, and vice president of the Joey division...'"

At this last, his heart suddenly quickened. "'Peter Jones, former chairman and cofounder of Wallaby, will stay on as the company's leading visionary, focusing on advanced technologies and future product designs.'

"Still there?" she asked, giving him an opportunity to comment.

"Go on."

She continued immediately. "'Locke has expressed great confidence in Jones's ability to drive Wallaby to the position of technology leader in the desktop computer and personal interactive a.s.sistant industry.'" When she finished reading Matthew's statement, she paused. "Is that suitable?"

"Yes. That's fine. Thank you."

"If you'd like to conduct any phone interviews with key press const.i.tuents, I'll need to know that now so I can make arrangements."

"No. None. What you've done is fine for all parties."

He waited to be sure she was through, then said, "Thank you, Laurence." Before taking her call he had been eager to be alone so he could mentally review his plan, but now he felt oddly unwilling to end their conversation. Something about her voice, the words about him spoken so decidedly, was having a softening effect on his anxious mood.

"Listen," he said, "when this settles down, let's spend some time together to work on my strategy for the press and Wallaby's new PR plans."

"Absolutely."

"Great. And thanks again," he said. With nothing left to discuss, he said good-bye. As he moved the phone from his ear he heard her call his name. "Yes?"

"I almost forgot," she said, slightly exasperated. "Where do you get your car serviced?"

"My car?" Matthew said, a little dumbfounded.

"Yes. My steering is making a terrible noise. It's a BMW, like yours. Well not exactly like yours. I mean, mine is a lot smaller."

"Wallaby does mine," Matthew said. "They arrange for its service, near my house. The place is called Bavaria Motor Systems, in Woodside. It's just off Woodside Road."

"Right. I know where that is," Laurence said. "It sounds more like a high tech company than a car shop, doesn't it? I'm finally getting used to all these sys's and gen's and tech's and mem's,"

she said with a chuckle.

Her laughter caught Matthew by surprise. Until now, Laurence had conducted herself in a strictly-business fashion. In light of the seriousness of the situation he faced with Wallaby, her easy laughter was a welcome breath of fresh air. He hadn't heard laughter, or laughed himself, in a long time. He thought of perhaps thanking her for... But for what? For laughing? Sure.

"Well, again, thank you, Laurence," Matthew.

"No, thank you," she said. "And Matthew, you can call me Lauri if you like. It makes things less formal."

"All right. Good-bye, Lauri..." And for the second time he heard her call his name as he went to hang up the phone. "Now what?" he said, affably.

"I'm sorry, Matthew. There's one more thing. The picture in your office, of your wife and her horse. Where is that? I mean, where does she keep her horse?"

"You ride? I had no idea. It's Woodside Ranch. About a half-mile north of the BMW shop. There's a turnoff, with a sign. You can't miss it. That it?"

"Yes," she replied.

"You're sure?" He laughed. "Okay, then. Good-bye." He snapped the phone back onto its cradle and settled into the comfort of the leather seat. Tomorrow's meeting. The press. The future.

Laurence's certainty and control helped him strengthen his own hold on the immediacy of tomorrow's meeting, and his overall plan.

His plan. He'd spent the past six months a.n.a.lyzing and plotting its current phase. If the vote was successful, Peter Jones would be removed from his position as Wallaby's chairman and engineering division vice president. Company-wide responsibility would be turned over to Matthew.

All the pieces were in place. To begin with, Matthew had gained tentative agreement from Wallaby's vice chairman, Hank Towers, to consider "repositioning" Peter within the company. He had then spent many hours with each member of the executive staff over the last several months, subtly gaining their confidence as he explained his strategy for the company's future, one that would increase Wallaby's profitability and compet.i.tive position in the industry.

Dissolving the executive staff's confidence in Peter Jones as a leader, while building its trust and gaining its loyalty for himself as company president, had been an extremely delicate operation. Resistance from even one member of the executive staff could have prevented his plan from advancing to its present place.

The first phase of Matthew's plan, to gain support after his arrival at Wallaby, had been successful. He had become a credible and qualified champion of Wallaby's high technology platform of computer products, a status he would have never reached without Peter's focused coaching and friendship.

Just a year and a half earlier, "Business Week" had touted Peter and Matthew as "The Brains and Brawn of Silicon Valley." Gracing the cover was a jocular photo of the two, an insightful, undisguised shot whose overall effect was similar to that of a Hollywood buddy film promotion poster. On the left stood Peter, wearing jeans and a white Oxford shirt. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow and his arms were folded nimbly across his chest. Of slight build and tenuous stance, his physical composure was that of a lanky high school student, yet his eyes had the depth of a twenty-coat lacquer finish. They were the eyes of a man older than his years, whose mind performed at a cycles-per-second rate equal to that of three men combined. He was thirty-one.

Beside Peter stood Matthew, one arm hung loosely over the younger man's shoulder. He wore khaki pants and a chambray work shirt whose sleeves, like Peter's, were rolled to the elbows. The spa.r.s.e, light-brown hair, high, time-worn forehead, and the creases of his face, especially around the eyes, did not belie his age. His eyes, more gray than blue, burned with the determination of a college graduate who, with diploma fresh in hand, sprints eagerly toward The Challenge. He was forty-two.