She looked at the photo and smiled politely, unaware that it was really Peter in person and in the newspaper. "A mineral water?"

she said.

"Thank you, my dear. Anything for you, Mr. Jones?"

"No thanks."

The man closed his eyes and turned his smiling face into the sun.

As Peter studied him, he felt a dim glow of recognition. Had he met him before, perhaps seen a photo of him somewhere? There was something about the cynicism in the man's eye. No doubt he was a former businessman well into his retirement, for with his eyes closed, he looked maybe seventy-five.

"Here you are, Mr. Holmes," the waitress said.

With his eyes open, however, the man suddenly looked ten years younger. Pouring the mineral water over the ice cubes in the gla.s.s, he fixed his gaze on Peter. "It isn't easy walking away from something you've given birth to, is it?" He squeezed some juice from the lime slice floating in the gla.s.s.

"No. It sure isn't," Peter said. Except for Kate's weekend trips away from Los Angeles, Peter had been completely alone for the past three months in Maine. During this period he had spoken with hardly anyone, except when necessary - ordering food in restaurants, paying for goods at the general store, or collecting his bundles of forwarded mail at the post office. He had forgotten how good it could feel to talk to someone, even a stranger. Especially a stranger. But Peter sensed that this wasn't just any stranger.

"Yep. Same thing happened to me. Gave them fifty years. Started when I was twenty, not that different from you. Yes sir, I remember how it felt."

"How?"

"Like someone ripped my heart out and chopped a chunk off it."

For a few moments the man's gaze turned introspective as he poked at the lime in his drink. "Sound about right?" His lively blue eyes revealed sympathy, understanding.

This man knows, Peter thought. He managed a small smile and a nod.

"Son, you're a bright boy. I know all about you. How old can you be, thirty?"

"Thirty-two."

"h.e.l.l," the man said with a guffaw, "when I was that age I'd just got going."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Peter considered the man with curiosity and puzzlement. What had the waitress called him?

"Yes sir. That's how old I was when I invented a new system design that went on to become our standard for the next many, many years." He took another sip from his gla.s.s. "Still is," he said, jutting his lower lip out proudly.

"What design was that?" Peter asked. But before the man answered, Peter deduced that there was only one computer standard that had been in existence that long, and that was -

"The 990."

Peter tossed his head back, and for the first time in months he let go a huge, cleansing laugh. Of course! Byron Holmes, inventor of ICP's 990 series, which had become, and still formed the foundation of, the architecture upon which all of ICP's mainframe computers were built. Byron Holmes, son of Jonathan Holmes, founder of ICP.

"What's so d.a.m.n funny?"

Peter touched the man's arm in apology. "I was just thinking how funny it is for us to meet. Go on, please. What did you do after the 990?"

"Revise, revise, revise."

"Things moved more slowly back then, didn't they?"

"Back then? You make it sound like I figured out how to add three wheels to one, so that families could take kids to the dinosaur races."

Peter could see that the man was enjoying this as much as he was.

He became wholly attentive and invigorated.

"You kids from the Valley think your teensy computers are going to replace our Goliath machines someday, don't you?"

"I wouldn't know anymore. I'm out of the business."

"Poppys.h.i.t!" Holmes said, rapping his hand down on the table.

"Don't give me that sour-faced hurt-boy story. Doesn't fly with me."

"I made that company what it is," Peter said, instantly somber.

"And then it was taken away from me."

"That's craziness," Byron said, moving his chair closer. "Boy, I'll tell you something. After I made the 990 what it is, they moved me into big management. Sure, it was my dad's company. But I had the right education for it, so I could have done it anyway if my heart had been in it. But it wasn't. All I wanted to do was make those big, beautiful machines. After a short while I stepped down, moved in another fella, a guy that managed the schedule and all that stuff. Kept our friendship golden after all these years.

Now he's the big cheese there.

"I stuck around for a long time. I was vice chairman, and spent years evolving the 990 design into what it is now, which'll probably see them through to the year 2000. As I was nearing the age everyone says is the time to leave, I had a heart attack.

Guess I thought I was still a youngster. I retired, and me and my wife have been enjoying ourselves and playing around like kids ever since. Not bad for seventy-four years young, eh?"

"But it's not the same. I could have run the company. With all due respect, you inherited yours. I started mine from scratch.

They just didn't give me a chance," Peter said.

The older man discounted the younger with a wave of his arm.

"Nah. You'll come around eventually. Can't have both, you know."

"I could."

The older man's tone turned serious. "That's just pure, one-hundred percent poppys.h.i.t, is all." He pointed his finger at Peter with rigid authority. "You need to squeegee all that anger out of your system so you can get back out there and do something. Again."

Just then a handsome smiling woman appeared at the table, dressed in a light, summery outfit. In one hand she held her wide-brimmed hat, in the other a bag of vegetables and groceries. Byron's face brightened at her arrival.

"Is this man filling your ear with World War II stories?" She handed the bag to Byron.

"I haven't even gotten to those yet," Byron said as he stood.

"Another day."

He made introductions. "Gracie, this boy is the one who invented all those pesky little computers littering everyone's desks out there," Byron said. "He's also been the best conversation I've had here in awhile. Mr. Jones, it's been nice talking to you."

"Likewise," said Peter. The two men shook hands.

"Why don't you come by our house for dinner. Sat.u.r.day night."

Byron said, tapping his shirt pocket for his pen.

"Thank you, that's very kind. But I've been sticking pretty much to myself, and I'm not much company - "

"Nonsense! Eight o'clock," Byron said, scribbling his address on a paper napkin.

"All right then, I'll be there. But I have a friend coming. Would it be okay if I brought her?"