Undo Part 49

"Fax transmission complete," the Joey said.

"Pip," William said, "thank you."

"You're welcome, William," the Joey said.

William laughed and shook his head. "Incredible," he said. He switched off the microphone and laid it down on the table. "Well, I guess that proves your point. You're right. For simple busy-work like sending a fax or creating an e-mail, being able to speak to the computer directly does make the job easier."

"Right," Peter said. "And some people will use it for longer doc.u.ments, like a traditional dictation system, but without the need to transcribe it. And in order to avoid being interrupted in the middle of your brainstorm it will wait until you are done to ask you to clarify any words it did not understand."

"What about the handwriting stuff," William said.

"That's another enhancement," Peter said, ready to explain how it fit in with the rest of the product. But just then, Grace came into the room.

"Come on, boys, lunch is ready."

The men stood and stretched, and Peter went on as they headed out of the room. "Like the speech interface, we think the handwriting recognition, which we've vastly improved over the standard Joey version, will be used for smaller tasks, jotting down notes and contact information, that sort of thing. But not necessarily for writing long letters. For that, they can use the keyboard.

However, for editing an existing doc.u.ment, using the stylus like a red pen to mark up the page and scribble in corrections or move text around, we've put in standard editor pen-strokes to make revisions a snap."

William removed his gla.s.ses. "It's amazing. The way these enhancements - the agent technology, and the speech and improved handwriting recognition - have upped the ante, making an already pretty smart portable system truly intelligent."

"Right," Peter said. "And the vertical application possibilities are endless. Publis.h.i.+ng, using the editorial mark-up features I described. And any business that relies on forms. We're already collaborating with a doctor friend of mine at Stanford," Peter said enthusiastically. "She's building a system that lets doctors and nurses track patients' vital signs and prescription orders on a prototype system we've hacked together for her."

The group seated themselves around the dining table, with Peter and William sitting side by side.

William said, "But what about the computer itself? I see you've cracked open a few Joeys in there and put in your own custom hardware. Is that how you intend to deliver the product? As a Joey peripheral?"

Peter let out a big sigh on this one. "That's a good question.

One I tend to get a little too worked up over. See, I want to do our own thing. It would take longer, but it would be ours, and not a part of Wallaby's. Let's just say I'm still a little sensitive on the subject. Byron, why don't you handle that one."

Grace handed Isle to Peter and he gently rocked her in his arms.

"She's precious," William said. "I didn't know you were a father."

"Yep," Peter said. "Her name is Isle. She's the little jewel behind everything you just saw." He kissed her fuzzy head.

Byron took a sip of his water and addressed William's question.

"That's not a bad idea, Billy. Petey and I have been talking about it between us, and we're not exactly sure how we're going to deliver the final product. We could do it as a Joey add-on. Or we could create our own new computer. That Joey in there that you were playing with is only the basic guts. For more reliable net and web access, we've slipped in a faster, 28.8 KB modem with a wireless option so you can send and receive e-mails or do paging through the airwaves, without plugging into a phone line. And we've come up with a sharper, lower-power thin-film transistor display, a longer-life battery pack, and an infrared port too, that lets you beam information to your desktop system or to other Joeys and IR devices, like printers, or h.e.l.l, to your TV even, when we get the home-entertainment interface software we're kicking around up and running."

William put down his fork and took a sip of his water. "Well, there is another option that you have not mentioned." He paused.

"You could integrate the ISLE design into a next-generation ICP product."

Everyone around the table stopped and looked at him. Then they looked at Peter.

Peter, gently rocking Isle in his lap, looked at Byron. Then he turned to William, and he smiled.

"Now there's an interesting idea."

She pulled into a handicapped parking s.p.a.ce beside Matthew's car, then flashed her Wallaby VIP badge to the security guard sitting behind the lobby desk. Matthew had gotten the pa.s.s for her a few years ago, after she had once been accosted by security when she had arrived and marched right past the desk carrying a basket of flowers, a surprise for her husband. As far as she was concerned, she was still the boss's wife, and she could go anywhere she d.a.m.n well pleased. She ignored the guard's pleasantries and boarded the elevator. A moment later the door parted, and she was on the top floor.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Locke," a handsome receptionist said cheerfully.

"h.e.l.lo, Sheldon," Greta said with an effusive smile. Such a charming young man. He knew how to treat a distinguished woman.

As she headed away, her peripheral vision caught the young man lifting the telephone handset, warning the executive secretaries that she was on her way.

So well trained, she thought, a sudden hush falling over the executive area. As she marched along the row of offices, each of the secretaries graced her with a smile and a greeting.

"Greta," Matthew's secretary Eileen said with deliberate flatness.

Greta marched past her desk without so much as a glance and went straight into her husband's office.

Eileen came in behind her. "He's gone to lunch next door," she said. "Can I help you with something?"

Lingering for a few moments, she examined several doc.u.ments on Matthew's desk with feigned interest. Satisfied, she cleared her throat and walked out of the office. Neither of the two women wished the other any sort of day, good, bad or otherwise.

She made her way back to the elevators.

The elevator rang, and someone ran past her and boarded it.

"Please hold that," she called out. Taking her time to reach the elevator, a pleasurable knowledge swept through her; whoever the person in the elevator was, he or she would hold the door for her.

"Thank you, dear," she said to the young man aboard the elevator.

Because she had partic.i.p.ated in all of Wallaby's major functions, whether on stage with Matthew as he wished the employees season's greetings, or during congratulatory speeches and celebration events, everyone in the company recognized Greta Locke - the head-honcho's wife.

Reveling in this notoriety, she strolled into the sus.h.i.+ restaurant and searched among the tables for her husband.

Conversations quieted among the diners as they noticed her. Mrs.

Matthew Locke pretended indifference to the attention she drew as she started through the dining area and headed for the back room, where on past occasions she and Matthew had dined with some of the other Wallaby executives and their wives.

"May I help you?" the hostess inquired politely, treading alongside Greta.

"I know my way around," Greta said. She went in back and stopped before the group of private part.i.tioned rooms. The doors to three of the intimate little rooms were open, and she could see they were empty. She went for the first closed door, but just before sliding it open she noticed Matthew's shoes, as well as a pair of heels, sitting on the floor by the last room, which overlooked the carp pond at the restaurant's atrium center.

As she neared the room, she heard Matthew's voice. "Here, try this one," then a foolish giggle, presumably belonging to whoever it was who fit into such tiny heels.

Greta stepped up to the platform and slid the door open, just in time to see Matthew, chopsticks in hand, placing a dripping pink piece of raw fish into the mouth of a young pretty thing. The girl sat with her eyes closed and head t.i.tled back slightly, wriggled her tongue in antic.i.p.ation. Matthew's other hand was hidden beneath the girl's hair, supporting her neck.

Looking up and encountering his wife's stunned expression, Matthew jerked impulsively, and in doing so plunged the chunk of raw fish into the girl's mouth. Her eyes snapped open, and she made a revolting sound. Her hands flew to her throat. She was choking.

Matthew struck the girl sharply on the back, and with a great popping cough, the pink thing flew from her mouth into her cupped hand.

Seeing that the girl's airway was free, Matthew turned to his wife. Getting up, his napkin fell into the tray of sus.h.i.+. As he reached for it, his feet encountered an obstacle, and in an effort to prevent himself from cras.h.i.+ng through the window, he caught the edge of the table, managing to tip over their mugs of tea, as well as knock most of the remaining sus.h.i.+ onto the floor.

"Sit down, Matthew," Greta said with a disgusted flap of her hand. She gave him a look. "I must say, darling, I'm very impressed with your technique. I would have thought you'd need a hook to catch this sort of fish."

The girl sucked deep gulps of air, alternating her wide, watery-eyed gape between husband and wife.

"Poor thing, so sorry you don't care for the selection," Greta said with a pout. "I think there's some more on the floor. Go fetch, dearie."