‘Nothing. There’s nothing. Forget I said it.’
Chris peered at him for a moment. ‘All right. Tell me about Ben and Kevin. They own part of the company?’
‘Kevin owns fifteen per cent and Ben owns nine.’
‘And you have the rest?’
Andrei nodded.
‘What does Kevin do?’
‘He codes.’
‘You can pay a programmer.’
‘I do. Four. Kevin’s not like that. Kevin keeps it all going. If there’s a problem, he works at it until it’s done. He’s a Stakhanovite.’
‘A what?’
‘It’s an old Soviet term for a hero-worker. Someone of superhuman productivity. Kevin’s a Stakhanovite.’
‘Well, every start-up needs one. And Ben?’
‘He’s a psychology major. He helps … I don’t know, figure stuff out. He also analyses the data.’
‘So that’s it. You three guys and the four programmers you pay?’
‘That’s it. Do I need more? I don’t know if I’ve got the money for more, especially if I’ve got to scale up for a hundred million users.’
‘Then you need to find it.’ Chris sat back. ‘You need to find it. I can’t believe you’re still surviving as you are. Andrei, I share the vision. I get it, I totally get it, and I love it. It’s awesome. The world is on a one-way journey to a global future and it’s only a question of who gets to lay the road. It may be that when the history of this is written, Fishbowll will have a chapter all to itself. But when I look at it from a business perspective, I think, if you get it right, you also have the most extraordinary thing on your hands. You have a set of users that are walking around with bullseyes on their backs. They’re not just selected for their interests but self-selected, and not just for their interests but for the interests they really, really care about. If advertisers have wet dreams, this is it.’
‘I know,’ said Andrei. ‘We find that we have a little of what we call interest-tourism, where users just type in some crazy thing to see what comes up. Mostly it’s new users and they do it a couple of times and that’s it. But for the others, we’re getting pretty good now at analysing usage patterns – who people talk to, how often, on what topics – to figure out how committed a user is to a particular interest. I think we’re starting to understand that better than our users understand it themselves. Right now, advertisers bid a basic per-click rate at a daily auction, and that’s adjusted up or down by a certain amount depending on a set of data about the individual user, like how long he’s been registered, how often he visits, how much time he spends on the site. But that’s still incredibly crude. I would say within a month we’ll be able to adjust the per-click rate on the basis of a commitment score that we’ll be able to generate from usage patterns, which I think will be incredibly predictive of propensity to buy. We’re just trying to get the data to prove that right now.’
Chris slapped the table in delight. ‘I love it! What you have is magic in your hands and you’re working out the best way to use it. You’re like a wizard, Andrei. You’re learning your capabilities.’
‘But Fishbowll’s about Deep Connectedness, Chris. Advertising is there because we need it. I just want to make it as efficient as I can. It’s wrong that an advertiser should pay the same per-click rate for two people who have a radically different propensity to buy. That’s just wrong. It’s not efficient. We can make it much more efficient than that.’
‘Exactly. But you cannot do something like this and not be businesslike. Again, I could tell you a story right out of the Chris Hamer scrapbook. If you don’t earn enough out of whatever you’re doing to service it, to constantly develop it, to give your users what they want, and to make it run fast and smooth, someone else will. At your level, Andrei, the net has no place for altruists. Nature abhors a vacuum – the internet abhors non-profit.’
‘I don’t have to make a profit to do all those things.’
‘Fair enough. Let me rephrase that. The internet abhors non-revenue. But let’s not kid ourselves – that means big revenue, because your users are going to demand big things. And make no mistake, they will leave you if you don’t deliver. First law of the net – if you don’t, someone else will.’
‘Don’t what?’
‘Anything!’ Chris grinned, then he folded his arms, the smile still playing on his lips. ‘I bet the social networks hate you.’
‘Mike Sweetman offered me a hundred million for the site.’
Chris laughed. ‘Hold your enemies close, right? So close you can stifle them. What did you say?’
‘No.’
Chris laughed again. Then he shook his head. ‘He’ll come after you somehow.’
‘He already has. He shut down access.’
That had happened when Chris had been in Australia, but he had heard all about it when he got back. ‘The search engines stopped him, right?’
Andrei nodded.
‘What’s it got to do with you?’
‘That hundred million offer … he made it the day after he was forced to open up again.’
Chris stared at him. ‘Really?’
Andrei nodded.
‘Interesting.’ Chris ate some of his chicken, thinking about what Andrei had just told him. Its significance didn’t escape him. ‘Very interesting.’ Chris had hardly touched the food so far and it was almost cold, but it was still tasty. ‘This is good.’
‘I’m no food critic,’ said Andre, ‘but Yao’s is a fine noodle establishment.’
Chris watched him for a moment, wondering if this was an apparently rare Koss attempt at humour. ‘So, what should you do?’ he said, waving a fork with a piece of chicken on it. ‘You asked my advice. First thing – and this may not be immediately relevant, but one day it will be, so hear me out – is that when you take venture capital, never be in a position where you lose control of the company. Even if you go below fifty per cent ownership, there are still ways for you to retain a majority vote. Dual class voting stock, for example. If you don’t do that, not only do you risk losing control over the important decisions about the way things are done, you may even be forced out. It’s not a pleasant experience, and I know. The VCs will tell you that you can’t retain that control, but you can. You just have to make them hungry enough to buy in under those conditions. There are no rules when that point is reached – there’s only panic to get a piece of the action. You’ve got to see it, Andrei, the greed of these guys and their raw, naked fear when they think they’re going to miss out.’ Chris grinned. ‘It’s a thing of rare and ferocious beauty, my friend.’
‘How do I make them that hungry?’
‘Build the business. Build it as you see the vision. What you have is potentially so compelling that the beasts of Sand Hill Road will come salivating to your door. The second thing, and this one is immediately relevant, is that you need someone to manage the infrastructure.’
‘We don’t own the servers, we rent them.’
‘Of course you do. You still need someone to manage the relationship with whoever owns the infrastructure. Make sure they give you the service you need, the responsiveness you need. For those people, you’re in a queue. You need to be at the front. And if you’ve got a problem, chances are you can figure out the solution a lot quicker than they can. If you get a reputation for slowness or time outs, you’re dead.’
‘Maybe Kevin could do that.’
‘Tell me something,’ said Chris, suddenly realizing he hadn’t asked an obvious question. ‘Are you guys at college?’
Andrei nodded. ‘Stanford.’
Chris shook his head, smiling.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Look, hire someone to manage the infrastructure. Don’t try to do it ad hoc, Andrei. If you’re lucky, you might get by, but if you don’t, you’re dead.’
‘How much would that cost?’
‘Depends how much stock you’re prepared to put into the package.’
‘Do you know anyone who mig
ht be able to do that?’
‘I can ask around. Do you have the money for this?’
Andrei frowned. ‘I’m not sure.’
Chris didn’t say anything to that. If Andrei wanted him as an investor, he wanted Andrei to ask. ‘The third thing – and again, it may not be right now, but it’s going to be very soon – is to be realistic about what you three founders are able to do and what skills you need to bring in. You must be great programmers to have got to where you’ve got to, and you’ve got a great vision, but even when start-up people have business experience, when the business starts to accelerate, as yours is doing, they’re unprepared. You can obviously negotiate, if your advertising deal is anything to go by, but that’s not enough by itself. It’s likely other business skills you’ll need to import. Again, another one of my mistakes – not doing that early enough. Be realistic, but be ruthless, about where your skills lie and where your fellow founders’ skills lie, and bring in those that you don’t have. And the fourth thing – get good people to advise you. When you look for VC money, look for more than the cash, look for the kind of backers who have a solid base of experience, the kind of guys who are going to let you run the company but offer you wise counsel.’
Andrei looked at his watch. There was so much that he needed to get away and think about.
‘Do you have to be somewhere?’ asked Chris.
Andrei shook his head. ‘What about the fifth thing?’
‘What’s the fifth thing?’
‘What do I do about Mike Sweetman?’
Chris laughed. ‘See if you can get a billion out of him.’
‘I don’t want to sell.’
‘No? Not for a billion? Then there’s only one other thing to do.’
‘What?’
‘The same thing he tried to do to you.’
Andrei gazed at Chris sceptically.
‘Not today. Not right now. But you’re in the big league, Andrei. You’re swinging against guys like Mike Sweetman. The day will come when it’s him or you. Whether you like it or not, you’ll have to start thinking like that.’
A couple of days later Chris got another call from Andrei. Again, Andrei came right to the point. ‘I’d like you to come be part of Fishbowll.’
‘Really?’ said Chris. ‘To do what?’
‘I don’t know. All I know is we need someone who knows something.’
Chris laughed. ‘I think you know plenty, Andrei.’
‘Do what you like,’ said Andrei. ‘Spend as much time or as little as you want. Just work with us. I want you to buy a share of the company.’
‘How much do you want me to buy?’ asked Chris.
‘Five per cent. For a million.’
‘That’s valuing you at twenty million.’
‘Mike Sweetman offered me a hundred.’
‘Yeah,’ said Hamer, ‘but Sweetman was trying to take you out.’
‘He’s not the only one who’s offered me more.’
‘I thought you didn’t ask.’
‘That doesn’t stop people telling me.’
Chris laughed, wondering again if Andre’s deadpan delivery was an attempt at humour or a simple statement of fact. ‘Do you need another million to get you through the year?’
Andrei didn’t. After the last conversation with Hamer, he had rented more server space and had analysed the financial position, taking account of Fishbowll’s likely advertising revenue, which was running higher than expected. Even if he employed someone to manage the infrastructure, the numbers looked OK. ‘I want you to buy a share because I want you to be part of us.’
‘Andrei,’ said Chris, ‘I’ll need to think about it.’
He ended the call. He did need to think about it – for a minute. Fishbowll was the most exciting thing Chris had come across since … it was the most exciting thing he had ever come across. He was impressed not only with the Andrei’s vision for Fishbowll but with the younger man’s thoughtfulness and maturity and, even more importantly, with his apparent willingness to learn. Chris believed that, stewarded well, the business Andrei had founded had the potential to become an important company, earn serious money for its founders and investors – and change the world. Although he was realistic about that. One could change the world – but all that meant was that a new group of predators would emerge to rip the rest of the population off.
He just had to find a million dollars. He didn’t have it in cash, and it meant sacrificing some potential profit that would be lost if he sold out of certain investments now, but with a few phone calls he had liquidated enough assets to raise the funds.
He called Andrei the following day.
‘I’m in,’ he said.
‘Great.’
‘Just one thing that’s been bugging me. Who thought of the name?’
‘I did,’ said Andrei.
‘Why the weird spelling?
‘Fishbowl with one l was taken.’
Chris nodded. He should have worked that one out for himself.
17
ANDREI HADN’T CONSULTED with either Kevin or Ben before asking Chris Hamer to buy into the company. Ben had no problem with it. The meeting at Mang had left him with the impression that Chris was a guy who liked to talk himself up somewhat, but he was smart and experienced and Ben immediately saw the benefit Chris could bring. Kevin, the self-appointed business guru of the group, responded more defensively. He wanted to know what Andrei thought Chris could bring that they didn’t already have. Andrei gave him a list. Then he wanted to know why Chris had to buy in. Andrei told him he didn’t think Chris was going to work for them for a wage.
Kevin’s resentment simmered. At first Chris wasn’t around much. The legal work was done and the million dollars was transferred. The academic quarter came to an end. Andrei had managed to come through all his courses, although his grades had taken a significant hit. Ben and Kevin were just OK. They shared an unspoken understanding that they wouldn’t be able to manage the same feat again in their senior year.
They also knew that they couldn’t just disperse for three months over the summer vacation. They rented a big house in a family neighbourhood in Palo Alto, in a little street called La Calle Court, and deposited their stuff there. They put Ben’s aquarium in the entrance hall, right opposite the door. Andrei went home to Boston for a week and then came back. Ben and Kevin, soon back in California as well, moved in. So did two of the programmers Andrei had employed. Friends and girlfriends and various other people came and went. Sandy Gross stayed on and off before leaving for a vacation with a bunch of girlfriends in Europe.
The first time Chris Hamer stepped through the door he thought it looked like a frat house – a frat house with a lot of computer equipment in the living room. He rubbed his hands. ‘Cool,’ he said. ‘Where’s the beer?’
It was a caffeine- and alcohol-fuelled summer of wheelspins and partying, the kind of weird, wild, unfettered period of sheer intensity that can only ever happen once, and which, if you’re not careful, you can spend the rest of your life trying to recreate. The freedom to focus on nothing but Fishbowll was an exhilaration. Andrei, Kevin and the programmers worked twelve-, fifteen-, twenty-hour stretches and then collapsed. Then they’d get up and someone would have organized a barbecue and they’d party while a series of epic movies played on a big screen on a wall on an endless loop that someone had rigged up, and then Andrei or Kevin would drift back to his computer and pretty soon another wheelspin was in progress. Fishbowll grew, developed and improved at a dizzying speed.
Chris came back and stayed for weeks, egging them on. If he was supposed to be playing the role of the adult in this room of computer-drunk children, he wasn’t doing much of a job of it. He had a million dollars on the line in this frat house, but the anarchy and sheer exuberance exhilarated him. He sensed that he was caught up in an exceptional concentration of creativity and one would mess with the magic only at one’s peril. Within the apparent wildness of the whirlpool, things got done. Astonishing,
innovative, extraordinary things. When Andrei and Kevin and the other programmers sat at their desks and put on their headphones, it was work. If someone disturbed them, Andrei would throw down his headphones and let out a Russian curse that might have meant nothing, as far as anyone knew, but never failed to quieten the room. It was no way to run a business, but this wasn’t a business – it was Fishbowll. Let it run riot. It would have time to grow up.
Nonetheless, there was one aspect of the operation that Chris couldn’t let run wild. He had found Andrei someone to oversee the infrastructure, an engineer called Eric Baumer who had worked with him at FriendTracker. Chris lured him to the job with a modest salary, options worth 1 per cent of the company and his insistent personal assurances that one day those options would be worth a lot more than anything FriendTracker had ever delivered. Eric was meticulous, methodical and had proven at FriendTracker that he knew how to apply those qualities to keep a service running in the white-hot crucible created by the combination of exponential growth and hastily written software architecture. But not even FriendTracker had featured a place as anarchic as the house on La Calle Court.
While Andrei was deep in the coding of Fishbowll, Chris took it upon himself to make sure Eric was paid and kept the site running. Eric worked out of his home office in Hayward, about fifteen miles away across the San Mateo Bridge. To avoid scaring the hell out of him, Chris kept him as far from the Fishbowll house as he could. Whenever they had to meet, they’d get together over noodles at Yao’s.
Most of the time, however, Chris hung around the house, drinking beers, talking Fishbowll and enjoying the vibe. He hit on most of the girls who came through the door and had occasional success. He hadn’t had this much fun since the early days of FriendTracker, and FriendTracker, he had always felt, had been a fad. Fishbowll was here to stay.
Andrei had decided that he wasn’t going back to Stanford in the fall. He was trying to organize a leave of absence for a year before getting up the courage to tell his parents. They must have suspected what was going on, however, and they arrived one Saturday afternoon, marched through the battlefield of the living room, and locked themselves in a bedroom with Andrei. Everyone stood outside listening to a lot of shouting in Russian. Afterwards, Andrei and his parents came out and only then, it seemed, did his parents take in the state of the house.
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