‘I understand you have a motto at Fishbowl,’ she said, when he paused for breath. ‘“Don’t make the world a worse place.”’
Andrei nodded. ‘Kind of. It’s something we use as a measure of what we’re doing.’
‘Has it served you well?’
‘I think so.’
‘Give me an example.’
Andrei talked through an example of a functionality they had rejected because they considered it would make the world worse.
‘Don’t you think that’s kind of unambitious?’ she said, interrupting him.
‘What?’
‘That motto, about not making the world worse. I mean, most people want to do something positive, not just avoid something negative.’
‘It’s not about avoiding something negative.’
‘It sounds like it. I guess you’re not a risk taker.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s safety first. Don’t make the world worse. That’s like, “The first thing to make sure is that I don’t mess up.” Is that how you’ve always been? When you were a kid, for example?’
Andrei gazed at her. ‘That’s an interesting way of looking at it.’
‘Tell me what you were like when you were a kid. Was it always safety first?’ Handel waited. ‘Maybe it’s got something to do with your background as an immigrant – being uprooted at such a young age?’
Andrei ignored the question. His mind was still working on how Handel had perceived the motto. ‘I think you’ve misunderstood it. First of all, when you’re doing what we’re doing, building something totally new, not making the world worse is something you’ve got to beware of. It really is. And the second thing is, there are so many things that we could do, the idea is let’s try as many as we can as long as they’re not going to make the world worse. Let’s throw them out there. And then we’ll find the ones amongst them that people want.’
‘And what does it mean about you, that that’s the approach you take?’
‘No, let me just go back, because this is really important if you want to understand Fishbowl.’ Andrei frowned. ‘We want to make the world better. Absolutely. But I don’t know what’s going to make the world better. I have ideas, but I might be wrong. Or my definition of “better” might be different from everybody else’s. So the best I can do is put stuff out there for the world to react to. We develop all kinds of things. We develop functionalities that people love, we develop functionalities that people look at and say … “Meh”. And that’s fine. If no one ever said “Meh”, then I’d know for sure I’m not trying enough stuff. So what I have to do is throw as much as I can out there. And what we’re saying is, the only things we’re not going to offer is stuff that will make the world worse. Otherwise, we’ll offer you anything you like, and you decide if you want it. And I think that makes the world better.’ He gazed at her.
‘That’s what the principle means. It’s absolutely not safety first. It’s about throwing as much at the world as we can for the world to choose. And we take risks with that. Absolutely we do. And it costs money to do that – to have a bunch of really smart programmers and inevitably some of them are working on stuff that we think is cool but is going to end up “Meh”. But you’ve got to do that if you want to do anything new. So it’s not about not taking risks – the way I see it, it’s about taking as many risks as you can, but also taking responsibility for not making the world worse. And we could. We really could. If we’re not careful, we could definitely do things that would make the world worse. You know, our advertising, we’ve really worked hard to make sure it doesn’t degrade the user experience – in fact, we hope that it actually contributes to it – but there’s all kinds of stuff we could have done that would have been just horrible and would definitely have reduced the connectedness we want to provide.’
‘So if you think about that approach, Andrei, about trying anything as long as it doesn’t make the world worse, what do you think it is about you that makes you take that approach? Tell me how—’
‘Maybe that’s what the motto should be: “Try anything, as long as it doesn’t make the world worse.”’ Andrei glanced at Mendes, who was sitting on a chair by the wall, then he looked back at Handel. ‘You know, that’s quite an interesting way of putting it. I’m going to think about that. Thank you.’
‘A pleasure.’ Handel smiled briefly, as if she really meant it. That approach hadn’t worked in opening Andrei up. She decided to try something more direct. ‘OK. You’ve been described as a boy-wonder of the internet. How does that make you feel?’
Andrei shrugged. ‘It doesn’t make me feel anything. It’s seems kind of ridiculous, to be honest.’
‘Then how would you describe yourself?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m just, you know, very focused on Fishbowl at the moment.’
‘So tell me about yourself. Tell me about Andrei Koss.’
Andrei looked at her, then glanced at Mendes. Inside, he was frozen. He had known that question was bound to come, but he didn’t know what to say. The answers he had tried out with the coach had seemed ridiculous, contrived. There was nothing in his life, he felt, that anyone other than a fellow nerd would find remotely interesting. That was how he had felt for as long as he could remember. Anything he said could only disappoint.
‘Let’s start with where you were born,’ Handel prompted him. ‘You’re Russian, right? That must have an effect.’
‘We came to States when I was four.’
‘So you don’t remember Russia?’
‘Not really.’
‘So you don’t think being Russian has made a difference?’
‘To what?’
‘To you.’
‘It’s very hard to say. I’ve never experienced anything else.’
‘But if you had to say …?’
Andrei frowned.
She waited.
‘Andrei,’ said Alan Mendes, ‘you can talk a little about yourself. It doesn’t have to be just Fishbowl.’
‘I don’t think being Russian’s got anything to do with it,’ Andrei said to him.
‘That experience of being uprooted,’ said Handel, ‘even if you don’t remember it, surely it must have an effect. Don’t you think so? Even in family dynamics.’
Andrei looked at her blankly.
‘OK … ummm … what do you do for fun?’
He continued to stare at her.
‘Do you go out? Clubs? Concerts?’
‘I’m … really busy with Fishbowl.’
‘I’m sure you are but … what else? What else is there to Andrei Koss?’ Handel paused, praying there was something. ‘Video games?’
‘I don’t play much.’
‘What do you play?’
‘Nothing really.’ The image of him sitting in front of a video game was definitely something Andrei didn’t want people to have. Besides, he really didn’t play much any more.
‘Nothing?’
‘I like movies.’
‘What sort of movies?’
‘Big movies. Epics.’
‘Like …?’
‘Troy. 300. Kingdom of Heaven.’
‘Historical epics,’ said Mendes.
‘Right. Why? What is it about them that interests you?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Andrei. ‘I just like them.’
Handel smiled. ‘You’re a thoughtful guy, Andrei. You must be able to say more than that.’
‘Something about them appeals to me.’
She watched him for a moment, then couldn’t help laughing.
Andrei wondered what was funny.
‘Do you have a girlfriend?’
He nodded.
‘What’s her name?’
‘I don’t want to drag her into this.’
‘“Drag her into this”?’
‘She’s a private person. Fishbowl’s got nothing to with her.’
‘But I’m interested in you, Andrei, not only Fishbowl.’
Andrei frowned. ‘I do
n’t think I should talk about her.’
‘There were pictures of her with you at the Defence of Freedom march.’
Andrei nodded.
‘Doesn’t that make her kind of a public figure?’
‘I don’t think so. She had the right to march.’
‘So you’re not going to tell me her name?’
Andrei shook his head.
‘Not even on background?’
Andrei looked at her uncomprehendingly.
‘We can talk about that later,’ said Mendes.
‘OK. Well … what does she think about the fact that you’re a very wealthy man?’
‘I’m not a very wealthy man,’ said Andrei. ‘If I told you what I had in my bank account, you wouldn’t be impressed.’
‘How much do you have in your bank account?’
‘Ah, I don’t think we’re going to answer that,’ said Mendes.
Handel smiled guiltily. She hadn’t really expected to get away with that one. ‘Let’s go back. Maybe you don’t have a lot in your bank account right now, but you will. You’ll be a wealthy man. People say Fishbowl’s worth many millions and you own the majority of it, right? That makes you a wealthy man.’
‘Maybe. I don’t really think about that.’
‘Does your girlfriend?’
‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask her.’
‘But you won’t even tell me her name.’
Andrei nodded.
‘Look, I guess one of the things I’m asking is, you’re a young man with a very big future in front of you, one that involves a lot of wealth, so I’m interested if you find that that influences the kind of women you meet and the relationships you have.’
‘I’ve been with my girlfriend from before I started Fishbowl.’
‘So then … let’s say she wanted to break it off, do you think your potential wealth would stop her?’
‘That would be kind of sad, wouldn’t it?’
‘It does happen.’
‘I hope it wouldn’t happen with her.’
‘Do you think it would?’
‘If I thought it would, I probably wouldn’t be with her.’
‘Have you got plans with your girlfriend?’
‘Plans?’ said Andrei, deadpan.
‘I think she might mean … marriage,’ said Mendes.
‘Oh.’ Andrei shrugged.
Handel sighed. ‘OK. What about going out? Umm … where do you go to eat?’
‘I go to Yao’s a lot. You know Yao’s, on University Avenue?’
She shook her head.
‘It’s this noodle place I found when I was at Stanford. It’s kind of where we have our meetings.’
‘You mean Fishbowl meetings?’
‘Yeah.’
‘At the noodle place?’ Handel clutched at the straw of colour that had suddenly floated into view on what was otherwise turning out to be a drab, grey stream of an interview.
‘It’s kind of, like, we never had anywhere to really meet, and we didn’t have an office – even now the office is completely open – so we’d go to Yao’s.’
‘For dinner?’
‘Lunch, often.’
‘What do you eat?’
‘I usually have the fried prawn and chicken noodles.’
‘Is it good?’
‘I’m no expert, but I have eaten at a number of noodle establishments, and I think, yeah, it is pretty good.’
‘What else do you eat there?’
‘Actually, I only ever have the fried prawn and chicken.’
‘You’ve never tried anything else?’
‘I don’t know.’ Andrei frowned. ‘I think that’s the first thing I tried there and it was pretty good. You know, I usually have fried prawn and chicken when I have noodles. Not just at Yao’s.’
‘I like beef noodles,’ said Handel.
‘Really? You should try the fried prawn and chicken if you go there.’
‘I will. What kind of meetings have you had there?’
‘Meetings … you know …’
‘Can you give me some examples?’
‘Well, the meeting where I suggested to Kevin and Ben that we should set up the company, that was at Yao’s.’
‘That’s Kevin Embley and Ben Marks,’ said Alan Mendes. ‘Andrei’s co-founders. I’ll get you the spelling.’
Handel glanced at him and nodded, then turned back to Andrei. ‘Was that when you were still at Stanford?’
Andrei nodded.
‘What did you say to them?’
‘I told them I couldn’t do it without them.’
‘Is that true?’
‘What? That I said it to them or that I couldn’t do it without them?’
‘Both.’
‘Yes. They’re both true.’
‘What did they bring to the company that you didn’t have?’
‘Ben’s good with people. He understands the way people think.’
‘And surely you don’t think that you don’t?’ asked Handel, her tongue firmly in her cheek.
‘Not like Ben,’ replied Andrei seriously. ‘And Kevin, Kevin’s a great programmer. And he’s a Stakhanovite.’
‘Meaning?’
Andrei explained.
‘Do you guys work hard?’
‘Pretty hard.’
‘Tell me what it was like in the early days. You started the company in your dorm, right?’
Andrei nodded. He talked easily again, back on more comfortable ground. Handel talked him through the first months of Fishbowl, using Yao’s as a point of reference, always asking what had happened there, who had been present, what had been decided. She could see the noodle restaurant running as a theme through the piece.
Later, she asked Andrei about the impact Fishbowl’s suspected involvement in the Denver bombing had had on him and the company. As she expected by now, she got very little on the first and much on the second. But then Andrei opened up a little, talking about the experience of meeting people at the Defence of Freedom March on Boston Common and the sense of responsibility he felt. He went on to talk about how that sense of responsibility reinforced his commitment to building Deep Connectedness, and then he was back on to that, and by the time Handel tried to steer him back to the personal aspect of the experience, the door that had opened for a moment, unguarded, had closed again, and it was too late
Handel finished with the concluding question that she had planned, asking Andrei how he saw Fishbowl’s future, what he hoped to achieve, what he considered would be his greatest challenges, and was treated to another long investigation of the idea of Deep Connectedness and its capacity to change the world.
At the end, Deborah Handel couldn’t decide if Andrei’s obfuscation on the personal front came out of some kind of sense of superiority, or whether he was just a shy, vulnerable guy who didn’t have the personal confidence to let anyone get inside his head. She thought it was probably the latter. When he had talked about the experience on Boston Common, she had felt she had got a glimpse through a chink in the armour, and what she thought she had seen was someone who was bewildered, almost naive, about the public position into which he had been thrust. It would have been easy to paint him in the nerd stereotype, easy to mock the belief he had in Deep Connectedness. But she wasn’t sure that did him justice. On more familiar ground, when speaking about Fishbowl, she had found him thoughtful, insightful, even visionary. The idea of what he could do with an interest in orangutans had impressed her. She could see all kinds of ways she could use Fishbowl as a journalist, and wondered how she hadn’t realized this before.
But what she had heard was relevant to more than journalism. Deborah Handel was no tech expert, but she wasn’t sure that Andrei’s idea of Deep Connectedness really didn’t have the capacity to change the world, at least a little.
For some reason, as she sat down later that day to look over her notes and record her impressions of the interview while they were still fresh, Handel found herself liking him. Perhaps b
ecause he had seemed, in a way, to be honest.
She went onto Fishbowl again and spent some time navigating through the world that it opened up to her. She registered an interest in orangutans, took some Baits, and followed the trail that immediately opened up into the world of pongophiles. The next day, she went to Yao’s and talked to the owner, Tony Yao, and a couple of the waiters. She had the photographer take some pictures. She even had a dish of fried prawn and chicken noodles to see what Andrei was talking about.
When her piece came out a month later, there was less in it than Handel had planned about Andrei, and more about Fishbowl’s vision and evolution. And about orangutans. And Yao’s, which was the quirkiest thing she could find to add interest to the story. Any reader would have been forgiven for imagining that every important decision about Fishbowl had been taken at the restaurant and that if you wanted to find Andrei Koss, all you had to do was go down there at lunchtime any day of the week.
27
FOR FISHBOWL, THE effects of Denver were far-reaching. Andrei received approaches from the FBI and even more shadowy agencies in the intelligence community on the mistaken assumption that his cooperation after the bombing meant that he would be keen to cooperate in other, less overt ways. There was talk of ‘back doors’ and ‘mass data transfers’. Andrei rebuffed them all and eventually they stopped contacting him, presumably reverting to their usual ways of snooping. Although security on the site had been a priority ever since John Dimmer had turned up with Fishbowl’s first National Security Letter, Andrei had a team get to work on developing even more sophisticated levels of encryption.
A more important effect was that user registration skyrocketed, at first out of solidarity from the inhabitants of cyberspace as Fishbowl came under McKenrick’s attack, then due to the internet multiplier phenomenon as awareness of Fishbowl entered truly popular consciousness. ‘Fishing’ and ‘Baiting’ became words in general use, even amongst people who had never opened Fishbowl – and they weren’t talking about rod and reel.
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