Eager customers cheerfully handed over deposits and signed authorities to charge their credit card each month, when another lesson would be sent. Super–charged with electric energy generated by the combination of desperation, determination and ecstasy at the results of her sales campaign, Fran toiled by lamplight in the early hours of the morning. Still clad in PJs and fuelled with nothing more than strong caffeine, she persevered until late morning, before turning her attention to marketing and boring, but essential, administrative tasks.
This continued for a full year, while I alternated between panicking over the possible consequences of her failing to deliver, and panicking that she would crash and burn. I feared a physical collapse, or perhaps a psychological transformation from mad (which she had admitted to being for some time, but with a craziness that thankfully didn’t interfere with her capacity to function) to incompetently insane.
If I hadn’t cooked and compelled her to eat, she would have starved. Despite my incessant pleading she refused to sleep, but seemed quite capable of coping without it. Such is the power of the human mind that the body can, it seems, run on adrenalin for extended periods when either need or desire is strong enough.
By the end of our first year in the city, Fran had 22 happy graduates, 73 students at various stages of learning, and was taking regular orders for her1,500 pages of courseware at $1,400 a sale. From then on, she pursued one seemingly ludicrous idea after another to grow the business and by some miracle, they mostly worked. The dollars just kept flowing. She hired an assistant and bought a duplex copier. Eventually I rejoiced at being rendered redundant as course–maker with the purchase of a $60,000 fully automated digital printer.
I then graduated to resident graphic artist, teaching myself photography and how to use ‘Photoshop’ and discovering talents I never dreamt I had. Adrenalin, it seems, can also stimulate creativity and power the mind to reach spectacular levels of knowledge absorption and skills mastery. Or perhaps the reality was that earlier assessments of my intelligence were flawed and my mental capacity had always been quite adequate to meet the challenges of retraining, if only I’d been given half a chance.
The music industry was struggling, at the time, with the losses caused by CD piracy. As a former musician --- sympathetic to the dilemma this presented to struggling artists --- the problem both disturbed and intrigued me. After listening to our son recant a television show about how the Egyptians used scrolls to send encrypted messages, I conceived an idea to prevent copying of music CDs. I explained in detail to Fran how I proposed to work with a team of programmers to implement it, and Fran said she was determined this invention would succeed. I knew if there was a way, she would find it.
“We can take the company public, Paul. Sell shares.”
“What? On the stock exchange?” I laughed, a cruelly sharp, ridiculing cackle rising almost to hysteria as I tried to envisage Fran and I as members of the Wall Street suit brigade.
“No,” she replied, lips twisting in an indulgent sneer. “There’s such a thing as an unlisted public company. You sell shares privately, through brokers. I have spoken to a broker and he says it might cost us $100,000 or more to produce a prospectus, get it approved, and then we can sell shares to the public.”
I took some convincing. The idea seemed more than a little far–fetched. The idea that people like Fran and I could travel such a path seemed, quite frankly, about as feasible as flying in a rocket to Mars. But once persuaded that this seemingly wild scheme was actually feasible, I struggled to contain my excitement.
The stoic Paul Wilson, who didn’t experience normal emotions, recalled how it felt to stand on a little dais after winning a backstroke race. I had feelings, and it felt grand!
We suffered months of agonising anticipation waiting for a broker to find initial investors to fund the first stage of expansion, then spent months in and out of lawyers’ offices painstakingly reading and amending the prospectus. I was appointed chairman of the company.
I rehearsed declaring my occupation as 'Chairman of a Public I.T. company’, and put my talent for inventing to good use designing CD duplication equipment and perfecting efficient production processes. Well– to–do, well–educated entrepreneurs and directors of successful corporations treated me with respect, even showing admiration for my skills. I basked in the glory.
After Steve’s call, I called the printers and told them to start the presses. Then Fran and I proceeded to work through a list of people who had given early indications of interest in investing. Within the week, cheques were flooding in.
“Here’s one for $50,000,” said Kaylee.
“And another $100,000.” Fran exclaimed. “Must be nice to be so wealthy that you can risk that much in a start–up I.T. venture.”
It was the height of the I.T. boom. Computing innovations were solid gold. The world was possessed of a madness that, just a few months on, would result in one of the biggest stock–market collapses in history and would see I.T. companies worldwide closing their doors and advising shareholders to write off their losses.
For now, though, Fran and I were counting millions and planning first– class travel to visit the leading corporations of the I.T. world, offering my invention for sale.
~~~~
44: I TOUCH THE BRASS RING
OCTOBER, 2000
“Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts, raise your window shades and prepare for landing.”
It was 20 minutes to five on a cold Monday morning. Fran and I were steadily descending through a classic London pea–souper towards the bobbing landing lights of Heathrow.
“I hope the hire–car people are efficient and the hotel is easy to find,” Fran whispered. “I’m desperate for a shower and a proper sleep.”
We had spent an exhausting week in San Francisco meeting with executives of leading I.T. companies --- right at home, astonishingly, among Wall Street suits. Then we’d gone on to spend a week in Boston with a marketing consulting firm whose job was to teach us to elevator pitch to overcome the inherent distrust of the dour, tunnel–visioned egotists who decided which technical innovation would drive the next big wave. Now we were preparing to present our remedy for music CD piracy to the specialists in copy–protection technology. They were talking a $100 million deal if I could impress them, and our Boston tutors were confident their training had equipped me to sway the most challenging sceptic.
Sondal had already tested the technology. “We have good news and bad news,” the head of their technology testing division had said in a call several weeks earlier. “We’ve cracked the protection.”
After two years of painstaking research, repeated testing and costly modifications, I refused to be disappointed. “Really? Then I would be very pleased if you would tell me how and send me your copy to examine. I’m sure we can strengthen the protection further if necessary.”
“I doubt it’s necessary, Mr Wilson. The good news I mentioned is that it took an investment of over $1 million and eighteen months of our most skilled cracker’s time to break it.”
Hours later he called back, embarrassed. “It seems I spoke too soon, Mr Wilson. We duplicated the disk and it appeared to be a valid copy. When we played it, the sound was all broken up.”
I laughed and danced with Fran. We filled the room with champagne froth and dined on prime rib steak and I told Fran I knew all along that they hadn’t cracked it. I had been watching the time to see how long it would take them to figure it out.
#
“Lunch,” said Fran, bouncing out of bed in our room at the classic old Tudor Inn in the heart of High Wycombe, after a welcome morning nap. “A genuine English pub lunch, and then some sightseeing. What do you say to that?”
“Fine for you. I have to negotiate strange roads and English traffic!”
I was as eager as she to explore our surroundings. I had drooled over the settings of English television shows and yearned to wander down narrow cobblestone lanes, past century–old ho
uses, and drive past rolling green pastures littered with the poetic remnants of ancient castles. I was interested in the cathedrals, bridges and Trafalgar Square, but quaint little villages with their picturesque old stone-and-thatch pubs, patchwork fields, hedgerows and lakes that inspired the early poets held more appeal. England was a feast for the artist and a symphony for the writer, and Fran and I were in our element surrounded by its ancient beauty.
At the something–or–other–Arms, a 17th century whitewashed stone and shingle–roof structure with flagstone floors, we lunched --- or gorged, for the servings were enormous --- on sausages and mash. Ignoring Fran’s reminders that I was driving in a strange country, I washed mine down with a half–pint of bitter and was not entirely surprised to discover that I still hated warm beer. I hadn’t swallowed ale warm since Singapore, but at least English bitter tasted better than that vile Asian Tiger. We basked in the warmth of two roaring open fires while lunch settled, then began an afternoon trek through the poets’ paradise.
The following day, a fellow director --- an English banking executive who commuted regularly between offices in London and Sydney --- met us in the hotel lobby. We braved light snow to set out for the London offices of Amcorp, detouring for a quick tour of famous landmarks on the way. I snapped pictures of the guards at Buckingham Palace, and we stood in the sleet to listen to Big Ben announce the hour. We stopped briefly at the Tower Bridge and we braved the weather again to climb the steps of Westminster Abbey.
The warmth of Amcorp’s office was welcome, and we were greeted with an amazing feast of cold cuts, gourmet sandwiches, fruit salad and wines. I declined the offer of wine, partly because of the early hour and partly because I was wary of the warm, inebriated glow slowing my reflexes. It was as well I did, because the questions were challenging. Interestingly, though, the only real objection to our technology was that it was too secure. According to one of the evaluating panel, some minor flaw in the protection is necessary to keep the Chinese Mafia or some similarly powerful vested interest group satisfied.
“The objective, Mr Wilson,” a poker–faced financial director declared, “is not to stop the big commercial pirate groups, but rather to block copying by Mr Average-Home-Computer-User and the small to mid–range copy houses. Preservation of the status quo is essential to economic stability, and ensuring the continued viability of enterprises run by major criminal elements is an essential element of that endeavour.”
Fran and I stared at him bug–eyed, but later we agreed that we ought not to have been surprised. The world of commerce was a dirty, corrupt place where the dollar was king, and ethics were in short supply.
Fran and I returned home via Korea and Hong Kong. In Hong Kong, I ordered four new tailored suits and a smart–mustard coloured suede sports jacket that I christened my ‘Jack the lad’ jacket, and delighted in wearing for years after. Fran had silk blouses made and a smart red power suit that looked stunning on her. She wore it, always, to meetings that promised to be volatile. Somehow it bestowed an aura that thoroughly intimidated her opponents.
We took an evening cruise on the Hong Kong harbour. Colourful reflections from hundreds of neon advertising signs danced over the water to light the night --- a commercial war in technicolour. Every major global corporation appeared to be represented.
Boats of every kind drifted serenely. Luxury cruise boats laden with tourists idled across the harbour, cameras flashing from the decks. Paddle– boats and steamers and tugs loaded with stores chugged busily to and fro. On shabby little junks, clothes lines across the rear deck displayed family underwear, and wizened old Chinese gentlemen cleaned their teeth and spat toothpaste over the side, while women leant painfully down to fill washing buckets from the filthy sea.
I marvelled at the contrast between steel and glass towers scraping the skyline along the foreshore --- accommodating suited businessmen and elegantly dressed ladies in plush offices and decadent hotel suites --- and the grubby little hovels. The streets were crowded with crippled and stooped paupers who spent their days begging or slaving in market stalls or the back rooms of tailor shops, struggling to feed ragged little urchins sucking at mothers’ breasts or scrounging for scraps in hotel garbage bins. It occurred to me, again, that I had enjoyed a fortunate life by comparison with these pathetic creatures, and it amazed me that many of them wore wide smiles.
We returned home from the trip to a conditional offer of purchase of our technology for $USD100 million. I was an inventor, and it seemed I was finally to see the fulfilment of every inventor’s wildest dream.
~~~~
45: ALWAYS AN ‘’URCHIN’’
JANUARY, 2002
Fran and I stood in the Tech Ventures reception lounge in stunned silence, staring vacantly at the dozers digging deep trenches on the construction site across the road.
Digging. Digging.
We were digging for answers.
How could the investor pull out now?
He’d had his pen poised over the cheque form. A $100 million deal, and all we needed was a piddling $200,000 to put the finishing touches to the product. Packaging, mostly. The technology was tested and proven. The risk was virtually nil.
“You must know more than you’re saying, Kel. Please!”
Kelvin Hodgson, our investment broker, was reluctant. He’d been sworn to silence, and his sources were valuable to him.
“Does he not trust the buyer? Amcorp are among the world leaders in the industry. Surely their credentials are not in doubt?”
“No, Paul,” Kel replied. “The investor has complete confidence in the prospective buyer, and that the offer is genuine.”
“Then what’s the problem?” I said, in a more demanding tone than I intended. “Christ, Kel, it’s a measly 200 grand --- for 20 per cent of $100 million. And the development is so close to complete. What’s his problem? Does he think we aren’t up to finishing the job, or is it just cold feet?”
Hodgson bit his lip. “I was sworn to secrecy. I really didn’t want to be the one to tell you this, but due diligence inquiries turned up a significant problem. No–one can invest in Tech Ventures until it’s resolved.”
“What? What are you talking about, Kel, for Christ’s sake, don’t talk in riddles. Spit it out.”
“The grant application Fran lodged. Was it all above board? It was, wasn’t it?”
Embracing the promise of a $100 million licence sale of our copy–protection technology, Fran had sought to take advantage of Federal Government assistance for exporters, applying for an Export Market Development Grant.
Robert Johnson and Frank East had reviewed the application. They raised no concerns, but advised Fran that the application processing would take some time to complete.
“Of course it was. What kind of question is that, Kel? You know us!” He nodded thoughtfully, then drew a deep breath.
“There’s to be a police investigation, Paul. Apparently the assessor picked up on something in the substantiating material that disturbed him. He suspects fraud. He’s asked the police to do some digging --- check it out and make sure it’s all clean. The investor won’t move until their investigations are complete, and who knows how long that might take? These things don’t happen in a hurry.”
“So while Johnson fiddles and police procrastinate, we eat steadily away at our working capital reserves and watch our world slowly crumble,” Fran said despairing. She’d suddenly started to sway. I was staring at the construction machines.
Digging. Digging. Digging for what? What could they possibly think...
Fran turned milk white and her legs caved. I caught her going down, but my head was spinning too. The room inverted and the furniture was floating. The persistent sound of dozers digging increased to a deafening roar, and a policeman holding handcuffs swam towards Fran --- swam through air.
The walls turned dull grey and the carpet lifted and floated away, leaving a bare cement floor. The window shattered, a million tiny shards of glass showering Fran and K
el. Bars appeared. Kel was outside them. Fran was inside, pressing against them, sobbing. I was with Kel, on the outside, reaching in. I smelled fear.
“Paul, thank God you’re here. Everything will be all right now.”
I shook my head. “I can’t help you, Fran.” I said. “But now, at last, you believe me. The world is an evil place filled with evil people. Only a fool trusts. Only a fool strives.”
“But I’m innocent. The application was honest. I did nothing wrong.”
“Yes you did,” I said, overcome, now, with weariness and furious that I’d allowed myself to forget who I was and what world I was doomed to live in. “We are both guilty. The guys at Amcorp warned us, but we forgot how the system works. We caught a glimpse of the brass ring, and we were gullible enough to believe the powers–that–be would let us rise above our station --- that ability and honest toil could place that ring within an orphan’s reach.”
MARCH 2003
The war in Iraq was in full swing. Gallant sons and daughters were again called to sacrifice themselves for political expediency and the preservation of wealth and privilege. In daily papers, reports of U.S. forces taking control of Saddam International Airport vied for attention with announcements of stock–market gains and with Labor politicians’ gripes about the claimed slow destruction of Medicare.
Nothing changes. The world had made no progress since I contemplated battle in Vietnam --- no progress, in fact, since my father marched off to be incarcerated on foreign shores. But after endless months of idling away the hours reading propaganda and scanning race guides, it seemed that Fran and I might finally see an end to the nightmare war between Tech Ventures and the bureaucracy.
The Pencil Case Page 33