A Ruling Passion

by Judith Michael

  He knew that was true. He and Ted had raised half a million dollars from three investors, including Pari, because their computer was ahead of every other except Apple, and their company was moving the fastest to grab the most customers. Nick had been courting customers for a year: small businesses and schools to whom he had sold the Omega because it was fast, versatile, dressed up with a high-tech design, small enough to fit their limited space and priced to fit their limited budgets.

  So they had customers and they had a product and then they had the money. Ownership of the company was divided five ways, with each investor, and Ted and Nick, holding twenty percent. And then, with money flowing in. Omega seemed to explode, growing in the

  first month from twenty-five people to one hundred, and planning to move to a single- story building in an industrial park a few miles from San Jose.

  Nothing was routine anymore; nothing was calm. They were successful before they had time to organize themselves with office procedures and filing cabinets, and so chaos seemed to reign everywhere. Each day, each hour, a crisis sprang up: in getting the right parts, in equipment breakdowns, in finding that they still didn't have enough people, or that their competitors had cut prices, or that there was a bug in the software.

  Nick found himself dreaming about bugs in the software. Once, a long time before, there had been a real bug: a moth had flown into one of the original 1940s vacuum-tube computers, sizzling on the wires and causing a short circuit that brought the whole system to a crashing halt. That moth became immortal. After he was fried, every problem with software or hardware was called a bug, and bugs were what Omega and its competitors wrestled with every hour of every day.

  Mostly, though, the engineers who daily created new designs and carved out new territory were having a wonderful time. Much of their work was like an elaborate game, a huge maze with prizes hidden around corners, and they worked day and night to discover them; in fact, it was hard to keep them away. The atmosphere was electric; nothing was slow or dull. And when the orders came in, first a few, and then an avalanche, production took off and everything speeded up. There was never enough time to ponder, there was only time to make quick decisions, give orders to employees who ran to execute them, then go on to other decisions. As the weeks and months passed, new people were hired, those with talent were rapidly promoted, the top employees were given stock in the company. The smell of triumph and riches was in the air.

  Nick, as president, began to travel. He signed contracts, toured sites for computer installations in America and Europe, and appeared at meetings of computer users who were learning as fast as they could to use the tools that would completely change the way people worked. But most of the time he was in San Jose, working on the Omega 2000, an advanced hardware and software system that would become the standard of the industry. He had already talked about it to investors, using words and ideas that were barely imaginable for microcomputers: word processing, spread sheets, computer graphics. But to de-

  sign and build such a computer, and write the programs for it, he needed more money, more engineers to help Ted, more programmers, more space—and he needed all that at the expense of the Omega 1000, now in production, which demanded all their energy and money if it was to be the huge success everyone predicted.

  He worked on the 2000 mosdy at night, after he had put Chad to bed, while other engineers came and went, working for a few hours, then leaving to be replaced by others who hadn't been able to sleep because of a problem they'd left at their desk and so came in, at two or three or four in the morning, to tackle it again.

  Then the company, by now two hundred people, moved all their equipment to the single-story building that became known, two and a half years later, when they had grown to over a thousand employees in twelve buildings, as the first real home of Omega Computer.

  They bought ftirniture from a factory going out of business and built a row of small, sparsely ftirnished offices along one side of the building. On the other side were a drafting room, programming room, testing rooms, machine shop and lunchroom. In the center was the huge production room with a high, unfinished ceiling from which rows of fluorescent light fixtures hung over long assembly benches. Carts piled with equipment filled the aisles between benches, constantly being rolled to where they were needed, unloaded, reloaded, and rolled somewhere else. "Someday we'll get conveyer belts," Nick promised every time one of the carts ran into someone. "As soon as we can afford them." Everywhere, circuit boards, video monitors, printers, keyboards and cases were in different stages of assembly with technicians and workers standing, sitting, moving about, soldering, bolting, fitting, chewing gum, and talking about surfing, sailing, baseball and sex.

  And in July, when the rooftop air-conditioning unit was laboring against summer temperatures over 110 degrees, a new batch of orders came in and Nick and Ted found themselves working more frantically than ever. They had to deliver fifteen hundred computers by September first.

  "We'll do it," Nick said to Chad at dinner. Elena had gone to an early movie with a friend, and the two of them were eating alone. "I wish I could put you to work, but there are laws about child labor."

  "Labor?" asked Chad.

  "Work."

  "Chad can work," said Chad solemnly. "Chad hammered and hammered and maked table ring."

  "Ring? You're sure you have that right?"

  Chad picked up a spoon and struck it rhythmically on the table top of his high chair.

  "I like the rhythm, but I don't hear a ring," said Nick. "Which table? Your worktable?"

  "Daddy table," said Chad with a peal of laughter. "Chad hammered on Daddy table and fixed it like Daddy did when it broke and it ringed loud like a bell and it shaked!"

  Nick pictured the steel legs of his drafting table in the study off his bedroom. "Listen, friend, you're not supposed to be in there."

  Chad's eyes grew round and his lower lip quivered. "Not Daddy papers." Vigorously he shook his head. "Chad never touch Daddy papers. Daddy says no."

  "He sure does," said Nick. He sighed. "I think I missed a bet; you need a xylophone, or better yet, a drum. Give me a day or two and I'll bring you one. Are you going to finish your chicken?"

  "Yes."

  "It's good, isn't it?"

  Chad nodded. "Elena sweated."

  "What?"

  "She sweated. Damn shit oh sorry Chad."

  Nick's mouth twitched. "Why did she say that?"

  Chad pointed to the floor. "Chicken failed down. It bounced."

  Nick looked at his plate. "That's what we've been eating?"

  Chad shook his head. "We goed to the store. Elena buyed me popcorn and more chicken. We did a very busy day."

  Nick laughed. "You and me both, my friend."

  After dinner they read together, Chad snuggled deep in his father's lap, repeating words as Nick said them and pointing to pictures he recognized. "Okay," said Nick at last. "Time for bed."

  "No," said Chad positively.

  Nick laughed and lifted him onto his shoulder.

  "Chad can go to work with Daddy and hammer and fix things. Please.''

  "You will, one of these days. But not at eight o'clock at night when you belong in bed."

  "Chad go to work with Daddy. Chad go to work — ''

  "I said no." Nick lowered him to his bed and sat beside him. "We've got fifteen hundred units to ship. When they're out of the shop, I'll take you there. I promise we'll do it, Chad. Is it a deal?"

  "Deal," Chad said. He petted Nick's face as he did his terrier puppy. "Good Daddy. Good boy."

  Nick burst out laughing, and put his arms around him, his cheek against his son's dark curls. "I love you, Chad." Chad's arms were around his neck, and the two of them sat warm and silent, holding each other in the shadowed room that was a jumble of toys and stuffed animals and books. 'Tou're a great guy," Nick said, his voice low. "I don't know what I'd do without you." Chad slid down and Nick pulled the top sheet over him. "I wouldn't be a whole person," he
said, to himself more than Chad. "I wouldn't have a whole life."

  He turned out the light and stood for a moment, looking down at Chad's flushed face as he fought to keep his eyes from closing. "I love you. Daddy," Chad murmured, and Nick bent again and kissed him. "Lots of love around here," he said. "Sleep tight, my friend."

  Quietly he left the room. Sybille had called again that morning, and as always he had been filled with alarm, expecting to hear her say she had changed her mind and was going to court to get Chad. She hadn't said it—in fact, she had let slip once that Enderby wouldn't have children around—but she kept Nick dangling by dropping small hints that one of these days she might decide to try to take him anyway. She won't get him, Nick thought; she'd never convince a judge to give him to her. It's been almost a year since the divorce; she's visited us twice, never for more than a couple of days, and we've been to New York once. No one would take Chad away from his home and give him to a mother who doesn't want him.

  He said those words every night, more fervendy on the days when Sybille called. And still he could not absolutely believe them.

  He closed Chad's door partway, then read in the living room until Elena returned from the movie. And then, as he did every night, he went back to work.

  "This is a hell of a life," Ted remarked as he walked into Nick's office. "Ifs ten o'clock at night; why are you here and not at a restaurant or theater with some lovely lady.> Better yet, in her bed."

  "I decided you needed company," Nick said with a smile. "Did I miss anything?"

  "Ifs pretty quiet; the big push will come after the printer ICs come in from Sawyer. What's happened to you and Pari?"

  Nick pulled a stack of reports toward him. "I haven't seen her in awhile. Since May."

  'Was that mutual? You seemed pretty good together."

  "I guess we both got too busy. You're as busy as I am; how many dates have you had in the last six months?"

  "More than you. Has it occurred to you that you're not doing much but work these days?"

  "Has it occurred to you that I have a son? When I have free time, I spend it with him. Or is that too complicated for you?"

  "Hey, whafs with you? I'm not telling you how to run your life. I just see you getting crabby and glum, and if you don't watch out you'll wake up one of these days grizzled and gaunt and flaccid—and then where will you be?"

  Nick burst out laughing. "In deep trouble. Thanks, Ted; I like it that you worry about me. And I'll slow down at some point. As soon as we make this shipment and get some office routines written I'll take some time off. You should, too." He picked up one of the reports and glanced at it.

  "I might do that." Ted fiddled with the pencils on Nick's drafting table. "There's something else besides the hours you're working."

  Nick looked up. "What's diat?"

  'Tou're stepping on people's toes."

  "What?"

  Ted sat on the edge of his desk. "Fll tell you what I'm hearing, okay? And you listen. Don't talk; just listen. Everybody thinks you're terrific, they like working for you, they think you're the best, but they're pissed off because you don't let them do their jobs from start to finish; you butt in and take over something they're doing, including things you shouldn't be bothering with. Look: we all know you're good; you can do a decent employee interview, you can plan our advertising, you can talk to the lawyers, you can order equipment, but why should you do all that? You are the world's best programmer; why aren't you spending more time on the 2000 instead of sticking your fingers into things we hired other people to do? You even do the secretaries' work, for Christ's sake; I've seen you make calls they ought to be making—"

  Nick slammed down the report. "A lot of times it's faster to do something than explain it to somebody else. We all wear different hats these days, you know that. I apologize for not running a nice orderly office—"

  "I don't want your apologies; I'm trying to tell you what's going on around here!"

  "I know whafs going on around here; I run the place!"

  "We both fucking run the place!"

  "Sorry; we both run it. Okay, you told me what you heard. Thanks. Now I'm going to work."

  Ted glared at him and stomped out, leaving the door open. Nick closed the door and went back to his desk, spreading the reports in front of him.

  He read until two in the morning, then went home to sleep until six, when Chad came into his room, wanting to talk. By eight, he was striding up and down the aisles of the production room, checking the assemblies, talking to project leaders, answering engineers' questions and working with them on bugs that had cropped up overnight. At nine he made a second pot of coffee and opened the box of doughnuts he had bought on the way to work. Ten minutes later his production manager walked in, his face a dark scowl. Nick put down his coffee. "What's wrong?"

  "Sawyer fucked up; they sent the wrong printer interface chips. I called them; that's all they had."

  "Bullshit." Nick swept some papers aside on his desk. "I talked to them two weeks ago; they had more ICs than we needed."

  "The stupid ass in the warehouse got his parts numbers mixed up. Nick, they don't have them. Period. We've gotta get 'em somewhere else."

  "God damn son of a bitch..." Nick shoved back his chair, slamming it against the wall of his tiny office. "Who else is there close enough to get them to us today or tomorrow .>"

  "Nobody. Belster has one almost the same; they say you can't tell the difference."

  "I know that part; I've used it. Is the cost the same?"

  "A few cents cheaper, but—"

  "How many do they have?"

  "Enough for what we need. Trouble is, by the time we get 'em tested we're so far behind we'll never make the release date."

  "Then we won't test first; we'll—"

  '*Nick, there's no way I'll let a goddam IC get past me without testing it."

  "—we'll test while we're assembling. I'm sure enough it'll work. I've done it that way before." Nick was scribbling dates. "A couple of days late; diat's not bad." He pulled the telephone to him, flipped through his Rolodex and made a brief call. 'We'll have them tomorrow morning if we can send a truck for them. I'll take care of that; you get your

  people set up to do the assembly and I'll set up the testing."

  "I can set up the whole thing, that's what I'm paid for. But I gotta tell you I don't like it."

  "Neither do I, but we don't have a choice. Don't worry about the testing; I'll talk to Ed about it."

  The production manager started to say something, then shrugged. "It's your baby."

  The words nagged at Nick. In the early days, when the company was just beginning to grow, and he and Ted had hired a few other engineers, they all felt every project belonged to all of them. It got harder to keep that feeling as Omega grew larger, and maybe, Nick thought, it was impossible now that they were more than two hundred and still growing. Still, he liked to think that at least the top people had that sense of sharing. Those words, Ifs your baby, bothered him, but he put them aside to think about another time, because right now he had too much to do. They were completing production on one set of contracts, working on the fifteen hundred units, an engineer quit in the middle of the day after a quarrel with the chief engineer, two technicians went home sick, an experimental circuit board failed, a mathematics program being written for high schools developed a bug that made every equation equal zero, and the air-conditioning went out.

  With a threatening phone call, Nick had the repair service there in half an hour, and by late afternoon cool air was circulating through the tropical heat that had built up in the large production room. That night he and Ted helped the engineer fix the bug in his mathematics program; the substitute IC chips arrived the next morning; and they swung into the final stage of production on the fifteen hundred computers. For the next two frenetic weeks, Nick saw less of Chad and nothing of anyone outside work; he ate erratically and barely slept. Everyone worked overtime, buoyed up and driven by the sense of mission
that was like a spell cast over the whole company. And then the computers were shipped, only three days behind schedule, and everyone went into slow motion in the luxurious relaxation of exhausted triumph.

  They barely had time to enjoy it. "Nick, there's a call from Emerson School," said his secretary when he came in after a weekend at Lake Tahoe with Chad. "There's something wrong with their new computer." That was when their triumph evaporated.

  "We keep getting garbage on the screen," said Darrel Browne, the

  headmaster of Emerson School. "It does just fine, but as soon as we try to print, everything on the screen disappears and a lot of junk shows up. Letters, numbers, asterisks, periods, question marks... like aliens invaded the computer. Garbage."

  "How many have you tried?" Nick asked.

  "All five. They're all the same. Nick, we're supposed to demonstrate these things for our trustees in two weeks. I went out on a limb to get them—the expense, you know; we're always close to the line around here—and they don^t work!"

  "Hold on, Darrell." Nick stared at an oversize circuit diagram on the wall. His heart began to pound. The print command was controlled in part by the substitute printer interface chip. And he'd forgotten to tell Ed to test it while the units were being assembled.

  Tou stupid son of a bitch; you forgot to tell him. There'd been a lot going on, he remembered: the bug in the mathematics program and the engineer quitting, and some other things. And the air conditioner had gone out; he remembered calling the repair company. Tou do the secretaries' work, for Christ^s sake; Fve seen you make calls they ought to he making.

  "Nick?" asked Barrel Browne. "What's going on? We paid a fortune for these things. You sold us on how good they are, and how rehable you are So what are you going to do about it?"

  "We're going to fix them," said Nick shortly. "Our word is good, you know that. Barrel. Whatever it takes, we'll get you a working system. We'll send someone out to pick up the computers and we'll have them back to you within a week. I guarantee it."

  "A week. Well, if you really do that..."