by Rick Cook
Bright colors and pretty pictures, Wiz thought. That's the essence of a successful presentation. He looked at the code taking shape in glowing characters above his desk and sighed. Especially when you don't have any content.
The conventional wisdom was that the more images, graphically displayed numbers and visual tricks you packed into a presentation, the more effective the presentation. Of course the logical implication of that is that the average executive has the attention span of a three-year-old and the analytical skills of a magpie. Normally Wiz would have found that a very depressing reflection. Just now it was comforting. The only thing standing between him and doom in an utterly impossible situation was his ability to sling creative bullshit.
It would certainly be well-illustrated bullshit. Using the spell Danny had developed so long ago and far away, he had set up an Internet connection back to what he still thought of as the "real world" and set an ftp demon to downloading graphics files from sites all around the world. He already had a library of hundreds of images and they were still coming in.
Even so, it was slow going. Wiz was the sort of programmer who had always preferred substance to form. Here the substance was that he had to use form to cover the fact that he had no substance. That meant writing a bunch of new tools. With the council meeting the day after tomorrow Wiz was going to have to bust his butt to save his neck.
Well, that worked too. As a programmer he was no stranger to all-nighters to meet tight deadlines. This was just one more all-nighter. He tried not to think about the stakes.
The day turned to evening and evening shaded into night and still Wiz toiled away, developing the routines to give a presentation that would knock the Council's eyes out.
Anna brought him sandwiches and tea along about dinner time, but otherwise he worked undisturbed until well into the evening.
"Get your head out of your spells, Wizard," the ghost of Widder Hackett rasped in his ear. "You've got a problem."
"It's a tight schedule, but that's not a problem," Wiz said without turning to look at his invisible kibitzer.
"Oh, no?" Widder Hackett grated. "Just you look at that window." Wiz moved to open the shutter.
"No, you dummy!" the voice rasped in his ear. "Don't want him to see you. Look through the crack."
Putting his eye to the crack between the shutters and peering out into the moonlit street Wiz saw they had a visitor. Or more precisely, he realized, they had a watcher. One of the Watch, the tall skinny one, was leaning against the house on the other side of the street.
"What's he doing there?"
"Watching is what," Widder Hackett snapped. "There's another behind and two more at each end of the street. My own house watched by the police like some common den of thieves. I never thought in all my living days . . . I never!"
Wiz forbore to mention that Widder Hackett's living days had ended some time before. "I'm going down there to find out what this is all about."
Widder Hackett snorted. "What makes you think he'll tell you anything?"
"If he won't the council will."
Subtlety wasn't Wiz's strong point and he was both too curious and too angry to be circumspect. As soon as he opened the front door the guardsman stepped back into the shadows.
light exe Wiz commanded and a sphere of brilliant white light appeared over his shoulder. The light was behind Wiz, but it shone right into the eyes of the now-revealed watcher, who squinted and turned his head away. Without a word Wiz strode across the street. The globe of light floated right with him.
"Good evening," Wiz said crisply.
"Evening, My Lord," the guard said, trying to shield his eyes with his hands "Uh, would you mind . . ."
"Sorry I can't turn it off," Wiz lied. "Now, what are you doing here?"
"Well, I'm ah, watching, My Lord. So to speak."
"Watching for what?"
"Criminals, begging My Lord's pardon. We've had criminals around here in this neighborhood and we thought . . ."
" 'We' being the council? Is that it?" Meaning Dieter, Wiz thought. But why?
"Well, ah, as to that, My Lord, I really couldn't say. All I know is I'm supposed to keep watch here until the thieves are apprehended."
Thieves, eh? Suddenly it fell into place. "I appreciate your concern, but it isn't necessary. Tell the sheriff I can guard my own property."
"That's as may be," the guardsman said stolidly, "but I have my orders, My Lord."
"Oh well, if you want to watch, I'm sure you may. But I will tell you now you won't find anything."
"That's as may be, My Lord."
Wiz nodded and returned to his house. He left the light globe on until he was back inside.
"Where's Malkin?" he demanded into thin air as soon as the door closed behind him.
"How would I know?" Widder Hackett rasped. "Out tarting it up I have no doubt."
"She didn't go out the door. I would have known."
"She usually doesn't," Widder Hackett said with obvious satisfaction.
With that there was nothing to do but wait until Malkin got back. Wiz went back to his programming, pausing every so often to peer through the crack in the shutters at his watchers.
It wasn't a terribly productive evening. Between fuming over the watch, worrying about Malkin and starting at every squeak of a floorboard or rattle of a windowpane, Wiz didn't do nearly the amount of work he had planned. Since it was well after midnight when he heard Malkin on the stairs he lost most of the night's work.
When Wiz confronted her in the hallway she was dressed in dark trousers, dark soft boots and a dark pullover. Her dark hair was stuffed up under a dark knit cap and there was a dark burlap sack over her shoulder.
"Where have you been?"
"Oh, out and about," Malkin said nonchalantly. She set the sack on the floor with an audible clank. "Sightseeing, you might say."
"And the stuff in the bag is souvenirs, right? In case you don't know it, lady, there is a cop across the street watching this place and two more at each end of the block."
"And two more on the street behind," Malkin added. "But they never watch the roofs. Half of them's too fat to climb and the rest is scared of heights."
"So you've been coming and going over the roofs."
"Sometimes. The sewer's good too, if you don't mind a few rats."
"Are you trying to get us all killed? The cops are on to you, the place is being watched, half the council is looking for an excuse to put me away—and you with me. Lady, we are just one small slip from disaster here."
Malkin's eyes glowed. "I know," she said breathlessly. "Isn't it exciting?"
"An adrenaline junkie," Wiz groaned. "I had to get hooked up with a kleptomaniac adrenaline junkie."
"Serves you right for hiring folks out of jail."
Wiz growled in frustration.
"Besides, I don't see what you're so worried about. I got in safe with the stuff didn't I? They never saw me."
"Did it ever occur to you that their next logical move is going to be to search the house?"
"Law says they can't search no private home held freehold without a warrant signed by the mayor upon presentation of probable cause. Said probable cause to be solely within the discretion of the mayor. They gave you this place so you have it freehold." She grinned. "And you think the mayor's going to issue a warrant to search this place? You being his ally and all? Old Iron Pants will have to wait a month of blue moons before that happens."
As it happened the month of blue moons ended at about seven o'clock the next morning. Wiz was pulled groggily awake by the sound of a thunderous pounding on the door. Stumbling downstairs he found Anna confronting a gang of armed ruffians. When he looked a little closer he realized that the lead ruffian was the sheriff and that he was brandishing a piece of paper as if it were a shield before him.
"Stand aside, Wizard," he announced before Wiz was even off the stairs. "We're here to search the place for stolen goods. Got a warrant."
Wiz's brain was
at best severely challenged at this time of the morning, especially when his blood caffeine level was low, but that woke him up and sent his mind into high gear.
"The mayor signed a search warrant?"
The sheriff grinned nastily. "Mayor's home with a cold. A real bad cold that's got him incapacitated. So this was signed by three council members like the law provides. All legal and proper."
Meaning Dieter, Wiz thought, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
"Well, I can't stop you from searching," he said standing aside from the door. "But I can't protect you either," he added as the sheriff and his men pushed into the hall. "This is a wizard's house, you know," he shouted to their backs as they thundered up the stairs.
For the next two hours the sheriff's men went over the house eaves to cellars. They found a notebook Wiz had lost, an old copper pan that had belonged to Widder Hackett, a number of rats and an indignant pigeon who was trying to nest in the attic, but not one bit of stolen property.
The only excitement came when Bobo decided that for some inexplicable reason the sheriff's highly polished boots belonged to him, and proceeded to mark his property in the time-honored tomcat fashion. Luckily for Bobo he was a good deal faster than the sheriff or any of his men.
Meanwhile Malkin stood around looking smug, Anna was wide-eyed with terror and Widder Hackett hurled abuse at the searchers at the top of her nonexistent lungs. Unfortunately the searchers couldn't hear her. Even more unfortunately Wiz could. By the time the sheriff's men finished, Wiz was a nervous wreck.
"Well?" the sheriff demanded as he strode into Wiz's workroom. "Are you done in here?"
The two guards who had been tapping the floor for loose boards nodded in unison and stood up. "Every place but this table," the guard in front said. "You want us to dig up the garden next?"
"What's wrong with this table?" demanded the sheriff.
"Looks as if it's magic like."
"That's my desk," Wiz added. "You'd better not touch it."
"Bah!" barked the sheriff.
"Hey, I won't be responsible . . ." Wiz began, but the sheriff was already reaching for the pile of parchments.
No one but the very brave, the very skilled or the very foolish messes with a wizard's working equipment. The sheriff might have been brave but he was certainly not at all skilled.
As soon as his hand moved over the top of the table there was a twisting in the air and a small green demon materialized below the glowing letters. A small green demon with a very large mouth. Lined with large, pointed and very sharp teeth. Before the sheriff could react the creature chomped down hard on the proferred hand.
The sheriff yelped and jerked his arm away. On the back of his hand in a neat semicircle were eight round puncture marks. "It bit me!" he screamed.
"Actually there are eight of them, so that's a byte," Wiz said, examining the wounds.
The sheriff pulled his hand back. "That's what I said!" He pointed toward the table with his good hand. "Arrest that thing!" he commanded.
The demon crouched on the edge of the table and grinned at them. It had an unusually large grin that showed off its pearly white and pointy teeth to excellent advantage. All three rows of them.
The guards shifted back and forth but made no move toward the grinning entity crouched on the table.
"I dunno," the first one demurred.
"Law says we're only supposed to arrest people," the second one said. "Don't say nothing about things like that."
"You can arrest strayed livestock," the sheriff retorted. "Well, impound them anyway." He gestured at the demon again. "Impound that thing."
"Don't know that it's rightly livestock," the first guard said.
"Don't think it's strayed either," his companion added.
"It's right where it's supposed to be," Wiz added helpfully.
"Well, then," said the second guard.
The sheriff was nearly beside himself with fury. "This is an outrage! A complete outrage against the majesty of the law." He was bouncing up and down and his face was so red Wiz was afraid he was going to have a stroke. He decided it was time to pour some oil on the water.
"Look sheriff, you can see there's nothing on that desk but papers. No stolen property, right? Now I'm sorry the demon hurt you, but I'm sure he won't do it again. Why don't you and your men go down into the kitchen and Anna will see to your wound."
"But, but, but . . ."
"It looks nasty, sheriff. The only cure for a demon byte is to have it flushed by a beautiful woman. I'm sure she can find some ale for you and your men while she tends to it."
The sheriff glared at the demon, who glared back. He glared at Wiz, who smiled. Then he glared at his two subordinates. Without a word he turned and stalked out of the room with the guards close on his heels.
Wiz collapsed against the wall and let his breath out in a great whoosh.
"Don't know what you're so worried about," Widder Hackett's voice rasped in his ear. "Malkin had the stuff out of the house before they got in the door."
"What'd she do with it?"
"Buried it in the garden."
"The garden?" Wiz yelped. "Didn't you hear them say they were going to dig up the garden?"
"I didn't say our garden," the Widder Hackett said gleefully. "Old Trescott's garden next door." She cackled so hard she went into a coughing fit. "Oh, I'd love to see the look on Mrs. High-and-Mighty's face if they was to dig up the loot under her cherry tree. Say, why don't you . . ."
"Uh, let's save that for an emergency, shall we?" Wiz said hastily.
Eighteen: Presentation
Any sufficiently advanced technology is
indistinguishable from magic.
—Clarke's Law
Any sufficiently advanced magic is
indistinguishable from technology.
—Anderson's Reformulation of Clarke's Law
Any sufficiently advanced anything is
indistinguishable from utter nonsense.
—Digby's Generalization of Clarke's Law
Especially if it is sufficiently advanced
nonsense to begin with.
—Zumwalt's Corollary to Digby's
Generalization of Clarke's Law
The council kept Wiz and Malkin waiting for over an hour. While Wiz fidgeted in a too-hard chair in the hall and Malkin ostentatiously checked the place for escape routes, the councilors met behind closed doors. Every so often the sound of shouting or an especially ringing bit of oratory would penetrate through the thick carved doors. Wiz fiddled with his notes and tried not to think about the corners he had to cut.
Some of the pieces, such as the buzzword generator, were beautiful. But other details he had been forced to leave to demons because of the time he lost to the sheriff and his searchers.
True to his word, the sheriff had spent most of the rest of the day digging up the garden. Or, more correctly, the sheriff lounged under a tree while his men dug holes more or less at random in the garden. They didn't find anything but they didn't quit until nearly sundown. Wiz was on pins and needles all day, afraid there was something Malkin had overlooked. But in her own way Malkin was as thoroughly professional as Wiz. There was nothing and the sheriff left empty-handed.
At last the doors swung open and the usher beckoned them within. The expression on the man's face did nothing for Wiz's confidence.
The council was seated around a long U-shaped table. Their mood was a cross between a lynch mob and the crowd at a formal execution. Which is to say some of them were looking forward to what they were going to do, some of them would reluctantly do their duty and some of them were there for the show.
Wiz started talking before he even reached the center of the U. "Gentlemen, I cannot tell you what a pleasure it is to come before you today," he said as he strode into the room. His confidence was of a piece with his sincerity, but so far they seemed to be buying it.
He gestured grandly and the daylight streaming in through the windows dimm
ed to twilight. Another gesture and a demon appeared at the back of the room with a slide projector. The projector was already on and a slide flashed on the wall bearing the words "Success And Prosperity" in vivid red and yellow on a bright blue background—a combination carefully chosen to be arresting without quite giving the viewers a headache. There was a brief murmur from the council and Wiz charged on before they could recover.
"My research has shown that you face a unique set of opportunities. To meet them I propose a dynamic, proactive reinvention of the organization to empower the teams using 60-second skills to address for success the strategic planning requirements in light of the Theory Z competitive strategy in time to produce a win-win-win situation."
Maybe I shouldn't have spent so much time on the buzzword generator, Wiz thought. But damn! The output was lovely. If the slide-picking demon had done its job nearly as well, they just might, might get out of this with a whole skin.
All the while the demon was flashing slides on the wall, medieval streets crammed with modern tourists, waving fields of grain, several interior shots of the Cloisters medieval museum in New York City. Happy children. Wiz thought he glimpsed a shot of Mickey Mouse at Disneyland but he wasn't sure.
The torrent of words and pictures had the desired effect. Everyone was so stunned no one thought to ask about dragons.
"Clearly," Wiz continued, "what is called for is to install a reorganization that promotes a new strategic vision, a tightly focused vision that energizes the new tomorrow.
"While continuing the traditions of the past—" the mayor smiled and nodded "—we must meet the challenges of the future—" it was Dieter's turn to smile "—and provide bold new approaches to the organization's needs." That brought a nod from Rolf.
"We must empower ourselves to consistently use our organizational resources to install this vision. This means using team management-focused techniques to create the need to change and to produce organizational systems which reinforce the vision."
The picture on the screen showed a USDA map of the United States with the dates of the average last frosts marked.