Authors: Matt Richtel
I
was staring at a living room. To the left was a circular couch facing a wall-mounted flat-panel TV. In the near-right corner, a bar counter. In the middle-right, a conference table, and around it was what set this room apart: the company. Two of the most influential technology executives in the world: Andre Latzke and Helen Douglass. But it was the head of the table that was of the most interest—to me. At the front, sitting apart from each other by the table’s width, were the Kindles—Annie and Glenn. I was in a casino. I took a gamble. I spoke to Annie, interrupting two seconds of uncomfortable silence.
“I brought the rest of the GNet data.”
Glenn finally said, “This isn’t a good time.”
All eyes studied me. I was a mess.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, Mr. Kindle. And sorry for my . . . state of disrepair. I got into a car accident. Rear-ended stopping short at a light. I’ve got to learn to stop making stock trades while I drive.”
Glenn stood and took a step toward me, for an instant looking bewildered.
“He helped with some of the tests,” Annie said, composed, but deferential. Was she working with her father? Were they at odds?
Glenn turned to the group.
“Will you excuse us all for a moment? Tara and I need to have a private word.” He smiled. He was slick. “I know—we’re supposed to iron these things out before the company arrives.”
Helen Douglass chuckled.
In this company, Annie went by Tara.
She offered her father a gentle rejoinder. “Should we leave our guests alone?”
Glenn clenched his teeth. If I hadn’t known better, I wouldn’t have picked up Annie’s implicit threat—best not leave me here with this group to get to chatting. The extent of the father-daughter tension was apparently lost on the executives. Or maybe the extent of their cooperation was lost on me.
“True enough,” Glenn stuttered.
Latzke, a man with a full head of wavy hair and strong hands who appeared to be assuming a lead role, looked at his watch. “Now where do you think Ira is?” He forced a smile. The good executives never publicly betrayed real feelings.
Douglass leaned forward. “Well, let’s get on with it.”
I settled onto the couch. I knew little about the two executives. I remembered that Douglass was considered to be more charismatic than substantive, a reputation she often derided in speeches as sexist. Latzke was the consummate salesman. He believed in his company with religious fervor. I couldn’t believe either of them was mixed up with the recent dark events, not knowingly. Something else had to be going on.
“When’s your keynote?” Glenn asked Douglass.
“Tomorrow morning,” she responded, but seemed bored by the subject. “Bring me up to speed.”
Glenn took a deep breath. “Why don’t we wait for Ira?”
“Because we could wait until midnight,” Latzke responded, again with a smile.
Douglass had a sheet of paper in front of her. It looked to be covered with scribbled notes. She glanced at it as she spoke.
“Start with a recap. I missed the Taos meeting.”
I was struck by her tone—its lack of urgency. These executives were ice-cream cool; it was clear now that they didn’t realize nearly the extent of the hurricane that had visited the Kindles and their pet project.
Annie’s head was down. She was sending a text message from her phone. She felt my eyes, looked up at me, and smiled. Was she texting me? I didn’t have the super-secret spy phone.
“Key tap and advertising.” Latzke aimed his comment at Douglass.
“Right,” Glenn said, overcoming hesitancy, regaining the conversation and his composure. He wore a short-sleeved black button-up polo shirt and seemed to transform into the picture of California calm.
“We’ve developed two methods for intensifying the human-computer interaction. One is the key-tap method,” Glenn continued. “Using this method, we give people an imperceptible sensation when they touch the keys on the keyboard. It sends what amounts to a jolt into the pleasure center of the user’s nervous system. It is an electric pulse. They touch the key and get a jolt, touch a key, get a jolt. And so on. It serves to reinforce the ordinary sensation that comes from receiving or sending e-mail, or getting some other input of information. The same principle works in variations with cell phones, and other gadgets.”
He paused.
“A juiced-up Crackberry.”
“I’ve got it bad already.” Douglass chuckled, then stopped. “Can something like that really work?”
“It’s already out there to an extent,” Glenn answered. “Video game consoles have controllers that vibrate when a player shoots a gun, or their on-screen character is attacked. As I said, our phones vibrate, bringing us to attention. It’s a question of refining the technology. And neurology is evolving too, providing us a map for how to give people a positive feeling when they use the keyboard—like a mild dose of caffeine.”
After a polite pause, Glenn continued. “In turn, everything associated with the computing experience is enhanced—the senses are aroused, engaged. The union of the chip and the brain. The users want more and more—and what they do get is intensely pleasurable.
“What this means is the users will get a level of enjoyment out of computing that is tantamount to a pure physical experience. It is an
actual
physical experience. That’s what they get out of it. What we get out of it is a user base that will be loyal without precedent. Remember, the essence of making money on the Internet is not just amassing as many eyeballs as possible. That business model fizzled during the bust. The key is keeping them around by giving people a highly intense and interactive experience.”
“But to what end, Glenn?” asked Douglass. “Is the business model any more refined?”
The room had momentum now. Even as much as I hated Glenn and was horrified by the undisclosed implications, a piece of me marveled at his salesmanship. This was his SkyMall catalog, and he had turned smooth capitalist preacher in its promotion.
“Great question. There are several very fruitful options,” he answered. “For one, this technology will be the holy grail of advertising—we’ll create an audience of users who are utterly immersed. Already, computers and televisions are so alluring. The lights, the sounds; they are heavy stimulants. We’re turning the intensity way up. People will absolutely love looking at what we deliver. They won’t be able to tear themselves away from staring at the messages we deliver. Political, commercial, whatever. We can sell them our software, our high-speed Internet connections, our consumer products.”
“Sounds like mind control,” said Douglass.
The voice that answered seemed to come from far away.
“Not for it’s own sake, Helen. This is 2006, not 1984.” It was Annie.
Heads turned her way.
“We want to feel connected. We long for a real experience,” Annie said. I felt an instant spasm of conflict; her words resonated, but I could no longer take her seriously.
“As you know, Tara’s done testing and helped to develop the technology,” Glenn interrupted his daughter, then he turned to face her. “But of course that’s not a business model.”
“Of course,” she responded, seeming again to yield to him. “But the business model, the applications, are awesome. And so are the efficiencies. Look, people have come to expect free information on the Internet. They want news, sports, movies, music for free. So in the future, people won’t pay for information with money, they’ll pay with their attention.”
Annie paused. She picked up a bottle of water standing on the table. As she swallowed, her gaze briefly caught mine. Her eyes sparkled. I flashed on a memory of Annie petting her dog and kissing its nose, the moments when her affection seemed undiluted, at its purest. Who was the cold person in her place? Was she playacting? Could I tell the difference? It seemed like she was in love with this too.
She set down her drink and continued.
“In addition to the key-tap method, we have been perfecting the use of subliminal advertising—by inserting images into a Web site’s background—ultra-fast, ultra-intense images. This is just what Hitchcock did in the movies, but with a revolutionary twist. Our messages will be highly personal. That’s because of what we know of individual user’s particular interests from their Internet surfing habits. If someone is a skier, we’ll flash travel ads for Aspen; if they like cooking, we’ll show them the George Foreman Grill.”
“Sounds messy,” Douglass said. “What about the FCC? We don’t want to be the next tobacco industry.”
“‘Subliminal advertising’ may be a bad choice of words,” Glenn said. “Technically, such advertising doesn’t violate federal law. But think of what we’re talking about here as background enhancements. Maybe the users will even give us permission to run stealth streams of advertising—instant, unseen flashes of personalized communication—in exchange, of course, for free services we provide. Regardless, we’re proving that the technology lets us communicate more effectively than ever through vivid, personalized messages on computers, phones, or handheld devices.”
“And location-based services too,” Latzke said.
“Exactly,” Glenn continued. “The GPS in cell phones lets us interact with people not just based on who they are, but where they are. We communicate with them about nearby restaurants, entertainment options, and so forth. They won’t be able to disconnect themselves and they won’t want to.”
The Kindles weren’t just talking about creating technology. They were building a kind of drug.
“Of course, this background communication method could also entail simply making the sounds, colors, and entire computing experience more vivid,” the wily venture capitalist continued. “All our hope at this point is to develop and perfect the technology and maintain our communication channels with you so we’ll be able to move on this when we’re all ready.”
“You really think this can work?” Helen said.
Annie stepped in again. “Certain of it. As we’ve mentioned before, I’ve been developing the technology for more than five years.”
Five years. I coughed, repressing an exclamation. Latzke cleared his throat, and spoke. “It’s not that big of a reach.”
“Society is halfway there,” Glenn added enthusiastically. “Video games, compulsive phone, Internet, and e-mail use. We already embrace a cacophony of stimulation. Nonstop, round-the-clock, mile-a-minute data input. When that action is missing, people feel bored. They want a more powerful dose.”
Latzke looked at Douglass. “The search engines already are delivering highly targeted advertising—based on a consumer’s location, taste, and so on. It’s the endgame of individualized marketing to a totally captive audience.”
A voice interrupted. “We’re
already
hooked.” I was stunned to realize the voice belonged to me.
Glenn commanded the turned heads back to him.
“Regardless of the method, we are going to transform the ubiquitous digital devices into the most powerful delivery system man has ever known. We hear all the time in Silicon Valley about the next big thing. This is it. You know it in your gut. This is the inevitable coming together of computer and human. Think of it as delivering to users the sensations of a casino; we’re trying to create an environment that people will absolutely love. That will give them an incredible rush.”
Annie leaned forward. “Or we would have,” she said, adding quietly: “But now we’ve got a problem.”
T
he words were chilly, the tone frigid. And suddenly hard and confident as ice.
So was Glenn’s. “Unnecessary.”
But before the conversation could continue, there was a loud rapping at the door.
“Rothsberger!” announced a deep, throaty voice from outside.
“Ira at last,” Latzke said flatly.
In ambled the thick corpus and many jowls of Ira Rothsberger, the chief executive of one of the largest Internet search companies in the world.
“Couldn’t get off the phone with
USA Today
,” he exclaimed, sounding like a man accustomed to making excuses. He surveyed the room. “Did I miss a funeral?”
Then he paused.
“Shit. You were talking about Ed. He killed himself, I heard. Jesus. What a fucking tragedy.”
Ed Gaverson. Friend of Glenn Kindle and technology executive, and reported suicide case.
“Shotgun, right?” Rothsberger said. “Tragic end.”
“He fought depression,” Douglass said.
There was a moment of silence.
“I think we’re going to have to adjourn for today.”
All eyes turned to Glenn, who was bent next to Annie, like he had been whispering to her.
“Jesus H. on a Popsicle stick.” Rothsberger sighed. He was one of those executives imposing enough to make being impolitic seem refreshing, or like there was nothing you could do about it anyway.
“My sincere apologies. We’ve had some technical difficulties. We need to get them ironed out before wasting any more of your time,” Glenn said. “We can reconvene in December at CES.”
Latzke stood. So did Annie. She broke a palpable silence.
“You can’t let these people swing in the wind. They could wind up being implicated.”
“Please.”
“What’s she talking about?”
“Implicated in what?”
“It’s absolutely nothing to worry about,” Glenn said.
“Famous last words,” Rothsberger said.
Latzke sat back down.
Glenn sighed, exasperated. He seemed to feel no compulsion to share the tragedy of the preceding days with the executives.
“As you know, we’ve been testing our advertising enhancement methods. We did some very effective tests in a lab setting with paid volunteers. They reinforced just how big this thing can be,” Glenn said. “We decided a field test was next.”
“Move on.”
“One second, Andre,” Rothsberger interjected. “Just so I’m clear here. We’re still talking about spicing up the computer, so consumers get a real interactive experience. Physical sensations—a real virtual world.”
“Check,” Glenn said, then cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “Some of our field tests were at the Sunshine Café.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s the café that blew up in San Francisco.”
A collective shudder went through the room. The executives exchanged glances, processing. What were the implications?
“So, what’s that got to do with us?” It was Rothsberger.
Latzke joined in. “It’s a terrible coincidence. Terrible.”
“Exactly my point,” Glenn said. “Nothing to worry about.”
In the moment of silence that followed, I did a Cliff’s Notes recap of the conversation. These executives had a passing understanding of what they believed—or had let themselves believe—was an innovative but not sinister way to make computing more stimulating. Glenn seemed to share their perspective. But he had always been impossible to read. Annie was the biggest wild card of all. I couldn’t afford to let this moment pass without flushing out more.
“Don’t forget about the rats.”
All eyes swung toward me.
“Strawberry Labs.”
“I have no idea what he’s talking about,” Glenn said quickly.
He shook his head. He blinked rapidly. He seemed genuinely mystified.
“What
is
he talking about?” Rothsberger asked.
“Don’t have the slightest idea, Ira,” he said, then looked at me. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
I looked at Annie. She caught my eye, then looked away.
“Animal testing?” Douglass shook her head, then shrugged.
“I absolutely did not know anything about that,” Latzke added. “I’m blindsided here. If it becomes necessary, I can assure my shareholders of that.”
Annie put her hands out, palms down. Calming the crowd. Glenn ran his right hand through his hair, pinning it momentarily back over his temples.
“Let me explain,” Annie said.
“Sit down, Annie.”
“Annie?” someone said.
“Tara.”
She looked at him. Then she spread her palms up and out, giving him the floor, and sat.
“As I said, why don’t we adjourn for the day,” Glenn said. “You have much better and bigger things to worry about.”
“True. We just need full disclosure. We need to know what our exposure is. You know how the media is. They’ll love even the most distant connection between us and a blown-up café.” It was Douglass.
“And we’re just damn curious.” Latzke. “Were there any other tests we don’t know about?”
“No,” Glenn said. “Absolutely not. You’ve all known me for years. You know what I’m about. Please, let’s not blow this out of proportion.”
“Curious choice of words.”
“You’re absolutely sure, Glenn?”
“Well,” Annie said, her voice barely loud enough to be heard, “we might have some exposure as to the nonconsensual nature of the tests.”
“Now hold on,” Glenn said. “I didn’t know . . . ”
“Let her finish.”
“We couldn’t rely on data from subjects who consented to being tested—even if they weren’t sure for exactly what. As Glenn said, we all agreed a field test seemed like the next natural step. And I put his plan into action.”
“That just isn’t true,” her father protested.
“We deployed . . . anonymous testing,” Annie continued. She sounded the compliant and contrite second in command, duty-bound to tell the executives they’d been jeopardized. “We selected a handful of heavy Internet users, and we tested the tap method on some users and the subliminal method on others. We were hoping to get a sense of behaviors and surfing patterns as captured by the computers on which we installed the software—”
“I assumed test subjects signed consent forms. We can sue you if we’re implicated,” Latzke interrupted, already in spin mode. I could hear his corporate lawyers talking to the media.
“There’s more,” Annie said. “The experiments didn’t go exactly as planned. Several subjects got sick—first with headaches. Then—and I want to stress we’re not sure if this is related—one subject
may
have killed himself.”
Rothsberger slammed a meaty palm on the table. “Enough,” he said.
Douglass nearly pounced at Glenn. “You’re a maniac. We’re talking about experimenting on people against their will and then
killing
them. Do you realize who we are? What’s at stake for us?”
“You’re protected, Helen,” he said. “You are at more than arm’s length from the day-to-day development of the technology. I swear to you, I didn’t know about all of this. Whatever happened was unexpected, an accident. Something obviously went wrong with the methodology, the intensity of the experiment.” Glenn paused, then turned to Annie. “If it really did go wrong, I have my suspicions as to the identity of the saboteur.”
“You can’t be serious,” she countered.
“I have no idea how, or why, or if the café fire
is
even connected. It’s a coincidence, I’m telling you,” he pleaded to his associates.
He sounded genuine, but the jury had already convicted. The more he talked the guiltier he sounded. Annie piled on.
“I spoke to Ed Gaverson two days ago. I felt obliged to tell him. He was very pained.”
“I need a word in private,” Glenn looked at Annie.
“I’m sorry, but we need to get this out in the open. Why don’t you tell everyone what happened to the evidence that could tie us all to the café?”
Glenn’s eyes widened.
“Enough. Please.”
She spoke to him. “Where is the computer, the laptop—the one that killed that poor young man—the one that could ruin all of us? The one that could destroy the reputation of these great executives.”
Glenn paused. Silent.
“Where is it?” Latzke said.
Annie bent over and picked up a bag. She pulled the laptop from inside of it.
“You can all be implicated by this,” she said, holding up the computer. “I went to great lengths to retrieve it when I realized the position Glenn had put you all in. It implicates the tech industry’s greatest titans. It could link you to a possible accidental death, but you know the maniacs out there will call it murder. And you can rest assured, I will make sure this is destroyed and doesn’t get into the wrong hands.”
A silence in the room went from deafening to atomic.
The executives again looked at one another. Frantic. Glenn’s mouth was open, his chin hung to his knees. Annie looked at me, and her lips curled up into a smile; self-satisfaction and evil. It was at that moment that I realized she was in total control, and had been the whole time.
There was a sudden quick rap at the door, the sound of it opening, and a voice entering the room that made everyone jump.
“Sorry to interrupt,” it said. “But we need to adjourn.”
Inside walked a familiar face, with a familiar facial contusion. Dave Elliott. He looked at Annie and nodded.
The executives, furious and bewildered, stood.
Glenn lunged toward Annie like a panther.