And the people were there, in droves, eager to be dragged. It was hard getting through the aisles, and the noise of the computers had to be loud, to be heard over the monumental soughing of the crowd. Just when it seemed that human speech could not be made audible in this place, there came a voice, male but fairly high-pitched, with a harsh mid-western edge to it that threatened to shatter the bones of Step's inner ear:
"What the hell am I supposed to be impressed with about this?"
Step searched-against his will- for the source of this voice from hell. It was a tall, lanky man whose red face attested to the potency of the free cocktails in the SuperCalc suite. Step knew him at once-Neddy Cranes, a onetime Washington columnist who had occupied that broad range of the political spectrum between Benito Mussolini and Genghis Khan, and who now was best known for his long-winded, fascinating, and devastatingly influential monthly column in Code magazine.
"Mine," said Dicky immediately.
"No," said Ray Keene quietly.
Step watched how Dicky immediately stepped back to let Ray Keene go and face the tiger. But Dicky's outward compliance was not from the heart. Step could see how Dicky's jaw was clenched. How he held his pose of nonchalance a bit too long, with a bit too much effort. He hates Ray Keene, Step realized. And why shouldn't he? Ray undercuts him at every stage of his work. Ray undercuts everybody at every stage. But Dicky is determined to hang on. Dicky is determined to bear it, without showing Ray the slightest sign of resentment.
But Dicky is also going to take it out on somebody.
Me.
Well, I won't be around when the ax falls, thought Step, unless of course the stupid, illegal attempt to steal Hacker Snack was the ax, in which case it's a dull blade indeed, since I never signed over the rights. No, the Hacker Snack project was almost certainly done with Ray's knowledge, so Dicky's nastiness toward me, when it comes, will take some other form. Some slyer, pettier form that will have no profit in it for anybody except for the nasty satisfaction it would give Dicky Northanger.
"You're not supposed to be impressed at all," Ray was saying to Neddy Cranes. "This is only something for the common people, not for computer experts with big expensive systems."
Ah, Ray was deft indeed, for Cranes could hardly let himself be painted as a computer elitist. His pose was that of the populist, looking out for the little guy. So the bandsaw voice came back again at top volume: "Don't tell me about common people! I can see you've got those little Commodore boxes here-paperweights, that's all they are, because you can't do a damn thing with 'em! Stealing money from the little guy, that's what Commodore's doing, stealing money while Kmart drives the getaway car!"
"We're making sure that when people get this paperweight home, Mr. Cranes, they can run a full- fledged word processor on it, a word processor for which the y paid no more than thirty bucks, and if they buy it direct from us, twenty bucks."
"What, is the manual an additional fee of fifty dollars?" demanded Cranes. "Or do people have to pay a hundred bucks to get the extra module that allows them to print things out?"
"It's all in the same package," said Ray. "Not a pretty package, of course. But that's part of why we can sell it cheap. Try it out."
Step watched in awe as Ray got Neddy Cranes to set his fingers on the keys of a Commodore in order to write something using Scribe 64.
"Come on, let's get out of here," said Glass.
"Don't you want to see what Cranes thinks of Scribe?" asked Step.
"Come on!"
Glass was really agitated. Clearly he had no desire to stick around for Neddy's verdict. "I'm hungry."
"I'm not," said Step, but he followed Glass away from the booth, and when Glass found a line of people waiting for a hot dog that looked like it had been made in the 1950s from the a hooves and noses of diseased warthogs, Step stood in it with him and got a hot dog with mustard and onions.
"If you put this mustard on your car it'd take three paint jobs to cover it up," said Glass.
"That's OK. The onions are the secret ingredient in Ex-Lax."
They ate every bit of the hot dogs.
"Did you check us into our room?" asked Glass.
"What?" asked Step.
"Our room," said Glass. "When I got here I had to come straight to the booth, so my bag is under the table."
"We're sharing a room?" asked Step, horrified.
"Dicky said he told you," said Glass. "Ray says Eight Bits Inc. isn't big enough to fly first class or have private hotel rooms."
"Bet your little butt he's got a private room."
"No, his wife's with him," said Glass. "Hey, I knew you'd hate sharing, so I made sure they assigned you with me. See, I'm not addicted to cigarettes, so I won't smoke in the room with you."
"Thanks," said Step. But it wasn't just the issue of smoking- it was the fact that Step loathed the idea of having no privacy. Undressing and dressing in front of someone else was unthink able. He had hated it in high school even before he was old enough to go through the temple, and now that he wore the underclothes that symbolized the covenants he had made there, Step never put himself in a position to arouse questions or ridicule toward something that he took so seriously. If he had i been warned that he was going to share a room, he would at least have brought pajamas, so he could change in the bathroom and leave Glass thinking that he was simply shy. As it was, Step had no idea what he was going to do. Pay for his own private room? Right -- with nothing left on the Visa, that was likely!
"Man, it really bothers you, doesn't it," said Glass.
"Yes," said Step. "Not rooming with you, just sharing a room at all. I mean, they didn't tell me, not a hint. I don't share hotel rooms. I can't believe a company as cheap as this."
"I'd rather have my thousand-dollar bonus than a private room, I'll tell you that," said Glass.
Step looked at him oddly. "A thousand dollars?"
"I wasn't supposed to tell," said Glass. "Oops."
"How often do you get this?" asked Step.
"At the first of the year," said Glass. "Please, don't tell anybody else. Dicky told me that people would quit if they realized how big a bonus I was getting."
"Glass, a thousand dollars is nothing," said Step. "A thousand dollars is like peeing in your hand."
Glass looked at him- his turn to be stunned.
"Do you know what my royalties on Hacker Snack were, at its peak, every six months?"
Glass shook his head.
"Forty thousand," said Step. "And Scribe 64 has sold far more than Hacker Snack ever did."
Glass muttered something that might have been a prayer, because it was addressed to God, but Step didn't think the tone was reverent enough for that.
"By the way," said Step, "I told you what my royalties were in strict confidence, too."
"Right, no talkee, no tellee, no catchee hellee," said Glass.
Step hadn't heard that since the days when Reader's Digest still published ethnic humor. "Where'd you pick that up?"
"My dad," said Glass. "Whenever I'm not paying attention, I turn into my dad."