He did as he was told.
“Send that one through again!” yelled the blue shirt.
And he went through the metal detector again. The guard who had spoken harshly earlier watched him closely. The light blinked green. Mohammad kept his face forward, never turning his head to face the guard, though as he passed only a few inches from the guard’s eyes, he was sure the guard was still watching his every move.
Slam! The guard hit him hard on the neck with an open palm as he made his way past. The crisp clap of skin on skin hushed the room as everyone stopped to see what would happen next. “Don’t forget your stuff over there,” he said, pointing with his now red hand at Mohammad’s shoes. “Wouldn’t want you to leave them here by accident.”
Mohammad walked over to collect his belongings from the now laughing man in the blue shirt. The line behind him started moving again. The cacophony of the room resumed. The cool air overtook the memory of the hit. There would be plenty of time later to deal with the guard, with the man in the blue shirt, and with those outside. Mohammad was patient.
-HYPERGROWTH-
November, 2008.
Academic aspirations took a backseat to Xiao’s desire for fame and wealth. He never found the need to hide his ambitions; rather, he made them known at every available opportunity. In his interview with Forbes magazine, when for the first time he entered the ranks of the Forbes World’s Wealthiest 400 people, among the questions the interviewer asked him was, “What is your biggest regret?” Xiao answered, without missing a beat, that it was being interviewed for an article about the World’s Wealthiest 400 people and not the World’s Wealthiest 100. And the executive board members of Ubatoo fell in love with him all over again. He was living proof that capitalism was honorable if enough public relations and money were behind it.
Xiao exemplified the Silicon Valley success story. He was a large, fast-talking man whose family had emigrated from Hong Kong in the 1970s. In stark contrast to Ubatoo’s erudite research environment, his lack of academic credentials made him a controversial choice for the position of Ubatoo’s CEO. Nevertheless, his experience, unabashed brashness and vision for the company had resonated with the company’s board, and an offer had been extended. Now, after seven years of being the very public front man of Ubatoo, his academic credentials, or lack thereof, were long forgotten. The sole purpose of his one degree, from high school, was to serve as a dusty decoration in his father’s home library.
Despite six years of working with Xiao, Atiq dreaded setting foot into Xiao’s office. The supple leather office seats placed in front of his desk had been specially crafted to sink deeply with the slightest weight. At Xiao’s insistence, all visitors were offered only these seats. When Xiao sat in his own chair, behind an imposing, oversized, hand-carved desk of dark wood imported from India, the pecking order in the room was firmly established. If Xiao was in a good mood, he would kindly move the unmistakably too expensive, and exceedingly gaudy, trinkets at the edge of the desk that obstructed any seated visitor’s view of him. Were he not in such a charitable mood, the infrequent sight of his eyes when he leaned forward to peer over the clutter would be all that the visitor was granted.
“Atiq, you’ve had an incredible quarter here,” Xiao said with a smile. He started moving the trinkets. “Your new group is on track to account for more than $220 million in revenues this year. That’s a great beginning for your Touchpoints project.”
“Thanks, Xiao. We’re excited about the results, too. And there’s so much more that we have planned for this quarter. We’ve already started—”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Atiq,” Xiao said as he interrupted Atiq in mid-sentence. Here it comes. “Just imagine how much more you would have accomplished had you been able to meet your hiring goals. Your group has some of the highest margin dollars for our company; we make more for every dollar spent on you and your projects than any other research group here. And, when you don’t make your hiring goals, per person, you lose more than any group here. What happened?”
Atiq wasn’t sure if he should defend himself, point out the flaws in Xiao’s logic, or whether it was a rhetorical question. Probably all of the above. “Xiao, there were a lot of moving pieces that had to fall into place to get where we are. We’ll make up the hiring this quarter at the very latest . . . ”
“Atiq, I’m not really looking for excuses. You know better than that. It’s a tough project. I get it. I just want to know if you think you can manage this responsibility and growth by yourself? This is a hypergrowth environment we’re in right now. It’s like 1999 all over again. But this time, we’ve got it right and we’re on the proverbial rocket ship. Hiring is the single most important thing we do. It’s like Sun Tzu said, ‘Although there is stupid haste in war, winning has never been reached with long delays.’ We need to be firing on all cylinders. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The “Art of War” quote had come out. That was Xiao’s signature way of ending a conversation, as if quoting (or if history serves as a guide, more likely misquoting) from a sacred text that contained irrefutable, and somehow universally applicable, arguments.
Years of working with Xiao hadn’t eased the awkwardness of this moment. Eventually Xiao would start talking. It was just a matter of waiting and fidgeting like a scolded child until he did.
“Atiq, I want to help you succeed. Why don’t you take over the internship contest that Lynn is setting up this year? It usually yields a few good interns who convert to full-timers.”
“Xiao, I think Lynn will be disappointed. She’s been working on organizing this intern thing for weeks.” The last thing Atiq wanted was to be in charge of the intern process. There were so many mediocre candidates to cull through.
“Yes, but she’s doing fine in her hiring, Atiq. It’s your group I’m worried about. I think it’s best if you handle it.”
Acquiesce to the punishment. “I’ll talk to Lynn today.”
“Thanks, Atiq. One more thing before you go. It’s time for your quarterly bonus. What do you think would be appropriate for this quarter? It’ll be long overdue by the time I finally get to it, if we don’t figure it out right now.”
Well, this was certainly new. Usually bonuses arrived in a sealed envelope and were never spoken about. “I don’t know, Xiao. I think that it was a pretty good quarter, all in all. Touchpoints is ahead of schedule.”
“Come on, Atiq. Just a number,” Xiao said as he typed a few strokes on his keyboard. “I have the spreadsheet loaded on my screen. Just tell me how much you need to keep you going so maybe next quarter you can actually meet your hiring goals.”
These little repeated jabs were a lovely characteristic of Xiao that Atiq tried his best to overlook. Unlike Xiao, who had embraced Capitalism as a religion wholeheartedly, for Atiq, it was difficult to talk about money so brazenly. Never had money been talked about so openly while growing up or even now in his own household. Though his parents were not religious, perhaps the one thing they took to heart and tried to pass on to their children from their mild Islamic upbringing was that money was to be shared, not hoarded. It would be good to pass that on to his children, too, assuming it was still possible. But, alas, he wasn’t at home, and Xiao wasn’t going to wait much longer. With Xiao, shyness and modesty got you nowhere. “Well, last quarter was $400,000, and this quarter was really quite good. Despite the hiring, everything about Touchpoints is going amazingly well, including more revenue than expected already. I leave it to you, of course, but how about $450,000?”
“Got it. Thanks, Atiq. Don’t forget to talk to Lynn today.”
Atiq smiled. At least there was a silver lining. He offered his hand to shake, which Xiao firmly did, with a large genuine smile. Without another word, Atiq walked out the door. As he left, Xiao typed in $399,999 and submitted the form.
-LITTLE PINK HOUSES-
July 12, 2009.
Yuri was a rock star. That’s the only way to describe his meteo
ric rise in status among the interns just five days after first showing his demo. News of his tying in the real-time activities of what Ubatoo’s users were doing with the strikingly high-resolution images of people’s homes and apartments spread like wildfire. Interns waxed poetically, presumably as close as they ever came to being English majors, about the beauty of what Yuri had done, and even delved a bit into philosophical discourses about the future devious and deviant possibilities.
It had become a favorite pastime for interns to use Yuri’s system to investigate each other’s residences and see what one another had been doing the previous night. Their embarrassment was literally magnified when the findings were, for fun, projected on one of the many walls of LCD panels linked together for simultaneous presentations across Ubatoo’s buildings. Then there was no hiding, anywhere on the grounds at least, about what it was that “someone in the house” was doing to make the house glow pink.
For Yuri, his quiet nature was both an asset and a liability. Had Yuri told his sponsor about his project, it would have earned him nothing but unbridled accolades. First, he would be complimented for his computer vision work, the excellent use of the imagery and satellite data that formed the core of the demo (and was his forte). Then, kudos would also be given for the use of data from a different group that normally had few interactions with the computer vision group. On top of everything else, he would also be praised by even the most persnickety of engineers at Ubatoo who only cared about how the system was designed and programmed, because Yuri’s design was elegant by any standard.
Yuri, who had studied computer science for twelve years by the time he arrived at Ubatoo, spent the first of those in Krakow, Poland, where he “programmed” a computer without ever having access to even the most basic machine. He wrote his programs on a piece of paper and handed them in to his teachers who graded them by hand. It was this dearth of resources that made his systems compact, easy to understand, and easy to add to: elegant, in the parlance of computer scientists. Yuri was on his way to becoming one of the many prototypical Scientist-From-Another-Country-Comes-To-America-To-Follow-His-Dreams-And-Achieves-Amazing-Success stories. The only thing holding him back was his quiet nature. Eventually news of this system had to emerge in order for the honors to begin.
Yuri’s lack of interest in achieving stardom at Ubatoo was what freed the project to move forward at a lightning pace without the usual encumbrances of office politics and pandering for praise. Every night when the system was projected on the larger-than-life walls of LCD panels, more interns watched the show. Even the most cynical of them found it difficult not to be a bit awed by the sheer beauty of the high-resolution virtual strolls and flyovers through their own neighborhoods, and the not-so-subtly voyeuristic glow of the houses they encountered. The project was left to grow with Yuri as the de-facto leader, and with numerous other interns providing new appendages to the project.
It is interesting to recall that the research was being conducted by people who were adequately shielded from the truth that Ubatoo was a money-making machine and not simply a tech playground. Therefore, the most lucrative avenue of research, the green houses indicating that money had been recently spent or was in the process of being spent at one of Ubatoo’s merchants, was summarily ignored. Instead, the only color that held any attention was the one that was the most fun to delve into—pink.
Sometime in the middle of the night of the fifth day after its disclosure, five interns working on the project, Yuri, Stephen, Kohan, Andrew (a returning intern who last year had worked in the search engine/ranking group, and now worked in the e-mail group), and Rob (an intern from the user interface group), decided that the name “JENNY” should be adopted for the project.
The story of how the name JENNY came to be starts out much like any story, whether from Shakespeare or modern romance novels—being wronged by a lover, finding new and intricate ways to take revenge, and in the process coming to understand, or at least partake in, all the unforeseen events that transpire along the way.
When Rob first saw the demo, four other interns with various expertise were present. Yuri, of course, Andrew, and Stephen and Kohan, who had carte-blanche access to the warehouses of data that Ubatoo collected. As part of the Touchpoints group, by their very job description, they were supposed to be drawing connections and insights by analyzing vast amounts of data. Andrew, who happened to be in the room while Rob was getting the demo spiel from Yuri, did what almost 80 percent of the interns at Ubatoo did—designed automated ways to analyze web pages and e-mails to find out what they were about. As for Rob himself, he was part of the group that made sure everything at Ubatoo not only looked aesthetically pleasing, but was also easy to use. Rob’s main contribution to the project, besides making the demo look even more dazzling, was the raw emotional turmoil and associated angst he provided.
“Yuri, can you do me a favor?” Rob asked immediately after seeing the demo. “Do you have Los Gatos covered in your map yet?”
“Sure,” Yuri replied. He moved the view on the screen away from Ubatoo’s surrounding neighborhood and dragged the cursor south, toward Los Gatos. “Here you go. Want to look up a particular address?”
“Give me the mouse for a second?” Rob asked.
Yuri scooted over as Rob grabbed the mouse and rapidly made what looked like a series of twitching movements back and forth. Then, he quickly moved and zoomed into a neighborhood lit up in a variety of colors. He kept adjusting the view until he found what he was looking for. “It’s a friend’s house,” he explained. “Looks like she’s still awake. Her house is green—what does that mean again?”
“Oh, that’s nothing too interesting. She’s just buying something online.”
“Really? Isn’t it a bit late to be buying something? It’s almost 1:45 in the morning. What is she buying now?” Rob asked.
“Sorry. I do not know. I just record that money was transferred and with which store. Stephen or Kohan might know.” Yuri replied.
“What’s the address?” A voice called from across the room. It was Kohan.
“89 Sunfire Avenue,” Rob said as he straightened up from looking at Yuri‘s monitor to talk with Kohan.
“Okay. Just give me a sec.”
“Oh, never mind that, Kohan,” Yuri said. “Her house just turned blue. She’s chatting with someone online now.”
“It was nothing, anyway,” Kohan replied. “Her name is Jennifer R. Briend from what it looks like here,” he said tapping his screen. “She just bought some wine online. Want to know the vintage?” Kohan said smugly.
“Yep, Jenny, that’s her. And that’s okay about the vintage,” Rob said. “I don’t suppose you can tell me who she’s chatting with now though, can you?”
“Yep, but it’ll cost you.”
“What? Really? How much?” replied Rob, annoyed.
“I’m just kidding. Hold on a second.”
“Don’t bother, Kohan,” Stephen interjected. “Already got it. And this information is on the house, no charge at all. Looks like she’s chatting online with someone named Ben Cappiello. Does that name mean anything to you?”
Rob was gritting his teeth. Any suspicions the group had that she was more than a friend were incontrovertibly verified.
“Look,” Yuri interjected as he projected the image on the LCD monitor closest to Rob. Rob spun around to watch as Yuri clicked on Ben’s house and a bubble appeared above it with images of porn and bits of chat messages with Jenny intermingled. “He’s chatting with her while looking for porn.”
“Rob, it gets worse. Check out Ben’s e-mails to Jenny,” Andrew added. “I’ll pop it up on the screen; I’m not about to read that one out loud.” The remaining LCDs crisply displayed their raunchy e-mails for all to see. “The next one, too—and these are just the first few e-mails I found between them.”
“What the hell?” Rob almost screamed, surrounded by images of Jenny and Ben and their e-mails. Then, just as fast as the yell had come, all traces of a
nger were gone.
“Thanks,” he resumed calmly. “That’s about it for me for tonight. I’ve got to go. Nice demo, Yuri.”
Before Rob walked out of the room, Stephen called out, “You okay, Rob?”
“I’m fine.” But on his way out, he called back to those within earshot, “Anybody want to get a drink?”
A moment of confusion at the prospect of leaving the grounds flashed its way across their faces. Ultimately, though, watching Jenny, Ben, and Rob was enough to convince them that a drink was definitely in order. The night started at the Rose and Crown Pub, progressed to the always bustling Nola’s, and ended next door at the Old Pro. Rob had a lot of misery to share.
-TRUTH, LIES,
AND ALGORITHMS-
July 13, 2009.
Whether it be for “show and tell” day at your local kindergarten, finding just the right caterer for your daughter’s wedding, or the going rate of enriched uranium in the underworld of Russia’s black markets, Ubatoo was the right place to find answers. Search for anything, find the best results the Web has to offer, see some ads, maybe click them, and then repeat, every day, many times a day.
Through the years, almost 87 percent of all the searches in the U.S. and over 49 percent of them worldwide flowed through Ubatoo in exactly the manner just described. And the amazing fact was that nobody—without exaggerating—nobody, at Ubatoo could have guessed the breadth of queries that would eventually be asked, and the insatiable appetite the world had for information.
The Silicon Jungle Page 13
