Learning Curve (7 page)

W
ith her head swimming with caffeine and the implications of her decision, Alison pulled the Prius onto the 280 on-ramp. The sun was bright in the blue sky, and the fog had retreated back over the hills. The freeway too was almost empty.

What do I do now? she asked herself. What do I tell my people? I've never managed an IPO before. Heck, I've never been
in
an IPO before.

All she knew about Going Public was what she had read, that it was a miserable experience that tore the company in two for months, as one management team took off on an exhausting global road show and another team stayed home and tried to run a fast-moving company with half the staff. Just as bad, the entire company would have to enter into a ‘Quiet Period,' when any public statement, any unprecedented media coverage—good or bad—could anger the SEC, leading it to suspend the offering… with all of the damage to the company's reputation and value that this would entail.

She gripped the steering wheel at the thought. All the years of work, all the sacrifice—and to lose it all with one wrong word.

But don't forget, she told herself: Going Public is a
good
thing. It's what everyone dreams of, isn't it? The big cash out. Everybody gets rich; everybody gets rewarded for taking the risk of joining a start-up. Isn't that what Silicon Valley is all about?

Yes, but no one ever talks about the other side. The handing over ownership of the company to anyone with a few bucks to buy a share. The required financial reporting—and the very public media scrutiny that accompanies it. And worst of all, the change in the employees… and the change in
you.
We've been family; now we'll never be family again. People—like me—who right now are willing to die for eTernity will suddenly take their new fortunes and leave.

And who will replace them? Mere salary workers. The risk averse. The office politicians. The gold watch crowd…

The car's tires chattered against the lane markers, shocking Alison out of her thoughts. She over-reacted. The Prius swerved into the opposite lane, nearly hitting a passing panel truck. The truck diver pounded on the horn and waved a fist at her. She recovered control and made an apologetic wave.

She found herself panting, high with adrenalin. When it didn't diminish, she quickly searched for the nearest exit and took it. She only recognized where she was when she passed the big, distorted statue of Father Junipero Serra as she pulled into the parking lot of the rest stop. She had passed this place a thousand times, but had never found a reason to stop. Now she raced the car to the first parking slot she saw, braking so fast that the little Prius rocked on its shocks.

She was panting more quickly now, and was becoming more and more light-headed, until her vision began to blur at the edges. Oh God, she thought in a panic, not this. She had hyperventilated under stress all her life—before going on stage as a girl, in the run up to her first public speeches and her doctoral presentation, even once as she waited for a blind date to arrive—but it had been a long time. And she'd never suffered from this during her whole time with eTernity.

Now here it was again, like an old warning from her past. With her head bobbing and her chest hurting, she searched frantically in the car for a paper bag to breathe in. It had been years since she'd carried one for emergencies. She tore open the glove compartment—nothing. The door pockets? Her blouse? The terror was coming on now. What if she fainted and injured herself?

She spotted her purse in the passenger foot well, grabbed it, tore it open, and shoved her head into it. With her face pressed against wallet, hairbrush, tampons, and a tube of lipstick, she slowly regained her breath using the tried and true method of inhaling her own exhaled carbon dioxide.

After several minutes, her face was wet with her own breath. At last, she pulled her head out of the bag and sat back against the headrest, exhausted.

When finally
she opened her eyes again, she caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. Her face and eyes were red, her wet hair plastered to her cheek by tears… and a loose eyebrow pencil had drawn a black line across the bridge of her nose.

If only my future shareholders could see me now,
Alison thought ruefully.

Instinctively she reached for her cell phone to call home. Then she closed it again and tossed it on the passenger seat. He's probably still asleep, she told herself.

T
he cockpit door opened and the pretty flight attendant emerged, carrying two empty coffee mugs. She was laughing and saying a few last words to the pilots. After three months of almost continuous travel, Dan Crowen now knew that her name was Andrea, that she had graduated from UC Irvine with a degree in communications, and that she lived with her fiancé in a townhouse in downtown San Jose.

Andrea set the mugs in the small sink in the galley and continued on to the cabin.

“Mr. Crowen,” she said just as the roar of the engines changed key, “the captain has asked me to tell you that we will be landing at Farnborough in about fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you,” said Dan. He glanced over at Lisa Holmes and nodded. “Okay, here we go.”

Lisa nodded and began to gather up the briefing materials splayed out in front of her on the folding table. She had been Dan's almost constant companion in his travels around the world over the previous twelve weeks, as he systematically visited every Validator Software plant, research facility, and sales office—not to mention all the company's major customers—around the globe. Cosmo Validator had given Dan unlimited use of the Bombardier—a surprising move that almost convinced Dan that Cosmo felt guilty—so they'd been spared the additional ­challenge of patching together a mix of first-class commercial tickets and charter flights.

But having access to a private jet had only made the marathon simpler, not easier. They'd been to twenty-five countries in ninety days, with Crowen rushing home at least one day each week to deal with the growing discontent at headquarters. Not surprisingly, Tony D. had walked out that afternoon and never returned, taking with him a severance package that most people could retire on.

Of course the company stock had dropped. Even a full-on Cosmo Validator charm session hadn't fooled the more cynical industry analysts. But the damage had been surprisingly small: within a week the share price had climbed almost back to where it had been before.

Unfortunately, it hadn't remained there. Dan had been afraid the announcement would set off a mutiny at Validator. He could have dealt with that. What happened instead was far worse. A kind of pernicious malaise had spread over the company as employees found themselves, for the first time, unsure whether management knew what it was doing, whether the new strategy would work, and whether Validator Software was still a winner. This last was the most dangerous of all, Dan knew. In the tech world, every industry had only a handful of “golden” people who migrated to winning companies, bringing their luster and consolidating that company's success.

As the dominant company in its industry, Validator Software had always enjoyed the presence of the best people in the field. Cosmo had drawn the first of them with his charisma and excitement, and Dan had kept them by giving them opportunity and recognition
. The importance of wooing these vital few was the most important thing Cosmo had taught him during those early transition days.

One weekend, Cosmo had insisted on taking Dan duck hunting on Grizzly Island, just off the freeway between San Francisco and Sacramento. Dan had sat shivering in the blind, the Navy ghost fleet looming in the distance and the ducks mercifully thin on the Pacific Flyway as Cosmo—his custom Purdey at the ready—began to expound on how Silicon Valley really operated.

“I don't need to tell you how business works,” Validator said. “Christ, you've been in the banking industry all your life. That's more cutthroat than anything we do in the Valley. You'll probably find us the image of sporting competition by comparison—shit, Danny boy, this Valley is more like a big frat house than a proper business community. The guys who started this town were all a bunch of wildcatters. They were best friends, they fought each other to the death, and they stole each other's women. Bless ‘em. I knew them all, and my only regret is that I wasn't one of them.”

Cosmo grinned. “Not that I didn't try. The fact is that not much has really changed. We're a whole lot bigger now, and a shitload richer, but scratch any industry in the Valley—including ours—and you'll find the same thing. We've all worked together at some time. Now we're enemies, but that doesn't mean we aren't still friends… or that we won't work together one day again.”

He stopped, raised himself slightly from the bench to get a better view, and then sat back down. “Thought I saw something. Those damn ducks better show up pretty soon, or you and I are going to back to the lodge and drink cheap brandy.

“Anyway, that's the first thing you need to know. Silicon Valley, as big and famous as it is, is in fact just a small town. Everybody knows each other; shit, everyone's related to each other, at least in their resumés. You can be a fuck up, but if you belong in this small town, you'll eventually be forgiven. But if you're an outsider, you'll never really be trusted.”

“So,” Dan asked, “how do you get to be a local?”

“Stick around and start making connections. Nobody in the Valley is a native; not even the natives.”

“How long does it take to get accepted?”

Cosmo shrugged. “Depends. All I'm saying is, don't be surprised when you don't get much respect from your peers—or even from the kid with the facial tattoos down at the latte joint.”

“Got it,” said Dan.

“No, you really don't,” said Validator. “But you will. Now, there's one other thing.”

“Yeah?”

“This town is the Pareto principle on steroids. No one likes to say it, but ninety-five percent of all the important things that happen in this town are done by five percent of the people. The Valley is about innovation, and innovation is done by geniuses, and everybody else is basically just standing around waiting to help make it work.”

Dan scowled. “That's pretty harsh, Cosmo. You're dismissing an awful lot of people, including about twenty thousand people in your own company.”

“
Our
company,” said Validator, “and I'm doing nothing of the sort. That ninety-five percent is composed of good people—parents, Scoutmaster, soccer coaches, the kind of people you like to know. They're the people you swap Christmas cards with. I love those people. I'd die for those people—nearly have a couple times.

“On the other hand, those guys in the five percent, the geniuses—and they can be in the lab, marketing, sales, even accounting—are almost universally assholes. They know how good they are, and that usually makes them the most insufferable cocksuckers you've ever met.”

Validator lowered the shotgun until the muzzle rested against the wall of the blind and leaned forward. “Now, here's the thing, Dan. The part of this job that will forever piss you off, and break your heart at the same time, is the fact that sometimes you're going to have to lay off some of the wonderful ninety-five percent. And at the same time you're going to have to do everything, including selling your soul to the Devil, to keep the assholes. That's because success follows them wherever they go—and they follow success in turn. Lose them and you lose everything. Understand?”

“Yes. But I don't like it. It's like Wall Street rainmakers. They're assholes too.”

“Exactly. Except these guys aren't high rollers in expensive suits. They're just as likely to be represented by a bearded, autistic little fuck who will show you less respect than he does his pet tarantula—and who will never, ever appreciate what you've done for him. Or even thank you for it.”

“Sounds awful.”

Validator shrugged again. “That's why we make you rich. Now where are those fucking ducks?”

Customs in Britain, as always with the private jet, was brief and almost embarrassingly polite. An elegantly dressed young Indian man in aviator glasses was waiting in the lobby. That would be Ramesh, the driver. Beside him stood a disheveled middle-aged man with a comb-over wearing a badly-fitting suit. And that would be Arthur Hastings, the
Financial Times
senior technology editor.

And so goes the British Empire
, Crowen thought to himself.