Liz Moore - The Unseen World

It had been Meredith Kranz’s idea for the investors to interact, at the meeting, with the new product’s male and female avatars. This was the idea that had kept Tom and Ada up late the night before, troubleshooting, fixing glitches. Meredith had written the script for the reps herself. She had insisted on letting them pitch the product. “It’s more dynamic,” she had said, when Ada raised concerns. “And afterward, we can let the investors interact with the reps themselves,” she continued. An even worse idea, thought Ada. But Bijlhoff had sided with Meredith, and Ada had done as he wished.

The pitch felt, to Ada, like a joke; she had trouble not laughing herself when she saw the reps earnestly moving their computer-rendered limbs about in clumsy, cardboard arcs. Computer-animated people, in 2009, still looked stilted and bizarre. These avatars were not close to passably human. The way they used their arms was incorrect — they hovered in the air unrealistically, never dropping to meet their flanks. When reps moved forward, their gait was outlandishly wrong. For decades, computer animators struggled to replicate the motions of walking and running, without much success; the particular rhythm of the human stride eluded them all, the rhythm of bone and muscle and fat and nerve impulse. Worse than that: these particular reps kept freezing. At the end of last night, Tom claimed to have everything running smoothly, but Ada was still nervous. To her, having reps pitch the product only served to reinforce how far away Tri-Tech was from being able to actually bring it to market. Five years, ten years until the hardware was available; maybe more. They would all have to hope for very patient — and reasonably young — investors.

In the car, at 6:45 a.m., her phone rang. It was a 617 number. She rarely got calls from Boston anymore.

She remembered, abruptly, the conversation she had had with Connor and Caleb the night before: someone had been by to see her. They had given this person her number, whoever it was. A man, they’d said. Could it be him?

She contemplated answering for too long: normally she didn’t answer calls from unknown numbers, but she thought perhaps she should pick this one up.

By the time she had decided to, it was too late; the call had gone to voice mail. She waited for thirty seconds, then a minute. But no message had been left.

When she arrived in the office, it was both unusually full and unusually quiet. Bill Bijlhoff, the CEO, had tried hard to keep the investment meeting under wraps, especially around the more junior programmers; they knew the company was imperiled, surely, and it wasn’t good for morale to raise and lower their hopes too much.

Bijlhoff, who’d been brought in by the original cofounders of the company to head the Alterra initiative, was now the only Tri-Tech employee who’d been working there longer than Ada, and the only Tri-Tech employee to have an office door. Doors, in general, were not part of Tri-Tech’s culture. While other tech companies were going remote, Tri-Tech had hung on tenaciously to its physical space. It occupied the top two floors of a building that now, nearly a third vacant in the wake of the closure of several start-ups in a row, felt something like post — Gold Rush California. The main level was set up like an atrium or a piazza, with six Dorian columns stretching from glossy floor to vaulted ceiling, and two walls of windows. A dome at the top of the building sported an oculus in its center that let in a dramatic, slowly rotating shaft of light. The VPs, including Ada, had their own offices around the perimeter of the main floor; but they were doorless, open to the rest of the space. The other employees spent their days out in the open, at temporary workstations or on couches. They were given breakfast, lunch, and dinner, hot meals rolled out on carts that locked into place at one end of the main floor. They were given healthy snacks throughout the day. Sometimes it felt, to Ada, a little like what preschool must have felt like, though she couldn’t be sure; there were even two small dark offices with cots inside them, in case a midday nap was required by an employee who had recently pulled an all-nighter.

She walked across the floor to Bijlhoff’s office and found the door closed. She wanted to let him know about what she and Tom had done the night before, in the two hours before the meeting began. She rehearsed it in her head: she would assure him that the reps seemed, now, to be behaving; she would run through the backup plan they’d enact in case they didn’t.

She rapped lightly at the door, and Bill Bijlhoff opened it after a beat.

“Ada,” he said, “I’m glad to see you. Come in.”

He was a good-looking man, tall, light-haired, straight-up-and-down. He was slightly older than Ada. Rumors placed him at forty-four, but his actual age was a closely kept secret. Five years ago, when Alterra was booming, he’d been a Silicon Valley celebrity. He had been profiled in every major magazine in the country. He’d appeared, in cartoon form, on The Simpsons . He’d given a TED talk. Now, even with the company in decline, he had not lost the persona he had acquired in those years: that of mischievous boy genius, pioneer, freethinker. Despite the firm’s troubles, Bijlhoff’s estimation of himself remained unshaken. Ada had as little interaction with him as she could manage; he liked her, she thought, because she had never given him a reason not to. Other employees, ones who were closer to him, cycled in and out of his favor rapidly and randomly; she watched them sometimes, shaken, walking out of his office with their heads low.

“Have a seat,” said Bijlhoff, and she did, and so did he.

“Everything looking good?” he asked her. She nodded.

“I think so,” she said, and he said, “Great.”

“The demo was glitching a little bit last night, but I think we’ve got it under control,” she began. Bijlhoff didn’t look interested.

“Listen, Ada,” he said. He took a breath.

“Yes?” said Ada.

“I’ve been talking with some board members. We’re letting Meredith run the meeting today.”

Ada paused.

“Meredith Kranz?” she asked dumbly.

“Yeah.

“As in,” said Ada.

“We’re turning it over to her. We think she’s got it. We think she’ll be good.”

Ada opened and closed her mouth. “But,” she said.

“I know you and Tom have been working on the pitch for a while,” said Bijlhoff, “and that’s great. But the fact is that none of the investors we have coming to sit in today knows anything about programming. And we think Meredith will do a good job of packaging it for them.”

“What if they have questions?”

“I have faith that Meredith can answer them,” said Bijlhoff. “Or else I’ll be there, too.”

Bill had been a programmer, once upon a time; but he hadn’t worked on the tech side of the firm in years. It wouldn’t have surprised Ada if he’d forgotten most of what he once knew. Certainly he knew none of what had gone into the beginnings of the new project.

“You don’t even want us to sit in?” Ada said. “Just to be safe?”

Bijlhoff stuck out his bottom lip, blew upward. A small lock of hair shifted slightly on his forehead. She pictured him suddenly as a rep: How might one animate that particular motion, that particular expression?

“I think you might make Meredith nervous,” he said, in a tone of voice that told her he was trying to be kind.

Ada lifted a hand and dropped it onto the arm of the chair she was sitting in. She put her hands on her knees. She leaned forward, stood up.

“I guess that’s that,” she said.

She wondered — briefly, perhaps unfairly — whether Meredith was sleeping with him. It wouldn’t be the first time that Bijlhoff had dated an employee.