The floor of the Las Vegas Convention Center was nothing more than pure, unadulterated noise. Thousands of Silicon Valley contenders and pretenders were smashed onto the floor, booths arranged in a bewildering and often incomprehensible fashion that made finding one's company's location almost impossible. Todd and Peter were in the middle of this bedlam, trying to figure out where Laz had placed them this year. They also were taking advantage of their predicament by poking around every booth that caught their attention. 3D sound, real-time rendering engines, head-mounted displays and consumer software of every flavor had already come under their gaze and been discarded.
"You know," said Todd, "I bet half the companies on this floor won't be around five years from now. I mean, take this travesty for example." Todd pointed to a booth to their right. The inhabitants of that particular booth were selling a product in a particularly noxious area of the market known as PIMs, or Personal Information Managers. These were products that tried to be super organizers, holding phone numbers, schedules and things to do for their unwitting users. Todd called them derisively "Twenty-Megabyte Post-Its." PIMs were notorious for using too much memory, which just proved to Todd the extreme incompetence of their programmers. He placed them in the hated category of "Spaghetti Programmers," software engineers who wrote inefficient and convoluted code.
Todd walked casually over to the booth. He picked up a box and hummed to himself as he perused the back. An overly chipper employee came bouncing over to ambush Todd. He was wearing the COMDEX uniform of jeans, tennis shoes, and his company's polo shirt. "So, are you interested in a PIM?"
Todd glared at him as if was an impudent puppy. "Not particularly. Why exactly do you think I should have this program?"
Todd's opponent wasn't fazed in the slightest. "The Personal Assistant will allow you to more efficiently manage your time and your business."
"Really," said Todd He pulled his small day-timer out of his back pocket. "How does it do that more effectively than this?"
"Well, with a computer-based PIM you have the ability to cross-index and reference any piece of data that is resident on your computer."
"Yes," said Todd, "but now I don't actually have my computer with me do I? And I do have this." Todd waved his day-timer under his opponent's nose. "So how is your PIM a thousand miles away on my computer helping me?"
"Well," said the opponent with a big grin, "That's why you run it on your laptop."
Todd stared up at the ceiling far over his head. "So, for your product to work like my twenty dollar product, I have to make a two thousand dollar investment, correct?"
The opponent suddenly lost traction. "Well, we assume you already own a laptop computer, otherwise you, um, well what I mean is..." His voice trailed off and he looked around the booth. "I will be right back after I help this other customer." He retreated across the booth and engaged someone who looked less likely to cause trouble.
Todd strolled back out and joined Peter in the aisle. Peter was grinning and shaking his head. "Did you enjoy yourself junior?"
"Very much dad. Now let's find out where the hell our booth is." Todd and Peter spotted a map, and squinted at it for two minutes until they located their booth. When they arrive, predictably, Laz was nowhere to be found. He was enjoying the high life in the corporate suite. There he would entertain the CEOs and members of the press that were granted entrance to the kingdom. Only the grunts got caught on the floor.
Todd and Peter qualified as grunts. Paul Cromer was already waiting for them in the booth. Paul was one of the few people in the company that both Peter and Todd respected. Most of the networking genius in the corporation was courtesy of Paul, who had an unbelievable capacity for working incredible hours in a row without sleep. He also wrote ultra efficient code that took up minimum memory and ran like lightning. His nickname was "The Human Compiler," for his talent for bringing code to life without breaking a sweat. However, for all his prowess at the computer, Paul hated being forced to go in front of people. Being on the floor of COMDEX was his definition of hell on earth.
Todd! Peter!" A smile broke out on Paul's face. "I can't tell you how happy I am to see you two. I've been manning this booth for the last hour by myself."
Peter looked around. "Has it been busy?"
Paul snorted. "It's COMDEX. It's a thousand people all asking the same three questions. After you've answered the same question the hundredth time, you start to wonder if you're being punished for something you did in a previous life. I'm getting too old for this."
Peter and Todd both laughed at the idea of Paul being old. After all, he was a ripe twenty-seven years old. In any other industry he would be at the bottom of the dog pile, just beginning his journey upwards. In the Valley, with five years of programming behind him, Paul was a grizzled veteran. Granted, he was a veteran who wore blue jeans to work with t-shirts that had college drinking quotes on them. These he matched with his high top sneakers with rows of vertical blue stripes. His managers were not amused.
Peter and Todd stuck their bags under one of the tables and then took a quick look around the booth. One thing you had to hand Laz, he sure could nail booth space. They were right in the middle of the floor, in a choice row with Microsoft on one side and Intel on the other. Foot traffic was guaranteed. Already groups of people were moving through the booth, picking up literature, or watching the looping video tape on the televisions at either end. Paul instinctively grimaced and looked down.
"Now Paul," said Todd, "this is the penalty we pay for drinking all the liquor in our rooms this evening and then writing it off."
"It's still not worth being stuck in Vegas," replied Paul. Just then a supplicant walked up and asked him a question. Paul took a deep, shuddering breath and launched into a technical description that he had obviously already given a hundred times. Peter and Todd had only a moment to enjoy his discomfort before they too were ambushed and dragged into demo hell.
Four hours and five pounds later, they staggered out of the convention center and into the early Las Vegas night. They stared at each other for a moment before they realized that none of them had the slightest idea what to do next. Slowly a smile crept onto Todd's face as an insidious idea crossed his mind. "You know Peter, we could go to Spago and crash the Starfucker's table."
"I think that would be a spectacularly bad idea,” said Peter. A moment later he suddenly discovered himself becoming more comfortable with the idea. "On the other hand, it would be rude of us to turn down his invitation after he so graciously invited us."
Paul held up his finger. “Uh, wait a minute guys. What is a ‘Starfucker’?"
Todd threw his hands in the air to signal a cab coming down Paradise Road. "Come with us my good man, and ye shall find out." The three of them jumped into the back of the cab and launched off into the night.
Spago was the hub of activity that night. The Content Czars from Hollywood were already in place, meaning the airport in Las Vegas was over-run with just about the entire output of the Gulfstream Aircraft Corporation over the last three years. Gulfstream IVs were the most plentiful, but most of the Hollywood mob had already upgraded to the newer Gulfstream V to stay ahead of their East Coast investment and banking brethren. Viacom/Paramount was holding down one corner of the room, the Time Warner contingent was entrenched in another, and the WinTel warriors were lurking in another. Between these continents of power lurked all the islands of lesser denizens in the middle of the room. The tramp steamers plying the waters between were all the agents, power brokers and anyone else who could spell "convergence" or "repurposing."
Peter and Todd grinned at each other as they stood at the front of the restaurant. Paul was not happy with the turn of events, and was lurking behind them, hoping that Laz would not appear in a puff of acrid smoke in front of them and banish them all to hell. "Uh guys, are you sure this is the smartest thing to do? We could just go to Hard Rock..."
"Hard Rock?" scoffed Todd. "Not even Novell would be caught dead in Hard Rock. No, we are graciously accepting a friend's invitation to dinner, and that's that."
The maitre d' approached the three of them. He had the air of someone who realized that for these next few precious hours, he was at the center of the known universe. He stopped in front of them and looked down his angular nose. "May I help you gentleman?" There was a pronounced pause between the last two words that did not go unnoticed by Peter and Todd. They of course decided to take advantage of it.
Todd smacked his lips loudly. In his worst Cockney accent he said, "I understood you are supposed to have good food here?"
The maitre d' wrinkled his nose. "Yes, we are rumored to be able to cook here. May I ask if you have a reservation this evening?"
Todd waved his hand in front of his quarry. "Wait, wait. First things first. Do you have a spotted dick?"
The maitre d's eyes exploded out of his face and he almost dropped the menus under his arm. He had suddenly developed a stutter. "I b-b-b-b-beg your pardon?"
Todd repeated the question, just loud enough that the people around them could hear. "Do you have a spotted dick?"
The maitre d' worked up a good righteous rage and then fired back. "I think that is a totally inappropriate question, and I must ask you people to leave immediately."
Peter knew this was his cue. He grabbed the maitre d' and pulled him over to a corner. "You, know, you probably shouldn't do that. First, Todd there is the top programmer in all of Europe, and is here in Las Vegas to decide which American company is going to be lucky enough to win his hand in marriage. And second, spotted dick is a desert pudding made in England."
The maitre d' was now in an uncomfortable position. As the center of the known universe, an apology was completely out of the question. However, there was the outside chance that this was an important person who could make his life miserable. He gathered himself. "Well, I will see what I can find for you in the dining room. May I have your name please?"
Peter patted his back. "No need. Actually we're meeting people here." And with that they trooped past the stunned maitre d' and onto the floor.