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DOCTOROW/MAKERS/1 Makers Cory Doctorow doctorow@craphound.com Tor Books: 978­0765312792 HarperCollins UK/Voyager: 978­0007325221 Last modified 24 Jan 2012 About this download There’s a dangerous group of anti­copyright activists out there who pose a clear and present danger to the future of authors and publishing. They have no respect for property or laws. What’s more, they’re powerful and organized, and have the ears of lawmakers and the press. conferences—no one says, “License this book for your Kindle” or “Total licenses of ebooks are up from 0.00001% of all publishing to 0.0001% of all publishing, a 100­fold increase!”) I say to hell with them. You bought it, you own it. I believe in copyright law’s guarantee of ownership in your books. So you own this ebook. The license agreement (see below), is from Creative Commons and it gives you even more rights than you get to a regular book. Every word of it is a gift, not a confiscation. Enjoy. What do I want from you in return? Read the book. Tell your friends. Review it on Amazon or at your local bookseller. Bring it to your bookclub. Assign it to your students (older students, please— that sex scene is a scorcher) (now I’ve got your attention, don’t I?). As Woody Guthrie wrote: “This song is Copyrighted in U.S., under Seal of Copyright #154085, for a period of 28 years, and I’m speaking, of course, of the legal departments anybody caught singin’ it without our permission, at ebook publishers. will be mighty good friends of ourn, cause we These people don’t believe in copyright law. don’t give a dern. Publish it. Write it. Sing it. Copyright law says that when you buy a book, you Swing to it. Yodel it. We wrote it, that’s all we own it. You can give it away, you can lend it, you wanted to do.” can pass it on to your descendants or donate it to the local homeless shelter. Owning books has been Oh yeah. Also: if you like it, buy it (http://craphound.com/makers/buy) or donate a around for longer than publishing books has. Copyright law has always recognized your right to copy (http://craphound.com/makers/donate) to a own your books. When copyright laws are made— worthy, cash­strapped institution. by elected officials, acting for the public good— Why am I doing this? Because my problem isn’t they always safeguard this right. piracy, it’s obscurity (thanks, @timoreilly for this But ebook publishers don’t respect copyright law, awesome aphorism). Because free ebooks sell print books. Because I copied my ass off when I and they don’t believe in your right to own property. Instead, they say that when you “buy” an was 17 and grew up to spend practically every ebook, you’re really only licensing that book, and discretionary cent I have on books when I became that copyright law is superseded by the thousands an adult. Because I can’t stop you from sharing it of farcical, abusive words in the license agreement (zeroes and ones aren’t ever going to get harder to copy); and because readers have shared the books you click through on the way to sealing the deal. (Of course, the button on their website says, “Buy they loved forever; so I might as well enlist you to the cause. this book” and they talk about “Ebook sales” at DOCTOROW/MAKERS/2 I have always dreamt of writing sf novels, since I was six years old. Now I do it. It is a goddamned dream come true, like growing up to be a cowboy or an astronaut, except that you don’t get oppressed by ranchers or stuck on the launchpad in an adult diaper for 28 hours at a stretch. The idea that I’d get dyspeptic over people—readers — celebrating what I write is goddamned bizarre. So, download this book. Some rules of the road: It’s kind of a tradition around here that my readers convert my ebooks to their favorite formats and send them to me here, and it’s one that I love! If you’ve converted these files to another format, send them to me (doctorow@craphound.com, subject Makers Conversion) and I’ll host them, but before you do, make sure you read the following: • Only one conversion per format, first come, first serve. That means that if someone’s already converted the file to a Femellhebber 3000 document, that’s the one you’re going to find here. I just don’t know enough about esoteric readers to adjudicate disputes about what the ideal format is for your favorite device. • Make sure include a link to the reader as well. When you send me an ebook file, make sure that you include a link to the website for the reader technology as well so that I can include it below. to a format that has a DRM option, make sure it’s switched off. A word to professors, librarians, and people who want to donate money to me Every time I put a book online for free, I get emails from readers who want to send me donations for the book. I appreciate their generous spirit, but I’m not interested in cash donations, because my publishers are really important to me. They contribute immeasurably to the book, improving it, introducing it to audience I could never reach, helping me do more with my work. I have no desire to cut them out of the loop. But there has to be some good way to turn that generosity to good use, and I think I’ve found it. Here’s the deal: there are lots of professors and librarians who’d love to get hard­copies of this book into their students’ and patrons’ hands, but don’t have the budget for it. There are generous people who want to send some cash my way to thank me for the free ebooks. I’m proposing that we put them together. If you’re a prof or librarian and you want a free copy of Makers, email freemakers@gmail.com with your name and the name and address of your • No cover art. The text of this book is freely school. It’ll be posted below by my fantastic copyable, the cover, not so much. The helper, Olga Nunes, so that potential donors can rights to it are controlled by my publisher, see it. so don’t include it with your file. If you enjoyed the electronic edition of Makers • No DRM. The Creative Commons license and you want to donate something to say thanks, prohibits sharing the file with “DRM” check below to find a teacher or librarian you want (sometimes called “copy­protection”) on it, to support. Then go to Amazon, BN.com, or your and that’s fine by me. Don’t send me the favorite electronic bookseller and order a copy to book with DRM on it. If you’re converting the classroom, then email a copy of the receipt DOCTOROW/MAKERS/3 (feel free to delete your address and other personal info first!) to freemakers@gmail.com so that Olga can mark that copy as sent. If you don’t want to be publicly acknowledged for your generosity, let us know and we’ll keep you anonymous, otherwise we’ll thank you on the donate page. Check http://craphound.com/makers/donate for profs, librarians and similar people seeking donations. This file is licensed under a Creative Commons US Attribution­ NonCommercial­ ShareAlike license: waived if you get permission from the copyright holder. Other Rights — In no way are any of the following rights affected by the license: Your fair dealing or fair use rights; The author’s moral rights; Rights other persons may have either in the work itself or in how the work is used, such as publicity or privacy rights. Notice — For any reuse or distribution, you must make clear to others the license terms of this work. Dedication: For “the risk­takers, the doers, the makers of things.” PART I http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by­nc­sa/3.0/ Suzanne Church almost never had to bother with the blue blazer these days. Back at the height of You are free: the dot­boom, she’d put on her business journalist to Share — to copy, distribute and transmit the drag—blazer, blue sailcloth shirt, khaki trousers, work loafers—just about every day, putting in her obligatory appearances at splashy press­ to Remix — to adapt the work conferences for high­flying IPOs and mergers. Under the following conditions: These days, it was mostly work at home or one day a week at the San Jose Mercury News’s office, in Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not comfortable light sweaters with loose necks and loose cotton pants that she could wear straight to in any way that suggests that they endorse you or yoga after shutting her computer’s lid. your use of the work). Blue blazer today, and she wasn’t the only one. There was Reedy from the NYT’s Silicon Valley office, and Tribbey from the WSJ, and that Share Alike — If you alter, transform, or build despicable rat­toothed jumped­up gossip upon this work, you may distribute the resulting columnist from one of the UK tech­rags, and many work only under the same or similar license to this others besides. Old home week, blue blazers fresh one. from the dry­cleaning bags that had guarded them With the understanding that: since the last time the NASDAQ broke 5,000. Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes. Waiver — Any of the above conditions can be The man of the hour was Landon Kettlewell—the DOCTOROW/MAKERS/4 kind of outlandish prep­school name that always seemed a little made up to her—the new CEO and front for the majority owners of Kodak/Duracell. The despicable Brit had already started calling them Kodacell. Buying the company was pure Kettlewell: shrewd, weird, and ethical in a twisted way. subject of hers, which no doubt accounted for his fellow­feeling), and it was also the crux of Kettlewell’s schtick. The spectacle of an exec who talked ethics enraged Rat­Toothed more than the vilest baby­killers. He was the kind of revolutionary who liked his firing squads arranged in a circle. “Why the hell have you done this, Landon?” Kettlewell asked himself into his tie­mic. Ties and suits for the new Kodacell execs in the room, like surfers playing dress­up. “Why buy two dinosaurs and stick ’em together? Will they mate and give birth to a new generation of less­endangered dinosaurs?” “I’m not that dumb, folks,” Kettlewell said, provoking a stagey laugh from Mr Rat­Tooth. “Here’s the thing: the market had valued these companies at less than their cash on hand. They have twenty billion in the bank and a 16 billion dollar market­cap. We just made four billion dollars, just by buying up the stock and taking control of the company. We could shut the doors, stick the money in our pockets, and retire.” He shook his head and walked to a different part of the stage, thumbing a PowerPoint remote that advanced his slide on the jumbotron to a picture of a couple of unhappy cartoon brontos staring desolately at an empty nest. “Probably not. But there is a good case for what we’ve just done, and with your indulgence, I’m going to lay it out for you now.” Suzanne took notes. She knew all this, but Kettlewell gave good sound­bite, and talked slow in deference to the kind of reporter who preferred a notebook to a recorder. “But we’re not gonna do that.” He hunkered down on his haunches at the edge of the stage, letting his tie dangle, staring “Let’s hope he sticks to the cartoons,” Rat­Toothed spacily at the journalists and analysts. “Kodacell is bigger than that.” He’d read his email that hissed beside her. His breath smelled like he’d morning then, and seen Rat­Toothed’s new been gargling turds. He had a not­so­secret crush moniker. “Kodacell has goodwill. It has on her and liked to demonstrate his alpha­ infrastructure. Administrators. Physical plant. maleness by making half­witticisms into her ear. Supplier relationships. Distribution and logistics. “They’re about his speed.” These companies have a lot of useful plumbing She twisted in her seat and pointedly hunched over and a lot of priceless reputation. her computer’s screen, to which she’d taped a thin “What we don’t have is a product. There aren’t sheet of polarized plastic that made it opaque to enough buyers for batteries or film—or any of the anyone shoulder­surfing her. Being a halfway other stuff we make—to occupy or support all that attractive woman in Silicon Valley was more of a infrastructure. These companies slept through the pain in the ass than she’d expected, back when dot­boom and the dot­bust, trundling along as she’d been covering rustbelt shenanigans in though none of it mattered. There are parts of Detroit, back when there was an auto industry in these businesses that haven’t changed since the Detroit. fifties. The worst part was that the Brit’s reportage was “We’re not the only ones. Technology has just spleen­filled editorializing on the lack of challenged and killed businesses from every ethics in the valley’s board­rooms (a favorite sector. Hell, IBM doesn’t make computers DOCTOROW/MAKERS/5 anymore! The very idea of a travel agent is inconceivably weird today! And the record labels, oy, the poor, crazy, suicidal, stupid record labels. Don’t get me started. those departing workers, and the ones who’d taken advantage of the company stock­buying plan would find their pensions augmented by whatever this new scheme could rake in. If it worked. “Capitalism is eating itself. The market works, and when it works, it commodifies or obsoletes everything. That’s not to say that there’s no money out there to be had, but the money won’t come from a single, monolithic product line. The days of companies with names like ’General Electric’ and ’General Mills’ and ’General Motors’ are over. The money on the table is like krill: a billion little entrepreneurial opportunities that can be discovered and exploited by smart, creative people. “Mr Kettlewell?” Rat­Toothed had clambered to his hind legs. “We will brute­force the problem­space of capitalism in the twenty first century. Our business plan is simple: we will hire the smartest people we can find and put them in small teams. They will go into the field with funding and communications infrastructure—all that stuff we have left over from the era of batteries and film—behind them, capitalized to find a place to live and work, and a job to do. A business to start. Our company isn’t a project that we pull together on, it’s a network of like­minded, cooperating autonomous teams, all of which are empowered to do whatever they want, provided that it returns something to our coffers. We will explore and exhaust the realm of commercial opportunities, and seek constantly to refine our tactics to mine those opportunities, and fill our hungry belly. This company isn’t a company anymore: this company is a network, an approach, a sensibility.” “Yes, Freddy?” Freddy was Rat­Toothed’s given name, though Suzanne was hard pressed to ever retain it for more than a few minutes at a time. Kettlewell knew every business­journalist in the Valley by name, though. It was a CEO thing. “Where will you recruit this new workforce from? And what kind of entrepreneurial things will they be doing to ’exhaust the realm of commercial activities’?” “Freddy, we don’t have to recruit anyone. They’re beating a path to our door. This is a nation of manic entrepreneurs, the kind of people who’ve been inventing businesses from video arcades to photomats for centuries.” Freddy scowled skeptically, his jumble of grey tombstone teeth protruding. “Come on, Freddy, you ever hear of the Grameen Bank?” Freddy nodded slowly. “In India, right?” “Bangladesh. Bankers travel from village to village on foot and by bus, finding small co­ops who need tiny amounts of credit to buy a cellphone or a goat or a loom in order to grow. The bankers make the loans and advise the entrepreneurs, and the payback rate is fifty times higher than the rate at a regular lending institution. They don’t even have a written lending agreement: entrepreneurs—real, hard­working entrepreneurs Suzanne’s fingers clattered over her keyboard. The —you can trust on a handshake.” Brit chuckled nastily. “Nice talk, considering he just made a hundred thousand people redundant,” “You’re going to help Americans who lost their jobs in your factories buy goats and cellphones?” he said. Suzanne tried to shut him out: yes, Kettlewell was firing a company’s worth of “We’re going to give them loans and coordination people, but he was also saving the company itself. to start businesses that use information, materials The prospectus had a decent severance for all science, commodified software and hardware DOCTOROW/MAKERS/6 designs, and creativity to wring a profit from the air around us. Here, catch!” He dug into his suit­ jacket and flung a small object toward Freddy, who fumbled it. It fell onto Suzanne’s keyboard. All the while, Kettlewell’s words were scrolling by in black block caps on that distant wall: crisp, laser­edged letters. Suzanne twisted the end and pointed it. A crisp rectangle of green laser­light lit up the wall. “They got twenty grand from Kodacell this week. Half of it a loan, half of it equity. And we put them on the payroll, with benefits. They’re part freelancer, part employee, in a team with backing and advice from across the whole business. “This thing wasn’t invented. All the parts She picked it up. It looked like a keychain laser­ necessary to make this go were just lying around. pointer, or maybe a novelty light­saber. It was assembled. A gal in a garage, her brother “Switch it on, Suzanne, please, and shine it, oh, on the marketing guy, her husband overseeing manufacturing in Belgrade. They needed a couple that wall there.” Kettlewell pointed at the upholstered retractable wall that divided the hotel grand to get it all going, and they’ll need some life­support while they find their natural market. ballroom into two functional spaces. “Now, watch this,” Kettlewell said. NOW WATCH THIS The words materialized in the middle of the rectangle on the distant wall. “Testing one two three,” Kettlewell said. TESTING ONE TWO THREE “Donde esta el bano?” WHERE IS THE BATHROOM “What is it?” said Suzanne. Her hand wobbled a little and the distant letters danced. WHAT IS IT “This is a new artifact designed and executed by five previously out­of­work engineers in Athens, Georgia. They’ve mated a tiny Linux box with some speaker­independent continuous speech recognition software, a free software translation engine that can translate between any of twelve languages, and an extremely high­resolution LCD that blocks out words in the path of the laser­ pointer. “Turn this on, point it at a wall, and start talking. Everything said shows up on the wall, in the language of your choosing, regardless of what language the speaker was speaking.” “It was easy to do once. We’re going to do it ten thousand times this year. We’re sending out talent scouts, like the artists and representation people the record labels used to use, and they’re going to sign up a lot of these bands for us, and help them to cut records, to start businesses that push out to the edges of business. “So, Freddy, to answer your question, no, we’re not giving them loans to buy cellphones and goats.” Kettlewell beamed. Suzanne twisted the laser­ pointer off and made ready to toss it back to the stage, but Kettlewell waved her off. “Keep it,” he said. It was suddenly odd to hear him speak without the text crawl on that distant wall. She put the laser pointer in her pocket and reflected that it had the authentic feel of cool, disposable technology: the kind of thing on its way from a startup’s distant supplier to the schwag bags at high­end technology conferences to blister­ packs of six hanging in the impulse aisle at Fry’s. She tried to imagine the technology conferences she’d been to with the addition of the subtitling and translation and couldn’t do it. Not conferences. Something else. A kids’ toy? A tool DOCTOROW/MAKERS/7 for Starbucks­smashing anti­globalists, planning “What are your plans for your existing workforce, strategy before a WTO riot? She patted her pocket. Mr Kettlewell?” Freddy hissed and bubbled like a teakettle beside her, fuming. “What a cock,” he muttered. “Thinks he’s going to hire ten thousand teams to replace his workforce, doesn’t say a word about what that lot is meant to be doing now he’s shitcanned them all. Utter bullshit. Irrational exuberance gone berserk.” Suzanne had a perverse impulse to turn the wand back on and splash Freddy’s bilious words across the ceiling, and the thought made her giggle. She suppressed it and kept on piling up notes, thinking about the structure of the story she’d file that day. Kettlewell pulled out some charts and another surfer in a suit came forward to talk money, walking them through the financials. She’d read them already and decided that they were a pretty credible bit of fiction, so she let her mind wander. She was a hundred miles away when the ballroom doors burst open and the unionized laborers of the former Kodak and the former Duracell poured in on them, tossing literature into the air so that it snowed angry leaflets. They had a big drum and a bugle, and they shook tambourines. The hotel rent­a­cops occasionally darted forward and grabbed a protestor by the arm, but her colleagues would immediately swarm them and pry her loose and drag her back into the body of the demonstration. Freddy grinned and shouted something at Kettlewell, but it was lost in the din. The journalists took a lot of pictures. Suzanne closed her computer’s lid and snatched a leaflet out of the air. WHAT ABOUT US? it began, and talked about the workers who’d been at Kodak and Duracell for twenty, thirty, even forty years, who had been conspicuously absent from Kettlewell’s stated plans to date. She twisted the laser­pointer to life and pointed it back at the wall. Leaning in very close, she said, WHAT ARE YOUR PLANS FOR YOUR EXISTING WORKFORCE MR KETTLEWELL She repeated the question several times, refreshing the text so that it scrolled like a stock ticker across that upholstered wall, an illuminated focus that gradually drew all the attention in the room. The protestors saw it and began to laugh, then they read it aloud in ragged unison, until it became a chant: WHAT ARE YOUR PLANS—thump of the big drum—FOR YOUR EXISTING WORKFORCE thump MR thump KETTLEWELL? Suzanne felt her cheeks warm. Kettlewell was looking at her with something like a smile. She liked him, but that was a personal thing and this was a truth thing. She was a little embarrassed that she had let him finish his spiel without calling him on that obvious question. She felt tricked, somehow. Well, she was making up for it now. On the stage, the surfer­boys in suits were confabbing, holding their thumbs over their tie­ mics. Finally, Kettlewell stepped up and held up his own laser­pointer, painting another rectangle of light beside Suzanne’s. “I’m glad you asked that, Suzanne,” he said, his voice barely audible. I’M GLAD YOU ASKED THAT SUZANNE The journalists chuckled. Even the chanters laughed a little. They quieted down. “I’ll tell you, there’s a downside to living in this age of wonders: we are moving too fast and outstripping the ability of our institutions to keep pace with the changes in the world.” Freddy leaned over her shoulder, blowing shit­ breath in her ear. “Translation: you’re ass­fucked, the lot of you.” DOCTOROW/MAKERS/8 TRANSLATION YOUR ASS FUCKED THE LOT OF YOU Suzanne yelped as the words appeared on the wall and reflexively swung the pointer around, painting them on the ceiling, the opposite wall, and then, finally, in miniature, on her computer’s lid. She twisted the pointer off. Freddy had the decency to look slightly embarrassed and he slunk away to the very end of the row of seats, scooting from chair to chair on his narrow butt. On stage, Kettlewell was pretending very hard that he hadn’t seen the profanity, and that he couldn’t hear the jeering from the protestors now, even though it had grown so loud that he could no longer be heard over it. He kept on talking, and the words scrolled over the far wall. THERE IS NO WORLD IN WHICH KODAK AND DURACELL GO ON MAKING FILM AND BATTERIES THE COMPANIES HAVE MONEY IN THE BANK BUT IT HEMORRHAGES OUT THE DOOR EVERY DAY WE ARE MAKING THINGS THAT NO ONE WANTS TO BUY THAT WE CAN MEET OUR OBLIGATIONS TO ALL OUR STAKEHOLDERS SHAREHOLDERS AND WORKFORCE ALIKE WE CAN’T PAY A PENNY IN SEVERANCE IF WE’RE BANKRUPT WE ARE HIRING 50000 NEW EMPLOYEES THIS YEAR AND THERE’S NOTHING THAT SAYS THAT THOSE NEW PEOPLE CAN’T COME FROM WITHIN CURRENT EMPLOYEES WILL BE GIVEN CONSIDERATION BY OUR SCOUTS ENTREPRENEURSHIP IS A DEEPLY AMERICAN PRACTICE AND OUR WORKERS ARE AS CAPABLE OF ENTREPRENEURIAL ACTION AS ANYONE I AM CONFIDENT WE WILL FIND MANY OF OUR NEW HIRES FROM WITHIN OUR EXISTING WORKFORCE I SAY THIS TO OUR EMPLOYEES IF YOU HAVE EVER DREAMED OF STRIKING OUT ON YOUR OWN EXECUTING ON SOME AMAZING IDEA AND NEVER FOUND THE MEANS TO DO IT NOW IS THE TIME AND WE ARE THE PEOPLE TO HELP Suzanne couldn’t help but admire the pluck it took THIS PLAN INCLUDES A GENEROUS to keep speaking into the pointer, despite the SEVERANCE FOR THOSE STAFFERS howls and bangs. WORKING IN THE PARTS OF THE BUSINESS “C’mon, I’m gonna grab some bagels before the THAT WILL CLOSE DOWN protestors get to them,” Freddy said, plucking at —Suzanne admired the twisted, long­way­around her arm—apparently, this was his version of a way of saying, “the people we’re firing.” Pure charming pickup line. She shook him off CEO passive voice. She couldn’t type notes and authoritatively, with a whip­crack of her elbow. read off the wall at the same time. She whipped Freddy stood there for a minute and then moved out her little snapshot and monkeyed with it until it was in video mode and then started shooting the off. She waited to see if Kettlewell would say anything more, but he twisted the pointer off, ticker. shrugged, and waved at the hooting protestors and BUT IF WE ARE TO MAKE GOOD ON THAT the analysts and the journalists and walked off­ SEVERANCE WE NEED TO BE IN BUSINESS stage with the rest of the surfers in suits. WE NEED TO BE BRINGING IN A PROFIT SO DOCTOROW/MAKERS/9 She got some comments from a few of the protestors, some details. Worked for Kodak or Duracell all their lives. Gave everything to the company. Took voluntary pay­cuts under the old management five times in ten years to keep the business afloat, now facing layoffs as a big fat thank­you­suckers. So many kids. Such and such a mortgage. She knew these stories from Detroit: she’d filed enough copy with varying renditions of it to last a lifetime. Silicon Valley was supposed to be different. Growth and entrepreneurship—a failed company was just a stepping­stone to a successful one, can’t win them all, dust yourself off and get back to the garage and start inventing. There’s a whole world waiting out there! Mother of three. Dad whose bright daughter’s university fund was raided to make ends meet during the “temporary” austerity measures. This one has a Down’s Syndrome kid and that one worked through three back surgeries to help meet production deadlines. of the trunks of fresh­faced, friendly coke­dealers’ cars. Down here it was giant malls, purpose­built dot­com buildings, and the occasional fun­park. Palo Alto was a university­town theme­park, provided you steered clear of the wrong side of the tracks, the East Palo Alto slums that were practically shanties. Christ, she was getting melancholy. She didn’t want to go into the office—not today. Not when she was in this kind of mood. She would go home and put her blazer back in the closet and change into yoga togs and write her column and have some good coffee. She nailed up the copy in an hour and emailed it to her editor and poured herself a glass of Napa red (the local vintages in Michigan likewise left something to be desired) and settled onto her porch, overlooking the big reservoir off 280 near San Mateo. The house had been worth a small fortune at the start of the dot­boom, but now, in the resurgent property boom, it was worth a large fortune and Half an hour before she’d been full of that old then some. She could conceivably sell this badly Silicon Valley optimism, the sense that there was a built little shack with its leaky hot­tub for enough better world a­borning around her. Now she was money to retire on, if she wanted to live out the back in that old rustbelt funk, with the feeling that rest of her days in Sri Lanka or Nebraska. she was witness not to a beginning, but to a “You’ve got no business feeling poorly, young perpetual ending, a cycle of destruction that would lady,” she said to herself. “You are as well set­up tear down everything solid and reliable in the as you could have dreamed, and you are right in world. the thick of the weirdest and best time the world She packed up her laptop and stepped out into the parking lot. Across the freeway, she could make out the bones of the Great America fun­park roller­coasters whipping around and around in the warm California sun. These little tech­hamlets down the 101 were deceptively utopian. All the homeless people were miles north on the streets of San Francisco, where pedestrian marks for panhandling could be had, where the crack was sold on corners instead of out has yet seen. And Landon Kettlewell knows your name.” She finished the wine and opened her computer. It was dark enough now with the sun set behind the hills that she could read the screen. The Web was full of interesting things, her email full of challenging notes from her readers, and her editor had already signed off on her column. She was getting ready to shut the lid and head for bed, so she pulled her mail once more. DOCTOROW/MAKERS/10 From: kettlewell­l@skunkworks.kodacell.com To: schurch@sjmercury.com Subject: Embedded journalist? Thanks for keeping me honest today, Suzanne. It’s the hardest question we’re facing today: what happens when all the things you’re good at are no good to anyone anymore? I hope we’re going to answer that with the new model. Works” to describe a generic R&D department. That meant that Kettlewell had moved so fast that he hadn’t even run this project by legal. She was willing to bet that he’d already ordered new business­cards with the address on them. There was a guy she knew, an editor at a mag who’d assigned himself a plum article that he’d run on his own cover. He’d gotten a book­deal out of it. A half­million dollar book­deal. If Kettlewell was right, then the exclusive book on the inside of You do good work, madam. I’d be honored if you’d consider joining one of our little teams for a the first year at Kodacell could easily make that couple months and chronicling what they do. I feel advance. And the props would be mad, as the kids said. like we’re making history here and we need someone to chronicle it. Kettlebelly! It was such a stupid frat­boy I don’t know if you can square this with the Merc, nickname, but it made her smile. He wasn’t taking and I suppose that we should be doing this through himself seriously, or maybe he was, but he wasn’t being a pompous ass about it. He was serious my PR people and your editor, but there comes a time about this time every night when I’m just too about changing the world and frivolous about goddamned hyper to bother with all that stuff and everything else. She’d have a hard time being an objective reporter if she said yes to this. I want to just DO SOMETHING instead of ask someone else to start a process to investigate the She couldn’t possibly decide at this hour. She possibility of someday possibly maybe doing needed a night’s sleep and she had to talk this over something. with the Merc. If she had a boyfriend, she’d have to talk it over with him, but that wasn’t a problem Will you do something with us, if we can make it in her life these days. work? 100 percent access, no oversight? Say you will. Please. She spread on some expensive duty­free French wrinkle­cream and brushed her teeth and put on Your pal, her nightie and double­checked the door locks and Kettlebelly did all the normal things she did of an evening. She stared at her screen. It was like a work of art; Then she folded back her sheets, plumped her pillows and stared at them. just look at that return address, “kettlewell­ l@skunkworks.kodacell.com”—for kodacell.com She turned on her heel and stalked back to her to be live and accepting mail, it had to have been computer and thumped the spacebar until the thing registered the day before. She had a vision of woke from sleep. Kettlewell checking his email at midnight before From: schurch@sjmercury.com his big press­conference, catching Freddy’s column, and registering kodacell.com on the spot, To: kettlewell­l@skunkworks.kodacell.com then waking up some sysadmin to get a mail server answering at skunkworks.kodacell.com. Last she’d Subject: Re: Embedded journalist? heard, Lockheed­Martin was threatening to sue Kettlebelly: that is one dumb nickname. I couldn’t anyone who used their trademarked term “Skunk possibly associate myself with a grown man who