Miles run: 3
Correction, in the interest of complete honesty—
Miles run: 1.5
Miles walked while pondering life and pivotal decisions: 1.5
Decisions made: 0
There are two voice mails waiting when I get back. Both Ron. I tap the first one and listen.
“Just got off with the publisher, Harp. Shaw loved you—of course. The editor wants to be able to ring him in New York this morning and say we’re a go. Aaaaand—they’ve doubled the advance, pluuuus, a little more on the royalties—without me even asking. I might get a touch more. Something’s up, will find out. Need your answer soon, Harp. Great opportunity here.”
And the next message, not fifteen minutes later.
“Think I know what’s brewing, Harp. Heard through the grapevine that Shaw’s son, Grayson, is shopping a tell-all. New York publishers won’t touch it, but he’s got an agent here, and they’re making the rounds. Bidding’s going to be intense. Rumors are he has juicy secrets. Maybe even criminal accusations. Lives of the rich and famous revealed. Going to be nasty. Oliver Norton Shaw needs someone to tell his story, the true story, when this load of bollocks hits the shelves. No matter who writes it, the books will feed off each other. Great opportunity here, Harp. Ring me when you get this.”
Ahhhh. I will make a decision today. And I’ve decided how.
After a trip to W. H. Smith, I am eight pounds fifty poorer and the proud owner of a myriad of notebooks, writing utensils, and poster boards, which lie sprawled out on my living room floor. I’ve moved the couch around, pushed the tables and chairs to the walls. It’s a big studio now, a temple devoted to Alice Carter.
I’m going to give her the day, pour my heart into her story. If it comes, if it demands to be written, I’ll give Alice the attention she needs. If it’s a chore—as it has been for years now—I’ll put her on the back burner and make the logical choice.
That’s what a rational adult would do. I’m feeling better already.
44
I’ve felt fine since the plane landed in San Francisco. Well, physically okay. But I have this overwhelming feeling that I’ve forgotten something. That I’m not doing something important that I need to do. It’s like a nervous, nagging type of guilt.
But it’s a feeling, at least. That’s new.
I call the one person I think might be able to help me. Luckily, he has an opening.
“How was your week?”
“About the same.”
“Explain.” Dr. Gomez crosses his legs and gives me the Psychologist Look. It seems like all psychologists are either born with it or taught it in school.
“I feel like I’m just watching my life happen.”
“How so?”
“I don’t get excited when I should. Barely even get angry. Most of the time, I couldn’t care less what happens. I just feel empty. But . . . the past two days, I’ve felt like there’s something urgent I’ve forgotten. Something drastic.”
“Do you feel you’re in danger?”
“What?”
“In danger. A danger to yourself or others?”
“No. You’re not listening to me. I don’t feel enough to hurt myself. I’m not depressed. I’m not manic. I’m nothing. It’s like the wires in my brain are disconnected. Look, I’m not at risk of offing myself or anyone else. But I’m scared to death I’m going to just watch the best years of my life go by, like I’m staring at a fish tank.”
In many ways, early-stage venture capital is a soap opera.
Most of the sets are the same. The same characters appear and reappear; they have dramatic reversals and successes, fade out for a while, then return with what they swear is the next big thing.
Secrets are kept. Rumors spread at the speed of light.
Companies get hot, and the hotter they are, the more excited—and nervous—investors become. That’s what brings most of these guys back year after year, long after they’ve made enough money to never work again: the risk, the wagers, the game.
The mystery of the week is always the same: Is this founder brilliant or crazy? Guess right, get rich. Guess wrong, hear about it forever from the guys that didn’t pony up on that round. Guess wrong too many times, and you can’t convince enough pension funds and high-net-worth investors to go in on your next fund. Game over.
It’s impossible to tell who’s crazy and who’s brilliant half the time. There’s a fine line between having just enough confidence and having too much. Too much is risky, and so is too little.
In this business, like others where people place calculated bets, there are leaders and there are followers. Some funds like to invest in later rounds, when there’s less risk (and less return); some like to invest early—but only after the leading firms are in, the ones with a track record of success. It’s safer that way. If someone with a high batting average is stepping up to the plate, it must be the real deal.
My firm is a leader. And for the last few days I’ve gotten e-mail after e-mail insisting I meet with a young man who is white-hot around here, the talk of the town. Or the whisper, actually; they’ll talk once their money is in.
His name is Yul Tan, and we sit alone in the conference room at my office, his laptop on the table beside a stack of folders. He isn’t nervous or overconfident, not a talkative type. He’s focused, all about his work. And it might be the most interesting work I’ve heard about in a while.
“I’m calling it Q-net,” Yul says, laying a piece of paper in front of me. “Stands for quantum network. The modems will work in existing computers. No wires. It uses quantum entanglement to move massive amounts of data at the speed of light.”
He gets into the details, a little too far into the weeds, but I don’t stop him. It’s incredible. A no-cost, high-speed Internet, no infrastructure required. This will turn the world on its head. The potential is virtually limitless.
“I filed the patents two weeks ago.”
I nod. “Smart. Especially before making the rounds. Where do you see this company in five years, Yul? What do you want to happen here?”
The answer that follows is the problem, the issue my compatriots have and perhaps part of their motive for me to meet with him.
Yul Tan isn’t terribly interested in commercializing the technology or money at all for that matter. He wants to open the patents up to manufacturers for free. He just wants to work on the software, making it more efficient, ensuring that his new network stays secure from hackers and anyone who might use it for ill purposes. In short, he’s the real deal—an honest-to-God good human being, out to make this world a better place.
But he’s dangerous to investors. They don’t mind if the company loses money early, or even if there’s no clear plan to make a profit at the outset—but the folks running the thing have to at least want to make money eventually.
I’m not sure Yul does. But I am sure that I’ll do anything I can to help him. The world needs what he’s created, and it needs more people like Yul Tan and more people who would help someone like him. I want to be one of those people. Maybe that’s what I’m investing in. Either way, I feel that flame again, the match that flares and then gutters quickly, but still . . .
At the threshold of my office, Yul pauses. “I have to ask. I have this feeling. . . . Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so.” I would have remembered Yul Tan.
We go through the possibilities: conferences we’ve both attended, talks I’ve given, potential mutual acquaintances. Yul’s not trying to make a social connection or to become more familiar; he works at the problem, his head down, focused, like he’s solving for x in a complex equation.
But we don’t find the missing variable.
When he’s gone, I sit in my office, pondering. There is something familiar about Tan.
My admin, Julia, floats in and lays a sheet of paper on my desk. “Tickets. I know you hate the mobile app.”
“Tickets to what?”
“New York.”
“What?”
“The Shaw meeting. Did you forget?”
I rub my temples. I definitely forgot. Why would I schedule this the day after I got back from London? But that’s not the real issue, I realize suddenly.
For the first time in my life, I’m terrified of flying.
“Want me to cancel it?” Julia asks, arching her eyebrows.
“No. I’ll go.”
It would be rude to cancel. But . . . I wonder what my chances of landing alive are.