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bracelet on each wrist caught for a second in the light, her black suit coat unbuttoned, her still face now smiling as her sharp hair fell to the sides, the group around her laughing in sudden surprise, clapping for the boss who in that motion had revealed herself as a onetime club kid turned Chief Operating Officer.
    â€œStop that dancing,” I said loudly, standing back from the group, the appropriately benign comments of the passing CEO, a scene tailored on the fly to the trailing business press.
    â€œNo rock and roll,” Whitley yelled back. “No swear words. No long hair. No smoking. No laughing. No thinking. No fun.”
    Leaving the reporters with one of Whitley’s press people.
    Walking again, usually with a group, rarely alone—informal meetings made faster if we did not sit down. Walking and discussing any range of issues as we passed through the divisions of the company, the meeting participants sometimes scheduling their walks with me ahead of time, sometimes intercepting me in stairways or elevators or tracking me down on my cell phone, and all of it was okay if we did not stop, if we kept walking, talking fast, never bogging down in one issue, all of this time—my time of walking and meeting—all of it scheduled, in advance and down to the minute, by my assistant on twenty.
    Always in my life as CEO of Core Communications, there was merely the appearance of spontaneity.
    Picking up Julie for a discussion of production issues at two European facilities.
    Passing people in suits, people in jeans, people in shirts that crossed the line from earth-tone casual to weekend camouflage.
    Seeing bright computer monitors reflecting off glass walls and young faces.
    Glancing into a makeshift bunkhouse in the middle of fifteen, a onetime conference room now lined with small beds and padded cots, all used for late-day naps or overnight stays.
    Reading a list of the animal names we gave to our computers, the tree names we used for our servers, the former republics, capitals and other landmarks of the Soviet empire that we gave to our many conference rooms.
    There was an overriding if obscure logic to our company, one formed so chaotically out of the disparate rhythms of so many different people.
    One hundred new e-mails by noon.
    Four women entering a conference room named Turkmenistan, and all of them wearing green.
    Walking again, now talking with Cliff as we passed through a new, still uninhabited area, one of the building’s recently built-out sections that were collectively known as the Unoccupied Territories. Turning a corner and expecting to find people but only seeing more empty desks, empty chairs, the clean delineation of steel and glass partitions. All of it untouched, all of it quiet, all of it ready for the next wave of workers. Most Unoccupied Territories sat unused for just a few weeks. But sometimes, if we misjudged the scope or type of the next big staffing need, the areas remained unassigned for as much as two or three months, months when the spaces would be used as wrestling death pits for high-strung programmers, as sleeping quarters for accountants trying to close the quarterly financials, as extra workspace for squatters from all areas of the company, all of them needing more room.
    Into a scheduled lunch meeting where I reviewed reports on the roll-out of a wide range of new products and services, each meant to broaden our product lines, expand our revenue base and diminish our dependence on sales of Blue Boxes. Already we sold over a hundred products and services in addition to the Blue Boxes. Together they accounted for less than two percent of company sales. Certainly not enough revenue to support the current operations and growth of Core Communications. Barely enough to cover the R&D money we continued to put into other new ideas.
    And nowhere near enough money to head off the bankruptcy I had forecast on the spreadsheet model hidden on my computer.
    But I kept