sure,” he said, clearing his throat and giving off odd kinesic signals. Then a smile. “But they dropped the charges. I mean, what else could they do when Jimmy Hoffa’s body never turned up?”
She couldn’t help but laugh. Oh, you poor grad students. Beware.
“I thought you consulted with police.”
“I’ve offered to, at the end of my lectures to law enforcement agencies and security companies. But nobody’s taken me up on it. Until now. You’re my maiden voyage. I’ll try not to disappoint.”
They arrived in her office and sat across from each other at her battered coffee table.
Boling said, “I’m happy to help however I can but I’m not sure exactly what I can do.” A bolt of sunlight fell across his loafers and he glanced down, noticed that one sock was black and one navy blue. He laughedwithout embarrassment. In another era Dance would have deduced that he was single; nowadays, with two busy working partners, fashion glitches like this were inadmissible evidence. He didn’t, however, wear a wedding ring.
“I have a hardware and software background but for serious technical advice, I’m afraid I’m over the legal age limit and I don’t speak Hindi.”
He told her that he’d gotten joint degrees in literature and engineering at Stanford, admittedly an odd combination, and after a bit of “bumming around the world” had ended up in Silicon Valley, doing systems design for some of the big computer companies.
“Exciting time,” he said. But, he added, eventually he’d been turned off by the greed. “It was like an oil rush. Everybody was asking how could they get rich by convincing people they had these needs that computers could fill. I thought maybe we should look at it the other way: find out what needs people actually had and then ask how computers could help them.” A cocked head. “As between their position and mine. I lost big-time. So I took some stock money, quit, bummed around again. I ended up in Santa Cruz, met somebody, decided to stay and tried teaching. Loved it. That was almost ten years ago. I’m still there.”
Dance told him that after a stint as a reporter she’d gone back to college—the same school where he taught. She studied communications and psychology. Their time had coincided, briefly, but they didn’t know anyone in common.
He taught several courses, including the Literature of Science Fiction, as well as a class called Computers and Society. And in the grad school Bolingtaught what he described as some boring technical courses. “Sort of math, sort of engineering.” He also consulted for corporations.
Dance interviewed people in many different professions. The majority radioed clear signals of stress when speaking of their jobs, which indicated either anxiety because of the demands of the work, or, more often, depression about it—as Boling had earlier when speaking about Silicon Valley. But his kinesic behavior now, when discussing his present career, was stress free.
He continued to downplay his technical skill, though, and Dance was disappointed. He seemed smart and more than willing to help—he’d driven down here on a moment’s notice—and she would have liked to use his services, but to get into Tammy Foster’s computer it sounded like they’d need more of a hands-on tech person. At least, she hoped, he could recommend someone.
Maryellen Kresbach came in with a tray of coffee and cookies. Attractive, she resembled a country-western singer, with her coiffed brown hair and red Kevlar fingernails. “The guard desk called. Somebody’s got a computer from Michael’s office.”
“Good. You can bring it up.”
Maryellen paused for a moment and Dance had an amusing idea that the woman was checking out Boling as romantic fodder. Her assistant had been waging a none-too-subtle campaign to find Dance a husband. When the woman eyed Boling’s naked left ring finger and lifted her brow at Dance, the agent flashed her an exasperated glance,
She couldn’t help but laugh. Oh, you poor grad students. Beware.
“I thought you consulted with police.”
“I’ve offered to, at the end of my lectures to law enforcement agencies and security companies. But nobody’s taken me up on it. Until now. You’re my maiden voyage. I’ll try not to disappoint.”
They arrived in her office and sat across from each other at her battered coffee table.
Boling said, “I’m happy to help however I can but I’m not sure exactly what I can do.” A bolt of sunlight fell across his loafers and he glanced down, noticed that one sock was black and one navy blue. He laughedwithout embarrassment. In another era Dance would have deduced that he was single; nowadays, with two busy working partners, fashion glitches like this were inadmissible evidence. He didn’t, however, wear a wedding ring.
“I have a hardware and software background but for serious technical advice, I’m afraid I’m over the legal age limit and I don’t speak Hindi.”
He told her that he’d gotten joint degrees in literature and engineering at Stanford, admittedly an odd combination, and after a bit of “bumming around the world” had ended up in Silicon Valley, doing systems design for some of the big computer companies.
“Exciting time,” he said. But, he added, eventually he’d been turned off by the greed. “It was like an oil rush. Everybody was asking how could they get rich by convincing people they had these needs that computers could fill. I thought maybe we should look at it the other way: find out what needs people actually had and then ask how computers could help them.” A cocked head. “As between their position and mine. I lost big-time. So I took some stock money, quit, bummed around again. I ended up in Santa Cruz, met somebody, decided to stay and tried teaching. Loved it. That was almost ten years ago. I’m still there.”
Dance told him that after a stint as a reporter she’d gone back to college—the same school where he taught. She studied communications and psychology. Their time had coincided, briefly, but they didn’t know anyone in common.
He taught several courses, including the Literature of Science Fiction, as well as a class called Computers and Society. And in the grad school Bolingtaught what he described as some boring technical courses. “Sort of math, sort of engineering.” He also consulted for corporations.
Dance interviewed people in many different professions. The majority radioed clear signals of stress when speaking of their jobs, which indicated either anxiety because of the demands of the work, or, more often, depression about it—as Boling had earlier when speaking about Silicon Valley. But his kinesic behavior now, when discussing his present career, was stress free.
He continued to downplay his technical skill, though, and Dance was disappointed. He seemed smart and more than willing to help—he’d driven down here on a moment’s notice—and she would have liked to use his services, but to get into Tammy Foster’s computer it sounded like they’d need more of a hands-on tech person. At least, she hoped, he could recommend someone.
Maryellen Kresbach came in with a tray of coffee and cookies. Attractive, she resembled a country-western singer, with her coiffed brown hair and red Kevlar fingernails. “The guard desk called. Somebody’s got a computer from Michael’s office.”
“Good. You can bring it up.”
Maryellen paused for a moment and Dance had an amusing idea that the woman was checking out Boling as romantic fodder. Her assistant had been waging a none-too-subtle campaign to find Dance a husband. When the woman eyed Boling’s naked left ring finger and lifted her brow at Dance, the agent flashed her an exasperated glance,
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