Undo | Page 7

a new literary agent, and I'm about to begin writing a screenplay called
"Misguided Angel" that I've wanted to write for years. Plus, I'm already
thinking about the second screenplay I'll write after that, and the next
mainstream novel, and the next less mainstream novel too. So I'm
anything but down for the final count.

Have I learned anything in all these years? Tons. For one thing, my
first two agents weren't so unfit after all - each did the best job she
could in trying to sell the novel, and in the end even my third, highly
esteemed agent met with the same resistance that the previous two
encountered. Second, the publishing business is more a mystery to me
than ever. That this book has not found a home has somehow turned in
my heart from a troubling fact of life, to something of a testament to
optimism, a proud eccentricity, a character-building battle scar of sorts.
I suppose that's just how we fragile beings adapt to unrealized
expectations, dashed hopes. Still, having just completed my new novel,
I'm all juiced up and feeling groovy, raring to give it another go - after
all, it's all anyone who decides to try to make a living telling stories can
do...try, try again.
Will "Undo" ever find its way between the sheets of pulpy paper and
glossy covers? Will it ever find its way onto the big screen, or, if I had
my choice, the little screen? And, perhaps most important of all, does
this novel really matter to anyone besides me? The first two questions I
have no way of knowing the outcomes of - both are in Fate's
all-knowing hands and only time will tell.
As for that last question, whether this novel matters to anyone besides
me, I can only answer by saying I hope so.
What you're about to read is a novel I have labored over for a very long
time. It gives me great pleasure to hand it over, once and for all, to you,
gentle reader, whoever, and wherever you are. I hope you like it.
Joe Hutsko [email protected] January, 1996
PROLOGUE
It was once a sprawling flatland, dominated by fruit tree orchards and
nestled safely between protective hills.
This tranquil scene slowly vanished as trees were felled, concrete
poured, and new seeds planted, each the size of a large beetle and filled
with thousands of microscopic circuits, sown by a new breed of farmer,
with dreams of growing the future.
The new electronic produce, capable of performing millions of
calculations in the blink of an eye, was harvested.
The new technology farmland: Silicon Valley.
Viewed from high above, the Valley looks like a schematic drawing of
the very seeds from which it has grown, thousands of technology

orchards, connected by the roads and highways etched into the golden
surface of the land.

Chapter 1
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PART I

Chapter 1
As he guided the black BMW coupe onto Highway 280, Matthew
Locke felt as though his mind was spinning as quickly as the wheels
propelling him onward. Whether the one functioned as precisely as the
other did not occur to him.
Appraising his position, he wondered why there were so few cars to
contend with this afternoon. Having lived in Northern California for
more than two years, he had never headed home on 280 without
confronting ricocheting tail lights, jockeying for position in the fast
lane. Bright sunlight and warm air rushed through the sunroof and
windows as he gained speed and activated the cruise control upon
reaching sixty-five miles per hour.
Then Matthew noticed the clock, and he remembered he was two hours
ahead of the commuter traffic that congested the highway every day.
He also remembered why.
He took a few deep breaths to relax his nerves. He had tried one last
time, to no avail, to compromise with Peter Jones, the stubborn young
founder of Wallaby Computer, Incorporated.
Matthew Locke did not want things to end like this. Not exactly. But
there was no alternative. The confrontation that had just taken place
was more like a vicious counseling session between a distressed
married couple than a meeting between two senior executives of the
decade's most important and innovative high technology company.

Matthew had informed his secretary Eileen that he was walking over to
Peter Jones's office to try to talk with him one last time about the
upcoming board of directors meeting. As Matthew neared Peter's
building, his anxiety sharpened. He paused for a moment and thought
about his place at that very instant, standing at the very center of the
Peter Jones legacy. Surrounding Matthew were a number of
Spanish-style, single-story buildings, each painted white and topped
with a red tile roof. What began as a seedling idea in a garage