“Uh-huh.” And for the next three hours, Mark did all the talking.
Mitsui hardly spoke at all, and when he did, it was in Japanese, a language both simple and supple. Most of the time, as he sat side-by-side with the vice president for innovation at Kanagawa Electronics and Shipbuilding, Inc., Mitsui tapped out numbers on his pocket computer. The v.p. grinned and nodded and hissed happily at the glowing digits on the tiny readout screen.
The Reception
Robert Emmett Upton, president of Hubris Books, a division of WPA Entertainment, which is a wholly-owned subsidiary of Moribundic Industries, Inc., which in turn is owned by Empire State Bank (and, it is rumored, the Mafia), could scarcely believe his ears.
“Electronic books? What on earth are electronic books?”
Lipton smiled gently at his son-in-law. It didn’t do to get tough with Rockmore. He simply broke down and cried and went home to Charlene, who would then phone to tell her mother what a heel her father was to pick on such a sensitive boy as Gene.
So the president of Hubris Books rocked slowly in his big leather chair and tried to look interested as his son-in-law explained his latest hare-brained scheme. Lipton sighed inwardly, thinking about the time Rockmore suggested to the editorial board that they stop printing books that failed to sell well, and stuck only to best sellers. That was when Rockmore had just graduated from the summer course in management at Harvard. Ten years later, and he still didn’t know a thing about the publishing business. But he kept Charlene happy, and that kept Charlene’s mother happy, and that was the only reason Lipton allowed Rockmore to play at being an executive.
“So it’s possible,” Rockmore was saying, “to make the thing about the size of a paperback book. Its screen would be the size of a book page, and it could display a page of printed text or full-color illustrations. . .”
“Do you realize how much color separations cost?” Upton snapped. Instantly he regretted his harshness. He started to reach for the Kleenex box on the shelf behind his chair.
But Rockmore did not burst into tears, as he usually did. Instead he smirked. “No color separations, Papa. It’s all done electronically.”
“No color separations?” Lipton found that hard to believe. “No color separations. No printing at all. No paper. It’s like having a hand-sized TV set in your. . . er, hand. But the screen can be any page of any book we publish.”
“No printing?” Lipton heard his voice echoing, weakly. “No paper?”
“It’s all done by electronics. Computers.”
Lipton’s mind was in a whirl. He conjured up last month’s cost figures. The exact numbers were a blur in his memory, but they were huge—and most of them came from the need to transport vast tonnages of paper from the pulp mills to the printing plants, and then from the printing plants to the warehouses, and then from the warehouses to the wholesalers, and then. . .
He sat up straighter in his chair. “No paper? Are you certain?”
Mitsui bowed low to the president of Kanagawa. The doughty old man, his silver hair still thick, his dark eyes still alert, sat on the matted floor, dressed in a magnificent midnight-blue kimono. He barely nodded his head at the young engineer and the vice president for innovation, both of whom wore Western business suits.
With a curt gesture, he commanded them to sit. For long moments, nothing was said, as the servants brought the tea. The old man let his favorite, a young woman of heartbreakingly fragile beauty, set out the graceful little cups and pour the steaming tea.
Mitsui held his breath until the v.p. nodded to him. Then, from the inside pocket of his jacket, Mitsui pulled out a slim package, exquisitely wrapped in expensive golden gift paper and tied with a silk bow the same color as the president’s kimono. He held the gift in outstretched arms, presenting it to the old man.
The president allowed a crooked grin to cross his stern visage. As the v.p. knew, he took a childish pleasure in receiving gifts. Very carefully, the old man untied the bow and peeled away the heavy paper. He opened the box and took out an object the size of a paperback book. Most of its front surface was taken up by a video screen. There were three pressure pads at the screen’s bottom, nothing more.
The old man raised his shaggy brows questioningly. The v.p. indicated that he should press the first button, which was a bright green.
The president did, and the little screen instantly showed a listing of titles. Among them were the best selling novels of the month. By pressing the buttons as indicated, the old man got the screen to display the opening pages of half a dozen books within less than a minute.
He smiled broadly, turned to Mitsui and extended his right hand. He clasped the young engineer’s shoulder the way a proud father would grasp his bright young son.
The Evaluation
Lipton sat at the head of the conference table and studied the vice presidents arrayed about him: Editorial, Marketing, Production, Advertising, Promotion, Subsidiary Rights, Legal, Accounting, Personnel, and son-in-law. For the first time in the ten years since Rockmore had married his daughter, Lipton gazed fondly at his son-in-law.
“Gentlemen,” said the president of Hubris Books, then, with his usual smarmy nod to the Editor-in-Chief and the head of Subsidiary Rights, “and ladies. . .”
They were shocked when he invited Rockmore to take the floor, and even more startled when the former chorus boy made a fifteen-minute presentation of the electronic book idea without falling over himself. It was the first time Lipton had asked his son-in-law to speak at the monthly executive board conference, and certainly the first time Rockmore had anything to say that was worth listening to.
Or was it? The assembled vice presidents eyed each other nervously as Rockmore sat down after his presentation. No one wanted to be the first to speak. No one knew which way the wind was blowing. Rockmore sounded as if he knew what he was talking about, but maybe this was a trap. Maybe Lipton was finally trying to get his son-in-law bounced out of the company, or at least off the executive board.
They all fidgeted in their chairs, waiting for Lipton to give them some clue as to what they were supposed to think. The president merely sat up at the head of the table, fingers steepled, smiling like a chubby, inscrutable Buddha.
The silence stretched out to an embarrassing length. Finally, Editorial could stand it no longer.
“Another invasion by technology,” she said, her fingers fussing absently with the bow of her blouse. “It was bad enough when we computerized the office. It took my people weeks to make the adjustment. Some of them are still at sea.”
“Then get rid of them,” Lipton snapped. “We can’t stand in the way of progress. Technology is the future. I’m sure of it.”
An almost audible sigh of relief went around the table. Now they knew where the boss stood; they knew what they were supposed to say.
“Well, of course technology is important,” Editorial backtracked, “but I just don’t see how an electronic thingamajig can replace a book. I mean, it’s cold. . . metallic. It’s a machine. A book is. . . well, it’s comforting, it’s warm and friendly, it’s the feel of paper. . .”
“Which costs too damned much,” Lipton said. Accounting took up the theme with the speed of an electronic calculator. “Do you have any idea of what paper costs this company each month?”
