 
### Steven's Choice

A business novel

By John Renesch

Smashwords Edition 2011 © John Renesch

New Business Books

P.O. Box 472379

San Francisco, CA 94147-2379

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One: AIN'T LIFE GRAND

Chapter Two: A BRICK THROUGH THE WINDOW

Chapter Three: BACK TO WORK

Chapter Four: LESSONS FROM THE BABY

Chapter Five: THE JOURNEY

Chapter Six: ONE HELLUVA RIDE

Chapter Seven: THE CROSSROADS

Chapter Eight: A TIME FOR NEW BEGINNINGS

Chapter Nine: LIFE AS AN EVANGELIST

About the author

Acknowledgments

**PROLOGUE**

January 25: Golden Gate Bridge, Marin County side; 7:12 AM (PST)

Sitting in the back seat of the Infiniti SUV, Gene was glad he wasn't driving today. The conversation about a TV movie last night wasn't engaging him and, frankly, he preferred being with his own thoughts right now.

Gazing out into the Pacific Ocean on his right, he was feeling some dread on this Monday morning. He'd read somewhere that more heart attacks occur at this time of the week than any other time, inferring people became more stressed out anticipating their return to work after a weekend. He slid his right hand up under his jacket and felt his chest in an instinctive attempt to check his heart. _That's silly_ , he thought to himself, _there's no way I can tell if I'm stressed by feeling my chest_.

The idea of calling his personal prospects and overseeing his Monday morning sales team meeting was not at all appealing. He knew the drill and had it down pat. But his heart wasn't in it anymore. Maybe it never was!

"Nothing happens until somebody sells something." This old saw went through his mind. He first heard it in graduate school a decade ago, perpetuated no doubt by sales managers trying to get their people motivated. _Did his company's future really depend upon getting their seven point three percent market share up a quarter of a point this quarter? What would happen if the company vanished? Probably, he fantasized, they'd be missed for about a week and then all the competition would absorb their share of the market and they'd be 'yesterday's newspaper.'_

_Was the world better off because they offered a less-inferior-than-most-others product at a mid-market price? Was he doing anything really important other than earning a paycheck with which he paid the bills, mortgages, dues, credit cards, car payments and tuition for the kids?_ He felt like a machine—money in, money out. Busier than he'd like to be, having all the right "stuff" but up to his ass in debt. _Was he having a mid-life crisis? No, he was too young for that! Or was this simply the Monday morning blues?_

He heard laughter and his attention returned to the others in the car. They were just passing through the toll plaza on the San Francisco side.

January 26: Orinda, California, the Davidson family home: 6:37 PM (PST)

Their smallest child was coming down the hall toward the kitchen, dragging a noisy wagon loaded with assorted treasure. The four year old boy asked in a louder than necessary voice, "Will Daddy be home for dinner?"

Monica shuddered at the query, knowing the answer wouldn't be welcome to her son Bobby.

"No, sweetheart, he's working again tonight. He'll be with us on the weekend, though," she added in an attempt to soften the news and continued preparing dinner for herself and the children. Bobbie loved his dad very much and Monica could see the wounded expression on his face as he stopped, hesitated, fought back tears and got that awful stoic look on his face. Then, he turned slowly and walked away—back toward the family room where his younger sister was watching television. Monica's heart went out to Bobby but she had learned if she tried to comfort him he got outwardly upset. She reasoned that it was better to remain as matter-of-fact as she could without projecting her upset onto the child. She hoped he wouldn't grow up to be another man who stuffed his feelings but she wasn't sure what else to do right now. This situation is getting old, she tells herself, _very old...and I'm getting fed up!_

From what she read and saw on TV, her husband Jim fit the definition of a workaholic. This wasn't a term she used lightly. She didn't mean he loved his work and couldn't get enough of it. She didn't mean he simply worked too many hours. Jim was truly addicted and it was destroying their marriage. She almost wished he was an alcoholic, she sometimes told herself. At least he'd be home with the family!

Yesterday she had seen her therapist for the third time about this and he seemed to confirm her diagnosis after asking her some questions. He strongly recommended she bring Jim in with her for a joint session. "Couples counselling" is what he called it.

The kids were getting cheated on the parenting experience. Both Jim and Monica worked so the children were in day care all day long, five days a week. Her job was closer to home and she was pretty much a nine-to-five employee, so she was around in the evenings. She wasn't happy farming the kids out to day care but bringing in that second income was so essential if they wanted a house. But Jim _was_ his job. His whole identity was wrapped up in his position. His obsessive work habits fit the textbook definition for being a true addiction—an obsession harmful to his own health and his relationship with his family.

The children only saw their father on weekends with any degree of certainty. If he did get home on a weeknight before they were in bed they were surprised. But they had come to accept—maybe resigned—their Daddy wouldn't be around until Sunday, and maybe part of Saturday. Monica sat on the stool at the counter and thought, _This sucks_!

January 27: San Francisco, Headquarters Building, Bank of San Francisco Ltd, 8:13 AM PST

Her job at the bank seemed secure with the upcoming merger but she was a wreck after months of worry. Assurances from those managing the transition lessened her concern and she started to feel some relief. Susan needed this job and she also needed to be with this bank where she had earned a reputation that would have long-term benefits. A layoff would sabotage her career plans.

Jeffrey walked into her cubical and asked her if she'd seen today's _San Francisco Chronicle_. "No, she said," having only just finished today's _Journal_.

"We're above the fold," he said as he handed her the Business Section. He took a seat at her workstation and waited for her to read the story about the merger.

Jack McHale, CEO of the new parent bank seeking greater national prominence, was the subject of the article. The reporter mentioned how many inconsistencies there were between what had been promised to the top executives of her bank, a California institution for over half a century, and what was in the works now that both boards had approved the deal. The article was quite critical of the promises made and the apparent plans to disregard many of them. Despite this criticism, the reporter went on the say, after all, it was a business and if he ever was in a big deal like this he hoped this particular CEO was on his team.

"How ludicrous!" Susan exclaimed. "This jerk is saying that breaking your word is normal for business people...and that includes me. This pisses me off!"

"I thought it would," said Jeffery, "I'm just a flunky around here but you Miss MBA are on a career track to be CEO yourself one of these days. But, then again, you may be one of those 'expendables' they mention."

Jeffrey left her alone with the paper without saying anything else. He knew she was mulling this news over and decided it was best to leave her be.

Susan's mood changed to an emotional cocktail of anger, worry, fear and great angst. Besides all this she was feeling some shame for being a business person too.

January 28: over the Atlantic, KLM Airlines Flight # KL6055 Westbound: 1:26 AM GMT

She had made over $200,000 today and there were still three hours in her workday! This could be a record earnings day for middle-aged "Soodie," day trader extraordinaire! Her best day until now had been $286,000 in both commissions and profit-taking for her own account. That was on "Golden Thursday" when the market went crazy a few months ago. Luck was a big factor she admitted to herself. _I was lucky. But, boy, was it exciting!_

This work was so far removed from being a broker where she started twenty five years ago. She was quick to see the big bucks were being made in futures, commodities, options and currencies. Of course, this wasn't investing as she learned it in school. Trading was a giant casino, speculating on rises and falls in prices, watching charts and reading subtle discrepancies in the market as they were happening.

Making money was fun. The game had become largely about seeing just how much she could make. Of course, most days weren't like this. Many days she would come out slightly ahead or behind. Sometimes a whole month would go by without a big payday. But then, every once in a while, there was a day like today.

She reflected on how difficult it was to get into the headspace to be a trader. This work took a very different temperament than being a stock broker. Trading for her own account relieved her of the fiduciary responsibility to her customer. She could take bigger risks if she thought it was warranted for the potential gain she might see. She might be more inclined to take a bigger risk if she was ahead for the day. After all, it was her money. When she was trading for clients it was different...more caution, less fun for her.

It was lonely, though. And she wondered what this work would be like if she wasn't making a ton of money. After all, it was not creating any value for anyone else. Just her! _Making money for the sake of making money._ No products. No service provided, except for a couple of private banking clients she worked with for old times sake.

Not adding value for anyone else and being somewhat isolated was a personal choice. But Soodie got some flack from her Islamic friends, claiming she was in violation of the principle of "shariah." This aspect of Islamic law forbids simple lending or profit-taking and advocates investing for return on investment and development. Despite her Muslim ancestry, Soodie was not devout in her religion. In fact, she was more secular than even she wanted to admit. When she visited certain family members, she dressed and acted conventionally for her ethnicity to avoid getting hassled. After all, she knows the drill having been born in Iraq.

So, she ponders, she is leading a bit of a double life too. After a minute or two of contemplation on this, she brings herself back to the computer in front of her and starts thinking of her next position. She still has time to put on another trade.

January 28: University of Pennsylvania cafeteria, The Wharton School: 11:55 AM EST

Rebecca sits with her near-finished latte' and reflects on the article she just read. Here she is three quarters of her way through her MBA program and she reads MBA graduates are among the least ethical of the U.S. student population.

_What kind of club am I joining_ , she wonders. Her father had influenced her a lot about applying to business school and it seemed like the best path to achieve the sort of financial independence in the shortest period of time. He was a lifelong executive, making only one jump from the company that recruited him from this very campus, thirty years earlier.

He was an admired man in the community back in Seattle. He did well enough to raise his children and support his family while enjoying an affluent lifestyle. Respected and esteemed, his opinion was usually wise and so his recommendation carried weight with her.

All through her childhood and adolescence, business leaders were amongst those with the highest status. This was a big factor for her in moving this far from familiar Washington state. She had lived in the same house all her life, including her undergrad work at the University of Washington.

Now she learns her chosen profession has been branded "liar" by the researchers. She recalls a bemoaning she once heard from her dad: "What has happened to our ethics? What has become of ethical business people?"

Now she wondered too.

**Chapter One: AIN'T LIFE GRAND**

January 30: San Francisco, World Headquarters, Ventures International, 6:08 PM PST

"Well, I guess that does it—this meeting is adjourned," said Steven George, CEO and presiding chairman of Ventures International's board of directors. Steven was a large man, built like a football player—more like a halfback than a lineman. He stood just over six feet tall and still had his hair, although it was mostly white by now. He looked every part like the distinguished executive, evoking trust, wisdom, and rock-solid professionalism.

With Steven's declaration that the fourth quarter board meeting had been formally concluded, the ten men and two women present began gathering their notes and handouts, shutting down their laptops and PDAs. A few stretched their arms and flexed their backs after sitting for so long. The murmur of multiple private conversations started almost instantly. Hands were shaken, cards were exchanged, and a few farewell hugs took place.

Steven was somewhat pleased with the day's outcome, but he didn't have a solution to the dilemma they'd tried to resolve for most of the afternoon. It was past six now, and everyone was tired. Outside it was a dark.

The board members were exhausted not because they'd spent hours in the meeting. Their exhaustion stemmed from frustration. These were well-intended, intelligent people who shared a common objective—and who couldn't come to a resolution.

Mark Snow looked up from a sheaf of papers and his eyes met Steven's across the large conference table. The friends started making their way toward each other, saying their good-byes to the other board members as they went. Mark had joined Venture's board two years ago. He'd been an enormous asset ever since, Steven thought.

Steven liked Mark. They'd become very good friends since serving together on another board five years ago, for a company started by a mutual friend. Mark was in his late thirties, about fifteen years younger than Steven. He was just over six feet tall with thick brown hair. He was a marathon runner with a trim well-developed body.

"Thanks a lot for your contribution today," Steven said, clasping Mark's hand. "It was a tough agenda. Let me buy you a drink."

Mark nodded. "Sounds good. Where shall we go?"

"My office," Steven said. "I've got everything we need there, and I'd like to have a private conversation for just a few minutes. I've been on the road for days and want to get home as early as I can."

Steven's executive secretary, Ruth Amada, was busily collecting her notes. Even though the technicians had recorded everything from the booth, she still liked keeping her own notes at board meetings. Ruth would oversee the preparation of complete minutes for Steven to approve and distribute to all the Board members. She was talking with her assistant as the men approached her place at the table.

"See you in a bit, Ruth," Steven said as he and Mark headed into his office suite. "Stick your head in before you go home, if you don't mind. Mark and I are going to have a drink."

In his office, Steven opened a mirrored door to expose a well-stocked bar. He made himself a martini and poured Mark a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. He knew what Mark liked and made a point of having it on hand whenever he thought Mark might stop by. He carried the glass of wine over to where Mark was already sinking into one of two stuffed leather chairs facing each other.

Mark raised his glass. "Cheers, Steven," he said. He paused, sipped the wine, smiled with approval. "Now what did you want to talk about?"

Steven didn't respond immediately. He stirred his martini slowly with the olive and stared at the condensation on the frosted glass. Finally he looked up at Mark and spoke.

"I'm not sure what I want to say, but it involves the dilemma we were dealing with today in the meeting. This problem is coming up more and more these days—for boards all over the world—and I wanted to talk to you off the record. I don't want to have this conversation with other board members or our legal counsel. I want to explore it with a friend—a friend who is also knowledgeable about the facts and the circumstances...someone who really understands business."

Mark sat quietly for a moment. Then he smiled just a little and said, "Hit me with it"

"Thanks, Mark. You know your friendship means a lot to me," Steven said. He took a deep breath and began.

"It's this corporate responsibility thing.... Combined with our incredibly litigious society. As we saw earlier today, decisions we'd normally make based on our personal values can't be made at the corporate level because of our exposure to shareholder lawsuits, among other things. If I voted my conscience, or even with plain common sense, I might be sued by shareholders, venture capitalists, investment bankers, and others among our colleagues who have financial interests in the company. Their case could center on the fact that I didn't vote for maximizing their short-term return. That's become the mantra of the corporate lawyers who represent plaintiffs in these lawsuits. And God knows there's plenty of precedent for these suits succeeding!"

"It's a standard double-bind all directors face these days," Mark said. "It's a tough issue, and the Corporate Social Responsibility movement is making big strides."

"Exactly. I'm old enough to remember the 1960s, when corporate responsibility was being studied at SRI International down in Menlo Park. There was a group researching this subject back then, long before the more recent excesses and scandals made the headlines. I just received an update on a report I commissioned last year. There's a growing interest among corporate managers, shareholders, and the public in being 'green.' But we don't know how much of it is spin or what price shareholders are willing to pay to be nature-friendly or sustainable."

"Yeah," said Mark. "All it takes is for any group of investors to sue you if they can make a case that the bottom line has been affected even slightly or their dividends might have been lowered as a result of a decision we made in that boardroom—even if our thinking was ethically appropriate. They can use the directors' voting records as evidence for their lawsuits! And, there's legal precedent for these kinds of lawsuits!"

"Even is they don't win," Steven added, "the lawsuits are a huge sink-hole for time and money, and are often settled out of court simply to stop the bleeding of energy on their account."

Steven smiled wanly. "And that's the rub." He looked at his drink again.

Mark was deeply aware of the problem. It was a growing one too—mostly out of sight of the average executive or blue collar worker. The problem mostly faced directors of companies owned by shareholders entirely focused on profit. Sometimes the shareholders were large investment houses, like Ventures; some were pension funds or mutual finds; and some were traders who had no interest in what the company was doing, so long as they could make a few points of short-term profit while they owned the stock or options.

Mark wasn't as old as Steven, but he'd been around long enough to see the change from investing in a company you liked to casino-like speculation on faceless stocks, where buy decisions had little to do with anything besides financial performance. And he'd heard about "the good old days" from older colleagues and friends who'd been investing since World War II. They recalled how people would invest in companies because they liked them—what they did for the world, the values they stood for, and the reputation they enjoyed—in addition to their potential for long-term gain. Dividends and value appreciation were the primary reasons people purchased stock in a company, but a pride of ownership came into play too. If the stock was widely traded, investors knew they'd never own enough to have any say in how things were done, so an understanding of the company's character, so to speak, was important from the start.

_How often had he heard his older friends lament about the changes over the last fifty years_ , Mark thought. The phrase "gambling casino" was used frequently to describe the modern investment house. Short-term trading was more the norm now than long-term investing, according to his mentors. Investing had come to mean something much different from what it did a half century ago.

And, Mark admitted, the short-term approach had made him a millionaire several times over. So why did it bother him? He shifted in his chair uncomfortably and came out of his reverie as Steven spoke.

"There are times when I wonder if Milton Friedman had any idea about the impact he had when he testified in the Seventies that the corporation's primary responsibility was to maximize shareholder value," Steven said. He shook his head. "I mean...an economist in such a position of power and with such a reputation...His words became the war cry—the ultimate justifier—for focusing on the financial bottom line each quarter. And that's why we find ourselves running around like crazy to have a good quarterly report every three months. It's hard as hell to take a long-term view for the company and its role in the world when everyone expects each quarter to be a financial improvement over the last one."

"Right," Mark said. "Besides, life isn't like that. Life has cycles—ups and downs. You can't sustain continuous growth perpetually. But each new generation of managers feels compelled to continue increasing profits on their watch. There's a growing push among CEOs and their leadership teams to build their reputations—to generate impressive track records for earnings during their tenure and let their successors worry about maintaining the growth rate."

The men sipped their drinks in silence. Finally, Steven looked up at Mark with a rueful smile. "Well," he said, "there it is...one of the biggest ethical conundrums for the modern day business leader."

"I've run into it in my other boards too," Mark said. "It's not talked about much, but many directors are on the horns of this dilemma and it is quite serious. Back in the early Nineties, I heard Robert Waterman talk about it. He co-wrote that blockbuster book, _In Search of Excellence_. Well, he'd been on several boards where voting for the long-term interest of the company would have opened him up to shareholder lawsuits. I was surprised by how candid he was. That was when I first started thinking about the problem."

"Damn," Steven said. "I don't like this bind I feel. We should have agreed to pass on this deal today. When Joseph presented the acquisition, none of us liked the prospect of buying this company. But the numbers looked good. And, voting against it would have subjected all of us to major shareholder and financial media criticism, and a likely lawsuit. If it weren't for Joseph's enthusiasm and his youth, his eagerness to make a name for himself as an acquisitions specialist—and the homework he did with company counsel, who warned us of the possible outcomes if we voted against it—none of the other board members would have voted for it."

"I know _my_ heart wasn't in it. On the other hand, it will boost our profits, improve our balance sheet, and offset that loss we took last month with the shoe company that used recycled material," Mark said.

"Yes, yes, yes. I know," Steven said, a little irritably. "Joseph made all that clear. But did you see how unenthusiastic everyone was when the final vote was taken? No one seemed genuinely excited. To a person, they all voted with such resignation in their voices. It was sad." He shook his head for the umpteenth time. "I'd like to be excited about the deals we do here!"

There was a soft knock, and Ruth peeked in. "Anyone need anything?" she asked.

"We're fine," Steven said, "but would you like to join us? You could probably use a drink too."

Ruth hesitated. "Well, what's Mark got there?"

"A very nice Sauvignon Blanc, Ruth. I think you'll like it," Mark said, smiling.

"Okay," Ruth said, "I'll have a glass of that if you're sure I'm not intruding."

"You know you're not intruding," Steven said, rising and pouring her a glass. He refilled Mark's glass, and added, "Sit down, Ruth. Mark and I were discussing the dilemma of the board's charter—doing the right thing versus avoiding a lawsuit."

"That's it, Steven," Mark said. "You just hit the nail on the head. That's exactly what the bind is—voting our conscience or covering our asses."

"That's how it seems to me," Ruth said, "but I'm only an assistant. What do I know?"

"Plenty," said Steven. "After all, you've read all those reports and put up with my venting on this subject for years now. You probably could cite more cases where litigation resulted from these situations than I can. I'd say you are very qualified to comment, Ruth."

Mark leaned in. "The system is taking us in a direction we don't want to go," he said. "It's a runaway, taking us away from common sense, socially responsible action, and toward a no-fault, who's-to-blame paradigm."

"Oh, oh," Steven said. "There's that fucking word again! Why do you have to use such an elitist word like 'paradigm'? Damn those academics for creating such a snob word! I used to think people were saying a 'pair of dimes.' But I was afraid of looking stupid. So for months I acted like I knew what the word meant until I finally asked a professor at Stanford."

Mark grinned. "Do you mean Michael Ray at the business school?"

"Yeah, that's the guy," said Steven, somewhat surprised that Mark had identified the man so quickly. After a slight hesitation, he turned his attention back to Ruth. "Ray was a chaired professor of creativity and marketing, and has written several books. He even started a course called 'The New Paradigm in Business.' You could say that Professor Ray is the 'new paradigm' guy when it comes to business theorists."

"Hmm...Please excuse my ignorance," she said, "but I could use some explanation myself. I remember typing that word for you one time months ago, Steven, but I forgot what you said it meant."

Mark smiled and looked to Steven with an impish grin. "Go, big guy," he said with a wave of his hand.

"Okay, I'll take a stab at it," Steven looked upward for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "Paradigm means a culture—a set of assumptions about the way things are, or how they're _supposed_ to be—beliefs, habits, and practices —that are shared by a community. Often, when events occur that don't fit the established paradigm, people won't even see them. They'll be convinced the event couldn't be happening, because it doesn't fit their paradigm." He looked to Mark for approval. Mark nodded.

"My favorite example goes back to the days when everyone believed the world was flat," Steven said. "No—that's not quite correct. They _knew_ the world was flat.

"Adventurers who sailed over the horizon and failed to return served as proof for the 'flat earth society.' It took at least a century for enough scientific evidence (and a few sailors who returned after going beyond the horizon) to change the mindset of sufficient numbers of people. Then, seemingly overnight, there was mass agreement that the world was really round."

Mark interrupted. "The academics I know prefer to use the Copernican revolution as an example of a paradigm shift. But Thomas Kuhn popularized the word in his book _The Structure of Scientific Revolutions_.

Steven nodded slightly in agreement, his face showing a mixture of irritation and admiration with Mark for being so knowledgeable. "Yet despite the snobbish academic flavor of the word, its usage continues to grow, even though many people still don't know how to pronounce it. I've heard it on television commercials, for Christ's sake—even on news broadcasts!"

"Well, thank you for the explanation, fellas," Ruth said. "I think I've got it now. But what has it got to do with business?"

Steven looked at Mark and finished his martini. Mark took the nonverbal cue. "Since I brought it up, I'll tell you how the intellectuals use it in a business context," he said.

"The old paradigm in business—the one that's losing credibility and falling out of favor—is the robber-baron approach of exploiting people and the environment for the sake of profiting financially. The old paradigm consisted of assumptions that resources were unlimited, water and air pollution weren't really concerns, future generations could fend for themselves, customers could be duped or conned and 'buyer beware' was the motto of the day. It's based on an underlying assumption that we are all separate from one another and cause leads to effect. The old scientific paradigm dominates the Industrial Age, where 'reality' is defined as that which can be objectively measured using the five physical senses. All this is very mechanistic—like people are machines." Mark looked at Steven and Ruth, who nodded her understanding and motioned him to continue.

"Okay, once you become aware that we are in a mindset—and that 'reality' is nothing more than how we think about what is—you can see this old paradigm all over the place. After all, it is the 'reality' in which we have lived and worked in these past several decades," he said. "This collective consensus shows up in the way we evaluate and perceive reality, manage our enterprises...how we objectify each other, nature, and just about everything else. It shows up in our language, such as calling employees 'human resources' or 'human capital.' Or referring to our hearts as 'pumps' as if we were mechanical devices. These may seem like subtle indicators but they are clues to how we think."

Steven squirmed a bit and interrupted. "Well, I wouldn't go that far with this paradigm stuff, but you get the drift, don't you, Ruth?"

"Oh yes, of course," she said, smiling at Mark. "Thank you for such an eloquent explanation."

"Wait! I'm not done yet," Mark said. "I've only explained the _old_ paradigm. I haven't told you about the new one today's thought leaders believe is emerging."

"I really do need to get home, Mark. Let's postpone that until another time," Steven said determinedly.

Mark felt cut off, but understood that Steven found many of his ideas on the verge of being anti-business. He nodded, letting his friend off the hook. "Thanks for the great wine, Steven," he said, rising from his chair to set his glass on the wet bar. "I should be getting home too. Kathy was probably expecting me an hour ago."

"Well, I haven't been home in four days," Steven said, "and I'm eager to be in my own home, in my own bed, with my dearest Catherine. We talked last night, and it sounds like I have a lot of catching up to do on the family."

"Leave everything, fellas. I'll clean up here before I go," Ruth offered. "I still have work to do before I leave."

"Thanks, Ruth. I don't know what I'd do without you," Steven said.

Ruth had joined Steven in 1979. He'd named his little start-up SG Investments, Inc. and hired her the first week. She came along with him when the company was acquired by Ventures in 1986. She was loyal to Steven, dedicated to her work, and incredibly proficient. She was like his partner in many ways, tending to many of his very important relationships—both professional and personal. She knew his family intimately, got along with everyone, and, as far as he knew, her life centered around her role as his executive secretary. Her social life was largely based upon her work relationships.

"Good night, Ruth, and thanks for all your help during the meeting today," Mark said as he left. "It was a tough one, so I'm sure it'll be a lot of fun getting it all together for the minutes," he said with a bit of sarcasm.

The two men walked down the hall toward the elevator. They rode down to the lobby and parted company in the parking lot as they walked to their cars.

"Good night, Mark. See you soon and thanks again for today and this evening. I appreciate your input," Steven said.

"Likewise, and I'd love to continue our discussion sometime soon," Mark said. "Good night."

January 30: Palo Alto, California, Stanford University campus, 6:45 PM PST

She was leaving the library later than usual. It had been a rough day for the young woman, who was just three weeks from receiving her MBA.

Her backpack filled to capacity, she mounted her bicycle and headed toward the Starbuck's where her friend Terry would be waiting. She thought about calling ahead on her cell phone, but decided she could be there by the time the call would be finished. She flicked on her light and pedaled for the coffee shop three blocks away.

Jean was excited about completing her time on campus. She had known no other life than school for the past fifteen years, and she was ready to get out into the real world. She wanted to make lots of money and she'd decided over five years ago the business world was for her.

Born and raised in Pipestone, Minnesota—a small town in the southwest corner of the state—she'd known only the rural life through high school. Except for a few excursions into Minneapolis, she had little familiarity with large cities. Moving to the Bay Area had been quite an adventure.

When she was accepted at Stanford, she was elated, as was her family. After all, she was the first in her family to attend one of the country's prestigious universities. Her older brother had dropped out of college and joined the military, and her younger sister was three years behind her. Her parents were blue-collar folks with a strong work ethic. Her father never made much money as a truck mechanic. He worked for a dealership now, but had once tried owning his own business—a repair garage he'd opened when Jean was five. Her mother had found being married to a self-employed business owner too uncertain. She hadn't liked never knowing how much money she'd have at the end of the month. Between his wife's insecurity, the challenge of running his own business, and having three young mouths to feed, Jean's dad eventually sold the garage and took a salaried job at the local Ford dealership.

In high school, Jean had met a woman visiting from California. Her name was Pat, and she'd also been raised in Pipestone, where her parents still lived. Pat lived in Palo Alto and Jean had loved talking with her about life "out there." To the sixteen year-old Minnesotan, the life Pat had talked about so matter-of-factly sounded like an absolute fairy tale. So glamorous. People had nice things. It never snowed and the ground never froze. It had always seemed to Jean that California was where all the really cool things started.

Pat had made an enormous impression on the high-schooler; she'd filled a void. After that summer visit, Jean knew what she wanted. She dated boys, but would never allow anything serious to develop. She knew she wouldn't be getting married to any local fellows. She was making big plans for herself.

Jean was determined to have money. As a child, she'd felt the restrictions a lack of it had caused and she'd listened to her mother's constant laments about making ends meet for most of her life. She was committed to making a very different life for herself—one that included having anything she wanted. That would take money. She'd noticed the people who made the most money used other people's money to do it. Mostly, she'd learned, new wealth came from playing in the financial markets, not from making something and selling it—like most people thought about when they thought about business. No, money came from getting as close to insider information as you could and betting on certain outcomes based on that information. Investment bankers, commodity traders, and speculators of all sorts were the ones who made tons of money. That, Jean reasoned, was where she ought to enter the workforce.

She parked her bike in the rack outside the shop, locked it, and stepped inside to meet Terry.

January 30: San Francisco, World Headquarters, Ventures International, 6:58 PM PST

Steven watched Mark head for his BMW, across the lot in visitors' parking, then got into the dark green Mercedes in his reserved space. It purred immediately to life. He fastened his seat belt, and paused. He was still stimulated by the conversation with Mark and Ruth. but also eager to get home. He glanced at the back seat to be sure his wardrobe bag was still there. Then he shifted into reverse and backed out of his spot. It would be a leisurely drive home.

His house was located in Hillsborough, about thirty minutes south of "The City." Gradually, his thoughts left the office and the meeting, and he focused on Catherine and all the family news waiting for him at home.

When publicly traded Ventures had merged with SG Investments in 1986, Steven had become the largest individual shareholder. After a rocky period while the two companies sorted out the new combined culture, Steven had taken the helm. Ventures now served investors in seventy-five countries and had offices in London, Hong Kong, New York, Brussels, Zurich, Tokyo, Bombay, and Caracas besides the corporate headquarters in San Francisco. It employed over seven hundred people around the world and had become a twelve billion dollar company.

Traffic was light on the freeway. His mind drifted years back to the long weekend when he and Catherine had rented a houseboat at Shasta Lake, several hundred miles north. Their girls had been preschoolers at the time. They invited Steven's mother and his brother Richard. Steven had promised himself he'd make the final decision about selling his company to Ventures over the five days they spent floating around, enjoying the warm weather and sunshine. He remembered how difficult it had been to decide—there had been advantages to remaining independent and, of course, there were other advantages to being a part of an international firm. Despite the difficulty, he decided. And there were only a few occasions since then when he'd regretted it.

He turned off the freeway and headed for the hills of Hillsborough and his ten-acre homestead, a small estate he and Catherine had acquired shortly after the deal with Ventures.

January 30: San Francisco Peninsula, Hillsborough, George residence, 7:45 PM PST

Steven drove through the gate and up the long driveway, parking the car under the drive-through alongside the main house. The exterior light was on over the side door. As he stepped out of the car and retrieved his briefcase and wardrobe bag, Catherine opened the door.

"Welcome home, honey!" she said. "How's my road warrior these days?"

"I'll be much better in a minute or two," he said, hoisting his luggage into the house. Inside, Steven dropped his load, took a deep breath, and opened his arms wide, beckoning Catherine to him. She joined him in an embrace.

"It's great to be home, sweetheart."

They held each other for a full minute without words. Steven was still amazed by how close he felt to his wife after thirty years. "Boy, have I missed you," he said. "Road trips are getting harder and harder. I don't know if its age or what, but I don't enjoy the traveling like I used to. Maybe this road warrior is ready to park it?"

"Well, I miss you every time you go away, honey. I've gotten used to it," Catherine said, "but if you want to stay home more, I certainly won't object. Wanna drink?"

He smiled. "I had one with Mark and Ruth before I left the office, but I don't feel it."

"Martini?" He nodded. His mind wandered back to work as he remembered the one call he had to make before he completely relaxed with his wife.

He walked through the side entry, past the family room and kitchen, and turned to climb the private stairway to the master bedroom. He felt so at home here in the big house, particularly since they'd remodeled it three years ago. Slightly out of breath from the stairs, he tossed his wardrobe onto the bed. He shed his coat and sat on the ottoman, opened his briefcase, found the number he needed, and dialed.

"Charlie?" he said. "We need to talk tomorrow about the Yoshida deal. I'd like to get together as early as we can at the office ....No, I can't talk about it now. I'm pooped, and I just got home...First thing tomorrow will be good. There's not much we can do tonight anyway...Yeah, check with Ruth when you get in. She knows my schedule better than I do." He laughed. "Yep. Bye!"

Now he could relax. He undressed quickly and slipped on his favorite sweatpants and a T-shirt. He went into the bathroom and splashed some water on his face, took a deep breath, and exhaled a huge sigh. Before he'd taken two steps for the bedroom door, Catherine walked in with a tray holding two glasses, a chilled half-filled pitcher of crystal-clear liquid, and a small dish of pimento-stuffed green olives skewered on wooden toothpicks.

"Can I assume you'll be joining me for a martini or two? Or is that all for me?" asked Steven. "Because if it's all for me, I'll never make it into the office tomorrow."

"No, I decided to join you tonight," she said. "For one thing, it's been quite some time since I've had one and, for another, it was just faster to mix a batch. And third, I wanted to relax with you up here and not have to go back downstairs to mix another round." She smirked at him.

"Sounds like you really thought this out, my dear," he said.

"Yes, I can actually plan ahead sometimes, even spontaneously. I know it doesn't fit my image, so please don't tell anyone. It'll ruin my reputation," she said.

They laughed. Despite Catherine's quiet personality and her widely accepted image as a supportive housewife and mother, Steven knew her to be quite powerful, able to make things happen in a manner vastly different from the way things traditionally got done in business. He absolutely appreciated her softness and the way she got what she wanted without resorting to forcefulness, manipulation, or any other means common to the environment he was so used to. She possessed an elegant way of making things happen. He found her to be as competent a private coach as any of the professional executive coaches he had met over the years. And, what was best?....she was all his!

"I love you so," he said, pouring them each a glass of the extra-dry concoction. "I'm so grateful we're together after all these years."

"Not only together, my dear, but so happy! I know lots of married folks who are still together, but they're miserable." Catherine frowned. "It's like they signed a truce and are determined to stick it out—it's more like they're sharing the same prison cell. I guess they are together, though, if that's all they want. But it seems so sad to me." She shook her head.

They sat on the ottoman and nestled into each other's arms without spilling a drop. Their glasses clinked in a silent toast, and they sipped together. Each of them was silent for a minute.

"Mm, that tastes good!" Catherine said. "I didn't expect it to be so delicious!"

"It's certainly better than the one I made at the office," Steven said. "Do you suppose it has anything to do with who made it?"

"Could be, my darling," she said, nodding, "or perhaps who you are sharing it with?" She smiled. "The gin, the olives, and the vermouth are the same—but the fourth ingredient is the love that went into it from someone who thinks you're the most terrific guy on the planet."

She always said that kind of thing—and Steven always got a little choked up when she did. His eyes watered, and he spoke quickly. He could get "gushy"—that was how Catherine put it —when he was tired.

"Well, here's to your secret ingredient, my dear. May it always add as much as it has tonight. I'm ready to hear about the kids now. What's the news?"

They had two daughters. Kirsten was thirty-one now, and had followed in her father's footsteps. She'd also received her MBA from Harvard—his alma mater—and worked as a marketing executive for 3M Corporation. In many ways she was the son Steven had always wanted—the subject of many family jokes. She lived in Minneapolis and spent most of her free time biking, running, or skiing. As yet, she had no special man in her life as far as he knew. Steven teased her about being a jock as well as a workaholic.

Catherine worried about Kirsten's drinking, which seemed to have increased as part of her fast-paced lifestyle after she'd left college. But, Steven assured her, most of the marketing people he knew drank a lot. "It goes with the territory," he said. Still, it bothered her that her oldest daughter had developed such an appetite for alcohol. And Catherine wondered about other things—like cocaine and pills. Kristen was driven and her personality was what could be described as an "addictive type."

Chelsea was a completely different girl. She'd attended University of California at Santa Cruz and lived close to campus, even though her parents' home was within commuting distance. Rebellious since puberty, she constantly dated boys who irritated her parents. How they would love to see her involved with a boy next door instead of the punkers, the motorcycle gang types, the boys who looked like those strung-out models in the Calvin Klein ads—creepy-looking guys! She was twenty-five, and had started getting into the New Age movement a couple of years ago. She lived in San Francisco now, in the Marina District which was where most of the 1989 earthquake damage occurred. Chelsea seemed particularly attracted to the work of a spiritual teacher named Timothy Warden, who seemed to have logged a full life of experimenting with various spiritual disciplines and practices. He'd written a book, which was how Chelsea had discovered him. Steven wasn't sure how he felt about this newfound mentor, and he'd shared his concerns with Catherine before.

"Well, Chelsea was here the other day," his wife said. "I'm so glad she was by herself this time. I always feel so uncomfortable with the kind of kids she usually drags along, especially the boys. We had a long daughter-mom talk. It was really a nice conversation—just the two of us. She seemed quite open and less guarded than usual. Maybe it was because her friends weren't around."

Catherine sighed. "She's still hanging around a lot of her college buddies. Even though they've all graduated, the core group still lives in or near Santa Cruz. She has a new roommate, another boy. Things today are sure different than when I was her age. All the kids do it, I suppose, but co-ed housing still worries me. Anyway, now she has two male roommates and one girl living in the same house."

"Is she still in the place near the ocean?" Steven asked.

"No, that was the Santa Cruz place, remember?"

"Oh, that's right. She moved to the city when she got the job at Levi Strauss. How did I forget that?" he said.

"I don't know, honey. And you got her the job through one of your Harvard buddies, remember?" Catherine said. "You're tired, I suppose."

"Probably," Steven said. "What about Timothy whatshisname?"

"Phew." Catherine let out a sharp breath. "I'm worried about her and this guy, Steven. I originally thought you were being too protective, but now I'm starting to share your concerns. It's starting to sound like a cult of some sort!"

Steven frowned. "Tell me more."

"Maybe I should wait and talk to you more about this tomorrow—not your first night home after a trip?" she said. "I don't want to burden you with my worries right off the bat."

"Catherine," he said, "the cat's out of the bag. You've got me hooked now."

"Okay. And, I'm sorry if I'm sounding like a mother hen about this." She looked at him, worried, and he nodded impatiently. "Well, this Timothy fellow is an older man, ten years older than you. He seems to attract mostly young gals in their twenties to his seminars and retreats. Now you know me and my own interest in certain esoteric practices. I go to my workshops, I read books on spirituality or metaphysics once in a while, and I listen to tapes and lectures of people who I consider enlightened. But this Timothy fellow bothers me. Maybe it's because it involves my baby girl. I don't know."

"It's really hard to tell the difference between a community of people with a common belief or commitment"—she paused—"and a cult. I mean, think about the Branch Dividians and David Koresh, the Jim Jones suicides in Guyana, the Rajneesh community in Oregon, the Heaven's Gate suicides—rational people just lose their ability to think for themselves and kind of implode." Steven nodded, and the lines in his face deepened. This didn't sound good.

Catherine continued. "Remember Werner Erhard and EST? Remember how excited I was when I took the EST training in 1975? I loved the work I did on myself there—most of us did—but I found dealing with the organization very difficult, and ultimately so off-putting I stopped taking their programs. Some likened it to a cult. I've always thought Werner Erhard's fall from grace and the public scandal surrounding him was the result of disallowing feedback from the outside world."

"That makes sense," Steven said.

"Yes. Well, this Timothy seems to have a following that takes him so seriously, hanging on his every word, I'm reminded of people I knew who went off the deep end as devotees of Rajneesh, Koresh or Jim Jones. Initially, they all had good things to say. These folks were really quite insightful, possibly even enlightened, but the system they allowed to form around them became so self-focused, some of them became downright paranoid. A lot of them armed themselves. They were prepared to defend their strongholds against imaginary enemies and conspiracies."

Steven was intrigued. For his normally quiet wife to say so much at once, she had to be very concerned. He started to make a suggestion, and then remembered a lesson he'd learned from a marriage therapist several years ago. His wife often only wanted to be heard. In the past, he'd offered advice or solutions—and he'd been surprised that she didn't want to hear them. He'd learned instead just to let her know he heard her. "Then you are genuinely afraid Chelsea is being taken in by this guy?" he asked.

"I don't want her to get hurt, Steven—emotionally, physically, or even psychically. She's still my baby, and probably always will be." Catherine sighed. "A lot of my fear is intuition, and I know you don't put much stock in that. But I'm worried, and I think I'm going to check out this Timothy person."

"If it bothers you, my dear, I certainly would. Why not hire that detective I use for checking people out?" Steven said.

She looked at him as if he suggested something sinister. To break the tension, Steven picked up the pitcher and asked, "Refill?

"Sure," she said, extending her glass to him.

"Another pair of olives?"

"No thank you, darling." She smiled at him "You know, talking to you about this makes me realize I'm far more concerned than I'd thought. It is good to have you listening to me. Thank you for letting me get this out and off my chest."

"And such a lovely chest it is," he snickered, as he cuddled her right breast in his free hand.

"Careful," she warned. "We still have dinner waiting downstairs, so don't get too excited this early in the evening."

"Okay," he said. He looked disappointed, like a little boy who'd just been told he couldn't have the cookie he'd just snatched from the jar. He poured the remainder of the martini into his glass and offered another toast.

"Here's to your wonderful chest, which will remain unexplored until after dinner!"

Their glasses clinked again, and she kissed his cheek. They sipped, and neither spoke for a minute or so.

Catherine broke the silence. "How was the trip? Anything worth telling me? Or was it all business?"

"Jesse said to say hello. He still remembers our dinner in Maui last year and wanted me to be sure to pass on his regards. And, of course, Mary's as well," he said. "Also, I had a good talk with Mark this evening after our board meeting. Boy, I like him! Some of what we talked about would be worth exploring with you sometime."

"Oh, can you give me a preview?" she asked.

"I don't want to get into particulars now, but I do enjoy running certain things past you. I like the way you think—the big picture stuff, you know," Steven said. "In any event, it has to do with a growing moral conflict facing many people serving on corporate boards these days."

"Sounds very interesting, and my consulting rates are priced right too," she said with a smile.

"So what's for dinner, and when will it be ready?" Steven said.

Catherine glanced at the clock on the table. "It's a roast with steamed vegetables. Martha made it all ahead of time, but I have to steam the veggies. Salad is in the fridge, and the roast will be done in about twenty minutes, so our timing is perfect."

"Great," Steven said. "I'll be down in five. I want to unpack a couple of things first, and change this shirt. It was convenient for getting out of my traveling clothes, but I'd rather put on something a little nicer if we're having such a fine meal."

"Okay, my sweet." Catherine picked up the tray and left the room.

"Oh, by the way," she called back. "There's quite a bit of mail waiting for you downstairs, Steven. You might want to look it over while I'm putting the final touches on dinner."

January 30: Manhattan, Offices of Tivor Sagi Enterprises, Inc., 11:18 PM EST

Tivor hung up the phone after a lengthy conversation with a man he'd recently befriended at the health club. His new friend served on the board of directors of one of the largest investment banking firms in the world and had called from California. He made a few final notes and turned off the recorder—which he hadn't told his new friend he was using. Tivor was quite pleased with himself. He was succeeding in getting close to this man who could be a great source of valuable information in the days ahead. If he was any judge of character, this guy was really hard up for a buddy and perhaps a little romance which he'd be happy to arrange. He was especially candid and susceptible after a few drinks. Of course, his "friend" hadn't known he was being set up. Tivor was much too shrewd to be so transparent.

Tivor was a trader. He often made millions of dollars in a day and rarely held positions very long. He traded almost every day and followed tried and true formulas for the most part. The bulk of his creative time was spent digging up as much information as he could in order to hedge his positions. With so much programmed trading going on these days, he pounced on any opportunity to put his cunning to use and get any advantage whatsoever—opportunities like this sad fellow he had just been talking to.

Tivor was part of a pack of independent traders directly or indirectly responsible for billions of dollars moving through the markets every day. This economy had little to do with the economy most people felt they belonged to—the one that revolved around the exchange of products and services. Tivor and his colleagues never acquired stocks, futures or options with the intent to hold anything. Sometimes they were "owners" for only thirty seconds!

The proprietary trading market was much larger than its retail counterpart, what the average lay person considered the stock market. But it was only for those with the stomach and the detachment to make big bets. It was not an economy for the faint of heart, to be sure.

Tivor knew he wasn't particularly well-liked by his peers. As a distress trader, he and his ilk had been called sharks, bottom feeders and barracudas. But he wasn't in this game to be popular. He was in it to make a ton of money.

He'd grown up in poverty in Trenton. Tivor's parents were Hungarian immigrants who'd fled their country when the Soviets invaded in the Fifties. His mother was pregnant with him when they made the trip across the Atlantic. In high school he'd gotten a job at the New York Stock Exchange and was amazed at the amounts of money being made, sometimes in only minutes. He was hooked! Tivor carefully studied a handful of traders who were barely aware of the young man from the Garden State.

He'd worked his way through college and majored in international finance. His connections from the NYSE floor got him an apprenticeship with Morgan Stanley. After the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center in 2001, he left to start his own independent firm. Tivor had grown accustomed to losing as much as a million dollars in an hour, but just as accustomed to raking in enormous profits through his options business. He was quietly amassing a huge fortune.

At Morgan Stanley, the other traders had called him "Ty"—as in tycoon—a teasing reference to his ambition and obsessive drive. Most of his peers had seen him as a self-centered, egotistic shark whose own interests ranked ahead of his clients. Few of them liked him very much, and he had no close friends. But he'd decided in his teens that if he had enough money, he wouldn't need anyone—no friends, no bosses, no one to tell him what to do or how to do it.

He'd tried marriage once. It hadn't lasted six months. He'd taken the experience as validation that he shouldn't let anyone get close to him. He saw the marriage as one of his major mistakes and Ty didn't like making mistakes. He'd since reconciled himself to remaining single and free. After all, he reasoned, he could buy anything or anyone he really wanted, any time he had the urge.

Tivor was thirty-eight now and easily worth two billion dollars. He had four employees—a personal assistant, two researchers, and an understudy just out of grad school. He was rich and single, and loved the art of the deal. He never lacked companionship, enjoyed being seen with beautiful women, owned a couple of racehorses and a collection of fine art. His Central Park West apartment was luxuriously outfitted, as were his London flat and Napa Valley country home He shunned the media, stayed out of high-profile social scenes, and even referred to himself as part of the "stealthy rich."

Reviewing his notes, he grinned as he thought about the move he had planned for the next morning. He switched off his desk lamp and headed for home. _Tomorrow_ , he thought, _I should be able to make about $10 million if all goes well. Not bad for a day's work._

January 30: Hillsborough, George residence, 8:25 PM PST

Steven hung his favorite traveling suit in the closet. He tossed his dirty laundry in the hamper, and checked his shoes and ties to see if they needed attention before putting them away. _Boy, it's good to be home_ , he thought. _Maybe the old road warrior really is ready to hang it up._ The novelty, glamour and excitement of business travel had disappeared years ago.

_I still love meeting new people, the deal-making, the thrill of the hunt, and the creative process_ , he said to himself. _All that's terrific! But the airports, the lines, the delays—just the general hassle....It was getting to be a big drag._ He changed his shirt, picked up his nearly empty martini glass, finished the drink, and proceeded downstairs.

In the kitchen, he came up behind his wife and put his arms around her. He kissed her nape. "Gee, I love you!" he whispered in her ear as he squeezed her waist.

"The feeling is mutual," Catherine said. "Dinner will be ready in about ten."

"Okay, where's that mail you mentioned?"

"I put it on the dining room table because there was so much of it, sweetie. There seemed to be more packages than normal," she said.

Steven was used to getting lots of mail at the office. Of course, Ruth sifted through everything each day before he ever saw it and dealt with most of it. She was so good, he thought. He made a mental note to get her a gift in the next day or so.

The mail at home was usually pretty domestic and Catherine handled most of it. Indeed, there were several packages here. As much as he hated the idea, he was still aware of the warnings he'd received in the corporate security course he'd taken four years before. As CEO of a publicly held, multinational corporation, he could be the target of ill will, including terrorism. Kidnappings, assassinations, and other plots against key figures in influential organizations were more and more common. He'd never shared these thoughts with Catherine but she was too sharp not to notice some of the corporate precautions when they traveled together. A package from an unknown source deserved some attention, especially when it arrived at your home.

He looked over the packages. There were four of them—one heavy envelope, two cardboard boxes, and a manila envelope that clearly contained more than just a few papers. And there were two letters and a hand-addressed card.

He looked at the return addresses on the larger packages. The manila envelope looked like the book of poems he'd asked a friend to send him for Catherine on this last trip. _Boy, it got here fast_! he thought.

The heavy envelope had to be the manuscript for a yet-to-be-published book by a young business school professor. Steven had promised the young man he'd look at it, and possibly write a blurb endorsing it. This sort of arrangement usually came through the office, but the author was a friend of a friend who'd apparently given him Steven's home address.

One of the boxes was from a direct mail company who still had his name in their database. He and Catherine had gone to great lengths to keep their home address private, but some lists always seemed to escape the purge. He set aside this package for the trash.

The other package was a mystery. There was no return address on the label, which was typed.

Steven wondered if he should be concerned. Gently, he picked up the cardboard box, which was about the size that would hold a book. It seemed to be about the right weight for a book too. He shook the box from side to side, gently at first, and then more aggressively. From the way the weight shifted, it felt like a book.

"Damn!" he muttered. Now his curiosity was really aroused. What was in this thing? It was certainly suspicious, no return address and all. His mind came up with arguments on both sides: _Have it checked out by the police? No, they'll blow it up like I've seen on TV, only to find out it was a book, possibly a gift_. The debate continued in his head until he decided to ask Catherine for her opinion. _She's so intuitive, he thought, she'll have a good feel for whether or not it's safe_.

He walked into the kitchen just as she was coming out to get him.

"Just in time, oh master of the house," she said. "Dinner is served!"

"Great!" he said. "All of a sudden, I could eat a horse!"

The dinette table was set for two. Catherine had even set out candles. Another wave of gratitude washed over him. It was just like it had been when they were in college, most of the time.

"This looks wonderful!" he said as they sat down.

"Thank Martha for most of it, darling. All I did was steam the vegetables and serve it up," Catherine said.

"Nevertheless, thank you. By the way, did you notice any of those packages in particular?" he asked.

"Other than there being more than usual for you, Steven, I can't say I did. Why?"

"Well, one piece puzzles me." He frowned. "Now I'm really curious about what's inside. Maybe you can look at it and give me your hit on it."

"Haven't you opened it?" she said. "Why not just open it and satisfy your curiosity, for God's sake?"

He still didn't want to worry her. "Oh, I'd just like to get your hit before I do, that's all."

"Oh, I get it," she said. "It's that security stuff again, isn't it? Well, okay. I'll give it a once-over after we eat. But right now, you're all mine."

They were having a cup of decaf after the meal when they realized it was after ten.

"How did it get so late so fast?" Catherine said.

"Don't know," Steven said, rising from the table and starting to clear it.

They loaded the dishwasher together. Catherine took a final swipe at the counter with her towel and turned out the light in the kitchen.

"Shall I look at that mystery package now?" she asked.

"If you don't mind, dear," Steven said. "But...I am eager to get upstairs and pick up where we left off a couple of hours ago." He gave her an impish grin.

She smiled back. "I know, I know," she said, walking over to where he'd left the mail.

"Is this the one?" she asked, pointing at the unmarked box.

"That's it. What do you think? Should I open it, or do we call the bomb squad?" he said. She made a face at him.

She picked up the box and shook it. She laughed. "It's a book, silly!" she said matter-of-factly.

Steven nodded, still undecided. Catherine, however, started up the stairs. His eyes followed her. She pouted her lips, stuck out her butt, and threw her voluptuous breasts forward in Marilyn Monroe fashion as she ascended.

_The package can wait until tomorrow_ , he thought, rushing to catch up with this sexy seductress who just happened to be his wife.

January 30: Minneapolis, Minnesota, Interstate 35W, 11:58 PM CT

"Are you okay?" asked the woman in the passenger seat. Her tone was a combination of concern and intoxicated nonchalance. "Hey, Top Gun, are you okay to be driving this rocket ship?"

The bright red Porsche Boxster was traveling along the snow-lined interstate at close to ninety miles per hour. That was a fraction of what it could do, but excessive given the conditions—particularly the condition of its driver, affectionately known as "Top Gun" among her co-workers at 3M. The two women were housemates as well as best friends. They also worked together and had just left an office party celebrating a new account, one the Porsche's driver had been working on for months.

"Seriously, dear friend, it seems you're really going waaay too fast. How about backing off those afterburners a bit, huh?" The passenger's polite suggestion hardly indicated the fear starting to come up in her gut. The snowplow had been through quite recently but the road still looked slick. The Minnesota Winter weather was behaving itself tonight but the road was damp with slush. The passenger knew her friend had more to drink than she did—a lot more. And she was really feeling woozy, so she couldn't imagine how her friend was staying on the road. The drinks they'd had after leaving the party hadn't helped either.

The passenger looked over at her friend whose eyes were fixed on the road ahead but glazed over in a very disconcerting fashion.

"Now, really . . ." she started to say, but the driver interrupted.

"Hey, back off! I'm fine! After all, I'm Top Gun, right? And . . ."

She never finished her thought. A dark green sedan had appeared on an upcoming onramp. It was moving slowly, followed closely by an older Chevy Camaro. The two cars were merging into the right lane when the Camaro driver suddenly swerved left around the sedan. It hit a patch of ice and started to spin into the left lane, directly in front of the Porsche. By the time she realized there was no road left for her, Top Gun had no choice but to slam on the brakes, and pray.

January 31: Hillsborough, George resident, 6:38 AM PST

Adjusting his tie in the dressing room, Steven thought he heard Martha arriving downstairs. Catherine had decided to stay in bed a bit longer. She watched her man put the final touches on his "uniform," preparing for his daily battle with venture capitalists, stockbrokers, investors and ambitious staff members. She liked watching him dress—it was something she usually missed because she was normally up before him. She'd been admiring his body, much as he'd admired hers the night before. They were in pretty good shape for a couple in their fifties, she thought.

She still remembered the first time she'd seen him naked. They'd started dating in college when she was only nineteen, and spent their first weekend together during Spring break. She'd loved his body—a real man's body. He'd been two years ahead of her in school and had spent a couple of years in the military before college. He was five years her senior and a man of the world, from her perspective. She'd loved cheering for him at track meets and basketball games during the two years they were together before he graduated and left for graduate school in Cambridge.

"Got to get going, sweetheart," Steven said, leaning over to kiss her good-bye.

She came out of her reverie. "Huh? Oh yes. Love you!" she managed to get out as he turned and exited the room.

At the bottom of the stairs, he saw the dining room table and remembered the mystery package. He altered his trajectory, picked up the box, and continued to the car.

Martha was in the kitchen. He waved and said hello to her. Normally he'd have chatted with her a bit since he'd been out of town, but he wanted to get to the office to see Jesse, and the traffic on Bayshore would be building soon.

He tossed his briefcase in the back seat and laid the box on the passenger seat. On the way to the office, Steven's mind wandered. He smiled as he remembered last night's love-making. Just recalling it, he was getting aroused again. He found himself thinking about Mark's wife Kathy, his second wife and a much younger woman. She worked as an aerobics instructor. Steven would have been lying if he'd said her body wasn't a major distraction sometimes. It was firm and hard, but curvaceous. She'd never had children but seemed to be a perfect stepmother for Mark's two children from his first marriage.

While he never seriously envied Mark for having a younger wife, Steven had fantasized about Kathy a few times. He didn't exactly feel good about that. After all, he was objectifying her completely basing his fantasy totally on her looks. In his heart of hearts, he knew he'd never jeopardize his relationship with Catherine, no matter how attracted he might be to some Playmate-type beauty. In a million years he'd never want to go through the pain of divorce he'd seen most of his friends go through. The legal hassles, the pain and suffering involved for everyone—it just was horrible! Boy, he was fortunate.

Mark's kids came to mind too. His oldest, the boy, was nearly as old as his stepmother Kathy. A chip off the old block, Jim was already in business for himself—an entrepreneur like his old man. He'd started a rental car company with two college buddies last year and seemed to be doing okay. He also raced cars and was fortunate to have Mark's company—World Telcom, Inc.—as his sponsor. The World Telcom Indy Car had already started to provide the company with a lot of publicity and Mark seemed quite pleased with the arrangement.

Jim was also a close friend of Steven's older daughter. Kirsten and Jim had been classmates at Harvard Business School and had graduated together. Between Kirsten and Mark, Steven was always fully up to date on Jim's racing and entrepreneurial endeavors.

Mark's younger child, Jackie, was less of a parent's dream child. She'd gotten pregnant at seventeen and now was the single parent of a seven-year-old boy, Robert James. Her pregnancy had come about around the same time Mark and Caroline had been getting divorced—there was probably a connection there, Steven thought. Steven knew Mark still felt a fair amount of guilt about this, despite therapy.

Again Steven sighed with gratitude that he wouldn't have to go through these sorts of things with his family. _Gee, I'm fortunate_ , he thought.

**Chapter Two: A BRICK THROUGH THE WINDOW**

January 31: San Francisco, World Headquarters, Ventures International, 7:19 AM PST

Steven arrived at the office in good spirits. Traffic had been light. He was looking forward to being in all day and catching up on everything that had stacked up over the past week. He was earlier than he'd expected to be, and no one else was around yet on the top floor. He was about to toss the mystery package on his desk but decided to go ahead and open it. He unfastened the cardboard flaps, holding his breath ever so slightly, and revealed the contents. _Sure enough_ , he thought. It was a book.

He looked it over, wondering where it had come from. The title was _Global Mind Change: The Promise of the 21st Century_. No press release accompanied it, so it wasn't a desk copy sent by a publisher for promotion purposes. There was nothing in the box with the book. Steven flipped through the pages, looking for an insert. _This is very strange,_ he thought. _There should be something here to explain why this came to me, and to the house. Nothing!_

He looked over the back cover. The author was a man named Willis W. Harman. Steven might have heard of him, but he couldn't be sure. He reopened the book, looking again at the first pages.

This time he noticed a handwritten inscription. It read: _May this book light a flame for you, Steven, as it has done for me. It was signed, A Caring Friend._

Now he was really curious! The anonymous sender had given no hint of his or her identity. God! This was getting to him. Maybe he needed to get a better idea of what the book was about. Then he might have a clue as to who'd sent it. He put the book on his desk, dumped the box in the recycle bin, and sat down and started unloading his briefcase.

Between his overflowing inbox on his desk and the homework he'd unloaded from his briefcase, Steven was engrossed in paperwork soon enough. He mowed right through agreements needing signatures, schedule changes Ruth had noted for him, and reports on a number of Ventures projects. Alone like this in his office, he could really get a lot done. As the buzz of activity began outside his door, Steven started to feel like he was getting back into the zone, not unlike how it had felt playing basketball sometimes—as if time were standing still for him.

The morning went well, even the rather difficult meeting he wanted with Jesse.

In the early afternoon, he was concentrating on a lengthy legal document that had been through several revisions. It involved a major investment and overlooking anything could be disastrous. He still wasn't sure the lawyers had gotten it straight. He needed to be absolutely sure it said what he wanted it to say.

The phone rang, startling him. Irritated, he made a pencil note to mark his place, and picked up the receiver. Before he could say anything, Ruth's voice broke in, her tone was more serious than he had ever heard it: "There's been an accident, Steven. You need to go home immediately to be with Catherine."

A chill went through his body, like slivers of ice had slipped into all his arteries. It seemed like an eternity before it occurred to him to say anything. Finally, he managed to mutter a very weak sound.

"Say more," he whispered into the mouthpiece.

"Kirsten has been involved in an automobile accident in Minnesota. Catherine needs you at home, now!"

Steven didn't really hear her. He muttered something, hung up the phone, walked over to the clothes closet, put on his jacket and hurriedly left his suite. He was stunned, never looking at his desk or wondering if he was forgetting anything. He passed Ruth's desk in a daze. She put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a soft pat as he continued out through the outer offices and down to the parking lot.

He barely noticed the trip home. He drove up the driveway and saw several cars parked near the house, including an ambulance and the neighborhood security patrol car. He was shocked out of his stupor when he saw the emergency lights flashing. His heart began to race uncontrollably. His thoughts were of Catherine and he was very afraid. He dashed from his car and entered the house, oblivious of some people he didn't recognize. One of the uniformed paramedics was just leaving.

"What's going on?" he asked. "I'm Steven George. This is my home."

"Mr. George, we were called as a precautionary measure. Your wife is okay. We gave her a sedative and have her lying down in the living room. She's very anxious to see you. She keeps asking for you"

Steven was half way to the living room before the man finished his sentence. He rushed into the front room and met Catherine's eyes immediately. She was lying on the big couch. He was at her side instantaneously.

"Oh darling, I'm so glad you are here," she said in a weak voice. "Hold me. Please, hold me," she said over and over again. Steven knelt on the floor next to the couch and leaned over so he could take her in his arms.

_Her body is trembling so much_ , he thought. "Thank you for getting here so quickly," Catherine whispered into his ear as she clung to him. "I came completely unglued when I heard about the accident. We have to go to Minneapolis—tonight—as soon as we can get a flight."

He could feel her anxiety rise. He looked around to see who else was in the room, someone who could tell him what happened. His eyes met Martha's. He excused himself from Catherine's side and walked over to Martha. "For God's sake, Martha, what happened?" The question exploded from his chest.

She was on the verge of a breakdown herself. "Mr. George...Mr. George...It's so horrible...Miss Kirsten...Oh, it's so bad...this thing...so bad!" Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and her sobs came in shorter and shorter waves.

"Martha, please tell me what happened. How did you hear? Did someone call? What did they say? Who were they?" Steven was suddenly aware of all the unanswered questions that had been building up inside him. Then he realized he was bombarding the distraught housekeeper with his questions.

"I'm sorry, Martha. I'm not making things any easier. Tell me what you can, please, slowly." A thoughtful person Steven didn't even recognize put a glass of water into his hand. Martha took a seat, and wiped her eyes and running nose with a Kleenex, slowly composing herself. Steven sat there attentively, but his only thought was, _Kirsten, Kirsten..._

_The son he'd always wanted...."chip off the old block."_ She'd attended his alma mater, had gone into corporate sales, loved to meet new people and was driven to succeed—just like him!

Martha began to speak. A friend of Kirsten's from Minneapolis had called around noon, and asked for Catherine. Mrs. George had been out so Martha took a message.

The friend told Martha that Kirsten and a girlfriend had been in a high-speed crash on the interstate. Two other cars had been involved and eight people had been taken to two different hospitals. Two victims of the accident were confirmed fatalities at the scene of the crash. Three had serious but not life-threatening injuries. The status of the remaining three victims was unknown. The friend didn't know Kirsten's status—the police and the hospital staffs would only give him limited information because he wasn't immediate family.

Martha had taken down the young man's cell phone number. Steven noticed a crumpled piece of paper in her tight fist. She held it up as proof she had written it all down.

Fifteen minutes after the phone call, Catherine had arrived home. Martha had broken the news as gently as she could. Catherine had become hysterical, hyperactive. She'd jumped into action, but Kirsten's friend hadn't answered his phone. She'd tried calling Kirsten's best friend Amantha, but only gotten her voicemail. The more she was thwarted, the more hysterical she became.

Martha had never seen Catherine like this. Her employer had always been a pillar of composure and strength. Of all the people in the George household, Catherine had seemed the strongest. In a state of near panic, Martha had called 911, then Steven's office.

About twenty minutes ago, Kirsten's friend had called back. Catherine wanted to talk to him. The paramedics wanted her to remain calm, but she insisted on taking the call.

Kirsten was in critical condition, scheduled for emergency surgery at the triage unit at Minneapolis General Hospital. She had been driving her Porsche. Her passenger and closest friend, Amantha, died in route to the hospital.

"Has anyone called the hospital yet?" Steven asked.

Martha shook her head.

Steven returned to the couch and put his arms around his wife. Catherine had quieted down some and seemed more calm in Steven's arms. _The sedative must be working_ , he thought. Steven motioned for Martha to take his place with Catherine. Martha helped raised both her daughters and was considered almost family. She knelt beside Steven and took his place holding her. Steven rose and headed for his office/den where he picked up the phone.

He asked the information operator for the number of Minneapolis General Hospital, got the ER, asked about his daughter. His voice came across with the quiet authority of a man used to getting his way. The nurse told him the doctor in charge would come to the phone if he'd wait a moment.

He was put on hold briefly, and then the doctor identified himself. "This is Doctor Emerson. Mr. George?"

"Yes, doctor. We are going crazy out here in California trying to find out how serious our daughter's injuries are. We just heard about..."

Doctor Emerson interrupted him. "I'm afraid I have some very bad news for you, Mr. George," he spoke quietly. "Your daughter didn't make it through the surgery."

He paused, and then added, "She never regained consciousness after the accident, so I'm sure she never felt any pain. If you will..."

The words turned into static noise, and Steven's world began to turn inside-out. Emotions—pain, anger, hurt, guilt, and fear—boiled together as if in a cauldron Everything that had mattered a few minutes ago, didn't matter anymore.

Martha had come up behind him. He somehow sensed her presence and handed her the phone as he walked across the den to the window seat and sat down. He heard some voices as Martha and the doctor exchanged information, but his mind was a million miles away.

Steven's heart was breaking...his thoughts were scrambled...his body was trembling...he was furious and afraid at the same time...his gut was so tight, he thought it would pop. His chest was bursting, his whole being was bursting...and suddenly, the pressure in his jowls, behind his heart, and around his eyeballs burst and he began to sob uncontrollably. Tears flowed from his eyes. Mucous drained from his nose. His stomach wretched and convulsed. He doubled over in agony, and his shoulders rose and fell with each round of sobs.

Someone handed him some tissues. He was only slightly aware of some comforting pats on his back and shoulders as he sat gazing out the window with his back to the room. He was slightly aware of voices, all very sympathetic, as people tried to console him as they watched his anguish and empathized with the excruciating pain he was feeling.

Time stood still for Steven as he remained in this horrific numbness for quite some time. _Apparently, word was getting around about Kirsten_ , he thought, Suddenly it hit him: _What about Catherine? Oh, God, she can't hear this from anyone else!_

Slowly, he managed to get up. His legs felt like Jello. It took a few seconds to get his balance. Then he started the walk down the hall to where Catherine lay. Two women friends were kneeling next to the couch at her side, holding her hands. She was asleep and apparently still unaware of the tragic news from Minneapolis.

Then he thought of Chelsea. Had anyone told her? He looked around for Martha. She was a few feet away.

"Does Chelsea know?" he asked.

"I've left messages at her apartment and her work number, Mr. George. But she hasn't called back yet," Martha said.

"Did you say it was urgent, Martha?"

She nodded. "Yes, I did. And I said it had to do with Miss Kirsten and an accident."

Steven tenderly took her hand, suddenly aware that he may never have touched Martha before. "Martha, please call Miss Chelsea again, at both numbers. Ask her to call me here as soon as possible. Okay?"

"I'll do that right this minute," she said, and quickly left the room.

He was standing by the desk in the den when Martha told him Chelsea was on the phone, calling from her apartment in the city. "I didn't say anymore, Mr. George, so you tell her sweet, okay?" she said. He nodded, inhaled deeply, and picked up the receiver.

"Chelsea, sweetheart, we've got some bad news for you, I'm afraid," he said.

"What is it, Daddy? I heard there was an accident that involved Kirsten. Is she okay? You know, the way she drives..."

Steven interrupted her. "It's serious, honey. It was a bad wreck—with Kirsten and her friend Amantha. It involved three cars altogether, on the interstate."

"Daddy! What happened? How is she?" Any traces of Chelsea's blasé attitude had disappeared.

"Amantha was killed instantly, Chelsea," he told her, hearing his youngest daughter gasp. He was trying to build up to the worst news, and feeling very cumbersome in the process. "I know you met her once."

"That's horrible, Daddy. Yes, I've met her. She was probably Kirsten's best friend. Oh God! But what about Kirsten. Was she badly hurt?"

"I just spoke with the doctor at Minneapolis General Hospital. He told me Kirsten was unconscious when they brought her into the emergency room. He assured me that she felt no pain..." Steven could feel his daughter's anticipation through the telephone. He couldn't protect her from this.

"She died, Chelsea. Your big sister is dead." As he spoke the words, something inside him died. He found himself biting his lower lip, choking back tears. He hoped it would be easier to tell Catherine.

The silence from Chelsea's end was deafening. He wanted to reach through thirty miles of telephone cable and put his arm around her. Oh, he wished he could be with her now.

"Honey, are you there?" he finally asked.

Several more seconds went by. Chelsea managed a whisper. "Yes, Daddy, I'm here...Are they really sure, Daddy?"

"Yes, baby," he said. "Your sister died at the hospital without regaining consciousness. She felt no pain."

He heard his daughter sob, and then Chelsea managed another whispered inquiry. "How's mother doing? How's she taking it?"

"She was sedated after she got the news of the accident. She's kind of out of it right now, so I'll have to give her the news about Kristen when she comes to."

"So she doesn't know yet?" Chelsea asked.

"She only knows there was a serious accident, honey. But not that Kirsten died."

"I'll be down in thirty minutes," Chelsea told her father. "Mother needs me and I'll come down right away. I'll bring some things so I can stay over. I'm on my way!" Without even a goodbye, the line went dead.

Shortly after Chelsea arrived, Catherine returned to consciousness. From behind her fog of medication, she knew that the presence of so many people, including her youngest daughter, meant something horrible. Being highly intuitive, the realization of what happened started coming to her before Steven had said a word.

"Darling, you've been sedated for a while and there's been more news." Steven was trying to drag this out again. But he could see Catherine was getting the news anyway. Chelsea was holding Catherine's other hand as Steven tried his best to say the words they all wished never had to be spoken.

"She didn't make it, sweetheart. Kirsten never regained consciousness. The doctor said she never felt any pain....she died at the hospital. She's gone, my sweet. Our baby is..."

Steven couldn't get the last word out. Catherine's face was a mixture of terror and deep pain. Her mouth was open, as if a scream would be forthcoming any second, but no sound came out. The silence of Catherine's scream filled the house. Her silent scream activated all the grief, loss and sorrow everyone was feeling but remained inaudible. The house was absolutely silent. The neighborhood was silent. All of Hillsborough and, for that matter, the rest of the world was silent in those moments...the loudest silence ever unheard. Despite the dozens of neighbors and friends in the house, not a sound could be heard except for the sobbing in the living room.

February 5: Palo Alto, Stanford University, Student Union Building, 6:25 PM PST

Jean met Terry at the cafeteria to grab a bite before they went to see the student play in the campus auditorium. Heading for an empty table with their trays, Terry told Jean she'd heard of a job opportunity Jean might like.

Jean wasn't sure she wanted a job. Part of her was eager to get into the corporate world and start seeing some of those nice big paychecks. But another part of her was tired and wanted to take some time off. _Bermuda sounded like a nice place to go_ , she'd told herself, knowing she couldn't afford anything like that right now.

As Terry described the job opening, Jean found herself getting more and more interested. It sounded better the more Terry talked about it. She gave Jean a Web site where she could get more details. Besides, the company was headquartered right here in the San Francisco and she could stay in her beloved California!

_Maybe Bermuda could wait_ , Jean thought.

February 6: City of Colma (on the outskirts south of San Francisco), Skylawn Cemetery, 11:25 AM PST

The funeral procession entered the cemetery and wound its way through the private roadways. An open grave was visible from the limousines and cars as they followed the hearse up the hill. The procession stopped at the crest and people walked to where the priest and two acolytes waited.

The graveside service was touching, inspirational, and uplifting. Several of Kirsten's friends had spoken, including a couple who had traveled from Minnesota. One played a guitar and sung a song of celebration.

Earlier, at the church, there must have been five hundred people attending the memorial service. Steven and Catherine had decided not to speak at the ceremony, but Chelsea had felt moved to do so. "My sister and I were so different," she began, "from as far back as I can remember. She had a passion for the world, for life, for sports and work and cars. She was outgoing and gregarious while I was more of a loner, not nearly as social. My interests seemed more esoteric, less tangible. Yet, despite our personality differences we were very close and shared our lives with one another as if we had been twins all our lives. We shared a wonderful family and incredibly supportive parents. We shared a zest for living even though we chose to live different kinds of lives."

"Besides being biological sisters I always felt Kristen was my spiritual sister too. You know how some people are siblings but they act of it they came from completely different homes, like you wonder how they could actually be sisters or brothers?" The people in the pews nodded silently to one another as they seemed to know what Chelsea was talking about. There was even a giggle or two, lightening up the otherwise heavy atmosphere.

"Kristen and I weren't like that. We were locked together at our souls, connected so powerfully I can still feel her presence now as I stand here. In spirit, she'll be with me forever. But I shall miss talking with her, seeing her wonder-filled smile, hearing her raucous laughter, feeling her generous hugs and listening to her many war stories.

"I'm sure she's got a new job in her new world, and that she's blessed in her new life. But I shall miss having her in my life as only a spiritual sister can be." Chelsea paused a moment. She brought her tissue up to her upper lip and held it there a few seconds. After a brief clearing of her throat she proceeded.

She looked up to the ceiling of the church and said, "Kristen, we will all miss your presence here on Earth and morn your passing with the deepest sorrow. But we also celebrate your life, your legacy of passionate engagement with everything you did. We shall live our lives touched by yours and stand willing to be inspired by your example of zestful living. Farewell, Kristen, farewell. God bless you sister, God bless."

Kristen stood motionless for a few moments, then without looking at those assembled, she turned from the rostrum and slowly walked back to her chair. Sobs could be heard throughout the crowd. Otherwise there was no sound.

Clearly grieving the loss of her older sister, Chelsea had maintained her composure, delivered an uplifting message that called for living life fully, staying in the present and not postponing joy. Steven and Catherine sat in awe at their daughter's inspiring eulogy, a strange mixture of grief and pride, pain of loss and joy of seeing Chelsea be such a powerful young woman.

Steven and Catherine tried to compliment their daughter in the limo on the way to the cemetery but their tears kept coming and Chelsea ended up consoling them during the ride. She was definitely coming of age. Steven was seeing his little girl in a very different light this day.

February 19: Hawaii, the "Big Island," Mana Lani Resort, 7:45 PM HST

Steven and Catherine were on their twelfth day at the Mana Lani Resort. The days and nights were becoming more tolerable but there were reminders of Kirsten everywhere, even here on the big island. They'd had this condominium since Kristen was thirteen so there were plenty of memories here.

Chelsea had suggested they stay for a week or two, until they felt like re-entering the world again. She'd joined them for the first few days before returning to the mainland for a weekend conference she was managing. Steven was incredibly grateful for her support. At the start of their stay he'd been a basket case, barely any better than on the day of the burial.

The most pressing situation was Steven's work. Catherine was missing two retreats. But Steven's biggest worry was the business. Ruth had convinced him she could handle everything or find the right person in the company to do it if she couldn't. Besides, she argued, he was only a phone call or an email away and there was a fax machine at the condo.

Steven and Catherine were both emotionally drained. Catherine arranged for a local shaman to visit her each day. As near as Steven could figure out, he was a combination of Hawaiian witch doctor, healer, and psychologist. He was a nice-looking native Hawaiian—an older man who wore a bandanna around his head. He and Catherine would sit on the balcony of the condo for an hour or two each day. Steven was too consumed in his own grief to be judgmental. After all, Catherine knew more about these things.

He had at least one daily therapy session by telephone with a Los Angeles psychiatrist highly recommended by Mark. Some days they did two or three sessions. Steven had never known things could get as bleak as they were those first few days at the condo. Thankfully, Catherine's normal strength returned and she became a strong leaning post for him. Slowly he began to feel functional again. But he was different somehow—in some way he couldn't explain. So he didn't even try.

He found himself taking long walks by himself, mostly out along the water's edge, where the ocean and the hardened black lava dueled constantly for the same space. The sound of the powerful waves against the shore, the mist that filled the air near the pounding surf, and the sheer beauty of this place along the Kona Coast offered an indescribable source of continuous consolation.

The majesty and the power of nature had never been so relevant to him. All of his life he had taken all this for granted. Suddenly, he was in awe of it. Paradoxically, this awe came on the heels of an incredibly painful reminder of the frailty of human life. _Despite the amazing power of hurricanes, earthquakes, the tides and typhoons_ , he thought, _there was the susceptibility of the air to the man-made toxins, the fragility of our rivers and the fish that live in them, and the delicate balance among the earth's so many microclimates._

Steven asked himself many, many questions about life, death, who lives, who dies, why some succeed and others don't. He wondered about purpose and destiny. He examined his own life. Did he have some purpose beyond his awareness?

Besides making money for a lot of people and providing a very nice lifestyle for himself and his family, and being a good person, was there some bigger reason why he was here on this earth, at this time?

He had no answers, nor did he struggle trying to find them. Uncharacteristically, he was content to let the questions be, for now.

The waves of pain—the regular reminders of how much he missed Kirsten—came less frequently as each day passed. He didn't know exactly why, but the time he spent by himself—on his walks by the ocean or when he was swimming laps in the pool—seemed to be healing him. He was so used to Catherine's presence whenever they had the chance to be together that these times spent alone were quite unfamiliar and surprisingly nurturing. She was right there at Mana Lani and he could spend time with her whenever he wanted to—but he didn't want to every minute. Yet Steven didn't feel alienated from his wife at all. She seemed to be quite comfortable with him being alone. She seemed to know he was healing in his own way.

He told her at dinner one night about how odd it felt to spend so much time alone. He was used to being with her whenever possible. He was usually in the company of others when he was working or on the road. He was alone frequently—on airplanes, in hotel suites, even in his office—but he was working nearly all the time, or maybe watching television. But he was never just by himself, _with himself_.

Catherine was the perfect person to talk to about this. She was so comfortable being with herself. She made the distinction between being _by_ herself and being _with_ herself. She told Steven how being with herself allowed her to learn more about how she thought, what she believed, how she felt, and what was really on her mind. She also told him of the incredible relationship she'd developed with her Higher Self, the divinity within her, the larger whole of everything. Steven couldn't relate to these latter experiences, but he did listen to her with renewed interest.

Later, as he lay in bed awake at 3:30 AM while she slept peacefully, he'd had a profound insight, so profound he almost woke her up right then.

The next morning over coffee, with an awkwardness he wasn't used to, he told her about his early-morning realization: _she was his teacher in matters where he was ignorant._ He told her that while she had been a teacher for him during their thirty plus years of married life, and he really was appreciative of her, he now could see that she had so much more to teach him.

A smile began to grow on Catherine's face across the breakfast table. She'd known for years she had much to teach Steven but she would never have imposed her ideas on him.

The idea that he might be interested now brought her great joy. Her smile grew until it was ear-to-ear, lips tight and teeth bared. Their marriage had taken on a new dimension. It was entering another level of maturity and a deeper level of mutual trust.

After that morning, Catherine and Steven began spending most of their time together.

Except for the therapy sessions, the phone rang only nine times in thirteen days, and only three of those calls were from Ruth at the office. The rest were from the Hillsborough house, where Martha was directing traffic. Some were calls from Kirsten's friends. The last call was from Amantha's parents, two days before they were planning to return home.

Amantha's father called Steven and asked him if he'd heard anything about Kirsten and Amantha being involved in a lesbian relationship. Steven was quite shocked and asked Catherine to join him on the line. The man told them a mutual friend of Amantha and Kirsten, a woman who'd worked with both of them, alleged that the women had been clandestine lovers. Amantha's father was quite agitated at the possibility. Clearly, he was unhappy at the thought of such a thing.

That Kirsten might have been a lesbian was also unthinkable to Steven. Anger surged through him at the mere implication. His first response was to deny it instantly. The allegation had probably grown out of assumptions homophobic people had made because she wasn't married or engaged, loved her work, and spent a lot of time with her best friend.

Catherine engaged Amantha's father much less defensively, so Steven quieted down and let her talk more. She suggested that Amanda's mother join the conversation and was told she lived in Denver. Catherine suggested a conference call so all four parents could be included.

Two days later the four parents talked. Amantha's mother, divorced from her father for some fifteen years, confirmed that her daughter had told her that she and Kirsten were in love. She said that her daughter was afraid to tell her dad as he seemed too conservative and intolerant about these matters, often making jokes about homosexuals during Amantha's childhood.

Steven spoke even less during this call. His blood was boiling at first. He was insulted, and then angry. Then he became quite embarrassed, even ashamed. He didn't share his reaction until they were off the phone. He and Catherine spent all evening talking about his objections and embarrassment and what it might mean if people knew. They called Chelsea, to tell her.

Chelsea wasn't surprised or shocked. Again her maturity shone brightly. Her love for her sister was deep and free of judgment. Over the next several days, Steven got used to the fact that his chip off the old block had been gay.

The remaining days in Hawaii allowed the George's to assimilate much of what had occurred in the previous couple of months. Life without Kristen would certainly be different but it would go ahead. Knowing one's daughter was involved in a homosexual relationship was not the end of the world as Steven once thought it would be. A new relationship has unexpectedly blossomed with both his youngest daughter and his wife! Who's of thought? After over thirty years of marriage!

As the three of them prepared to return to the mainland, Steven was reminded by Catherine that Kirsten would never really be gone from their lives. She just wouldn't be around in bodily form. Memories of her and her spirit would stay with them as long as they wanted, she told him, and he chose to believe her.

Martha met them at the airport. On the way to the house, she updated them on all the calls, mail, and news waiting for them at home.

It was Friday evening. Both Steven and Catherine were looking forward to being back home and sleeping in their wonderful big bed. _And_ , Steven thought, _I don't have to go to the office until Monday_.

**Chapter Three: BACK TO WORK**

March 18: San Francisco, World Headquarters, Ventures International, 12:17 PM PST

His first few days back were quite difficult. Luckily, he was well rested when he somewhat tentatively returned to the hallowed halls of Venture on Monday morning. Ironically, much of his difficulty had to do with the many kindhearted people reminding him of his family's loss. His responses seemed to be settling into a familiar routine. He missed Kirsten very much. He always would. But life went on. He and Catherine had never been closer..

There were a couple of new faces in the offices—he particularly noticed a fresh-faced, energetic young woman pass him in the hallway on his first day back. To be honest, he probably noticed her because she was cute. She was a new hire from Stanford. It did feel odd for him to have been away from work for this long. Normally he was better informed about incoming staff.

Steven had no lunch appointments—a rare occasion. He decided to take lunch in, by himself, and asked Ruth to arrange for some food. When his sandwich arrived, he adjourned to the table near the bar in his office. On the table sat the book he'd received before Kirsten had died. He paged through it idly.

This was a second edition—"revised and expanded" –published posthumously. The author had died of cancer about a year before this edition had been published, but his revisions had been made prior to his illness. While Steven still believed he'd heard of the author, he couldn't place him yet in his memory. He made a note to ask Mark about this guy Harman. Maybe he had heard of him.

The back cover contained a quote by the author, which read "No power can compare with the power of a change of mind." _How does that work?_ Steven wondered. How does one "change one's mind"? The concept was intriguing. He was sure Harman was not referring to a brain transplant, but what _was_ he talking about? He turned to the table of contents to see if he could get a better idea before starting to read.

The author first offered a historic perspective on social transformations, starting with the Copernican Revolution. Then he addressed the topic of consciousness, a term that Steven found simultaneously off-putting and mysterious, intriguing and engaging, snobbish yet hinting of mystery. Then the book went into some rather esoteric subjects—quantum science, metaphysics, epistemology and philosophy. In the final two chapters, Harman examined the process and benefits of a world systems change.

Steven had learned early in his business career to get the most bang for the buck when he was looking at contemporary business books. He'd learned how to invest the least amount of his time to discover if a book held anything of value for him. He could quickly scan numerous books and save himself much time. He probably scanned about thirty books a year, some in greater detail than others, and learned enough to be able to discuss the primary points so he could hold a reasonably competent conversation with his peers. And he avoided being scooped by any of his fellow CEOs on the latest business literature. In fact, he might actually read four or five books in the course of a year, but he appeared to read far more because of his time-saving scanning methods.

If he had done his scan and was still interested in a book, Steven would set the book out for deeper scanning. He usually had four or five going at a time. They'd be placed about his home in a variety of spots—the bathrooms, his bedside table, the den—where he might be inclined to pick them up. He always traveled with at least one in his briefcase.

After his first scan, he found himself even more intrigued by this book. He noticed a place where the author pointed to the business community as key to a much-needed shift in global consciousness. Something about this statement rang true. Despite the fact this was not what he considered a "business book" and despite its being far from a mainstream subject area, he reluctantly decided: _I will read this book in its entirety_.

Steven had never been involved in any sort of consciousness-raising or awareness trainings. Catherine enjoyed that sort of thing, but he was always too involved in the pragmatics of business to be bothered with abstract esoterica. He'd take the real stuff any day—practical, material, measurable and spendable reality. But this book and the idea of changing the human mind wouldn't leave him alone.

He read the book's preface and was getting into it when he was surprised by a gentle knock on his office door. Ruth stuck her head in. She whispered, "All clear in here, boss?"

"Geez. Has it been thirty minutes already, Ruth?"

"Yes it has, Steven. Do you want more time?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah. Give me a couple minutes more. I lost track of time, I guess," he said, a bit flustered by the interruption and the degree to which he'd been absorbed in the book.

_Boy, am I into this thing_ , he admitted to himself. He was feeling an intriguing mixture of engagement, learning, embarrassment, surprise, and disorientation. It took a minute or so for him to gather his composure. He rubbed his face with both hands and leaned back in the chair, stretching his arms over his head and feeling the tremble of a really good stretch rumble through his torso and legs.

"Whew!" he said aloud. _This book's really hooked me_ , he thought.

But Ruth would be coming in again soon. He forced himself to return to the present. He stuck a bookmark into the book's pages and closed it. Now where to put it? He felt a bit embarrassed about being seen with it, even by Ruth, like a teenager nearly caught with a _Playboy_ magazine.

This was crazy. He was thinking like an adolescent. Here he was, in charge of a twelve billion dollar company, making over a million a year before stock options, and worrying what people would think.

_Toss it in the trash_ , he thought. He was beginning to suspect it was anti-business, anyway. But it held some fascination for him. _No_ , he thought, _I want to read some more of it, but I want to do it in private._

He put the book in his briefcase, closed the lid, and turned his attention to cleaning up his lunch mess. To his total surprise, his sandwich had only two bites missing from it. His drink had hardly been touched. The corned beef was cold and the rye was soggy.

Boy, he'd been absorbed! He took another bite from the soggy sandwich and re-wrapped the untouched half for later. He stuck it in the fridge.

A few minutes later, he was reading a document when Ruth knocked and entered his office in one swift movement. Walking briskly toward him, she asked, "Can I assume now's a good time, boss?"

"Sure, Ruth," he said. "I was a bit surprised where the time went before. It really got away from me."

"That's the sure sign of a good book," she said. Steven's heart rate quickened. "Of course, I guess it's also the sign of a good play, a good movie—anything that really grabs you and keeps your attention," she added.

She then switched to work mode: "Charlie called and said Citicorp won't give us the six percent rate. He thinks there's a chance if you talk to them though. He wants to talk with you about the strategy, if you'll call him personally," she said.

Steven nodded. "Of course. We need that rate or the deal won't work. The higher rate could cost us an extra million. We don't want to do the deal for a breakeven. Is he still in the New York office?"

"He'll be there for another thirty minutes if you want to call him. The next most pressing matter is the Singapore problem but the time difference is working for us there and you can call Xing Ho later this afternoon."

Besides the New York call about the Citibank deal and talking to Ho in Singapore later today nothing grabbed Steven as absolutely essential for this afternoon. That was a big relief, he thought. He opened the file Ruth left him to refresh his memory before he spoke to Charlie in New York.

The rest of the day was business as usual. But some of the ideas from the book were competing for his thoughts. His attitude about it changed from irritation at the way he'd become almost obsessed with it to intrigue and curiosity about some of the things he'd read, things he'd never seen in a book about business. At moments he felt guilty for spending so much time thinking about it only to find himself angry a minute later. He finally decided to leave the office early and find a place on the way home to resume reading. Besides, he rationalized, maybe he'd get some hint about who sent it to him.

Steven managed to slip out around 5:15. Most of the staff was still at work and few of them even noticed the big boss leaving the building earlier than usual. He knew if he could get on the freeway quickly, he'd beat the rush hour traffic, which usually started in ten to twenty minutes. He got to his car without any interruption. He was driving the BMW today. He headed for Highway 101 and was soon on the freeway heading south—ahead of the rush.

_Now where do I stop?_ he wondered. _I'd like to park out by the water, on the edge of the Bay_ He passed Candlestick Point and decided the scenery there wasn't what he wanted. He wondered about Oyster Point, near the marina in South San Francisco. Then he thought about Coyote Point. Oh, the memories of going out there in the 1960s, having dinner with Catherine at the Castaways Restaurant whenever they could get a babysitter for the kids. How exotic it had seemed back then! The South Pacific atmosphere, all those drinks with little umbrellas in them, the popularity of Don Ho. The good old days. To Coyote Point it was!

He exited the freeway, passed by the City of Burlingame golf course and found himself at the restaurant. Then he recalled the best place to sit near the water was around the other side of the point, by the marina. He turned around and drove along the edge of the golf course until he came to the marina parking lot. He parked the car, picked up the book and started to get out. He paused. _What an incredible evening_ , he thought and slipped off his tie, unfastening the top two buttons on his shirt. He grabbed a cap from the backseat, tucked the book under his arm, locked the car, and walked toward the water's edge.

He found a bench facing due east, toward the East Bay, where Oakland, Alameda, and San Leandro bordered the other side of the Bay, several miles across. There was a haze between here and there, but sitting in the sun with nothing blocking his view but a few passing ships refreshed him.

He opened it and then started to read where he'd left off.

_Harman's writing seemed so common-sensical on one hand_ , he thought _but I feel I'm reading something subversive to everything I've ever learned about business. While I like reading parts of this as a human being, I'm bothered by those same parts as a businessman._ Confounding! That's what it was!

He continued to read as boats came and went from the marina. He became quite engrossed, just like he had been earlier in the day.

His mind wandered back to graduate school and reading _The Wealth of Nations_ , what many of his peers thought of as the definitive text on capitalism. Written by Scottish philosopher Adam Smith in the mid-1700s, this book had defined the free market as the "invisible hand" so many people now referred to almost religiously in their defense of Western capitalism. In fact, many referred to Smith as "the father of capitalism." In some ways, _Wealth_ had become the equivalent of the "capitalist's bible" and was often quoted by those who held a fundamentalist's view of capitalism. He started wondering if he lad slipped into that mindset of fundamentalist who saw only the bottom line as the measure of success in business. Had he become a rigid thinker when it came to business like some religious extremists are?

In his reverie, Steven recalled reading parts of another Smith book, written around the same time, _The Theory of Moral Sentiments_ , in which the philosopher stressed the need for the rich to care for the poor in such a way that everyone would have their basic needs met. At least, that was what he remembered all these years later.

_Funny_ , he thought, _that idea sounds so socialist right now...almost offensive._

He looked at his watch and couldn't believe the time. An hour and a half had passed since he began reading! It had seemed like only twenty minutes.

He was only fifteen or twenty minutes from home so he thought maybe he should call Catherine. Now was one of the few times he regretted his stance on cell phones. He wished he had one right this minute. Ordinarily, he hated them, because they didn't let him get away. He'd tried one once and found himself unable to get away from unexpected and often unwanted calls. He had no peace. So he became what he liked to call "a cell free zone." He found a pay phone at the marina.

Up the hills of the peninsula, winding his way toward his home, he realized he was actually enjoying this book. However, he felt he needed to keep it to himself and not let others know what he was reading, at least for the time being. This felt a bit odd to Steven. He was usually so open and transparent about everything, withholding very little of himself. He readily shared his thoughts, opinions and beliefs quite candidly. Keeping this a secret for now might take some discipline.

It was almost quarter to seven when he turned off the key in the BMW. Catherine was coming out of the guest house. He waved to her. He remembered the times they'd stayed in the guest house themselves, when no one was on the grounds. _Naughty and fun times, he recalled, and perhaps it was time to do it again_.

"Watch out big guy," she said, as he hugged her and kissed her hard on the mouth. "You can get in trouble for thinking what you're thinking."

"Oh yeah?" he countered, realizing she had read his mind again. "You want to join me?"

She looked at him and smiled. "I'm going out tonight dearest, remember?"

Steven was puzzled and surprised. He couldn't remember her saying anything, but he didn't doubt she had.

"No dear. I don't. When do you need to leave and when will you be back?" he asked.

"I'm leaving in about ten minutes, and I'll be back about ten thirty or so. I knew when you called to tell me you were close to home earlier that you might have forgotten. Are you okay with it?"

"Sure. I'm okay." He thought of the book and having some private time. "I have something to do anyway. Besides, I think it's time to fire up the hot tub. A good soak would feel great tonight. If you get back early enough, perhaps you can slip in there with me?"

"There you go again. Well, maybe I can beg off a bit early, but I can't promise. Right now, I need to get ready."

"Where's your meeting?" he said.

"Oh, it's only down the hill in Burlingame, at Rose's home on Crystal Springs Road. You've been there, haven't you?"

"Sure," he said as they entered the house. He got his briefcase and imagined eating something easy, making a couple of calls, and enjoying the Jacuzzi before Catherine returned.

He retired to the living room, opened the book and began reading again. Before he knew it, he'd read another thirty pages. He was starting to see ways the so-called "American Dream" had gotten out of control and could actually threaten the long term sustainability of human life on Earth. He was starting to feel some responsibility for his leadership in promoting a way of life that could only be enjoyed by a fraction of the earth's population. He was also troubled by these new insights which caused him to feel guilty and reckless for being one of the best at doing business the way he was taught. He had mixed feelings as well as mixed thoughts about all this.

And then there was this consciousness stuff! The more he read the more he wondered. It was as if he'd been only partially awake most of his life, parts of himself had been asleep all these years.

After another hour, his mind began to feel overloaded, as if too much information was trying to get into his head. As he paused, he remembered the hot tub. _It must be warm enough by now_ , he thought.

_It was perfect_. He settled in. The jets swirled hot water all around him. _It was about ten, so if Catherine got home early and could join him, fine. But, this was pretty damn good right now_ , he thought with a great big grin.

_This was a good time to reflect on what Harman was writing about_ , he thought. _Was this guy a utopian academic pandering to the idealist side of human beings? Or was he simply delusional and naïve, and had found someone to publish his esoteric ramblings and package them as a business text?_

Steven was well aware of the social responsibility movement. As he'd mentioned to Mark, he was even aware of the movement's predecessor, the corporate responsibility movement of the 1960s. He knew about the formation of several organizations to advocate environment-friendly manufacturing practices. The public's increased awareness of ecological issues certainly made it a prerequisite for any publicly traded company to be sensitive to these concerns.

He was also aware of a tremendous increase in interest in spirituality and higher consciousness. The growing number of books, tapes, videos, television shows, and even movies on New Age subjects were testimony of this newfound interest, which represented a huge market. He knew this through his own family experience—through Catherine and Chelsea. He also knew it through the research he needed to read routinely in his role as CEO of an investment firm, always looking at emerging trends. Due diligence required he be informed of changing values in the marketplace.

But did these New Age spiritual ideas fit into business? And if so, how? _Everything this author writes about makes sense_ , Steven reasoned _. Philosophically, he had no problem with people being treated fairly, having passion for what they do, and everything else Harman advocated. But what about the competitive world of the deal, the often cutthroat culture of international business? How could these nice, altruistic values fit into that environment?_

He recalled an article he'd read in 1994 or 1995—a critique of the trend of publishing business books that delved into spirituality. The critique had been written by someone with a credential in business, Steven remembered, but the name eluded him. And he recalled an article in the _Journal_ about the phenomenon too. _Geez, that's right_! he thought. _Even_ The Wall Street Journal _commented on this trend awhile back_. Then he remembered articles in _Chief Executive, Business Week_ , and _Industry Week_. Actually, he could now recall many articles he'd seen on this subject in the last few years, but he'd somehow forgotten them all until now. _Curious_ , he thought.

He remembered how he dismissed any books that crossed a line he had in his mind —religion was a private matter, and the office was certainly no place to bring your personal beliefs. He could still hear admonitions from his childhood, cautions about not discussing politics and religion in polite company—anywhere outside of family situations. These admonitions had been given to him as rules to live by.

Steven was sweating profusely. He wondered if the rheostat on the hot tub was working properly. He wiped his face with a towel and looked around for the floating temperature gauge. It had found its way behind him. He lifted it out and held it to the light coming from the family room. _One hundred four...on the money_ , he said to himself. It had to be him, because the thermometer was dead on. Well, he'd probably been in the tub for an hour anyway, enough time for one soak.

Slowly, he exited the tub. He took another wipe at his damp brow and wondered where Catherine was. While he wished she was here and was used to her being with him whenever he soaked in the tub, he was also enjoying this time with himself, with his thoughts, all these thoughts that this book had triggered. He sure was stirred up intellectually. He couldn't remember being this worked up about anything philosophical since his college days. It felt good to revisit his ideals.

After a quick shower, he wrapped himself in a robe and re-entered the house. His thoughts returned to the book's origins. Who'd sent it anyway? By this time, he was ready to have a major discussion with whoever it was. Should he punch them or kiss them?

He headed for the bedroom listening for any indications that Catherine was on the grounds. He assumed she couldn't get away early. He settled into bed with the book. But he hadn't read two paragraphs before he was asleep.

A few minutes later, Catherine got home. She entered the house and checked around downstairs. As she climbed the stairs, she asked in a volume not loud enough to wake him if he were asleep: "Hey, handsome, still want a little action?"

Hearing no response, she entered the bedroom quietly and smiled as she saw him. She gently lifted his glasses from his nose and took the book off of his chest.

_This must be the book—the mystery package_ , she thought. And a book which had obviously captured Steven's attention. She was surprised to see the name of Willis Harman, a man whose work she knew. She'd heard him speak several times. _This is certainly something different for Steven,_ she thought. _This would never be endorsed by the_ Harvard Business Review.

Still feeling energized, too restless to sleep just yet, she had an impulse. _I might as well check it out too,_ she thought. _After all, it looked more like my kind of reading anyway._ She settled in with it.

When she turned off her reading light, she noticed the time. My God! It was two in the morning, she exclaimed silently. She'd read nearly a third of the book without a break. What really surprised her was this was supposedly a business book, and business books usually bored her to death.

The next morning Catherine awakened exceptionally mindful of a dream she'd had. She'd found her dreams could be elusive after she woke up, to the point where sometimes she couldn't remember any of them after a few minutes of being awake. Keeping her eyes closed, she let the dream marinate within her consciousness, not forcing her memory to recall any of it.

She became aware of the shower running in the bathroom and realized Steven was up ahead of her. She still had several minutes of solitude before he'd be out. Bit by bit, the dream became clearer, like watching a photographic print develop in a darkroom. Steven was a major player in her dream, bigger than life itself, it seemed. As usual, this dream wasn't logical. Steven was fully grown, approximately his present age. He was dressed in a three-piece suit, looking very Harvard-like. But he was struggling through the birth canal of an incredibly large woman. The woman didn't have a face, or even a particular shape for that matter. The mother was more symbolic than a real woman, like the goddess of mythology or the archetypal feminine.

While Steven struggled in her dream, he didn't seem to be resisting much. He didn't fight the journey, but he had a difficult time squeezing through. When it came time for him to leave the womb, he screamed with a strange mixture of fear and delight, unlike any sound Catherine had ever heard. This was so uncharacteristic for her Steven, the man she'd known since they were teenagers, to be acting this unabashedly. She was thrilled and concerned simultaneously.

She laid there basking in the reverie, knowing she needed to rise any minute. A voice from the bathroom pulled her back to wakefulness.

"Honey, are you awake?" Steven asked.

"Reluctantly," she replied.

"No need to get up for me, sweetheart. I can get myself off to school by myself you know," he said playfully. "I'm a big boy now."

"No, I want to get up," she said, half-meaning it.

"Yeah, I definitely crashed, didn't I? The hot tub was a perfect remedy for my body. But I was like warm Jello when I decided to read in bed. Read, ha! I doubt if I read two sentences and I was gone," he said.

"Yes. You looked so 'gone' that I decided to just let you be when I got in," she said.

"When did you get home? Was it long after I crashed?"

"Well, I don't know when you crashed, as you say, but it was about eleven."

"I bet I'd only been asleep for a few minutes," he said. "I guess I just missed you, my dear."

"Well you sure looked cute. I just couldn't wake you, as tempting as it was."

"Oh, did I miss something?" Steven asked coyly, as he selected a tie from his wardrobe.

"Let's just say I was considering having some fun with your body. You know how I love to do that when you're asleep. But you looked so peaceful, I just couldn't." She smiled.

"Well sleepyhead, it's time for me to hit the road. It's a beautiful morning and I'm hot to trot. See you this evening," he said as he leaned over the bed and kissed her goodbye.

Catherine lay there for a few minutes until she heard the door close downstairs and the car start outside. She hadn't told him about the book, she thought somewhat guiltily. She was glad she'd put it back on his side table last night. Now it was gone. He had taken it with him.

The Mercedes needed gas. Steven stopped at the Chevron station on California Avenue before venturing onto the freeway. He filled the tank himself and took his receipt from the pump. Geez, he thought, not only has all the service gone from gas stations, but there's not even any human interaction anymore. He remembered when the local service station owner had been a stabilizing force in a neighborhood. He checked your oil and your tire pressure, and always had time for a chat. He'd even repaired the old family wagon on occasion. Steven realized he had these same thoughts every time he got gas these days. Was he getting old and crotchety, bitching about the good ol' days and how the world was going to hell? That's what he remembered about the older folks from his childhood.

As he pulled onto the freeway, his thoughts drifted back to his younger days. He hardly had the Ozzie-and-Harriet home environment as a kid. His childhood had been tough. When he was only six or seven, his parents had divorced and his dad had moved across town and remarried. His mom had started drinking pretty heavily and Steven had gradually taken over as the surrogate head of household, exhibiting his tendency to being over-responsible at an early age. His dad seemed content to visit him and his half-brother once a week, on the designated evening, but otherwise seemed lost in his new life with his new wife and her family. Eventually, his mom's parents got wind of the situation and had their daughter committed to the state facility at Agnew, to get her sober and stabilized. The county social services people placed him and Richard, his mother's other child from a previous marriage, in a boarding school selected by his grandparents. He was ten at the time.

Being separated from his mother and the family home was devastating for Steven, but he'd managed to squelch his feelings. He missed his older half-brother, who was in a different section of the boarding school, so they never saw each other. He didn't know how to feel about that either. He still didn't, he admitted to himself as an aside.

The school—St. Vincent's School for Boys in Marin County—turned out to be a cross between a reform school and an orphanage run by the local Catholic archdiocese. It was staffed with Dominican nuns, a couple of priests, and several lay teachers or prefects. Steven was a bright student. They promoted him ahead of his fellow classmates, and he'd skipped the seventh grade altogether.

After two years, his mother, Elizabeth, had achieved a level of sobriety and sustained employment that allowed her to regain custody of her sons. Steven had been elated to be going home again, feeling sure this time he could do a better job of keeping his mother sober. He just had to try harder this time.

They'd settled into a new home and he started high school, a Catholic campus run by the Christian Brothers. Steven hadn't known anybody there and he was quite shy. Eventually, he'd started hanging around another smart kid, Larry Connerly, gregarious and fun to be around. It was clear within a few weeks that he and Larry were the two smartest kids in their freshman class.

Elizabeth was working at a plastics manufacturing company. Steven was allowed to have a cat and he started feeling like a normal teenager. However, the vigilant nature he'd learned before boarding school required him to remain alert.

And then it happened. He found a hidden bottle of bourbon. It was only a few weeks after mother and sons had been reunited. He came across it quite accidentally, hidden behind the clean towels in the linen closet. His heart had sagged as he'd realized what it was and why it was there. He pondered what to do. It was mid-afternoon and no one else was home.

The boy figured the best thing to do was pour it down the drain. That way his mother couldn't drink it and she'd stay sober, his young mind reasoned. He took the bottle into the bathroom, opened it, and paused. He held the open bottle to his nose and took a whiff. Phew! Did it reek! He poured the brown liquid down the drain. The whole bathroom stunk. He rinsed the sink with water, letting it run for several minutes. _That should do it,_ he remembered thinking, and he took the bottle to the garbage can in the backyard.

He recalled how he'd waited for a reaction for the next several days. Surely she missed it. _So how come she hasn't asked about it?_ he'd wondered. But Elizabeth never did.

The next week, Steven had discovered another bottle hidden in the kitchen. _I need to be more vigilant. I need to do a better job,_ he'd thought.

The next several months, Steven routinely searched for his mother's hidden booze and watched for the signs of her drinking every evening. He noticed her breath smelled funny when she kissed him goodnight. Later, he started searching her purse. He found little packets of Sen Sen, tiny breath candies. He took one. That was how she smelled, he realized. She was covering up the booze breath. Now he knew for sure he was failing at his job as self-appointed caretaker.

His mother's drunkenness had gotten more and more obvious as the months went on. She would be conspicuously high before he and Richard went to bed on weeknights, and she'd be pretty much out of it all weekend. The brothers were pretty much on their own. Steven became the de facto head of household, despite his being the younger of the two brothers. Richard was more into leaving the house and staying away for most of the day. Steven took to tending to the household duties, like preparing bag lunches for the two of them, shopping for groceries with money he took from his mother's purse, often in front of her, and cooking dinner from time to time.

And then seemingly out of the blue, the house was invaded by two county social workers, a uniformed policeman, Steven's grandmother and a friend, and one of the neighbors. His grandmother was crying a lot, he remembered very clearly. He'd rarely seen her cry, and this time she was bawling. Her friend consoled her as the county people and the sheriff made her sign some papers. Then they'd taken Elizabeth away. She was screaming, swearing, and very drunk. She looked terrible, he remembered thinking. God, he was embarrassed as well as scared. He had failed at keeping it together.

The boys had gone to stay with their grandparents on the farm. He and Richard loved it out there. There was plenty of room to play, and he could relax. He was taken care of and didn't feel the need to be a caretaker. Of course, he didn't know it until years later in therapy, but the farm was one place where he didn't need to maintain the super-vigilance he'd adopted as a survival mechanism. His grandparents were like the parents he didn't have and their home offered the stability and security that was so absent living with Elizabeth.

As he turned off the freeway, his thoughts returned to today. He felt a strong need to talk about this book with someone. Mark! That was who he'd ask about it. Mark had done some pretty strange things, he recalled, even taken EST years ago, for God's sake. He made a mental note to call Mark first thing and see when they could get together.

He walked into the Ventures offices feeling suddenly quite light and cheerful. Offering his good mornings generously as he went, Steven entered his suite. He'd beaten Ruth to work. He took a few items from his briefcase, including the book, which he laid next to the phone on his desk. He smelled the fresh pot of coffee brewed on his wet bar and poured himself a cup, silently thanking whomever had made it in Ruth's absence. He sat down at his desk and surveyed the messages that had accumulated since his early departure yesterday.

After several calls to the East Coast, a short meeting with Ruth when she got in, and a quick hallway meeting with his controller, Steven dialed Mark at his office.

"Mark, can I see you sometime soon—say in the next day or so?" he asked. "You're out of town later this week and the early part of next week? Hmm. That's too bad. I'd really like to talk to you sooner than that...You can later today? Great! What time?"

Steven chuckled. "Four thirty it is. Where can we meet? Sure, I'll come partway down. After all, it's the least I can do for imposing on you like this...Pete's Harbor? You got it!"

He put down the handset feeling enormously grateful for Mark's friendship. Yes, he'd be the perfect person to talk to.

Steven's mind returned to the work waiting before him. He hesitated a moment. Then he dove in.

March 18: South of San Francisco, Redwood City, Pete's Harbor, 4:27 PM PST

Driving down the peninsula toward Pete's Harbor later that day, Steven wondered if Mark was the one who'd sent him this book. _Wouldn't that be interesting_ , he thought. _Maybe there was a way to find out._

Mark was waiting for Steven as he climbed the stairs to the restaurant which was built on tall wooden pilings.

"Hey, hey, buddy," said Steven as he extended his hand. "Thanks again for coming up to meet me on such short notice. I really appreciate it."

"No problemo, my friend," Mark said. "Want a beer?"

"Sure. But let me buy," he said as he reached for his wallet, put the book on the bar, and extracted a ten dollar bill. He laid the money on the bar and picked up the book. He held it up. "You know this book you sent me is giving me fits!"

Mark's brow wrinkled. "That book? I didn't give you any book. You must be confusing me with someone else."

"You mean you didn't send me this?" Steven asked, more seriously. He handed the book to Mark.

Mark examined it, smiled and said, "Judging by the little I see here, I think I'd remember if I sent you that book in particular. It's just not your kind of thing, Steven."

"Oh yeah," Steven said, somewhat defensively. "Why do you say that?"

"Well, by the looks of it, this is one of those new breed of business books written by authors advocating a new human consciousness. You know, all those things that bottom-line operators like you think of as 'airy-fairy.'"

_That was probably fair,_ Steven thought. He said, "Well, smartass, it might interest you to know that I find many of the things he writes about in here to be quite thought-provoking. In fact, I'm finding them so provoking it's hard to keep my thoughts off this thing ever since I got it."

"Sounds like it's got you stirred up a bit, buddy. It this what you wanted to talk about?" Mark asked.

"Yes. You've been closer to this sort of thing and I thought it might be helpful for me to talk with you. I don't know who else I can discuss this with." Steven frowned. "After all, this guy says some things that make a lot of sense but could get him lynched by a mob of investment bankers, you know?"

"Well no, Steven. I haven't read this book, so I don't know exactly what you're talking about. That being said, it's safe to say that I am probably more familiar with this field or this movement than you are. I thought you believed any talk like this was hooey. Weren't you the guy who liked what Tom Peters said awhile back—about there being no place for spirituality in business?"

"Is he the guy who wrote that article?"

"Yeah. It was actually one of his syndicated columns...."

"Okay....Anyway, that column got a quick response from a CEO—a very articulate open letter which was included in an entire book on this debate. In fact, I think you know this CEO's company—Medtronic, out of Minneapolis. You know them, don't you? They're a publicly traded...they're a pacemaker manufacturer with a stellar record in social responsibility and financial performance."

At the mention of Minneapolis, Steven's thoughts shifted to memories of Kirsten. Another wave of grief swelled up in his chest, and Mark touched him on the arm.

"Are you okay, buddy?"

"Sure, Mark," he said. "Go on."

Mark continued, "Anyway, this book was published which contained this CEO's letter as well as Peters' original article, along with the writings of about twenty other people who responded to the two perspectives. It was great! There was Thomas Moore, the New Age best-selling author, Anita Roddick, the founder of the Body Shop, the One Minute Manager guy—Blanchard—and a bunch of others."

Steven nodded.

"So what all these folks say is that humans have a spiritual dimension that often gets locked out at the doorway when they enter the workplace. They all agree that by barring this part of themselves from the work experience, they are only partially present in their jobs. Peters doesn't seem to get that there's any difference between spirituality and religion and, since he's such a First Amendment champion, he feels strongly that any talk about spirituality or any explicit acknowledgement of Spirit—even in a non-religious context—is inappropriate at work."

Steven started squirming on his stool. His agitation was obvious to Mark.

"I can see you're having difficulty with this stuff, Steven. Are you sure you want to talk about it?" Mark asked.

"Yes," Steven said quickly. "On one hand, I don't believe there's a place for this stuff in the real business world either. So, I guess I agree with Peters. On the other hand, I'd like to think the human species can improve the way we treat each other and the environment. Then I reprimand myself because I think I'm being utopian and unrealistic.

"For instance, do authors like this really know what it's like to run a business? Have they ever had to make a payroll in their lives? Aren't most of them consultants or professors? They aren't really in business, are they? They're standing on the sidelines watching, like armchair quarterbacks. They don't really know how to play the game! They certainly don't know how to win at it!"

Steven realized he was raising his voice. He also noticed his pulse seemed to have jumped a beat or two. He didn't like having holier-than-thou types criticize his way of succeeding. _Especially when they couldn't survive one day in this cutthroat world_. He was surprised at how agitated he'd become.

Mark saw his friend's discomfort. "One thing I can say, Steven. It is far easier to run a business with the values these authors are writing about when you have a small private company, particularly one that was founded on them at the start."

That calmed Steven down a bit. "How's that?" he asked.

"Let's take Medtronic, for example," Mark said. "The company was founded on certain values explicitly stated in a sort of charter. In fact, those values still stand today, over fifty years later! Having such noble and explicit values instilled in an organization at its birth seems to add to its prospects for adhering to them—walking the talk, so to speak. When a company goes public and its stock is widely sold and held by thousands of special interest groups, conforming to any sort of humanistic or social values becomes more difficult, since it might appear to impair earnings, especially short-term earnings."

Mark stopped for a moment, and then began again. "This isn't too far afield from what we were discussing the other evening over cocktails. Remember Milton Friedman's words of a few years ago, that the sole responsibility of the corporation is to increase shareholder wealth? Boy, did managers and directors take that one and run with it! They've used that bit of opinion to ruin thousands of lives in the name of increased profits, making the wealthy wealthier and the middle-income folks poorer by the millions.

"And the increasing gap between the rich and poor is behind many of the concerns about humanity's ability to sustain life. Eventually, the system will implode—it's not built to continue the way we have been going for the past several decades."

Mark saw Steven's eyebrows rise in silent query.

"Yes, Steven, it's only in recent years that this trend has taken hold...say since World War II. And taking stock public with a short-term market mentality has been a primary culprit in accelerating this trend."

Mark realized he was attacking the essential economic structure of the publicly held corporation—identifying it as a primary villain in the prospective demise of civilization—and that Steven's entire business was founded on this structure. Ventures International made its money largely by taking companies public...or at least increasing their portfolio companies' stock value so they could make their profits. He was too far in to turn back, though, so he continued.

"Medtronic is publicly held, and it still can hold its head high and claim to be operating by the values its founder established many years ago," he said. "That's because their values were explicit and there was widespread commitment to uphold them through its history."

Mark paused. He'd been taking a lot of time and had gotten a bit preachy. He wanted to see where his friend was after his little speech.

Steven sensed Mark's wondering and assured him he wanted to hear more. "Keep going, Mark. I'm listening to everything you're saying. This is great stuff for me to hear right now...I think," he added with a whimper of playfulness.

"Okay. I have one more point to make and then I'll be quiet for a while. Your company is publicly held. That requires you to maximize profits every quarter or face significant inquisition by a whole bunch of people who think they have the right to question every decision you made. Your compensation is largely based upon profits and increases in share value. If you do not conform to these pressures all these guys —this gang of investment bankers, analysts, labor union fund managers and other large investors—they cam make your life miserable. Your income could be drastically reduced, affecting your lifestyle and your family's security. Your work life can be adversely impacted...being hounded by all these people who think you owe them answers...threats to your job...media criticism...

"This adds up to a lot of pressure to conform to the system's wishes even though these wishes are not explicit. They are insidious demands. We all know this!" Mark paused, taking a moment to get back to his point without the frustration.

"Some people have equated the global economic system to an addiction, where a small number of people demand more and more despite the fact that it is hurting the whole. I think it was Harman"—Mark pointed to Steven's book—"who once wrote metaphorically about the human body. He asked what would happen if the heart told the rest of the body it wanted more blood. Can you imagine such absurdity? The other organs would have to learn to get by on a smaller supply. They'd be starved of their share of the life-sustaining fluid because the heart got greedy. Some see the global economic trend as similar to this, where those with money—the "blood" of enterprise—want more and more of it. In Latin America they've developed a term to describe out-of-control demand for greater and greater wealth. They call it 'brutal capitalism.'

"When I started Telcom," he continued, "I decided to stay private. I knew I could make a killing once we knew we were going to survive. Given the investment frenzy in the Valley, I could have walked away with tens of millions. But I would have paid a price. For me, it would have meant selling my soul. A few years earlier, this would have been no problem. Not only would it have been no problem, it was my formula for getting rich!

"To this day, I remember the insight I had back in the 1960s reading a _Fortune_ magazine article about the richest people in the United States. Except for those who inherited their wealth, just about every one of them had made their fortune by starting a business and taking it public. I knew then and there that was how I'd get rich.

"And I did! The Intel deal went pretty well, as did the money I made with Apple and Microsoft. But by the time I was starting Telcom, I was also beginning to realize the negative impact of this way of doing business. This was all before you and I met. I was one of the early members of the Social Venture Network and I still get information from several other similar organizations with overlapping objectives. I'll be happy to share them with you if you are interested. In fact, I'd be thrilled to talk with you about this, Steven.

"I don't know who sent you that book, but I'm damn glad they did. If I'd known it would have sparked a conversation like this, I would have done it years ago! I never would have guessed that a true bottom-liner like you would be open to these ideas."

Mark took the last sip of his beer and paused, waiting for his friend to say something. He really appreciated Steven as a friend. Their friendship had grown very rapidly over the past few years and Mark felt closer to him than he did to many of the friends he'd known since high school. That he could discuss these aspects of business with his friend was frosting on the cake.

Steven sat deep in thought, clearly affected by Mark's discourse. Mark silently signaled the bartender for another round and allowed his friend to absorb everything he'd been saying.

Nearly a full minute went by before Steven inhaled deeply, and exhaled with a huge sigh. He started to say something, and then paused again. Mark could tell by his friend's eye movement that he'd been really stirred up—intellectually and possibly emotionally—although he'd never heard Steven talk about his feelings.

Finally, with uncharacteristic awkwardness, Steven asked a question. "When you said what you did about the economy as an addiction, what did you mean?

"Well," Mark said, "if an addict is someone with an unwanted, unhealthy habit they can't stop, we can expand the definition beyond just being hooked on drugs or booze, okay?"

"Okay," agreed Steven after a few seconds.

"In the present economic system, there are millions of people who hate being in debt, who are tired of working most of the year just to pay interest on what they owe, and who feel they can't stop. They can't seem to resist the craving to purchase stuff. So, they work harder and longer trying to catch up. They consolidate their credit card balances into a second mortgage and then repeat the entire cycle again.

"Did you know that personal bankruptcies in this country have been escalating over the past twenty years? On top of that, there are millions who are barely hanging on, afraid that their credit rating would get messed up if they were to file bankruptcy. Isn't that ironic, Steven? People are drowning in debt, but they're afraid to lose the right to get into more debt! If that doesn't define an addiction, I don't know what does."

Mark noticed how excited he'd become. "On top of this, Steven, we have the other side of the addiction—the supply side. Like the illegal drug trade, there are buyers of the drug and there are dealers, right? Now, just imagine that stuff—the stuff consumers buy—is the drug..."

"Wait a minute!" said Steven. "That's a big leap for me to make. You mean to say you think a new car is like cocaine? Why that's preposterous, Mark! That's crazy! That's an insane rationale."

"I know it's hard to get your mind around, buddy, but hang in there with me for another minute, okay? Please?" A resigned Steven slowly nodded his head.

"If —and I know that's a big little word—if stuff can be looked upon as the drug, then who are the drug dealers? A lot of writers and people who are influencing thought about the future these days are saying the dealers are the big corporations who bombard the public with advertising, sponsorships, and publicity, selling the idea that this car, this brand of pants, this television, will bring the buyer status, self-esteem, and all the love they can handle."

Steven was getting very agitated. "This is too much for me to listen to, Mark. If you weren't my friend I'd have been out of here ten minutes ago. But you are, and now I think you're my _crazy_ friend. This analogy you made up is the most ridiculous thing I can imagine! Do you really believe this drivel?" Steven snorted.

Mark wondered if he'd gone too far. He had been reading a lot these past few years, and had done a lot of soul-searching himself over this. He couldn't remember ever seeing Steven so close to getting really pissed off at him. Perhaps he should stop now. But before he could think much more about it, Steven started up again.

"Damnit, Mark. This conversation has really got me going—you know?"

"I can see that. Do you want to change the subject?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," Steven said. "I'm really not sure of anything right now, even my just saying you were crazy." He took a long gulp from his second beer. _The beer tasted unusually good right now_ , he thought. _Perhaps this comparison to addiction was getting under his collar because of his mother's alcoholism. Maybe that was clouding his mind a bit, making it so hard to hear what Mark was saying. He admired Mark. He loved the way he thought about things. So why was he having so much trouble with this?_

"It may be that I'm confusing alcoholism with your example, Mark, and you know how that addiction affected my life. Maybe that's why I'm finding this analogy of yours so hard to listen to," Steven said.

"Could be, Steven. I know your mom fought it and won, through AA, as I recall. Right?" Mark said.

"Yeah. That twelve-step stuff really saved her...I mean _our_ lives...back when things were pretty iffy." Steven nodded. "As crazy as you are talking, I've heard you talk crazy about other things and I didn't get this agitated, so maybe there's a connection here."

"Steven, if you are up for listening a bit more, I think there may be several more reasons why this is so hard for you," Mark said.

"Ordinarily, I'd say okay, but I'm feeling a need to let all this percolate...so maybe a break here would be good. But you're going away for a week or so, right?" Steven asked.

"Yeah, but there's always email," Mark said. "I know you still prefer talking in person, but maybe we can use technology to our advantage. After all, I'll be half way around the world, completely out of sync with the West Coast time-wise. The Internet can serve us well over the next few days. Think of it, Steven, I'll be sitting in a hotel at night anyway. I'd much rather respond to your messages than watch Korean television."

"Oh, you're going to Seoul?"

"Yeah. There's a problem with the quality of the last two batches of components we received from our supplier there, and I need to get some hands-on time with their plant manager," Mark said. "I'm stopping for a short visit in Taiwan on the way and maybe on the return, but I'll definitely have time to engage with you in the evenings. What do you say? Are you up for it?"

Steven sighed. "One of the reasons I don't use computers more is that I never learned how to type, Mark. There—now you know one of my little secrets. It's not that I'm too snobby to type my own letters. Besides, with help like Ruth around all these years, why should I start doing my own letters?" There was a note of defensiveness in his voice. "However, I can hunt and peck a bit, enough to get the essence to you."

Before Steven was twenty feet away from the bar, he began to wonder what other reasons Mark was going to suggest for his reaction—or was it an _over_ reaction? Well, one thing for sure. Mark wasn't the mysterious "Caring Friend." But he sure was more up to snuff on this subject than Steven had ever imagined. _What a fascinating guy_ Steven thought as he started the Mercedes and headed across the dirt lot to the road back to the freeway.

March 18: South San Francisco, Hungry Hunter Restaurant, 8:38 PM PST

She walked into the restaurant and looked around for the bar where she'd agreed to meet Allen. They'd met at a friend's party in the city and she'd agreed to have dinner with him. This was her first date since taking the new job and she was more excited than she wanted to admit. Her dating experience until now had been minimal because she wanted to get through school and into the business world before getting serious about anyone.

She'd met some great guys—along with some real jerks—but she wasn't in the frame of mind to entertain any real possibilities with any of them.

She entered the bar and looked around. Apparently Allen hadn't arrived yet. He worked for a software development firm and suffered from the same "busy-ness" bug so many in the Valley did. She sat at the bar, ordered a Virgin Mary and checked her PDA to be sure she had the time right and that he hadn't tried to contact her. She was a few minutes late, but not horribly tardy.

Her drink arrived and Allen walked in immediately afterward. He apologized for being late and seemed a bit awkward and nervous. He was cute, she thought. She liked the way he seemed so real, not taking himself very seriously. He told the bartender, "I'll have what she's having."

"I'm really hungry," she told him as he was taking his first sip, barely managing to avoid sticking the celery stalk up his nose.

"Me too," Allen said, almost automatically. "I'll ask how long a wait there'll be for a table."

He excused himself. _Jeez, she's great_ , he thought. _Attractive, intelligent, and socially engaging. A cool date. I wonder where this will go_.

March 19: Hillsborough, George residence, 1:48 AM PST

Sleep was impossible. Steven knew the phenomenon—he'd been wired like this before, but usually on business deals. This time his mind was engaged in a very different way.

_Perhaps this was what they called soul-searching_ , he thought, feeling like he was in a debate with himself. A goodly number of the ideas he'd been reading in the damn book were not particularly new, he realized. They were, however, based on values he had long held as idealistic and naïve. They reminded him of his adolescent years, when he'd seen himself as a reformer of society and stayed up all night talking with his buddies about philosophy and the ills of the world....how they'd cure them, and on and on and...

Then he'd gotten real. As he matured and spent more time with older, more experienced people—teachers and professors, managers he interned for before starting his own company, and various mentors—he adapted a more concrete approach to life. He saw his idealism as quixotic, jousting with windmills, an "impossible dream."

Now he wondered: Had he just given up on his dreams and bought into a system fed by greed, cynicism, and self-centeredness? Was the whole drive for success based on such shallow objectives as "getting the most toys"? Was this all a game, made up by grown-up children who wanted some engaging activity to occupy themselves, because they'd given up on the noble goals and high-minded ideals they'd cherished as adolescents?

He recalled all the wonderful books he'd read as a child, including the Bible. He remembered how clear-cut he'd thought everything was—what was right, what was wrong, who was bad, who was good. Things were not so clear anymore.

_Or are they?_ he wondered. _Could they still be as clear as Harman says, and I've just pretended to believe they aren't because this kind of thinking best serves my agenda, the lifestyle I've bought into?_ As a man of conscience —and that was how Steven saw himself—how else could he rationalize beliefs and behaviors so contrary to the values of his youth? He winced as he considered the full impact of what he might have been doing all these years.

_Jesus, I hope that's not what I've done_ , he thought, while simultaneously realizing he had done just that, at least to some degree.

The whole night, Steven's mind was engaged, to such a degree that by the pre-dawn hours he'd have done anything for a few minutes sleep. He couldn't believe how difficult a night it had been.

He looked at the clock. _It was 5:15 in the goddamn morning!_ His thoughts were already preparing him for a difficult day. _I might as well get up,_ he figured. _Staying in bed and listening to this debate in my head is more tiring than if I got up and actually did something!_ He slipped out of bed, put on his robe, pulled the book from his briefcase in the dressing area and headed downstairs to the den.

The den was one of his favorite rooms. He turned on the lights as he entered the large high-ceilinged room, its walls lined with bookshelves, its tufted leather furniture beckoning him to sit. The walls were primarily dark wood, matched by most of the furniture and the forest green and burgundy stuffed chairs and couch. Although it was quite dark, it was one of the cheeriest rooms in the house as far as Steven was concerned. It served as a sanctuary of sorts too.

He walked over to the high-backed wing chair near the big fireplace and turned on the reading lamp.

Time passed. Then he heard sounds from upstairs—the muffled indescribable noises one hears as a big house comes to life. _Catherine must be up_ , he thought. He looked at the clock on the big desk. It was already 6:45. He got up from the chair, his body reminding him how long he'd been sitting in one spot. He walked over to the curtains and opened them, revealing a beautiful sunny morning with the rays of sunshine skipping along the blades of grass in the backyard, bouncing off shimmering drops of dew.

_Another day in paradise_ , he said to himself, stretching his entire body. He really loved this place, even though it was a bit much for just himself and Catherine. But they could afford it. So why not?

March 20: New York City, Offices of Tivor Sagi, 10:34 AM EST

He checked his transactions list from the previous day. His calls were perfectly planned. If his eleven o'clock options went well, he'd clear four and a quarter million before noon. This called for a special celebration. He'd already arranged for his two favorite escorts—Brawny and Colleen—to be available for lunch. If all went well, he'd take the yacht out for a short cruise and entertain them both for the afternoon. After all, he'd booked them for five hours each, and his skipper was standing by at the marina along the western shore of Manhattan. The skipper of the _Deal Maker_ had standing orders to be ready for sea duty, so Ty could go boating anytime he wanted. He commissioned the motoryacht last year. She was a 145-footer with a cruising range of over 1,000 miles.

Ty had considered a used boat, something a local yacht broker had advised him to do. He could refit one to suit his tastes. He'd even looked at several fine ships up and down the coast. But that hadn't suited his craving for newness—for being the first. In his mind it was something like wanting a virgin. He didn't want to be taking over someone else's yacht, even though he could have it refurbished. The _Deal Maker_ had everything imaginable in the way of electronic gear, a pair of personal watercrafts, a 22-foot inboard tender and the interior was decorated like a sheik's palace. A walk-in freezer assured guests they'd have food on hand for several weeks if they elected to spend more time at sea. And although Ty gave orders to toss the food regularly so that the ship's provisions were always fresh, the skipper gave all the unused food to the local soup kitchen. It bothered the captain and his crew that the food should be wasted. Waste didn't bother Ty. It was all deductible as a business expense since he wined and dined colleagues and clients just enough to pass muster with the IRS. It was more important to him that he could be spontaneous and do whatever he wanted to do, whenever he wanted to do it, than to be concerned over wasting food.

_All this luxury and a tax deduction to boot,_ he thought, applauding himself for his shrewdness.

He looked at his watch and thought of inviting one of his clients to join him and the two magnificently built women, but quickly decided against it. He felt like indulging himself today, and Brawny and Colleen would do just fine! _Excess is good_ , he thought.

March 22: San Francisco, World Headquarters, Ventures International, 6:08 PM PST

Steven had received a rather long email from Mark. Ruth had printed it out:

Dear Steven:

Since we met for a beer at Pete's, I've had plenty of thoughts. First of all, I am so happy we had the discussion. It feels like our friendship has taken on a whole new dimension and this excites me. I hope you feel similarly.

There's a parable I'd like to share with you. I've forgotten where I first heard it, but it seems appropriate given our talk the other day. I remembered it on the flight over here. It is a long one—the flight, that is. I call it "The Parable of the Boiled Frog." It goes something like this:

If you put a frog into a saucepan of water at room temperature, it is likely to remain there. If you slowly heat the water, the frog will stay there while the water gradually warms up, getting groggier and groggier as the temperature rises. Given no other stimulation, the frog will remain in the water—growing less conscious every minute—until it has been slowly boiled to death.

On the other hand, heat up a pan of water until it's hot. Then place the frog in the water. You can bet the frog will sense the danger and waste no time leaping out of the saucepan to safety.

In this parable, the frog represents humanity. The water represents the system—the global society in which we live along with all other living things. The pan is the earth, a container holding nature, the oceans, and everything alive. The heat under the pan represents the energy threatening to destroy everything in the pan—environmental degradation, species extinction, unbridled consumption, and all the other threats facing humanity that are driven by modern-day economics or "cowboy capitalism" and its newly adopted uniform—the multinational corporation.

Humanity is slowly being "boiled" by gradual but constantly increasing economic forces, which catalyze greater and greater global consumption, requiring ever-increasing rises in productivity and resource exploitation, which produces a deepening division between those who have the "goodies" and those who don't. If aliens were to drop in our world right now, like the frog dropped into the hot water, they'd probably wonder why the purveyors of this insanity were going unchallenged by the masses. They wouldn't understand that the masses are allowing it because they were getting drowsy—slowly being sedated into a state of unconsciousness—and oblivious to the growing danger.

Steven, perhaps this parable will give you an idea of what drives so many of the people expressing their concerns about the economic system running the world today. It isn't communism, or socialism in drag. It isn't anti-business. And it certainly isn't against free enterprise. It _is_ about allowing us humans to evolve to whatever next level is there for us, without missing the opportunity and going extinct.

I'll be in touch again soon. Send me a note if you're so inclined.

From the Seoul Hyatt,

Mark

Steven reread Mark's message. He folded it up and slipped it into his inside breast pocket and headed for the parking lot, pondering the parable.

In the months that followed, Steven found himself spending lots of time and much of his energy reading magazine articles, searching for information on the Web. His curiosity was piqued around this subject of consciousness.

**Chapter Four: LESSONS FROM THE BABY**

May 28: San Francisco, driving northbound on Van Ness Avenue, 7:16 PM PST

Steven was nervous about the event they were attending tonight. His driving didn't reflect his apprehension and he was glad he was behind the wheel. It gave him something else to worry about. Mark sat in the front passenger seat while Catherine, Chelsea, and Kathy filled out the backseat. The women were chatting. He and Mark seemed tongue-tied by comparison.

But once the car was parked and he turned off the engine, the women paused. Mark spoke for the first time in a half-hour.

"Chelsea, you're the only one here who knows what this is about. How about another quick briefing, kiddo?" he said. The five of them started getting out of the car.

"I'm so excited that you guys are really coming to this," Chelsea said. "I was so flabbergasted when Daddy asked about it, and then you guys come too!"

She paused to collect her thoughts. "Okay. Tonight Timothy will be talking about his new book, which is partially the story of his life thus far and partially about his foundation. It's a guest evening, so there's no charge. Those of us in his community were invited to bring guests who might be interested in what he has to say."

Mark looked at Steven and said, "When Steven asked me to come, I must admit I was pretty surprised too. I guess you wanted some male companionship, eh, pal?"

Steven was still uneasy. He smiled at Mark and gave his shoulder a short rub as if to thank him for coming and waved the women into the elevator ahead of them. He wondered if he'd made a mistake coming tonight. When Chelsea suggested it a week ago, it had seemed like a good idea. Catherine was all for it. In fact, she'd been to one other event like this and had joined Chelsea for a workshop or seminar or something last year down near Santa Cruz area. Then he decided to ask Mark. After all, this was something like what Mark had been talking about down at Pete's, so he'd probably like it. And it _was_ nice to have another guy along.

"Timothy is a really good speaker, guys," Chelsea said. "He uses a lot of humor and I think you'll find him very interesting. Mom, you know."

"Yes, sweetheart. I think he's a terrific speaker and a great mind. I really enjoyed the seminar we did with him last year," Catherine said.

"Oh, one thing I should warn you about. There will be people trying to get you to sign up for the basic program," Chelsea said. "It's called 'the Course' and its four days long. If someone starts talking to you about it and you aren't interested, just say so. If you're clear that you don't want to hear anymore, they should leave you be. We've all been asked to honor where people are and not push ourselves on the guests."

"Were there problems with that before?" asked Kathy.

"Yeah, I guess so." Chelsea shrugged. "We can get a bit overzealous sometimes...probably because we have all gotten so much from his teachings and we're eager to share it. That's understandable, isn't it?"

"Sure, honey," Steven said, accepting a name tag from one of the dozen or so young people checking off names. They entered the main ballroom together and followed another young woman who ushered them to five seats together near the front. Most of the seats nearby had been filled and Steven wondered how these were still available so close to the start of the program. Then he noticed little cards on each chair, with 'George' written on each one.

"You must have some clout here, daughter," he said, as he winked at Chelsea with a smile. "Of course, for the time you spend with these folks, I guess you should, eh?"

Chelsea let her father's wisecrack go without any response and invited the four of them to precede her, leaving her sitting on the aisle. Then she excused herself and ran off to talk to a group of young people obviously part of the Timothy clan.

Steven turned his head and watched dozens of people continue to pour into the huge ballroom. _My God_ , he thought, _there must be nearly a thousand people here tonight!_ From the second row, the depth and breath of this growing crowd had escaped him. But looking toward the rear of the ballroom gave him a very different perspective. He guessed that every seat would be filled soon.

At one point as his eyes wandered around the room, he saw a young woman he thought he knew. He couldn't place her name but he was pretty sure he knew her—not socially but around work. Her youthful face disappeared in the crowd as people settled into their seats.

The four of them sat there quietly until Chelsea returned. Smiling, she handed four brochures to her mother and asked her to pass them down. The brochures described the Course and other related workshops.

Jean was wondering how she'd ever allowed herself to get talked into coming to this thing. She was now commuting every day up to San Francisco for her new job. So staying in the city a few more hours wasn't too inconvenient, but she was really tired after a day that had started at five AM. But when Terry had told her about this Timothy guy, Jean had agreed to meet her in the lobby and be her guest.

She and Terry finally found their friends. She was relieved to find her seat. _There sure are lots of people here_ , she thought.

Within five minutes, a woman walked up onto the podium and introduced herself. The buzz of the crowd subsided, so that by the time she introduced the speaker, the room had quieted down. Timothy Warden walked briskly down an aisle and up onto the stage. The guests applauded politely, while his fans clapped furiously, adding hoorays and whistles. He stood there, taking in the crowd, the applause, and the excitement.

"Thank you. Thank you for your kind applause," he began. "I know most of you don't know who I am, and some of you may know a little about the work we do here at the Warden Foundation. I want to tell you something about me...No, no, not a long-winded monologue, but a short history of how this all came to be. And then I want to tell you a little about the Course. Then we'll engage in a dialogue together, where you might have some questions. How's that?"

Timothy Warden's story was indeed riveting. Steven found it intriguing and far from long-winded. He gradually forgot that the man was an accomplished speaker and became very involved in the story, as if living it himself. It was obvious that Timothy had been a seeker of spiritual growth and enlightenment for all of his adult life. After more than a dozen years living in an ashram in India, managing the business affairs of his guru's worldwide organization, developing a following initially in Europe and more recently here in the U.S., this man was quite accomplished and well studied in matters of Zen, the Buddha, theology, world religions, and writings of the mystics.

Near as he could guess, Timothy was a few years older than Steven. Maybe sixty or so. He was fairly well dressed, certainly better than Steven had expected. He had imagined Timothy in Gandhi-like muslin and barefoot. So much for his imagination...and perhaps some pre-judgment?

Steven was not particularly well versed on spiritual teachers. He had no way to evaluate their authenticity or legitimacy. After all, proof of their competence was entirely subjective, depending upon the inherent value each person felt they got out of the teachings or guidance being offered. But based upon the way this guy was presenting himself—his carriage, his self-confidence, his speaking ability—Timothy Warden seemed to be a perfectly credible human being who appeared to know what he was talking about.

The saga was fascinating. It seemed as if Timothy had been called to a special spiritual assignment at a very early age. And he pointed out that many children have this experience. The idea of a calling was not so unique, he said. But what a child might do with it—that was unusual.

Socialization in Western countries confused these natural callings, Timothy was saying. He referred to "industrialized education," whereby children were trained to memorize facts and score well on tests as a primary cause of children missing the experience of true education. Everything gets valued on its extrinsic nature in schools, he said.

Everything Timothy was saying made terrific sense to Steven, who even found the man's vocabulary stimulating. He became entranced by the man, who clearly possessed much charisma and an ability to hold an audience spellbound. Steven's concerns about coming tonight began to dissolve and, as they did, his enthusiasm built.

Two weeks before, Steven had called Chelsea and asked her to lunch. Catherine had suggested he do so after they'd talked about the turmoil he was in as a result of reading the Harman book. Chelsea was the baby of the family, but he valued Catherine's instincts.

Chelsea was pleasantly surprised to get her father's invitation. He rarely called her, first of all. Her mom usually called with invitations to get together, and she rarely spent time with just her father.... time with him was usually during family gatherings.

She was looking forward to lunching with her dad. She so seldom had him all to herself, and this would be a great opportunity to relate to him as an adult. After all, she was no longer daddy's little girl. She was a full-blown woman now and could count the times on one hand she'd spent with Steven alone since she'd turned twenty-one.

She knew he wanted to talk about "spiritual stuff," as he put it. Needless to say, she was intrigued, first that her father was interested in this topic, and second that he wanted to talk to _her_ about it. Her mom must have put him up to it, she thought.

FLASHBACK

Five weeks earlier:

April 10: San Francisco, North Beach District, Moose's Restaurant, 12:04 PM

Chelsea arrived at the restaurant first and was seated at a window table. Her father had suggested this place, one of his regular spots when he was in the city. Mooses's was named after owner Ed Moose, somewhat famous for starting the nearby Washington Square Bar and Grille years earlier. Her father had reasoned that it wasn't too far from where she worked at Levi Plaza, plus he knew Ed, the hostesses, and many of the regulars. To Chelsea, however, it was an old guys' place. She hadn't seen anyone under forty since she'd stepped inside. She was looking out the window as her dad pulled up in front and collected his claim check from the valet.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, sliding in to sit across from her. "A last-minute thing came up as I was walking out of the office."

"That's okay, Daddy. I've only been waiting for a few minutes anyway," she said. After a slight pause while Steven glanced at the menu, she burst out: "Well, what's this all about? I'm so curious I could hardly contain myself ever since you called! It's not every day that you ask me out to lunch, you know."

"I know, honey," he said. "In fact, this may be the first time we've had private time together since you left home. A lot has happened since then, Chelsea, and I'm seeing you in a new light these days. For one thing, I didn't know how to relate to you and your interests. Your mom can. But I've always been pretty business-focused. That's probably why I was so close to Kirsten—she and I could talk shop. But now I've seen you in action under stress, and you've been magnificent. You are very much a woman, Chelsea. And besides, you might be able to help me now."

"Thanks, Daddy." She grinned. "It's great to hear you say that. I've felt the same way. I can talk all day to mom. She and I have so many shared interests. But you! You've never been interested in what I was doing, not really. I could tell when you were trying to listen, but it was obvious that my life was either too boring or too airy-fairy for you. I not only couldn't talk about business, I didn't want to." Chelsea paused realizing she had been on a bit of a rant. Then she said, calmly, "Now—I'm dying of curiosity. What's going on?"

Steven told her the story of the Harman book and the mystery of who sent it. He told her about the way it had stirred him up, which had prompted his conversation with Catherine, which, in turn, had led to his inviting Chelsea to lunch. He asked his daughter to explain more about what her spiritual adventures had been like, promising that he'd listen more carefully now than he had in the past.

Her father's newfound interest in spirituality was exciting, Chelsea thought. Not only was he asking about something she knew about, but he was less informed, less experienced, and less articulate about these matters than she was. This was a first for them.

She told her story, how she'd felt this special yearning to connect with the "light," the divine, the "everything" of life since she'd been a little girl. How she'd occasionally talked to Catherine about it because her mother seemed to understand a bit of what she was trying to say. She'd never talked to her older sister about it because she was afraid Kirsten would tease her. And she would never have approached her father, always so pragmatic and rational. And, besides, he hadn't been around all that much when she was smaller. When he was around, mom and Kirsten seemed to get most of his attention.

From the time she was five, Chelsea had spent a lot of time alone, or so it had seemed to Steven. Now he was finding out that she wasn't really alone—she just wasn't in the company of other humans. She was spending time in her spirit world, playing with angels, talking to her spiritual friends and thoroughly enjoying her time with them.

She shared how she felt very much out of place with other children, even in college. While she'd been attending the university in Santa Cruz, a classmate had taken her to hear a lecture by Timothy and she'd instantly felt a connection, as she put it. She'd felt very much at home with the regulars surrounding this man, a person of tremendous wisdom who seemed to have much to offer her. She signed up for the basic program he was offering, started reading many of the books he recommended, and had even begun to volunteer time helping him form his non-profit foundation and promote his work in her spare time.

Now, some four or five years later, she felt an enormous appreciation for her relationship with Timothy. She told her father of the peace she felt as a result of being grounded in her spirituality rather than in materialism and personality. She told him of the gratitude she held for so many things in her life. She told him of the many new experiences—mystical, profound, revealing, and self-actualizing—she would never have known if it weren't for her work with Timothy.

Steven remembered Catherine's concern about susceptible young women, sexual misconduct, cult-like behavior, and the like, but now he was more interested in learning about Chelsea's spiritual adventures. He put these thoughts on hold for the time being and leaned over his meal toward Chelsea, intent on hearing every word.

As she described her rich inner life, she was beaming with enthusiasm, more so than Steven could ever recall. Her glow reminded him of how some pregnant women look, despite the discomforts of childbearing. Their faces seemed to radiate with light, as if possessed by something holy.

"I've never seen you so vital," he said as she paused to taste her salad. "It's so much fun to see you so excited."

"I guess you don't see much of it at family gatherings, Daddy, because I don't talk about this much outside of my circle of friends around the foundation. I never got that you or Kirsten were particularly interested. Actually, you and Kirsten were very much alike—all work, career, rational left-brain stuff. My interests and passion are more right-brain, if you know the difference."

"Yes, honey. I know the difference, but I'm giving you notice here and now. I am very interested in this stuff now. Forget about how things used to be. I'm going on sixty and feel like I am just becoming aware of what you felt when you were five. So—in a way—you're way ahead of me in this regard. It's time for me to learn more about me and all that other stuff you talk about. Quite a switch, eh, little daughter?" he said.

Chelsea rolled her eyes, smiling, and took another bite of her salad. _He was so worldly_ , she thought, _he was so knowledgeable about making money, selling ideas, managing people, how things work—the physical things. It was hard to think of him as being uninformed or naïve about anything._

_But then, he had always been reluctant to express his feelings_ , she realized, _so maybe his inner world was much newer to him than she imagined._ As she sat with that thought, she realized her father had been talking and she hadn't been listening.

"...and all these spiritual experiences I read about are so far out for me, honey," he was saying. "My idea of God has always been the guy up there who pulls all the strings and has ultimate control over everything—the one you pray to when things get tough, the one you ask for help when life gets out of control. This stuff you and these authors like Harman and this Timothy fellow talk and write about is much more of a personal relationship, almost like you're buddies with God! And then there's this Goddess. Who's she?"

Chelsea took a deep breath and prepared herself to begin an entirely new relationship with her father—one that was equal, two adults relating to one another. "Well, first of all, Daddy, there are all the old myths to expel," she said. "It seems the biggest barrier people put up to having a genuine spiritual relationship are their childhood memories of religion—ideas they developed very early in life. In all my counseling experience, I rarely see anybody who doesn't have some anger around their old idea about God. They feel let down, or betrayed, or disappointed about something God was supposed to have done for them...then they decide that's the end of all that 'God stuff.' I see it all the time whenever I start to talk about spirituality. People's eyes glaze over, even if they don't say anything. Even if they're polite and act as if they are paying attention to me, I can tell they've gone south. They aren't hearing anything I'm saying because they hear 'religion talk' when I'm speaking about spirituality.

"Once we get past those iron gates walling off the past, we can begin doing some truly powerful work together. But, first, those old walls need to come down."

Steven was intently focused on what Chelsea was saying. "Until recently, honey, I guess I was one of those who thought religion and spirituality were the same thing. I have learned that religion is the form or structure of some spiritual ideal—it's like the 'organization' of thoughts, dogma, traditions, places, management, and all that. Most religions are based upon one person's idea about the Divine, right? Then a bunch of his followers put a bunch of rules together about how things are supposed to be, and it kinda goes downhill from there!"

Chelsea laughed at her father's simple, irreverent explanation. He was so economical with his words, she said to herself in wonder. What a great way of describing religion!

"That's a wonderfully concise definition, Daddy. You have such a way with words!"

Steven took the last French fry from his plate and moved the plate to the edge of the table. He moved his coffee cup directly in front of himself and asked, "Now, how would YOU define spirituality, darling?"

Chelsea felt like she'd just been asked a surprise question by a teacher about the previous night's homework. She felt put on the spot by her father's question, but paused, gathered her self-assurance, thought a bit, and responded.

"Spirituality is one's personal relationship with the Divine, whether one envisions the Divine as the traditional Christian God—that white-bearded fellow up there in the sky—Nature, the Goddess, Gaia, or any other form. Some people have difficulty associating any form that resembles personality or personification because of pictures they had as children. So they have their own choices for names they give the Divine. For the most part, I'd say it has to do with something beyond the human experience. Alcoholics Anonymous suggests their members acknowledge 'a power greater than themselves.' Some people refer to a Higher Power. The form is far less important than the humility with which one engages this spiritual relationship."

"Well said," Steven said, proud of his little girl. "As you know from your grandmother's experience, I have some knowledge of the A.A. thing."

"Yeah, kinda, Daddy. But I really don't know much. Most of what I heard was back when I was little," she said.

"Well, put succinctly, she became an alcoholic after my father left and I became her unwitting co-dependent. I thought I was all grown up by the time I was ten. A.A. saved her life...and maybe mine too! So I have much appreciation for that organization. I memorized the Serenity Prayer before I became a teenager. Let's see...'God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.' How's that?"

"Pretty close as far as I'm concerned, Daddy. Sounds like you got some early lessons in true spirituality there," Chelsea said.

"I guess so, although I didn't see it that way, because we were Catholics seeing God as the big boss in the sky, remember?"

"Yeah, that's right. So, did that definition work for you? Do you get the distinction?" Chelsea asked.

"Sure, sweetheart." Steven finished his coffee while he pondered the conversation thus far today.

She felt some pride her "old man" was so open to these ideas after so many years of knowing everything, especially when he was so good at what he did. He had every right to stick with what he knew. Yet here he was, venturing into brand-new territory at his age. She was unaware of the broad grin developing on her face.

"What's so funny?" asked Steven.

"Nothing's funny, Daddy," she said. "I'm just feeling very proud of my father right now. I love it that my world interests you. I'm so glad we're talking like this and that you're open to all this stuff."

The waiter took his credit card and headed off toward the cashier. Steven asked Chelsea, "Honey, what would you suggest I do at this point? You know the books I've been reading and kinda where I am in this learning cycle. Does anything jump out at you for your old man to do now?"

Chelsea's initial reaction was surprise. But after a moment of thought, she found her mind full of ideas. Wow! What a selection!

"Geez, Daddy. My mind has lots of ideas—too many to suggest right now. Let me go inside and ask—you know, tapping into higher consciousness and all that." She still anticipated his criticism of her spirituality—the subtle sarcasm she'd grown used to over the years. She needed to remember she had a new dad now.

She shut her eyes. Steven looked around the restaurant. He was a little self-conscious, which surprised him, despite the fact that they were in San Francisco, where there was a wide tolerance for strange behavior. Chelsea opened her eyes quickly, however, and reported that the answer was there immediately for her.

"Well?" Steven asked. "What is it?"

"Umm, I'm not very comfortable saying this, Daddy, but the answer was so very strong and it came so quickly, there seems no doubt, if I can only tell you what it was," she said, squirming. "Let's talk while you take me back to work, okay?"

Steven smiled. He found his daughter's uneasiness added even more to his curiosity. Now he couldn't wait to hear what she had in mind for him. He felt like a little boy waiting to see Santa Claus.

Steven drove out to a spot on one of the piers along the Embarcadero near the Bay, a spot few people knew about, allowing them to sit at the end of the old dock with an unobstructed view of the Bay Bridge and Yerba Buena Island, midway between the city and Oakland. They were only a couple of blocks from Chelsea's office. He rolled down the windows on both sides and turned off the ignition.

"Well. You ready yet?" he said.

Chelsea knew she was going to tell him, so there was no real reason to postpone it. But she sure did feel uneasy.

"Okay...here goes...Daddy. Boy, this is hard. Umm, I do have a suggestion, Daddy, and it may seem very strange at first. I know you are pretty...let's say conservative...but I suggest that you do something to—to explore you emotions. I think it would be great for you to really get to know yourself inside, at your very essence, and this means getting in touch with your feelings...and uncover all the old ones you have buried deep inside you. And I have a suggestion for how to start that process..."

"Okay, sweetheart. That seems like a good place to start, based on everything I've read about personal growth and self-exploration. Everybody writes about the need to be in touch with one's feelings, almost as a prerequisite." he said.

"Beyond theory and concepts, Daddy, I know it from experience. I have learned that being able to feel and experience emotions in the present, as fully and as intensely as they are, is key to having any kind of spiritual life. An artist friend of mine made this painting of a person standing before a portal beyond which was shining this powerful light. The person's shadow is cast long, due to the bright glow emanating from the other side of the portal. The symbolism is that the portal represents the emotions, which must be passed through in order to enter into the light, which represents enlightenment, God, the Divine—whatever you want to call it.

"Genuine emotions are essential for the human experience of the Divine, Daddy." Chelsea could tell her father was listening and taking in every word she said. She was feeling more and more secure, since he was actually listening. "When I say emotions, I don't mean what a lot of people call emotions—like guilt, righteous anger, jealousy. These are largely thoughts, not pure emotions. I learned this from the work of a spiritual teacher and physician who can demonstrate how true emotions can be located in the body, experienced, and processed to completion. Old feelings, new ones—once felt as fully and as intensely as they want to be experienced, will dissipate and you don't have to carry them around with you anymore."

Steven felt a bit of comfort when Chelsea mentioned the physician. He was glad she was learning from someone besides Timothy, and an MD too boot.

"One of the most powerful ways to open people up emotionally without long commitments to psychotherapy is through altered states," she said, "sometimes using a substance like indigenous people have done throughout the ages. This can work really well at removing the armor we put over our hearts, the walls most of us have put up to protect us from pain."

Chelsea didn't see her father flinch at the mention of altered states or notice his attention wavering, so she proceeded with her suggestion—the one she felt would best work for him.

"The first time I did one of these journeys, I felt reborn—like I was given a whole new life. I was so grateful for the experience I learned how to sit with others who were interested in dropping their barriers to feeling their emotions, barriers that may have protected them from pain once upon a time as children but now block them from God as adults."

Chelsea paused to let her words sink in. Then, as an aside, she said, "I remember another thing the physician said...he told us one time that most people are not as afraid of feeling their repressed emotions as they are about feeling them _intensely_ In other words, they are mostly afraid they won't survive the intensity—that they will be devastated somehow. Therefore, they're reluctant to feel any more than little 'leaks' of emotion—that's my word not his—like the valve on the pressure cooker that blows off steam when the pressure gets too high.

"This particular journey work that I've been doing for a couple of years now produces miracles, Daddy..." After a pause and another deep breath, Chelsea slowly closed her eyes and said, "And, I'd love to do a journey with you."

"Sounds great, sweetheart. What's the part you've been nervous about?" said Steven, looking puzzled.

"Daddy, it's an altered-state experience...you know...where we take...a substance...like...a...drug..." There. She had said it. She'd really said it.

Steven's eyes looked up and to the left, like he wasn't sure he understood what his youngest daughter had just said. Did she really want to take drugs together? He had a very conservative view of drugs, even marijuana, which he'd done a few times in the Sixties but not since then. In fact, he'd contributed to a number of anti-drug campaigns and always backed tougher enforcement of drug laws. After all, drug abuse was where the moral fiber of America seemed to be unraveling and he was all for any measures to correct this national epidemic. Chelsea knew about his stance on drugs. Surely, she wouldn't be suggesting...

With a frown that terrified her, Steven asked, "Do you mean take drugs together? No..." he said, still in some disbelief. "You don't mean that, right?"

Summoning all her courage, Chelsea said, "Yes, I do, Daddy. But not for the reasons that so many people do them. Not to drop out or avoid reality, or just to have a good time. It's because the altered state allows you to heal yourself and open your heart to your emotions. The intent behind the journey is vital. We go into it with the intention of doing spiritual work... there is a rigor to this work, father." Chelsea found herself talking tougher. Her earlier apprehensiveness was beyond her now. The cat was out of the bag.

"To therapeutically enter into this altered state with that intentionality makes it a holy experience. Several of us call it a 'sacrament.' It's that well respected as a tool for getting closer to your core, your higher self."

"Geez, honey. I don't know..." Steven was now visibly uncomfortable, actually squirming a bit behind the steering wheel.

Chelsea saw an opening—a possibility. "Daddy, you may not know this, but indigenous people around the world have used what they call 'sacred medicines' throughout human history. There are many spiritual traditions in which these so-called medicines are used. Many are now coming to the West, as more and more people have started seeing the value of some of these older traditions. As we begin to drop our arrogance about how advanced the West is, we recognize there may be something to learn from cultures that have been around a lot longer than the Industrial Age, this comparative dot on the time line of the earth's history.

"Many people think we need to reexamine our society's view of drugs," Chelsea added, seeing her father was still listening despite his discomfort. "Lumping all mind-altering substances together and labeling all of them 'bad' or illegal, without recognizing the potential value they offer when not abused and taken with the intention of enlightenment or therapy is stupid. It's plain stupid, Daddy! After all, one of the biggest causes of the world's problems is the way we allow our minds to override our humanity. Altering our minds, our thinking, could be the key to the transformation the world needs so badly right now."

Steven was impressed. He was impressed by the argument and the skill with which his daughter was making it. He also saw some wisdom in what she was saying, despite his long-standing stance on drugs. He guessed he was one of those people she referred to who lumped all non-prescription drugs together as bad. He nodded as Chelsea paused, indicating he was understanding what she was saying. She took his nod as a cue to continue.

"There's been a lot of research that supports the immense value of individual and group use of certain sacred medicines. There was an LSD experiment under way in the 1960s, funded by major foundations and authorized by the federal government. A Canadian foundation and some people at SRI—right here in Menlo Park—were part of it..."

"Sure, I know SRI very well," Steven said.

"Well, these folks were doing some pretty incredible work discovering how altered states added to human consciousness. One of the people involved was Dr. Willis Harman..."

"What?" Steven said. "Harman...that's the book I got...the one I was telling you about..."

"Yes, that's him." Chelsea waited to see if he was going to say anything else. When it was apparent he wasn't, she continued.

"Anyway, about the time this LSD research team was really getting somewhere, Harvard's Timothy O'Leary started making the headlines with his public advocacy for widespread use of LSD, and both the government and the foundation grants evaporated. Suddenly, the work became politically risky and lost its credibility and legitimacy. They stopped the project for fear of its being branded an illicit activity.

"Dozens of research groups around the U.S. are working on this, Daddy, hoping to get enough evidence the government will back off its blanket condemnation of _all_ substances in _any_ circumstances. Another example is MDMA, a manufactured substance that gained widespread use among therapists assisting clients in opening up their emotions. In 1985, the FDA made it illegal, classifying it in the same category as heroin! Despite the risk to their licenses, therapists around the world, many here in California, are still using MDMA as a professional tool."

"What's MDA stand for?" asked Steven.

"No, Daddy, its MDMA, not MDA, and I couldn't pronounce the full pharmaceutical name if I tried. Some people call it ecstasy..."

"That I've heard of!" said Steven emphatically. "That's the stuff you young folks liked to do at these...what do you call them? These places where you dance all night and do it..."

"Do you mean raves, Daddy?" Chelsea asked, smiling.

"Yeah. That's it. Raves! I've heard about those after-hour parties where everybody is stoned on ecstasy and all hell breaks loose. Now you don't mean to tell me that these parties are therapeutic sessions overseen by a psychiatrist, do you?" he asked sarcastically.

"Of course not, Daddy. The rave parties represent the recreational use—not the therapeutic or spiritual intention—of this substance. It's like the LSD work Harman and others were doing forty or more years ago. All substances can be abused or used for different purposes, just like alcohol. From where I sit, the raves are a misuse of a powerful tool for self-examination."

Steven nodded. "I've heard about some tribal rituals where peyote and other...what do they call them?"

"Well, they aren't all the same. Some indigenous people use psychedelics such as mushrooms, peyote, ayawaska. And others use less-hallucinogenic materials," Chelsea said.

"Whatever," Steven said uncomfortably. "I've heard of the ancient rituals, but I guess I always thought of them as pagan and uncivilized ways of getting drunk, blasted, toasted, or blitzed. I mean look at all the trouble the Native Americans are having with public drunkenness and alcoholism nowadays. That doesn't look like a culture that is particularly conscious!"

Chelsea looked down for a few seconds, thinking about her father's point. Then she raised her head and started to speak again.

"The American Indians used _several_ medicines in their culture, including peyote. But their culture was destroyed. Think of an entire culture being destroyed and imagine how you might react if everything you held as sacred was taken from you. There are new movements to revive their ceremonial practices, including sweat lodges, vision quests, and other spiritual practices once put down by the so-called civilized invaders. In fact, these revivals are taking place all around the world. For instance, there are several Brazilian churches holding spiritual rituals here in the U.S., and some include the use of special teas taken by the participants. These teas contain elements that produce altered states in which practitioners are able to deal with their own inner demons, see visions of possible futures for themselves, and visit holy guides or teachers."

"Really? This is going on today?" Steven said.
"Yes, Daddy. I know. I've participated in some and know plenty of others who have done so. And your daughter isn't a junkie either. There's nothing inherently addictive about having these experiences, but they do open doors you might not see through ordinary therapies or spiritual seeking. That's where they serve our spiritual enlightenment.

"In fact, a friend of mine who has used MDMA as a tool for spiritual growth for many years refers to his journeys as helicopter rides that provide a preview of what's up ahead, so he gets to see what's waiting for him in the future. Then he returns to where he started and takes the hike on foot, but now he knows what is possible. He has been doing this since 1985, before it was made illegal, and claims he still continues to reach states of consciousness in an ordinary state that he previously could only reach in an altered state."

"You mean...like it's a guarantee?" Steven asked, frowning.

"Oh no, Daddy. There's no guarantee at all! But he feels he gets a taste of what's _possible_ , providing he maintains his intention and does the work necessary to get there," Chelsea said. "That's why he says he still has to take the hike—that's his metaphor for doing the work. You know how much more confident you are when you're hiking when you know there's a destination ahead somewhere? Like you know you're not lost or going deeper into the wilderness? It's like that. These previews of coming attractions, as he likes to call them, are not automatic. You still need to do the work—your own personal spiritual inquiry—if you are to achieve that state of consciousness."

Chelsea then told her father about a few websites where he could learn much more about MDMA, since he was clearly still uncomfortable discussing it with her. Steven wrote down the information and told Chelsea he'd look into it and get back to her.

Silence happened. The two of them sat in the car, both staring out into the Bay. No words were said for what seemed like a long time. Then, Chelsea glanced at her watch and said, "I need to get back to work soon, Daddy."

Steven sat up behind the wheel and brought his thoughts to the task at hand. His hand reached for the key in the ignition. Chelsea reached over and gently touched it before he had begun to turn the key.

"Daddy...I didn't mean we have to leave this second. It's just that I should be back soon. They give me lots of slack about lunchtime but I've been gone about two hours now and I'm starting to feel uneasy about it."

Steven let his thoughts sort themselves out for a few seconds. Then he said, "Well, you know how I make decisions. They're usually pretty quick and, most of the time, pretty good. But this one is different. I've got mixed feelings about it. Let me check out the sites you mentioned and noodle it a bit. I'll get back to you in a day or so. Okay? But, something tells me that I should do this...that's my inclination right now."

Chelsea could hardly believe what she'd heard! She was breathless. Her heart started to race.

"Really? That's great, Daddy. You think on it and let me know. Then, if you're still up for it, we'll set up a day. I suggest that we do it at my place and that you stay overnight. I also suggest that you be very discreet about who you tell about this, even with mother."

Steven stiffened. "Your mother and I always are open with each other. I have to let her know, sweetheart. Besides, I think she'll endorse this. She might even want to join us."

"That's why I suggested that you not tell her, but maybe you should, now that I think about it. But, this time it's just you and me. That way the work I'm suggesting can get done. If you and mother want to do it together some other time, I can probably arrange it."

Steven started the car and they backed away from the dock's edge. As he pulled back onto the Embarcadero, Chelsea asked him if he'd be her guest at an upcoming presentation by Timothy. In light of his new openness, he spontaneously responded—telling her that he'd check with Catherine and, if she was up for it, he was. Chelsea was again delighted to be able to share her world with her father.

"I'll call you tomorrow, honey," he said as he pulled up to Levi Plaza. Chelsea waved as she trotted across the brick courtyard and headed for her office. Steven pulled away and began the drive to his office, about fifteen minutes across town. The full impact of what he'd just agreed to do was hitting him and he felt his heart begin to pound. _What have I done?_ he thought. _What will I tell Catherine?_

But Catherine had been the one to suggest he talk with Chelsea in the first place! An idea occurred to him. _Could it be that Catherine had known what Chelsea might suggest? She might have._ _Besides_ , he thought, _she wouldn't be shocked by this idea. In fact, she'd probably be tickled by it._ He chuckled to himself as he pulled into the Ventures parking lot.

April 10: San Francisco, Ventures International Headquarters, 2:11 PM PST

While Steven appeared to be quite focused on his work for the remainder of the afternoon, his thoughts periodically flashed back to his lunch conversation with Chelsea. Memories from the past, fifteen or sixteen years ago, were floating up.

_Chelsea took after her mother. Catherine was always interested in learning more about herself and people in general. She read lots of books that dealt with the inner person, human potential and that sort of thing. In fact,_ Steven recalled, _she'd always been more adventurous than he about these things. In the 1970s, she'd not only done the EST training but took dozens of weekend workshops, retreats, and seminars and read God knows how many books. Every year she spent time at that New Age place down the Pacific coast in Big Sur._

Catherine had been a master at working all these personal experiences into her life, so that they were hardly noticeable to Steven. It wasn't as if they were secrets from him. But she knew he wasn't particularly interested so she arranged to do them while he was traveling or otherwise occupied so they never cut into their time together. He reflected on all the work she had done on herself over the years—work that had never detracted from the family or from Steven's time with her. _She was an absolute master at arranging all this,_ he thought.

He and Ruth had a meeting. Then he sat down to sign a stack of correspondence. This meant signing his name about a hundred times. As he began signing the first few letters, he was fully focused. But his thoughts soon returned to his family since the signing was so mindlessly automatic.

April 10: Hillsborough, George residence, 7:18 PM PST

Catherine greeted him at the door, grinning.

"Boy, do you look like the cat that swallowed the canary," he said affectionately. "I'll bet you've talked to Chelsea?"

"Yes, she called but she wouldn't give me any of the details. She said she would leave that for you to do," said Catherine, bursting at the seams with curiosity. "But she whetted my appetite so I'm very, _very_ eager to hear. What happened, for God's sake?"

"Well, hold your horses, woman. First let me get a drink and get rid of my tie and stuff. I'd also like to use the bathroom, if you don't mind, my dear sweet bundle of curiosity," he teased and kissed her on the cheek.

As he headed for the stairs, Catherine called after him, "I'll make us some martinis while you freshen up and then I want to hear all about it, okay?"

"Okay, okay," he mumbled good-naturedly over his shoulder as he climbed the stairs. "I'll be down in a couple of minutes. How about the backyard patio? It's an unusually nice evening tonight....See you there in two minutes."

Looking out over the lawn toward the guest house, they took their first sips in unison. It was chillier than they planned sitting outside this late on a Spring evening. Both had donned jackets. After an appreciative pause, Steven looked at Catherine, who was leaning toward him, clearly curious. He smiled at her eagerness and teased her a bit more by commenting on the drinks. "Excellent, as always, my dear."

"Yeah, yeah, thanks. Now," Catherine said impatiently. "So what happened?"

Steven told Catherine about the lunch he had with Chelsea. He told her about everything Chelsea told him about the work she did with people privately, apart from her job at Levi. He did so with some uneasiness. He'd had time to digest the idea of not only doing this crazy thing but telling Catherine what he was going to do. But he was still somewhat uneasy talking about it. "

These 'altered states.' Do you mean she uses drugs of some kind?" asked Catherine apprehensively.

"Yes. She told me about all the traditions of people throughout the ages, Native Americans, and others, who have historically used various substances they considered sacred, as part of spiritual rituals, so the context and the intent is for introspection and enlightenment," he said.

"But they are technically illegal drugs, right?" Catherine said.

"Well, I'm not sure they're _all_ illegal," he said. "Certainly, some are. Like LSD and MDMA. Have you heard of MDMA?"

"Is that the same as ecstasy?" Catherine asked. "If it is, I know of several people who have used it and claim to have had major breakthroughs in their personal development as a result. I must admit to some personal curiosity myself, but I have never gotten very close. It's got a bad rap some years ago because it was used a lot during rave parties...."

Steven raised his hand slightly indicating he knew where she was going. "Yes, I know dear...Chelsea told me all that."

"Did she tell you that there are psychotherapists who still use MDMA despite it being a scheduled substance?" asked Catherine. "Some feel the advantage to their clients is worth the risk to their licenses! In fact, the people I know who use it therapeutically actually purchase it from a psychotherapist in the North Bay area."

Steven was amazed his wife was so informed about this. He had much to learn from her too, he realized, more than he ever dreamed.

"Well, since you know so much, what do you think of your husband doing a journey with your youngest daughter?" There! He'd said it. It was out, and he watched Catherine's face intently, looking for any frown or wrinkle in her expression. At first, she looked up to the night sky almost angelically. Then her face changed and showed some concern, almost worry. Finally, a smile appeared on her face and a twinkle glimmered in her eyes. Her eyes turned to him and she took his hand. She stood up and gestured for him to join her. He set down his martini and rose. She put his arms around her and placed her arms around his neck. She gave him a big kiss.

"Darling, I'd love it if you and I tried it together. From what I hear, the experience can be incredible for close relationships. But my intuition says you should do it with Chelsea first. In fact, maybe I should ask her about doing it with me too, separate from you. After all, we are two different people and probably have our own private issues to deal with," Catherine said.

Steven was already amazed at his wife's wisdom and her innate natural knowing, her intuition. Now he was amazed at her openness, and her gustiness in trying new things. He managed to ask, "Then you think I should do it?"

"That's for you to say, my dearest. However, I'm delighted that you are up for it, and I'm really impressed with my little girl for having the chutzpah to even propose it to her conservative, 'just say no' dad. That took great guts and tremendous confidence. Of course, I'm also proud of you, my knight in shining armor. This is taking some courage on your part too! You know, Chelsea must feel so validated right now, so accepted by her father. I'm so happy for you both!"

"God I love you," he told her. Steven could not remember ever feeling so much affection for Catherine as in that moment. He couldn't imagine how it could get any better between them.

April 10: San Bruno, California, Skyline Apartments, #309, 9:45 PM

This was Jean's third night in her new apartment. She wanted to move into the city proper, but prices were too high. So she'd settled on a nice view apartment overlooking the San Francisco International Airport and San Francisco Bay, up near Skyline Boulevard on the western edge of the city of San Bruno, a bedroom community a few miles south.

Having her own apartment was so different from sharing a house near campus. Jean had never had her own place. The apartment had two bedrooms so she also had a den/office if she elected to go that way. Right now it was a store room for all her unpacked boxes, her bicycle and some things she had in storage. She might take in a roommate. She'd try it on her own for a while and see how she liked it.

Terry had taken a job near her home in Chicago. She had moved east a few days earlier. She would miss Terry a lot. They'd become real pals through their graduate days at Stanford. They'd promised to stay in touch and Jean wasn't concerned they'd lose contact. But she did miss Terry already, despite her newfound independence.

She'd just about finished unpacking some boxes and was looking forward to buying some more furniture with her next paycheck. For now, she was ready for a little TV and then bed. She had to be in the office by six AM, so an early night would be prudent.

**Chapter Five: THE JOURNEY**

May 20: San Francisco, Marina District, Chelsea George's apartment, 11:45 AM PST

They sat down on cushions Chelsea had strategically placed on the floor between the couch and a large overstuffed chair. The manner in which she had arranged this nest of sorts placed them facing each other.

A few minutes earlier, they had both swallowed the tablets Chelsea had obtained for them. His dosage had been slightly larger, since he was considerably bigger and weighed much more than she. Ingestion of the 'sacrament' had been preceded by a brief indoctrination, in which Chelsea provided an overview of what the experience would be like. He hadn't eaten any food since last evening as she suggested. By reviewing how she usually did her journeys she set up a context for them to be open to insight, powerful new experiences and emotions that was significantly different from the recreational user who might be seeking new thrills, a "high" of some sort, or to avoid or numb out some unwanted emotions.

Steven found Chelsea's preamble very reassuring. He was surprisingly comfortable having his daughter in charge of this. He rarely found himself in situations any more where he wasn't directly in command or was being deferred to.

She led them in a meditation in which they asked for physical safety, enlightenment, and openness. Chelsea always asked for safety because they were taking in a substance foreign to the body...it just made good sense to ask for a journey free of any unpleasantness. She asked for willingness to be touched by Spirit, to open and remain open to wisdom and wonder from other realms.

She also gave Steven a pad and pen, explaining that he might have insights he'd like to write down. She explained the need to drink plenty of water even though it might not seem like a priority at the time. Finally, she let him know she would be on her own journey while he was involved in his introspection but if he needed to talk or interact in any way she was there for him and he shouldn't be concerned about asking her for anything.

As they adjusted their pillows and settled in, Steven noticed how close his face and Chelsea's were going to be for the afternoon—less than two feet between them. The thought of being this close to her for so long felt a bit uncomfortable. A long loving hug, a walk in the park arm in arm, even having her curled up in his arms occasionally on long trips were more familiar ways they'd been physically close in the past. This face-to-face closeness was strange. But, he reasoned, I'm going with the program and she's in charge. He accepted the discomfort and proceeded to nestle into his side of the nest they were building together.

"Are you going to be okay with this, Daddy?" she asked.

"Am I that transparent?" he asked her with a nervous smile.

"Well, its okay to be a little uncomfortable. After all, you are doing something I never dreamed you'd ever do, and you're doing it with me, your daughter! Is this setup going to be too much for you?" she asked again.

"Honey, your old man is a sport. And, in this experience, you are the boss. I'm totally in your hands." he said.

"I'm honored and flattered, Daddy," Chelsea said. "Thank you for your trust. It feels great."

"How long before we start feeling the effects?" he asked her as he relaxed into a semi-reclining position.

"Well, it can vary depending on several factors," she told him. "Usually it takes between twenty and forty minutes for the rush to hit you. But it can take longer depending on how big you are, how much food is in your stomach, and sometimes the amount you take. These are the physical factors. But there are also psychological elements as well—more difficult to anticipate or prove, of course."

"Like what?" he asked with a curiosity Chelsea found amusing.

"Well, one is the degree to which you resist surrendering to the experience. I've seen people go all day and never really allow themselves to move into the open-heartedness that wants to be there. It's too bad, because their bodies pay the price of ingesting this material but their rational minds won't let them have the benefit of the whole experience. It's kinda like buying tickets to a play and staying in the restroom throughout the entire performance."

"Well, I think I'm open to this—at least as best I can determine. What's another psychological factor, honey?" he asked.

"There are two other situations I've seen. One was where this guy was too focused on the logistics of the space and got robbed of the experience. It was aboard a boat—a beautiful setting for this kind of experience, you'd think. While they were tied to some trees in this small inlet, the wind was blowing pretty hard and, as owner of the boat, he worried about how secure it was going to be in its moorings. His attention was elsewhere so he missed the experience. Everyone else had a marvelous time.

"Then there have been a few times when one person has a very powerful transforming experience—a real blowout, full of insight and release—while the other person doesn't seem to feel anything. Conveniently, people are usually quite content to be there to support the person having the profound time. I remember a friend telling me about when he'd planned a journey one New Year's Eve. At the last minute, a woman friend asked if he'd like some companionship. He said yes, and she showed up that evening planning to be just an observer, primarily supporting him. He took the usual dosage. She changed her mind at the last minute and decided to take just a little bit, hardly enough to make it worthwhile, or so it seemed.

"As the time went by, it became quite apparent that she was starting to have some powerful insights, while he found little effect. He took an additional dosage in an attempt to achieve the experience he was expecting, until he finally realized that the evening was going to be about her, and his role was to support her! So the tables were turned.

"It was a total reversal of what they had both expected!" Chelsea said. "It was amazing, Daddy. When our hearts are open, we humans can really be accommodating and supportive of one another, you know."

She paused again. Then she checked herself to see if she was beginning to feel anything yet.

"Daddy, are you feeling anything?"

"No, honey," he said. "But then, I'm not sure what I'm supposed to feel."

"Let's be quiet awhile. All this talking tends to keep us in our heads. I mean..."

"That's okay, Chelsea, I know what that means." Steven smiled at her.

They sat quietly. Chelsea closed her eyes so she could be with herself more easily. She realized how nervous she was—to be sharing this experience with her dad! How great, but how nerve-racking too! She recalled all her journeying friends wishing they could do it with their parents. She remembered Claudette, who'd done it last year with her mom, and how their relationship had blossomed after that.

Finally, she felt her mind calming down. _Daddy will have whatever experience he's going to have_ , she thought. _That is him over there. I'm over here_. She had to let go of the need to be his caretaker during the experience. She wanted to have her own journey, with him, but not miss out on her own experience.

She took two deep inhales and slowly exhaled, keeping her eyes closed.

Steven checked his daughter occasionally, taking his cues from her. His nervousness was less obvious than Chelsea's. After all, he realized, he'd had years more experience in hiding his feelings.

The music began to enter his consciousness. He focused on the melody. Boy, it was moving music, he thought. Was this what New Age music sounded like? He'd never listened to it before now, certainly not with this intense a focus.

"What's this music?" he asked.

"Its my favorite—'Fairy Ring.' I can sometimes recreate the ecstasy experience just by playing this CD," she told him in a calm voice. She went back into her silence and noticed the early signs of the drug coming on. She reminded herself that one of the richest times during a journey was from when the effects were just starting—the peak, usually after a period of about twenty minutes. Here was where she had found most of her valuable insights, had let go of most of her repressed emotions and discovered more about herself than at any other time during the four or five or six hours she'd be under the influence.

"Daddy," she said in a near-whisper, "I'm beginning to feel it, and I'd like to be quiet for a bit. I'm right here if you want to talk or need me, but I'd like to go inside a bit now, okay?"

"Sure, honey," he said, keeping his apprehension about her leaving him to himself. He checked himself and wasn't aware of anything going on. His started to worry—about what people would think if they heard he'd taken drugs, especially with his daughter! If this ever got out to his Harvard buddies...

He was glad he hadn't brought the Mercedes today. He'd rented a midsize car to leave parked on the street outside, just in case anyone might recognize one of the family cars. Suddenly he was aware of being afraid—afraid of what might be about to happen, afraid about Chelsea leaving him on his own, afraid about what his friends might think.

The fear grew, despite his attempts to suppress it. He couldn't recall ever feeling fear this intensely without any immediate physical threat pending. He'd learned to ignore these feelings before they ever got this severe, but it wasn't working this time. He debated saying something to Chelsea. Finally he touched her bare left arm which was resting between their bodies His touch was tender and soft, so as not to startle her.

She opened her eyes and smiled. "Hi, Daddy. How're you doin'?"

"I'm embarrassed to admit it to my little girl," he said, "but your old man is afraid—and it's getting worse."

Chelsea opened her eyes wider and reached across her father's chest, allowing her left arm to rest across his body. "I'm right here, Mr. George. Wanna talk about it?"

"I'm not sure what to say, but the feeling is getting very intense, growing...as we speak...God...it's intense!" Steven was really worried now. He was no longer in control of the feeling welling up inside. He had always been able to control his feelings, meaning that he never allowed them to get beyond mere sentiment except when it came to his love for Catherine. He could always circumvent any emotions that might arise in him, something he learned as a kid. Whenever he started feeling any deep emotions he was able to shut them down, a true "John Wayne kind of guy." Yes, indeed, he was a charter member of the "real men don't cry" club.

But right now, the feelings had him and they seemed to be running away with him. His breathing was heavy now, he realized, and there was this speedy rush throughout his body. It felt like his blood had accelerated in his veins.

"Honey, tell me this is okay...I mean, I'm not having a heart attack or anything, right?"

Chelsea could see the alarm in her father's eyes and slid her left hand over to rest just above his heart. With her right hand she took his left arm and lifted it up and gently placed it over her heart. Her hand remained on top of his as they mirrored each other in this pose.

"You're okay, Daddy. It's beginning to come on for you. The rush you feel in your body, the breathing, these are all the usual physical effects. Let them be, just let them be. Now what's goin' on in here?" she asked, patting his chest with her fingers.

"I'm not feeling ecstatic, that's for sure. Are you sure this is okay?" he asked.

"Yes, yes, it's going to be okay. So, what are you feeling now, Daddy?" she asked.

"It feels more like terror, honey...Like...I've never been this scared in my life!"

"Okay...let's look at this fear a bit, okay?" Chelsea suggested quietly. "As I told you before, emotions are likely to surface, particularly those emotions one has kept a lid on for some time. I've never seen you afraid much less even anxious so it doesn't surprise me that fear might come up for you."

God, is she calm, he thought to himself. He felt some reassurance. This was new, he thought. Little baby is reassuring her dad—that's a switch! He managed a small smile.

"What's that, Daddy? What was the smile about?" she asked.

"I was amused at...at you helping me calm down...after all the years of being daddy's little girl," he answered. He felt his jaw clenching up as he spoke. The words were taking much more work to get out. He really needed to focus to get a full sentence out.

She touched his jaw and let her fingers slide around from ear to ear and under his chin. "Is your jaw tightening up, Daddy?"

"Yeah...it is...like I'm clenching my teeth," he said slowly.

"Stop thinking so hard. It's harder to think in this state. It's much easier to feel. Feel your emotions and whatever is going on with them. Let your mind relax and your jaw will do the same. Now, where's this fear, big guy? Where is it located? Can you find it in your body someplace?"

She was good, he thought to himself. Damned if she hadn't managed to calm him down. Her demeanor was calming him. He started to focus within himself. "I'm going to close my eyes, honey, okay?"

"There's no need to maintain eye contact, Daddy—it's not rude or anything. You do what you need to do in order to get what's going on in there. Sure, close your eyes and only talk if you have something you really want to say. I'm right here. Feel my hand on your chest...feel your hand on mine...I'm right here anytime you want to talk...right here."

As soon as Chelsea stopped talking, Steven's attention returned to his body. He had a passing realization that the act of listening took intellectual energy, so whether he was listening to someone talk or talking himself, it still required him to stay in his mind, attached to his thinking. In silence, he could respond to whatever was going on. Now he felt the fear again, which quickly turned into pure terror—an emotion he could not recall ever feeling. Perhaps, he thought, he had simply never allowed it to come to his attention.

After spending several minutes feeling the terror in his body, it started moving through his torso and changing in intensity. Then he started feeling enormous grief, and loss. He allowed these feelings to be present and didn't start thinking about it again...the grief became even more intense. His body started to tremble....he felt it to his very core. He began to sob, slightly at first, as if he were trying to muffle it. And then he felt Chelsea's fingers play piano on his chest and he allowed his sobs to go unmuffled.

The next thing he knew, he was bawling uncontrollably. All self-consciousness disappeared as he was totally absorbed by the grief. Like a burst dam spilling its contents into a valley, tears gushed from him unashamedly. He could not recall ever feeling so deeply. It was a complete somatic experience....completely consuming! How strange he could have reached his age and never have had feelings this intense.

Chelsea was right there, completely and wholeheartedly. He never opened his eyes to see if she was looking at him, but it really made no difference. He realized how sentiment can disguise real emotion, and how society prefers sentiment and sympathy to genuine emotion and empathetic responses.

The intensity lasted for quite some time. Gradually, however, his body stopped vibrating—a phenomenon he interpreted as a kind of healing—healing of something that had been buried inside him for quite some time.

Quiet descended upon him, and a serenity that felt very peaceful, particularly after all the intense emotional release he'd gone through. He started to bask in the glow of this new serenity, welcoming any other feelings that might want to surface.

Suddenly he became aware that life was all about choices, millions and millions of choices. Even not choosing was a choice. Perhaps thousands of times a day people made choices, consciously or unconsciously. And every choice led to an outcome of some sort. Wow! Steven was bowled over by this realization: that life was filled with choices and no other person on planet Earth would make the same choices he was making now or ever would make before he died. Out of over six billions souls, no one on Earth would make the same combination of choices. He found this absolutely fascinating at this moment.

The way I live my life, the way I run the company, the way I relate with my family...these are all choices I make several times each hour, maybe each minute! Boy, this puts the responsibility for one's life squarely where it belongs. When I realize each choice I make is mine alone, it is impossible to blame these choices on anyone else. And, it makes me accountable for the impact I have in the world. It makes me accountable for my legacy.

As he pondered this giant truth, he started to experience being held by some indescribable force, like a magnetic field. It was as if he was being supported and nourished from below and above, from in front and behind, and from inside as well as outside. _This is the Divine Mother he found himself realizing. She has me in her care and my life will never be the same!_

At first, he thought he would share this experience with Chelsea but then, quickly, he checked up. _I wish to cherish this experience completely_ , he thought briefly, blessed with the wisdom that attempting to put the experience into words would require thinking to occur...so this profound and highly-personal experience might be reduced to a story and he'd be left with a narrative instead of this rich experience.

He stayed with the experience and this powerful insight about choices. He sat with it for what could have been hours. He lost all sense of time. Then a deep emotion rose in his breast. God, he loved Chelsea right then! An overwhelming wave of peace and love came over him, and he felt himself transported by it to an incredible place. _That's why they call this ecstasy_! he realized. He felt his entire body relax. He had no idea he was holding so much tension in his body. His feet relaxed. His legs relaxed. He could feel the tension leave them like air exiting a rubber inner tube. His arms and hands relaxed as his torso sagged a bit further into the pillows beneath him. He felt totally comfortable, like he was being held in the palm of God.

_I'm sure glad we made this nest so comfortable_ , he thought. He felt like a limp, wet towel, with absolutely no desire to hold any tension anywhere in his body, to move around at all, or to even imagine a more comfortable position to be in.

He suddenly remembered that Chelsea had asked about his feelings. This was very unfamiliar territory for him. Steven had little awareness of what emotions he was actually feeling. He knew it was currently fashionable for men to show their "feminine side"—it was the root of many jokes when the guys got together. He'd even seen books about the "softer side of management" which he'd dismissed as misplaced New Age bullshit.

But this ecstasy stuff made it easier. He noticed how readily emotional he was. The intense feeling of love he was feeling for Chelsea, the intense fear he was having when the effects first began. _This stuff really does what she said it would do_ , he thought. _I...what was I going to do?_

Steven was having trouble keeping his thoughts on track.... then he was amused at the idea of keeping thoughts on tracks. Like a train, he chuckled to himself. He really liked to be in control of his thinking, his thoughts. Actually, he realized, he really liked to be in control of _everything_ , to always know he had a firm grasp of the situation or, for that matter, _any_ situation.

He lay there in deep reverie for several minutes, allowing himself the luxury of just being, no thinking. He felt so good about everything right now. But what was that fear stuff?

"Honey?" he said softly. She opened her eyes slightly and smiled at him angelically. "Okay to talk a little?"

"Sure, Daddy." Chelsea wiggled her torso a bit to sit more upright after finding herself having slumped into a near reclining position on her side of their nest.

"I want to tell you how much I love you and how proud I am to be your father," Steven said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze as he spoke.

Chelsea squirmed a bit, repositioning herself, taking in her father's words. Tears welled in her eyes. But she realized these wonderful words just spoken by her father—words she'd dreamed he would say to her someday—had made her a bit uneasy. Was she squirming around out of her discomfort at receiving this unexpected compliment from her father? _How could that be_? she wondered. Perhaps she needed to open up some more—to let in the love her father had been feeling but couldn't verbalize until now.

"Daddy, I'm so happy you told me that!" she said. "Even if I had to get you high to say it," she added with a soft giggle.

"Well, I've always felt it, but I guess I don't say it very often, sweetheart."

"Daddy, how about never! I cannot recall you ever saying you were proud of me," she said.

"Oh honey, I can't believe I never said that. Why, that's sad if I never did. I'm so sorry, darling." Steven's face took on a sorrowful look as he rubbed his right hand up and down her forearm. He extended his fingers to catch the tears on her cheeks. Chelsea reached over and pulled a Kleenex from the box she'd placed nearby. She mopped her face and neck in one swipe and returned her hand to cover his They looked into each others' eyes and maintained their gaze for several minutes in total silence, with only the music playing in the background.

"I don't think I've ever looked into your eyes for more than a second or two, honey," he whispered to his young daughter. "I'm thoroughly enjoying seeing you so completely, and am surprisingly comfortable staying with you this long."

"This stuff is great at lifting our guards, our defense mechanisms, so we can do this, connect really deeply. To really be with each other in a meaningful way, not just as ships passing in the night like we usually are. This altered state relaxes the gates we put up, the armor, to protect ourselves from any variety of perceived or imagined dangers we've faced over the years. Some are real at the time, and some are imagined, but most are never coming back, making the walls we've built totally unnecessary.

"I like these journeys because I get previews of what life can be like without the guardedness. Later, I can have the same experience without taking anything. It's great!" she said.

Steven was still gazing admiringly at his daughter. "I never thought I'd say this, sweetheart, but I think it's great too," he said with a slight smirk.

They smiled at their shared appreciation of the "sacrament" they were sharing and continued to gaze into each other's eyes. Steven was amazed at how alive Chelsea's eyes were. A light seemed to come from them like he'd never seen before. _But then_ , he thought, _when have I ever spent this long looking at them like this?_

Chelsea was amazed at her dad. First that he'd even do this with her and then that he was so present with her, so completely with her, she couldn't help feeling absolutely fantastic. His eyes were radiating—his magnificent blue eyes were afire. _Windows of the soul_ , she thought. It was so true.

"I know it's really wonderful right now, Daddy, but I'd like to use this openness we've created together to examine anything that isn't normally apparent, like that fear you were experiencing earlier. As I've said, what comes up at the very beginning of these journeys is often the major breakthrough of the day, and I think you have some fear you've never admitted to yourself," she said.

"Now you're my shrink?" he said with a bit of sarcasm. Chelsea didn't take offense. There was a slight break in the connection between them, however, a break they both noticed. Steven offered an apology. "That was a bit sarcastic, wasn't it, Chelsea? I'm sorry for that. You've been my guide in this and I trust you completely. I don't know where that wisecrack came from, but I didn't mean it and I'm sorry."

"That's okay, Daddy. I didn't get as upset as I usually do, probably because I know that was not really you speaking," she said. "It was your way of deflecting my inquiry—a way of protecting yourself—you know, like we were just saying. You could call it your negative ego."

"I'm not very comfortable dealing with things I'm not knowledgeable about, as you probably know by now, my dear," he said. "It's probably about not being in control."

"Say, you are pretty wise about this stuff, Daddy," Chelsea smiled. "Have you been studying psychology on the side?"

"Your old man isn't stupid, sweetheart. He's just used to being in charge and running the whole show. But I have been on a very steep learning curve recently ever since this book arrived and I began this introspective adventure. Psychology, behaviorism, systemic patterns...all this is fascinating stuff!

"Now, Let me look at what you asked about and see what is there. It certainly is easier to look inside under these circumstances, so I might as well take advantage of it."

Steven closed his eyes for a few seconds and then opened them quickly. "One quick thing, honey. I sure am glad we are doing this together, and I am absolutely delighted that you are pushing me about this. Just wanted to say that for the record." Then he closed his eyes again.

"Oh, one more thing. You aren't the person who sent me that book, are you?" he asked. Chelsea gave him a puzzled look, confused by the question. "Never mind," he added. "I'll be quiet now, I promise."

Chelsea was in heaven. In her wildest dreams she couldn't have imagined her father and her having this wonderful a time, being so open—him being so trusting of her. _What a day_ , she thought. _What a day!_ Her eyes closed as well.

Steven pushed through his reluctance to go looking for anything other than the bliss and joy he was feeling, and searched for the feelings he was having earlier—the primal terror. Its intensity alone was terrifying to him, a man raised on stoicism and denial of any emotions whatsoever. John Wayne movies and unfeeling cowboys were the ideals he'd adopted as a kid. And his childhood had been bad enough without having to feel things too.

He soon felt the emotions returning, not as intensely as before, but they were creeping back in, almost as if they'd accepted his invitation to return. Having Chelsea's reassurances earlier and feeling them for a second time allowed him to be a bit more relaxed. The intensity built as he let it in. It felt more okay now, he thought. The first time was such an unexpected surprise; he'd panicked. This time it was more familiar. Plus, this time he was inviting the feelings back in—they weren't invading him without invitation like before.

_Aha!_ he realized. It _was_ about control. _I panicked when it wasn't my idea these feelings revealed themselves. But now that it is my idea to check them out, I'm more relaxed. That's very interesting_ , he said to himself.

Then his childhood found itself in his thoughts. _Where did this come from?_ he wondered. He decided to go with the flow, and allowed himself to go deeper and deeper into the experience of being a young child, fearful about his survival and wondering how he was going to cope with the situation he was in.

Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with the sadness he felt for this little boy. Tears streamed down his checks as he allowed the intense emotions to come up—feelings for this kid who was so frightened, so inexperienced, so vulnerable, so susceptible—feelings for himself as a child. Wow, what empathy he was feeling. He couldn't recall ever feeling so much self-love or caring for himself. He was falling in love with this little boy, loving him like never before. A question came into his mind: Should he feel so much love for himself? Was this okay? It seemed like too much, like narcissism. Then a voice inside said, "Will you just shut up, George!" and he knew his mind was fighting the experience, just like Chelsea had warned.

He settled back and soaked up the love—this little boy, so cute, so vulnerable and innocent, so needful of adult caring and love, who felt so lonely, so alone, so helpless, but didn't know how to feel these feelings. He had no role models, other than his cowboy movie heroes. While his half-brother, Richard, was chronologically older than he, Steven always took the older brother role in taking care and protecting his half brother. He realized he could see early tendencies with Richard avoiding responsibility even at that age...something he never saw before. Could this be where his alcoholism started, he wondered. His thinking started to obsess and he quickly returned to the state of thoughtless bliss he had been enjoying. God, it was easy for him to get lost in his mind....scary!

So, back to his childhood, he did what he thought older people would do, acted "as if" he were an adult even though he was too young to go to school yet. He toughed it out. No one got to see the little boy cry or complain. No one got to see him soft or needy, not ever, not ever.

Steven was aware of a slight movement in Chelsea's warm hand over his heart. He peeked out of one eye and saw her looking at him warmly.

"Just checkin' on how you're doing there," she said.

"Boy," he whispered, "am I in the midst of something that's wonderful and horrible at the same time."

"Want to talk or stay with it?" she asked.

After he pondered her question, he said, "I think I want to stay with it. Right now I'm having a lovefest with a little boy who needs a lot of TLC."

Chelsea had a strong intuitive feeling about what was going on and nodded, closed her eyes, stroked her father's hand over her heart and rubbed his chest with her other hand. She was having a wonderful journey herself, despite the attention she was paying to her father's progress. She was very pleased he was having such a rich introspective experience and that she was having a thoroughly enjoyable time herself. Her focus of the past twenty or so minutes had been the connection she felt to everything that was alive—other people, plants, animals, the earth, everything. It was like all living things were her siblings!

She remembered the need to keep themselves hydrated, something even she tended to forget, despite her experience doing journey work. She took a long drink of the distilled water and refilled the glass. Gently, she nudged her father and offered him the glass. He raised his eyebrows and took the glass, drank nearly all the water, handed it back, and closed his eyes again. She refilled it from the pitcher, took another sip and returned her hand to the large hairy hand on her bosom.

Meanwhile, Steven was still falling in love with himself as a youngster. He and Catherine had originally wanted to have a boy and a girl, but they'd gotten the two girls. And Steven wouldn't have changed a thing, but loving himself this way seemed something akin to having a young son. He was feeling more aspects of this love now, a combination of empathy and caring to the point where he felt enormous sadness for the boy simultaneously. _What an interesting combination_ , he said to himself with some mystification.

Aha! Another insight. This was compassion, he realized. He was unfamiliar with the feeling. In fact, he might have avoided it for most of his life. After all, to have compassion for people meant you had to really care for them, and that was very difficult in the land of cowboy heroes and tough business deals. Now he felt conflicted again, like when he was reading that damn book. Could he afford to be compassionate as long as he was running a company the size and scope of Ventures?

_Ugh, business thoughts_ , he thought and returned to being with himself as a little boy. It occurred to Steven that the intense fear he'd felt at the onset of the journey was partially due to what psychologists called repressed emotion. But it was also due to his unfamiliarity with emotions in general. Also, there was a fear that the intensity alone might be a threat.

Chelsea opened her eyes a bit to check on her charge and noticed that her father had gradually slumped down into a near horizontal position.

"Daddy," she whispered ever so quietly, so as not to shock him back into the present.

Steven slowly opened his eyes and saw her looking at him inquisitively.

"Sorry to interrupt," she said softly, "but I just noticed how we've both managed to get lower and lower in this position—we're almost on our backs. We need to sit up a bit." She repositioned herself to demonstrate. Steven started to comply without questioning her, but she felt a need to explain anyway.

"We've found that if you get too horizontal in this state, you tend to zone out, like a drunk who won't go to sleep. There's more awareness, you're able to stay more present, if you keep yourself somewhat vertical," she said. "And here. Take some more water as long as we're moving around."

"Sure, but I need to go to the bathroom first." He rose with some difficulty. Steven became aware that his body was quite damp and the linen surrounding him was as well. Then he remembered that Chelsea had said people experience temperature swings in their bodies, sometimes quite warm leading to perspiration, other times chills and wanting a blanket. With unsure steps, he proceeded down the hall.

As he was about to exit the bathroom, he glanced in the mirror and saw himself for the first time.

At first he was shocked. His eyes were dilated, giving the impression that he was frightened. This caused him some anxiety at first. _That's funny_ , he thought. _I'm frightened at seeing myself frightened._ His amusement brought forth an ear-to-ear grin. _There_ , he thought, _that's better_.

He settled back into the nest with Chelsea.

"Quite an adventure, eh, Daddy?" Chelsea said.

"Sure enough, darling daughter," he said. "Sounds like you know what it's like."

She lifted up the blanket, reached for his left hand and laid it on her chest again. "I love your hand being here, Daddy. It feels really, really good," she said.

He smiled in agreement, placed her left hand on his own chest, and repositioned his free hand over hers. They closed their eyes and re-entered their inner worlds once again.

Steven was thrown back to his fear. _Shit_ , he thought. _I thought all this stuff was over!_

Chelsea felt something going on with her father and asked, "How's it goin'? Want to talk?"

Steven was in a quandary. Should he be with this heavy emotion by himself or share it with his daughter? After an awkward pause, he said, "Honey, maybe this is where you can help me. I feel stuck here."

"Sure, Daddy. What's goin' on?" she said.

"The fear is back. And it seems to want me to go past it, but I don't know how to do that. I hate it when I don't know how to do things. And what's beyond it anyway? Maybe it's more than I can handle. I don't know, and I'm really scared!"

"That's great, Daddy. Really. It is. Will you allow me to coach you?" she asked.

Steven was keenly aware of Chelsea's command of the situation. He felt surprisingly confident in her ability to coach him. His lack of confidence had more to do with whether he would survive any kind of further probing without major trauma.

"Honey, my concern is not about you or your ability to coach me, but with my own capacity to get through it. I can't imagine anyone I'd rather be with right now than you."

Chelsea couldn't remember ever being so in touch with the part of herself that was nurturing, motherly, so full of nourishment and caring. _This must be just like how Daddy's mom felt_ , she thought. And then she remembered the drunkalogue stories about Grandma Elizabeth, and realized her father probably had never had this experience.

She suddenly felt enormous compassion for him. All at once he became a child in pain, and not her dad. Without thinking, she sat up and asked her father to do likewise. He conformed dutifully to her instructions. She took one of her pillows and placed it over his lap. Then she lifted her left leg over the pillow, so she was straddling him, her torso and face just inches from his. She felt so maternal toward her father right now. Chelsea looked directly into his eyes and started to take him into her arms.

With so little room separating them, Steven was becoming uncomfortable, and he started to resist. But before he could argue or offer any physical resistance, Chelsea had completely embraced him. His body went rigid at first, as if bracing for a blow. And then, without any warning, he found himself bursting into tears. Huge sobs racked his body as he felt the sensation of being held so completely, so maternally. His chest heaved uncontrollably as he observed himself crying completely out of control. His heavy sobbing and the cascade of tears went on for nearly a minute before his mind started trying to figure out what was happening.

"I don't know...What's this?...Can't help it!...I'm sorry, honey. Whew—is this something or what?" he muttered.

"Daddy. Don't say anything—please! Just be with those feelings. Let them out, for God's sake. Let them go. You don't have to know why they're coming up or what they're about, just feel them! Please. Let them out!" Chelsea knew, somehow, this experience had touched him at a deeper level than he'd ever allowed before.

Steven's heavy sobbing returned. He felt like he was discharging toxins from his body, like vomiting when he was sick to his stomach. Part of him was in huge discomfort, racked with spasms and feeling a potpourri of emotions streaming from somewhere deep inside, and judging himself for being so out of control. This part of him was embarrassed, especially doing this in front of his daughter, and he wanted to regain his composure. Another part—the observer—was watching this drama unfold, cheering on the process with a certainty that this was a major therapeutic event, that he was being healed on an emotional level, that he would forever be a new person, that he was finally growing up.

Chelsea's words continued to come in short, encouraging bursts, allowing him to stay in contact with her while he went through this painful purging. His lost childhood was being mourned. The flow of tears picked up, as he recognized how he'd been forced to grow up immediately, to abandon his childhood. He was now fully aware of his rage at the entire situation, as well as the personal anger he'd been suppressed over how his parents had abandoned him—his father by leaving physically and his mother by drinking and leaving emotionally. They had conspired—no doubt entirely unconsciously—to leave him alone to care for his half-brother. This fear was the fifty-year old terror he hadn't allowed himself to feel at the time. Had he allowed himself to feel it all then, he never would have survived it, he reasoned. And the old losses—boy had he lost big time! He'd lost his childhood—not being properly parented, not having fun and playing with the other kids who had more functional parents.

The secrets he kept inside! Who could he tell? Who could he go to for help? After all, he felt he was at fault, so he had to fix things. It was his job to make things better, and boy, did he try. The feeling of shame came up, and another series of sobs accompanied by yet another wave of tears gushing from his red, swollen eyes. Chelsea was right there with him, rubbing his head and neck, kissing his face just like he wished Elizabeth had done a half-century ago.

"That's it. Let it out. Stay with it, Steven," she kept saying, cheering him on. Neither of them had even noticed she'd just called him by his first name.

"You have all the time in the world," she told him reassuringly, holding him like an infant son. "Just let it out...all that hurt...all that stuff...old stuff...old, old stuff you don't want in there anymore...good riddance...get it out...that's it...keep it flowing 'til it's all gone...that's it..."

She rocked back and forth with him and they stayed that way for many minutes....

After what seemed like an eternity, he managed to say, "Boy, there was an eruption from the core...." His voice wavered and he felt short of breath. ".... just like a volcano."

"You were great, Daddy. Letting all that shit out was terrific! That's the crap that gives people heart attacks and cancer...all that bottled-up garbage from the past. Good riddance, I say!"

She handed him a fresh glass of water.

"Here...Time for another drink, Daddy."

They both sat there, having returned to their previous positions along side each other. As Chelsea put her father's hand over her heart where it had resided most of the afternoon and wriggled underneath it, Steven became suddenly aware that his palm was on top of his daughter's breasts. He resisted the immediate knee-jerk reaction to lift it, while he sat with the realization. He said nothing at first, but allowed his thoughts to have their way with him for a while. His mind told him he should remove his hand because he was touching his daughter inappropriately, while his heart was delighted in being connected hand-to-heart as they had been all day.

He had no sexual feelings about having her bosom under his hand and wrist. In fact, he couldn't remember having any sexual feelings at any time during this experience. Amazed at this realization, Steven recounted the day and, sure enough, he couldn't remember having any sexual thoughts about anyone, including Catherine, old girlfriends, or the usual suspects of his fantasies. _This must be the longest I've ever gone without some conscious thought about sex_ , he thought, _and I've been nestled next to a beautiful, vibrant, young woman all day with my hand lying on her chest. In fact, for a time, she was sitting on my crotch! God, I must have been dead down there!_

Chelsea sensed his inner debate with himself and inquired, "Seems like something is going on in there," pointing to his head.

"Well..." Steven muttered. "Uh...I'm not sure how to say this, honey...it's my hand on your chest like this...I just realized I'm touching your breasts..."

"Not quite so, Daddy," she interrupted. "You aren't touching my breasts...your hand is lying on my breast bone, over my heart. The nature of this journey is the opening of the heart and its only natural for us to connect this way. This isn't about sex at all, dad, so you can drop all that shit. "

He loved his daughters, and had enjoyed rough-housing with them when they were young. He'd enjoyed the touching and the affection they all shared. But then puberty had come and his rules, his own self-imposed rules, demanded he stopped touching them.

He was sad about losing that kind of physical, nonsexual contact with his children. Chelsea noticed his face and knew what to do intuitively. She took his left hand, which he'd pulled up near his own throat while they had been talking about his touching her, and caressed it lovingly.

With his hand wrapped in both of hers, Chelsea continued to caress it, lowering it to her chest. She didn't want to force her father to touch her, but she also wanted him to know it was okay.

Now Steven was keenly aware of where his hand was. It reminded him of being a teenager and knowing precisely where your hands were on a date, when touching any part of the girl was a major accomplishment, and every new exploration held as much locker-room fascination as the details of the football game just played. He couldn't get over the idea that he could be so aware of exactly where his hand was now, but so oblivious of where it had been all day.

Chelsea let his hand settle back on her chest and lowered hers onto his.

Steven was exhausted and elated simultaneously. He felt as if he'd lived a couple of lifetimes in the past few hours. He had learned more about himself that day, more about who he was inside, than he had ever really known. After all, once he'd survived adolescence, he'd become a learning machine: learning in school, all the way through Biz School; learning during his early days in business, from his mentors and superiors; learning on The Street, with some lessons costing far more than Harvard had charged; and learning by the seat of his pants—when he'd become a parent, a husband, a CEO. There was no manual for any of these jobs.

But Steven had never looked inside himself before today. He'd heard a lot about the "examined life," a term he thought had been popularized by a corporate executive turned author/poet named Autry. _What was it that Socrates was supposed to have said? The unexamined life isn't worth living?_ He realized he'd actually feared introspection. The past was pretty terrible, so why revisit it? The past was better left there. That was what all his buddies said too.

Today's adventure had already shown him he had buried a lot of feelings and releasing them today was exhausting! He'd shed many pounds of emotional baggage. _I wouldn't be surprised if he actually weighed less!_ he thought. He'd learned he had emotions and they were a good thing if he let them out and expressed them. Only bottled up and kept inside were they harmful.

Most of all, today he'd learned to love himself in a way he never could have imagined. And, the day wasn't over yet! There was still the rest of his life to continue exploring himself.

"How you doin', pops?" asked Chelsea, breaking his reflections. He nodded. She nodded back and they both closed their eyes again.

The music continued and time passed as they basked in their reverie together. Finally, Steven asked, "What time is it, anyway?"

Chelsea knew this question was a pretty good indicator her father was "coming down".... his mind was coming back to life. She said, "Daddy, your mind is back. Sounds like you are 'coming down,' as we say. That doesn't mean the experience is over—not by a long shot. It does mean the high has probably passed. If we can just stay relaxed and physically inactive for a few more hours, there's still plenty of time for feelings and insights. You may start feeling normal and want to get up and move around. Just be careful, because your body is still processing the material and you aren't as agile as you may think. Okay?"

Steven _was_ starting to think again. _Damn_ , he thought. Why couldn't his mind stay away a little longer? He mentally screamed at it to stop making so much noise.

Now they both had their eyes closed. Chelsea gave her father's chest a reassuring rub. She squeezed his hand and pressed it down over her heart.

"Daughter," he said. "I love you honey..."

"So do I, Daddy. I mean, I love myself too," she said with a broad smile. "And I love you my dear cherished father. I love you so much I find words inadequate. Oh, here's one. I _adore_ you. Yes, I adore you, Daddy. You are the best father in the whole wide world!"

Steven's back stiffened at the praise he was receiving from his daughter. Her words were in sharp contrast to the years of self-doubt about his role as a parent, a father. He'd always admired Catherine's mothering, but frequently criticized his own success as a father. He wished he had spent more time with the girls when they were younger, that he hadn't been so caught up in his work.

He'd heard about people having difficulty receiving love—who couldn't let themselves feel others' admiration and caring, because they had self-esteem problems. He'd never thought of himself as one of those people. _But_ , he thought, _I guess there's always room for improvement._

Another twenty minutes went by, with neither father nor daughter saying anything. The music was the only sound, other than an occasional groan of pleasure or moan of pure contentment from one of them.

Eventually, Chelsea checked the clock and confirmed her suspicions—the major effects of the sacrament they'd been sharing were probably over.

She sat up straighter and looked around for her writing tablet. She reached for it, found her pen, and nestled back into her blanket.

She glanced at her notepad and realized she had written nothing this afternoon. She must have really been into the experience, she thought. She usually had several pages of notes after one of her journeys. Of course, it was not every day you engaged in a love fest with your father either!

As she started writing down several of her more noteworthy memories of the day, Steven opened his eyes and looked admiringly at his daughter. She noticed him smiling at her so peacefully and said, "Penny for your thoughts." It was something her grandmother Elizabeth had asked her as a little girl.

Steven's heart was so open, he felt he could love anybody right now. He was exhausted and stimulated. He was drained and full. He felt absolutely safe—safer than he'd ever felt in his life—while feeling exposed and vulnerable simultaneously. What a ride!

He reached across Chelsea for the glass and took a long drink of water. His mind returned...more thoughts about his intimacy with her: _What would your friends say_? But he told his mind to shut up and returned to the loving place. One thing he had learned this afternoon was he could control his thoughts. He was now aware that his thinking was just that—thinking.

He realized his mind was like one of his managers. When one of these men or women had an idea worth looking at, he listened. But he never assumed they knew everything. He never gave anybody carte blanche in all matters. Why had he allowed his mind to have such influence over him? It was crazy.

Chelsea looked up from her notepad. "What's goin' on, popsy?"

"I just realized how much control I have given to my thinking, how much power I've given it," Steven said.

Chelsea frowned. "I know," she said. "It's like, who's running my life? My ego, my mind, my intellect? Or is my inner self, my higher self, my true self? A lot of the time, we've given the keys to the store to the burglars."

"That's great, Chelsea. The intellect has a job to do, like remembering where I put the keys. And because it can do that job well, I guess I've assumed it can run my life. How absolutely absurd! Yet look at how many people do that all the time!" he said.

"That's right, Daddy. Now you're starting to see why I find this personal growth stuff, this spiritual learning, so compelling. This is why I love working on myself so much. This is what I do that you've found so mystifying. What's that you used to say? 'Why can't you just let things be and get a job like Kirsten...and be happy?'"

Steven now felt sad—sad at how he had treated Chelsea and sad at the memory of her older sister. "Did I actually say that?" he said. "I'm sorry, honey, if I did. But this experience, it's like falling in love with yourself in a very real sense. And they say you can't really love another until you love yourself."

The daylight had gone, and the night sky had dimmed the room considerably. They had been basking in the light of candles. Steven stretched his arms and enjoyed the shudder throughout his torso. He flexed his legs and decided to stand up. He took a few steps to make sure he was ambulatory and peered out the window into the starry night. "What a day!" he whispered. "What a day!"

BACK TO PRESENT TIME

May 28: San Francisco, driving southbound on Van Ness Avenue, 10:08 PM PST

Everyone was fairly quiet. They left the ballroom, made it to the parking garage and started heading home. Each of them was still assimilating the events of the evening. Finally, Chelsea broke the silence.

"Well, what does all this silence mean? What do you think?...about Timothy?...the Course? I'm bursting with curiosity...I'm dying to know what you think!

Kathy spoke first. "I found it very interesting," she said. "I mean, more than just interesting....it was fascinating! It has me really thinking.... which is why I'm so quiet. How about you, Mark?"

"I'm not sure how real this guy is," Mark said hesitantly, concerned with hurting Chelsea's feelings. "But after everything you've told us about him, Chelsea, I'm inclined to see him as authentic. Perhaps I have more of a built-in cynic in me than I thought."

Catherine was next to speak, reaching over to hold her daughter's hands. "You know about my past concerns, Chelsea, and I'm glad I came. I do feel less concerned now that I've seen him 'up close and personal' so to speak. How about you, Steven? You are a big part of why we all came tonight."

With eyes fixed on the road while merging into traffic on the freeway onramp, Steven paused, feeling the apprehension from the back seat. "Strangely," he said, "it all made great sense to me. I suspect a few weeks ago I would have had a different reaction or response but, now, this evening, what he said seems so natural and commonsensical. Isn't that funny? That a guy like me could see things so differently in only a few weeks, a guy who has been rather set in my ways, my beliefs, my ways of doing things. It's amazing!"

Steven fell silent again. He glanced into the rearview mirror and could see Catherine smiling at him.

After a couple of minutes of additional silence, Chelsea couldn't contain herself any longer and burst out with "My dad liked it! My God, I feel so relieved I can't believe it. I had no idea I cared so much about what you thought of it, daddy!"

"Let's stop someplace and have a cup of coffee," Mark suggested. "I'd like to talk more about what happened this evening. I'd also like to talk with you Steven about that event down at Stanford in a week or so. Anyone else game?" No one disagreed so Steven pulled off the freeway and headed for the business district of San Bruno, across from the airport.

June 6, San Francisco, Ventures International Headquarters, 4:10 PM PST

Jean looked down at her watch and reminded herself she was going down to Stanford tonight. She was riding down with a friend she'd met through the Course. There was a program tonight she really wanted to attend. Her friend was a devotee of the Indian spiritual teacher Gurumayi, and she'd offered to stop and pick up Jean on her way from Oakland. They'd agreed to rendezvous near the airport. But she would have to leave work earlier than usual to make the rendezvous.

**Chapter Six: ONE HELLUVA RIDE**

June 6, Palo Alto, Stanford University, Memorial Hall, 7:09 PM PST

The auditorium was filling rapidly. Steven looked around at the incoming crowd as he and Mark talked in the lobby. Every time they started to head for their seats, one of them saw someone he knew and a short conversation ensued. An awkwardness filled the air, probably due to the unusual mixture of themes for the evening.

He had originally heard of this event from Mark who'd asked him to be his guest. Mark had received an announcement about it from Michael Ray, the Stanford professor they'd talked about some weeks back. Dr. Ray and two other presenters were scheduled to speak about the benefits of meditation for businesspeople, particularly managers. This event on the Stanford campus had more appeal to Steven because one of the other two presenters was Scott Herman, the CEO of Silicon Valley's hottest company, ConText. Steven was a longtime admirer of this man, who'd been asked to serve as a White House advisor among other honors. His participation tonight added credibility to the influence of Eastern mysticism in Western organizations.

Steven knew this CEO and had felt comfortable enough to attend, but he'd been unprepared for the size of the crowd. The auditorium would be filled to capacity. _Boy_ , he thought, _maybe mixing spiritual practices and business wasn't as radical as I'd imagined_.

Steven felt an uneasiness with which he had become very familiar recently. He was used to being on top of the curve when it came to trends in business. Historically, it had paid off for him to be slightly ahead of the curve. But in the matter of spirituality or consciousness, or whatever you called this esoteric stuff, he felt way behind the curve. This crowd was proof.

The third speaker was a woman who he hadn't heard of. She was Susie Foggerty, a famous financial planner who specialized in helping older and retired people manage their assets. It turned out she was also a bestselling author and had her own TV show....so she was a kind of rock star for the general public. But Steven hadn't heard of her...probably because she dealt with the moms and pops while his world focused on institutions.

By the time they'd sat down, he and Mark had estimated they knew at least fifty other people there. As Ray walked up on the stage, Steven looked around. The auditorium was packed, with some people standing in the exits. _Amazing_ , he thought.

Jean couldn't believe her eyes. Here she was sitting among all these people...and whose face did she just see up front but Steven George's—the big boss. Maybe she was mistaken, she thought. Maybe it was someone who just looked like him. But he was talking with another man, a man she'd also seen before. She couldn't remember his name, but she was sure he was one of the board members. It had to be Mr. George.

She nudged her friend and said, "You won't believe this, but my boss is here!" Her friend asked her if she meant her supervisor and Jean said, "No! It's the man who owns the company—the whole damn company! I can't believe he's here, but there he is, along with one of the board members."

She was eager for them to start the program and to watch the video of her friend's teacher, Gurumayi. As her friend watched Ray on stage she whispered to Jean. "He's also a member of the ashram and a devotee of Gurumayi," she said with a bit of a wink pointing to the stage. "Really!" Jean exclaimed, feeling less trepidation about being seen here and more legitimacy.

Ray finished sorting a few pieces of paper, nervously adjusted the microphone, and said, "Good evening, everyone, and thanks for the great turnout."

June 6, Hillsborough, George's home, 10:48 PM PST

When he got home, Catherine gave him a big hug and a long kiss. "How did it go?" she asked.

"Very interesting. Yes, very interesting," Steven said. "It appears as though all the presenters were members of the same spiritual group. Followers, devotees—I'm not sure what to call them—of the Indian woman guru Gurumayi. There were also quite a few others from the ashram, if that's what its called. You know, the one over there in Oakland."

"Oh, I know the ashram, honey. It's the Siddha Yoga Meditation ashram, and I've been there with Sandya, remember?" she said.

"That's right. I forgot how far ahead of me you are on so much of this stuff, sweetheart. Anyway, I was blown away at the interest in this stuff. The place was packed! SRO! And the invitations went out just a few days before," he said. "Catherine, I must have known four dozen people there. Mark knew another couple of dozen. I would never have dreamed that some of them would ever be interested in meditation. And it turns out many of them are regular meditators! Goes to show, we're never too old to be surprised."

"So much for Mr. Know-It-All, eh?" she teased. "By the way, another load of books arrived today, sweetheart. Your New Age library is growing dramatically."

"Thanks, honey. I still feel much more comfortable having them come here rather than to the office. I'm already getting a little bit of razzing from some of the guys. It's interesting though. I notice the women haven't made any jokes about it, just the men."

Steven felt like a little kid opening his gifts at Christmas as he unpacked the books he'd ordered. Life was definitely simpler and easier to understand when business books focused on improving performance, avoiding pitfalls, and adhering to regulations. If one wanted to venture into philosophy or esoteric topics, those books would be found in an entirely different section of the bookstore or library. Now, with this new movement he'd discovered, the borders had become blurred, and the business reader had more choices.

Steven opened the first carton and removed three books. These were the ones Mark had mentioned last week. They'd arrived quite quickly. Ordering over the Internet could be very efficient if you knew exactly what you wanted. He thought one would be very interesting, a book written by a former Catholic priest called _The Reinvention of Work_. He took a quick glance at the jacket and realized that the author, Matthew Fox, was right here in the Bay Area! If he liked the book, maybe they could get together, he thought.

Seven new arrivals! He was impressed by his own appetite for this material and his patience for reading so much. He'd always considered reading books somewhat of a waste of time. The real action was out there.... doing deals, not sitting around reading about it, he could still hear himself saying.

Of course, Steven knew he didn't really read all these books. Some received a scan, some a slower scan, and some a quick read. He managed to get the gist of each one, though. As in many disciplines, there were some books written by people more interested in having their name on a book's cover than in making any sense. Some of them had been obviously written by someone who'd never had to make payroll, or fill a quota, or open a new territory. But all these books, taken together—the naïve, the pragmatic, the idealistic, and the esoteric—combined to form a body of thought, philosophy, whatever—that seemed intuitively essential to the state of the world right now.

He stepped back away from the table stacked with these new books and took a deep breath. _Who would have ever imagined this old bird getting into this stuff?_ he asked himself.

June 10, Palo Alto, MacArthur Park Restaurant, 12:34 PM PST

The following Tuesday, Steven and Mark were having lunch at MacArthur Park, a restaurant near the Palo Alto train depot.

"You know, Peter Drucker and Deming were into this stuff a long time ago, but they weren't completely understood at the time," Mark was saying. "Students of business, like me, just heard what we wanted to hear—how to take in their words, apply them to our best advantage in the business world, and make money with them. As is so often the case in the Western world, we focused on the form and the content of what they were saying. We ignored or didn't bother with the deeper contextual issues they were addressing. The West likes its information fast and adapts quickly to how it looks or seems to be—the cosmetic or superficial. We've never been as patient as older societies, so we often miss the point since we are so eager to get our idea or product to market. We have tended to run with ideas before we really understand them fully."

"Sounds like what teenagers do," said Steven as he finished his pasta.

"Exactly!" Mark said. "We in the West are very much like adolescents—full of impatience, arrogance, and all the other traits associated with teenagers today. That's a great analogy!

"People here in the U.S. heard about Deming and the Japanese quality circles at a time when American manufacturing was admittedly taking a beating from across the Pacific. Detroit was finally humbled by its declining quality, so there was new receptivity....but instead of taking the time to understand Deming's basic principles and creating cultures of quality in our companies, we just adopted the form—what became known as Total Quality Management or TQM—and ran with it. So many American companies now go from one flavor-of-the-month technique to another. Nothing ever truly transforms the company culture. They just keep changing the cosmetics and get temporary improvements that sometimes make matters worse in the long run because workers get so tired after trying every flavor time after time!"

"Like constant downsizing," Steven said, "or should I say 'layoffs.' That's what we used to call them. What happens when there's only the CEO left with an army of consultants and outsourced vendors?" he added sarcastically.

"I heard a CD of this guy campaigning for greater 'business literacy', as he put it," Mark said.

"What did he mean by that?" Steven asked.

"He talked about all the new knowledge in other fields that business leaders need to be on top of in these days of rapid and continuous change. This is what he meant by being more literate, not just being able to read, but keeping up on discoveries about how the world really works and utilizing this knowledge in business," Mark said.

"Like what?"

"Like chaos theory and complexity studies, which have direct application for complex economic systems and huge multinational corporations," Mark answered. "He mentioned philosophy and mysticism too."

"I used to think I was on top of everything, and I feel like a first-grader right now," Steven said. "I used to think I was hot shit as a business leader, making pretty good money—"

Mark interrupted, " _Pretty good money_ , hell! About ten mil a year, eh, Mr. George? "

Steven looked at Mark and smiled knowingly, but refused to take the bait. In fact, Mark was guessing considerably below his average these past few years.

"As I was saying," Steven continued, "I really thought I knew about the world. I knew how to make money. I knew how to motivate people. I knew enough about a lot of things to converse intelligently in all the situations I found myself. I had a wonderful family, good friends. What else could a man want, huh? Then, bam! I discover a whole new world out there."

He went on, "I'm waking up to how narrowly I've been thinking and how much impact I've had on the world...how much _negative_ impact I have had on people because of my blindness. I feel like I need to relearn everything I learned in business school, plus a whole lot more. And that's just the knowledge part!

"Then there's the feelings, the emotional honesty I've avoided all my life. Feeling is a new experience for me, and I have a lot to learn about myself and what I've buried inside.

"It was so silly to think that I was at a plateau of some kind—where I was 'done.' Human beings are never done. It's like Maslow said—you know, that guy who created the Hierarchy of Needs. He said it is man's basic nature to be discontent. As soon as we are comfortable at one level of need, we'll aspire to the next one. Self-actualization was about as far as he went, and that's plenty good for me. But...it's a lot of work!"

"Steven, it's much harder when you want to learn it all and change as soon as humanly possible. Like you seem to be doing," Mark said in a concerned tone.

Steven took in Mark's comment, pondered it a moment, and leaned forward. "Mark," he said deliberately, "I am so eager to learn about this stuff...I find it so exciting...I feel like I'm way behind and I want to catch up. "

"But don't you think you're going at this stuff pretty aggressively? Are you allowing yourself to take in all the subtleties of what you're learning?" Mark asked. "Or are you doing what I was just talking about—taking in all this superficially but not to a contextual level? After all, you are a Westerner. "

Steven felt some anger rise in his gut, anger at being criticized. But he also felt shame at the possibility Mark might be right. And he felt a knot in his stomach he'd only recently discovered was his meter for knowing when some truth was being told. Whenever this knot came up, along with a copper-like taste that accompanied it, he could tell that something was true and necessary, but would challenge his personal status quo, his paradigm, his beliefs.

"My first reaction is to argue that you are full of shit, Mark," he said. "But behind that knee-jerk response is a sense you may be right. And that's so hard to admit right now. I'm not a far along as you are and that pisses me off!"

"You read O'Neil's book about the shadow side of excellence, didn't you?" Mark asked. "Isn't that one of the books I recommended?"

"Yes. I thought I told you how enlightening it was. I'm sorry if I didn't."

"I'm bringing it up right now because of the great case he makes for how unacknowledged parts of ourselves can be major detriments to our lives and the people we care for. I think it was a brilliant book, and I wish more business leaders would read it."

"Unfortunately, Mark, another trait of our Western industrialized society, especially us business types, is we read whatever's new and tend to ignore books after they've been out a while. O'Neil's book is several years old now, but it was a real eye-opener for me. I certainly wish more people would read it too. And, by the way, I have a recommendation to make to you, Mark."

"Oh yeah. What's that?" Mark asked as he reached for his notebook and pen.

"It's called _Inevitable Grace_ and was written by an Italian—Ferrucci or something like that," Steven said. "Anyway, it's a real sleeper. It was actually translated from Italian, but was a great find for me. I think Tarcher published it, in case you want to get it."

The waiter brought the bill, and Mark reached for it. "My turn," he said authoritatively. Steven offered no resistance.

"You know, Mark, I'm starting to fall in love with books again. When I was kid, I enjoyed spending hours reading and letting myself be taken on imaginary journeys. Then I went to school and I began to hate the damn things. All they seemed to mean to me was homework and memorization. And then in business, it seemed there was never time for reading. All the fun went away for me, except for some occasional escape into a Stephen King novel or something like that. "

Mark's BMW was the first car to be driven up by the valet. They gave each other a short hug and said goodbye

June 12: New York City, Upper Manhattan, 5:15 PM (EST)

Ty paid the waiter and turned toward his colleague. They'd just finished their workout and we sitting in a posh drinkery a half block from the gym.

"Here's to a great day!" he said as he picked up his glass.

"This must mean you made some decent profits today, eh, Ty?" his friend said. "The aerospace business isn't as exciting as trading, but it sure is easier on the nerves. I don't know how you do it, with all those price swings. It seems you're either close to bankruptcy or totally in the chips, one extreme or the other."

"That's what makes it so exciting, my friend. That's exactly why I love it," Ty said. "The rush, the excitement, the glamour, knowing you could crash any time—like walking a tightrope or driving a very fast car. I love it!"

"Too exciting for my blood," his companion said calmly. "Hell, I'm a engineer, for God's sake, and I'm conservative by nature, which is probably why I get so many requests to serve on boards. I look good to investors—make them feel comfortable. So when a company sees I'm one of the directors, they feel a little safer. That, plus my white hair," he said, and took a sip from his whiskey sour.

"Speaking of boards, how many of them do you belong to?" asked Ty. _Two more drinks and I'll get what I'm after_ , he told himself. He smiled, admiring his own shrewdness, and focused his eyes on his companion, appearing to listen to every word.

June 17, San Francisco, Ventures International Headquarters, 2:43 PM PST

Back at his office, Steven met with Ruth for nearly an hour, going over the day's action items as well as several he'd been postponing. When they were finished with the agenda, Ruth asked if she could speak to him for a minute "as a friend." Steven's interest was aroused. She sat down alongside of him and paused awkwardly.

"Oh well, I might as well just say it. Steven, some of us are getting concerned about you lately. You are here less and less, and I certainly miss having you around, and others here tell me they're concerned as well. As you know, several projects have been sitting waiting for your approval and, quite frankly, you've become a bottleneck around here."

Not used to being so direct in her communications, Ruth sat back in her chair, showing some uneasiness at her candor.

_A "bottleneck_ ," Steven thought, a wave of different emotions washing over him. Part of him wanted to be insulted. Part wanted to hug Ruth for her courage. Another part knew she was right.

"You're right, Ruth, and thanks for verbalizing your concerns. Thank anyone else who has talked with you about this, and apologize for me to anybody you think needs it. That being said, however, I really need this time I'm taking away from the office. I'm sorry to be mysterious about it, but I have to do it right now. I know it won't stay this way for very long, and I'll do whatever I can to free up any logjams I'm causing."

He took a breath. "I know it must be difficult for you and some of the others who rely on me, given that I have been a pretty "hands on" kind of CEO. I am more aware of it now that you've said this to me, Ruth. I know what it takes for you to address difficult issues, so I can imagine how much my absence has upset you. I really appreciate you telling me this. I really do."

He paused, making sure she got his appreciation. "Let's get everyone together and find a way to solve this problem. You know my calendar. Let everyone who'll be part of this meeting know I don't want any politics. No kissing my ass. No pulling punches. Let them all know that it will be safe to come clean, okay?"

Ruth nodded, with some reservation. Steven looked her directly in the eyes. "I mean it, really I do, Ruth," he said. "There won't be any backlash from me if everyone is honest. I promise."

Friday morning, the entire headquarters team assembled in the conference room. It was obvious many key members of the management group thought Steven was distracted by something. Steven empathized with their concerns, listened to their points of view, and ultimately suggested he delegate some of his responsibilities. All in all, more than a dozen people's responsibilities changed, each taking some of the burden from him. Privately, they would negotiate salary adjustments with each person affected. By the end of the meeting, everyone was content about what had been achieved, including Steven.

Whispered expressions of amazement were abuzz in the hallways and restrooms after the meeting. "I thought he'd offer some resistance to giving up some control," said one of the senior VPs to a colleague. "I have to admit I was completely flabbergasted! I'd have bet thousands we were wasting our time."

Jean was impressed with Steven's decision, but held him in a different light since she'd seen him that evening at Stanford. She also felt it would be inappropriate to do any gossiping about him. Why she and he had attended that event was their own personal business, not food for the gossip mill.

She wondered if perhaps she could speak with Steven privately. She would ask Ruth, she decided.

While Steven pursued his intense interest in self-discovery, he took some parental pride in watching his headquarters staff rise to the occasion, taking on additional duties and greater accountability. He wondered why he'd waited so long to let go of so many things. And then he realized why: it was that control thing he'd seen during his journey with Chelsea. He'd been a bit of a control freak all these years! _The neat thing about all this_ , he said to himself, _was that I didn't feel any embarrassment about having been that way before. That was then and this is now_.

August 24, Executive Lounge, United Terminal, San Francisco International Airport, 7:56 AM PST

"Sorry I'm late, Mark. Have you been waiting long?"

"Only a few minutes, buddy. No need for fretting. Besides, I'm anxious to talk about your new discovery. Can't wait to hear about it!" Mark said.

Steven took off his jacket and laid it over the attaché case on the seat next to him.

"I'm not sure where to start, Mark. It's been one helluva week, let me tell you! I've been totally immersed in this stuff almost full time for the past four days..."

"At your billing rates, that's about a two million dollar investment," his friend said with a smirk. Steven didn't acknowledge the wisecrack.

"Thursday I met with a very successful stockbroker who made me promise I wouldn't disclose either his name or his firm for reasons that will become obvious. He convinced me he is making millions of dollars for his clients with the aid of a clairvoyant he retains as his private consultant. He's with one of the big brokerage houses, in the Boston area, and she lives in Los Angeles. They talk several times a week, and she's now become a millionaire herself as a result of learning the market. Before hooking up with him, she only knew she could see things that were going to happen, like a psychic. I'm convinced this guy is legit. He's the real McCoy, Mark," Steven said.

Mark sat there taking in his friend's enthusiasm with just a hint of skepticism.

"After coffee with him, I had lunch with Chelsea at the City Club downtown. She'd arranged for me to meet four contacts of Timothy's—two business consultants, a medical intuitive, and an MD. Each one of them had taken his program—what do they call it? The Course? Each one spoke very highly of it, and collectively they all pushed me pretty hard to take it."

"Did you cave in and agree?" Mark asked.

"No. But I might consider it at some time...maybe. Anyway, these people were mainstream folks—well, everyone except the medical intuitive gal, and she was married to the MD. He agreed her work was far from being AMA-endorsed just yet, but he certainly validated her diagnosing abilities. He told me she'd spotted several tumors, infections, and other maladies as a result of merely talking to people on the telephone! Can you believe that? And when her clients went back to their doctors and asked them to look where the woman had seen their problem—sure enough! The scientific evidence verified her prognosis! And she never laid a hand on them! Her husband told me she had a seventy-seven percent accuracy rate in her diagnoses—which many Western practitioners can't match."

Steven was clearly excited to be sharing so much. "This Course seems to have dramatically changed their lives. I asked a lot of questions, and I'm convinced each of them benefited enormously. The only reservation I had was they were so zealous about it, like back in those days when people I knew had taken the EST training and they became so preachy, so pushy about getting all their friends to do it."

Mark nodded, silently agreeing. "So what did they tell you?"

"They all agreed they came away with a much stronger and direct knowledge of a Divinity, a God—or a Goddess, as some of them said. Each one of them had some negative memories about religion, just like me...mostly memories from childhood. They overcame those memories, those pre-judgments, and were able to access that sacred space where they felt like they were somehow in direct contact with this higher power, this ultimate energy.

"So, all four of these people found a whole new way to be with God," Steven continued, "a way that was less regimented, less dogmatic, more empowering, and absolutely more loving without the fear and guilt and other baggage that usually accompanies many religious traditions. The lunch was very uplifting and, I have to say, I nearly signed up there and then."

"You sound really stoked, Steven," Mark told his friend. "So, what else happened?"

"I met with a friend of a friend who used to work for the federal government in the DEA. This is the guy I told you about who I felt I could confide in about MDMA."

Mark nodded.

"I need to keep his name confidential too. I know this is beginning to sound like Deep Throat or cloak and dagger, but it's all very real. Anyway, this guy tells me he tended to pretty much ignore the illicit use of what he called 'controlled substances' for personal growth use. He always knew a certain amount of activity was taking place with some of these materials, but felt it wasn't worth bothering about for a number of reasons.... No one was being hurt, there were no victims like you see with kids, addicts, and hookers strung out on street drugs, and complaints were almost nonexistent."

"What about now, Steven? What about agents' attitudes now that he's no longer in that job?" asked Mark. "What about _other_ agents and their attitudes now?"

"He only told me what he thought about it, Mark. He also warned that any agent, at any time, could take a run at this—after all, it is illegal—and make a mark for himself or herself. All he could say for sure was he never knew anyone who did so during his twenty years with enforcement."

"But," asked Mark, "did he mention how others felt about the use of illegal stuff for spiritual enlightenment or therapeutic healings?"

"He did mention a conversation he had early in his career with a Native American, a fellow enforcement officer he worked with for a couple of years. This man told him about the ways of his people—I forget which tribe—and how they routinely used peyote in their rituals. He himself had smoked grass a few times, so he wasn't a total redneck or anything. He was a dedicated agent who wanted to clean up our streets of predators who caused harm to others. He really wasn't a heavy-duty moralist out to enforce every letter of the law. But he knew some agents who were—some who had extreme fundamentalist views about the law, drugs and morality.... who had rather rigid beliefs and who could be ruthless."

"So, he wasn't particularly encouraging about the laws changing soon or exempting certain uses?"

"No...afraid not, Mark," Steven said. "There are some substances that possess huge potential for advancing human consciousness lumped in with the nasty addictive stuff like cocaine, crack, heroin, and all those other street drugs."

"Well, sounds like Thursday was quite a full day for you," Mark said.

Steven came back quickly. "Mark, the day is still young—all this happened before five. Then I had a dinner at Tadich's with a consultant based in Marin County. He has an impressive client list that includes Polaroid, MasterCard, Silicon Graphics, Bain and Company and a bunch of others. Anyway, he's no slouch and knows his business—been at it for over twenty years. This guy developed a testing process that identifies personality traits for managers and company leaders. They've discovered the qualities or characteristics that show up most frequently with good and excellent managers and leaders, and the footprints of the ideal or most desired traits, are consistent with what you and I would call a spiritual perspective! Isn't that incredible?"

Steven paused but it was clear to Mark his mind was really cooking. Then Steven asked, "He's invited me over to see their operation whenever I want to do it. Want to come with me?"

"I'd love to. Just let me know when and I'll go over with you, or meet you there."

Steven went on. "After meeting with him, I'm really jazzed, right? Catherine picks me up out front of the restaurant and takes me over to a salon hosted by a friend of hers in Pacific Heights. Anyway, this European physicist fellow is the guest of honor. His name is...I can't remember how to say it, but he was very interesting. Then they showed a movie based on a book he wrote called _Mindwalk_. Several big name actors portrayed characters wrestling with the conflicts and challenges of modern day living using quantum physics as a portal for seeing things differently."

"And all this is still Thursday!"

"Yes. Still Thursday. The evening was delightful. Then on Friday I'd been scheduled to talk with several people in the morning. The first meeting was with a good friend of Paul Hawken, the guy who started the Smith and Hawken garden tool company. A few years ago, he wrote this book called _The Ecology of Commerce_. I was only slightly aware of it until I talked to Ray Anderson, a colleague from Georgia who started a carpet manufacturing company and took it public. I think it was or still is the largest modular carpet maker in the world. He's got plants in dozens of countries. Enough of that. _Anyway_ , Ray gets this book of Hawken's and has this 'epiphany,' as he calls it. He decides to make his company, one that's very petrochemical-dependent, into a sustainable business in just a couple of years.

"Ray went on to write a book and confessed in print that after reading the Hawken book and doing his own research, he had to admit he was a 'plunderer of the earth" and a thief—yeah, he called himself a thief! Albeit a _legal_ thief." He then named the 'perverse tax laws' as his accomplices and, in print, committed himself to turning the situation around in his company.

"When I hear about Ray's commitment, and wonder how he can do this, I got an earful of what many companies in Europe have done—you know, the Europeans are ahead of us on many fronts, particularly on the environmental stuff, and we Americans aren't used to having anybody ahead of us...anyway, this fellow is going to arrange for me to meet with Hawken and possibly get an audit of Ventures—like a 'green' audit."

"Oh, really! You think the board will agree with you?" Mark asked.

"I think so," Steven said. "How about you? You're one of them."

"Sure _I_ would, but...Well, maybe, you know...they might at that, Steven. We've got some pretty good people on the board, and only a couple are really purely financial minded these days. I was thinking about how we _used_ to be, a couple of years ago, but the thinking is changing. The difficulty we had with that acquisition at the last board meeting is an example of how we've changed," Mark said.

"Well, Mark, your joining us a couple of years ago was a big change. Don't underestimate the impact you've had."

Mark smiled. "Thanks. I'd like to think I'm making a positive contribution."

"No doubt. No doubt. So the next person I met with was a friend of one of our senior vice presidents—Rich Hightower. Rich was in on the staff meeting where I let go of a lot of my responsibilities. He learned of my quest there at the meeting and later let me know he was a good friend of Angeles Arrien, a popular author of New Age books who is also committed to promoting the benefits of diversity. She and I met for nearly an hour. She's started a foundation aimed at fostering cross-cultural understanding and is a genuine, warm-hearted person.

"During our time together, I realized how blind I've been to all the discriminations so many people need to endure. After all, I'm white, male, middle-aged, Anglo, raised Christian—get the picture? What do I know about being different from the rest of the crowd?" Steven said.

"You and me both, buddy. It's like a man trying to guess what it's like to be pregnant."

"Anyway, Angie really opened my eyes, but she did it without shocking me into awareness, like some activists do—you know what I mean? She was convincing without pushing her point of view at me. Subtle...but very effective. I liked her a lot.

"Then I had a telephone meeting with a man I'd heard quite a bit about from several people. His name is Charles Handy and—"

"Oh," Mark said. "I know him. I've read his book on the 'Era of Unreason' or something like that...back in the late eighties?"

"It was _The Age of Unreason_ and, yes, it was about that time," Steven said. "Anyway, he and his wife live alternatively in London and Italy, and Ruth set it up to talk with him by telephone while he was in Southern California.

"We had a great talk. I'd received a lot of information about him beforehand, and read two of his books before we talked. He is such a pillar of wisdom—a real elder in this business philosophy arena. I invited him and his wife to visit Catherine and me soon, and I really hope they'll take me up on it. "

"How is it meeting all these new people, Steven?" Mark asked.

"I'm having a ball, Mark!" Steven said through a wide grin. "Okay, so my last meeting on Friday was with a man who calls himself a shaman."

Mark nodded.

"So this older guy—must have been seventy-five to eighty—comes in wearing what looked to me like a costume from a play, like _The King and I_ or something. I have to admit, it was a little embarrassing having him come into the office," Steven said.

"Anyway I arranged this appointment myself, because I was nervous about Ruth knowing of my interest in this subject. His name is Pasha and he's quite the renowned expert in chemical substances and altered states. He used to produce MDMA before the FDA made it illegal, and has hundreds of case histories of people using it for therapeutic purposes or spiritual exploration. He knows about all the studies and books published on this. I was nervous having him come to my office, but that day was the only time I could see him.

"We only had about thirty five minutes when all was said and done, but I got a ton of information. Not only was he a fount of wisdom and experience, but he left me several tapes and a number of books about MDMA, including several reports he'd written personally. While it's most definitely an underground activity, he certainly has a worldwide reputation as one of the primary authorities. He's even got a Web site about his research!" Steven said.

"Wow. But you said you had an intense _four_ days, so I presume the weekend was also noteworthy," Mark said.

"Catherine had arranged for a family brunch on Sunday and invited Chelsea to come down to the house Saturday morning," Steven said. "So guess who drives Chelsea down from the city?"

Mark shook his head. "Who?"

"Timothy Warden! Timothy is sitting there in our kitchen having tea with my wife and daughter when I walk in. I was very surprised and a little awkward, I'm afraid. But it was a very rich experience for both Catherine and me. You know Catherine had some concerns about—well, you know, the cult-like feeling."

Mark nodded, recalling their earlier conversations.

"Well, after an hour together Catherine felt much better about it all. Then she and Chelsea went off somewhere, and Timothy and I spent another hour or so talking. I learned so much from him—not as a teacher or guru. He was simply a wealth of information about New Age authors who write about business and credible business authors who write about spirituality. He admits that many of them are more explicit than others, but he really knew a lot about this subject, and I found him to be a huge resource for what I'm looking for.

"I'm also not a fool. I know he would probably always be seeking financial support for his organization and spending time with me just might result in a contribution to his foundation," Steven said. "But, I found the time with him saved me many hours on my own."

"So?" Mark leaned forward, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Steven looked mildly abashed. "Yes, yes, yes. I gave him a check. But it was well worth it, Mark, really."

"I'm not criticizing you, Steven. Just curious, that's all." But Mark's face still retained the trace of a smirk.

"Timothy knew many mainstream business authors and well-credentialed consultants. I was impressed he was as knowledgeable about the business world as he was. He told me he thought the business community was where all the leverage for major change was, and if business could change one little bit, it would make a huge difference in how the world evolved. He knows the M.I.T. guy who wrote that big seller about learning organizations."

"Our conversation reminded me of just how much impact business has on society. I've been keenly aware of the positive impact business has for all of my career but I've just started to see the enormous power and influence we have, positive _and_ negative. I guess I usually think of politicians as the ones with the power and influence but I can now see it has been us, the business people, who have created new values, new standards for society, as we create markets and direct our resources.

"This is another way of saying I'm getting the awesome responsibility that goes with the power, not just to 'give back to the community' but to be responsible for the world."

Mark raised an eyebrow as his friend paused.

"Sound radical, Mark?"

"Well, for you...yes!" he replied with some hesitancy.

"Well, we sell our stuff all over the world and we have plants all over the world. There's almost no place on Earth our impact isn't felt. So why should we only 'give back' to the city where we are headquartered? The world is our community!"

Mark smiled as he saw his friend processing his insights on the spot. He thought, _Steven is really on a roll!_

"One of the most sobering realizations I've had in recent weeks is my business is not about real markets. Real markets produce something—a product or a service. People exchange money for something. That's the marketplace we speak of when we think of the 'economy.' But Ventures deals with speculation....not even true investment. Investment is when you put money into a company so it can purchase inventory, gear up production, hire more people and then generate more profit which can provide the investors with a return after some time goes by. Over the years an investor has his or her risk rewarded with dividends. That's investing.

"Making bets on price drops and falls, fluctuations in exchange rates, with the goal of taking profits on an almost hourly basis is closer to gambling than it is investing. My God, Mark, most of what passes for "the economy" has nothing to do with generating value other than profit...and most of that is electronically transacted!"

"Maybe you are a 'speculation banker' not an investment banker, Steve," Mark says with his familiar smirk.

"It's hard to face up to when it has been your life, the way you've lived and worked all your life," said Steven, not too amused at Mark's pun. " _The New York Times_ Business Editor called this larger economy the 'electronic economy' a few year ago. He said it was thirty to fifty times bigger than the economy we normally think of. Fifty times! That's scary, Mark. And...it was simply profit-taking, day-trading, futures and options! Only one to three percent of all that activity has anything to do with exchanging value...the rest is all speculation!"

"Somehow, Mark, this hit me right between the eyes. I never realized the degree to which this global economic system was so much out of balance. Maybe I was too close to the forest.... Investing was once what we did with our _extra_ money—you know, like the surplus...what was left over after the work product or service had been delivered. Business owners would take some of their reserves and put it in the stock market so it could work for them rather than sitting in a savings account. It was like the tail of the dog, but the dog was clearly where the value lay, where the action really was, where the primary focus was.

"Now the tail has started wagging the dog. The tail has become fifty times heavier than the dog, and the dog's value is dwarfed by this immense tail!"

"For God's sake, they are even TV infomercials for seminars on how Joe Lunch Bucket can become a successful day trader. Pretty soon, no one will be working and the country will turn into one giant Las Vegas or Atlantic City!"

Mark reached over to pat him on the shoulder. "Boy, this really hit you hard, didn't it?"

"Sure did," said Steven as he looked out the window at the 747 taxing by. "And here I am, heading off to make another big score, and close the Watkins deal."

"Will you be okay?" Mark asked.

"Oh, sure, Mark. I've done this a few times in my career," Steven said sarcastically. "I'll get squared away, close the deal and Ventures will make a few million more dollars for the shareholders. But, in quieter moments, my friend, I'm questioning the way we are proceeding. Harman called it pretty accurately in his book. Business is the locomotive pulling the train, leading the way. So somebody in business needs to pay attention to where we are headed as a society, right? Somebody needs to look out the windshield to see where the tracks are leading us, isn't that right?"

Both men were silent. The reality of the words was sobering, especially given the investment both men had in knowing how the system worked all these years and being somewhat masterful at playing it for the best material gains.

Steven checks his watch and silently dumps his coffee cup in the trash. He closes his briefcase. It is time to run the security gauntlet and get to the gate. He shakes hands with Mark and, breaking the silence, thanks him for meeting him at the airport.

"Good luck with the Watkins deal, Steve," he says somewhat somberly as they part, "and have a great time in the Big Apple."

August 24: Bayshore Freeway, just North of the Millbrae exit, San Francisco Peninsula, 8:15 AM PST

She was driving as fast as traffic would allow. Jean was late for an appointment. She crept past the airport and watched a United 747 lift off bound for who knows where.

She called the office and informed her co-workers she would be late, and gave them her present location.

Why did she feel so harried these days? Her mind flashed on a graffiti message she saw one day in the City: "Hurry: the eighth deadly sin." Why did she allow herself to get so busy she couldn't keep her commitments? Why was she starting to feel like a prisoner of her own doing?

August 26, New York City, JFK Airport, 7:34 AM

Waiting for the next flight back to San Francisco, Steven has plenty of time. Most of his spare moments lately have been spent wondering about what he called "the delta"—the difference between what he wanted and the present reality. Before this personal epiphany it had seemed like he was completely happy.

But he wouldn't trade his present consciousness for anything.

Still, he had to admit to a nagging uneasiness. He was completely happy on a personal level, extremely content with the way his inner life was going and all his personal relationships; but he had a growing discontent with the way he was working—the way he was running his business. His work life now seemed quite disconnected from his personal life.

He had closed the Watkins deal...the signed contracts were in his briefcase. It couldn't have gone better. Yet he didn't have that same fist-pumping excitement he used to have after he closed a deal. The deal would make them millions, for sure, but he found it difficult to feel very congratulatory. Besides the potential score in the profits column, as close to a 'sure thing' as possible, there wasn't much else in the deal that made his heart sing. It would be another deal that moved money from the pockets of lots of other people and into the pockets of his investors. _A few winners and many losers in the giant casino in the sky,_ he thought. _At least these winners are my clients._

His talk with Mark before he left on this trip came back to him. _Besides personal wealth for himself and his clients, what other value was he creating? Was the world any better because of what he did every day? While he and his family certainly appreciated the lifestyle they enjoyed, the material success, what else about this busy often hectic life turned him on? Maybe he should retire and simply enjoy his family for the rest of his life._

He'd heard of conflicted living, or what some called "double-mindedness." And he wondered if he had slipped into this state, his heart and his mind in opposition to each other.

It had occurred to him that the nation's founders did not envision the modern corporation—legally a "person" who never died. Corporations had fixed lives and responsibilities to the state when the U.S. Constitution was drafted. The modern multinational corporation—the person who never died—was indeed the species that dominated the world—the King Kong! After all, it had more influence than any other entity—any person, state or institution. It controlled the future of all other species—including whales, sharks, lions and tigers, bacteria or antibodies, or any other living cells, human, animal, or mineral.

Rain forest destruction, global warming, whale and dolphin slaughters, chemical topsoil contamination, species extinction, aquifer depletion, the growing disparity between the rich and the poor, obsessive consumption and many other negative influences affecting our collective future were only a few of the trends caused by large corporate interests that Steven could now see.

He recalled his corporate law professor telling him when the corporation was legally modified in the late 1800s to be an institution that never died—like a vampire. Some critics had suggested this perpetual life was at the heart of many of the world's problems, leaving no one truly accountable for a corporation's behavior.

The combination of an entity that never died which totally dominated every other species painted a terrifying picture. Few people, Steven realized, thought of the modern business organization as being at the top of the food chain, but it certainly was true.

Steven had heard about a book that compared modern day attitudes toward capital to the divine right of kings—whereby people deferred to those with capital like they used to defer to royalty, until they awakened and realized deference to royalty was simply a tradition. Once this deference lost its legitimacy modern democracy was born.

Steven allowed the full impact of this to settle in. He felt a huge relief as he more fully realized what he had always known, but never allowed himself to focus on. And why not? Because he would have had to admit he was one of the guys working for a system that was dysfunctional and extremely selfish. It worked to make money for the few, including him, but it was killing the masses.

Stunned by the depth of this realization, Steven felt his denial ending. _This must be like it is when alcoholics realize they have a problem_ , he thought, _and stop lying to themselves by minimizing, trivializing, and denying the impact they are having on their own lives and the lives of others._

He wanted a drink right now. Part of him wanted to numb the feeling of awesome responsibility. More than that, he was feeling enormous remorse, much more intense that he could ever remember.

But another part of him wanted to start a new course. He now knew this intensity was exactly what he needed to feel if he were ever going to have that deep, personal relationship with himself. This was a "tipping point" for him—a place where he could go either way, back to the darkness and avoiding the truth and the intensity, or forward to new possibilities. His mind wanted to go back to the old ways. But his heart knew better.

Ventures International was as guilty of all this as any other corporation in the world. And now that Steven knew this, he could not forget he knew it. He could not continue his denial, his innocence, his lack of awareness any longer. His blinders had been removed, and now he had to do something about it.

It was no secret to those around him—Catherine and his family, Ruth and his closest colleagues at work—that his awakening had rubbed his nose in the dung left over by the world's business organizations, the system he had helped perpetuate. Since his personal transformation, it was increasingly difficult for him to remain satisfied with his life and continue to work every day. He now knew his company was having a negative effect on the future of the world, global society, and the quality of all life in general.

He had a choice. He could sell his shares and leave the firm, retiring fat and happy— thus assuring his family's financial security for as long as he could imagine. In other words, he could drop out of the system and take care of his loved ones, while abandoning the rest of the world and ignoring what would be inherited by future generations. This was not at all attractive although it was the safe thing to do.

He could also try to forget what realizations he had had, and simply ride the horse a bit longer, pretending he'd never had his epiphany. _Living this way would be intolerable_ , he thought.

Or, he could try to change his company into one that served society in more constructive ways. He had no idea how he would do this, but it was the choice he was leaning toward. But how to accomplish such a Herculean feat? There was no model, no examples to follow. Memories of his earlier days as an entrepreneur danced in Steven's mind.

The Lounge hostess tapped him on the forearm, nudging him from his deep reverie. His flight home was ready to board.

**Chapter Seven: THE CROSSROADS**

November 14, San Francisco, World Headquarters, Ventures International, 3:30 PM PST

Steven closed the door to his office, indicating to Ruth he was not available. _How funny_ , he thought. _I don't want to be disturbed because I already am disturbed_. He smiled at the irony of his thought, but he was still quite agitated about what had just transpired. He'd never before lost his temper at a staff meeting, and he sure had lost it a few minutes ago.

He went to the refrigerator and surveyed his choices. He grabbed a beer. He popped the cap off the bottle, tossed it into the garbage, and sat down at the table. He was still steamed. He took a long, hard swallow from the bottle and allowed his emotions to run free. _Okay_ , he thought, _what are these feelings—right now?_

Steven recalled the events that led up to the upset in the staff meeting. The meeting had been called for several key members of the headquarters staff to debrief him on seven key projects he'd delegated at the last staff meeting.

It was Jon Franklin, his young vice president of marketing, who'd really pissed him off. _That ungrateful kid,_ he thought. _After the opportunity I gave him, right out of graduate school. I brought him in here. Now, twelve years later he's a vice president for Ventures, nearly ten years younger than most and certainly fifteen or twenty years younger than the norm. For this punk to tell me..._

Then he realized his reaction was out of proportion to the incident. After all, it wasn't as if the kid had insulted him personally. He just didn't like what Steven was proposing.

And as he reflected on it, Steven realized Jon represented all the resistance he was going to face if he was going to change the way Ventures operated. Most of the foot-dragging was less noticeable, but there was plenty of it. Everything he was learning about changing systems seemed to be in his face today, he thought.

Suddenly he had enormous empathy for anyone below the position of CEO and chairman. _If it's this hard for me to implement systemic change, he thought, how frustrating it must be for anyone junior to my level._

Steven knew his staff could get behind the ideals and objectives of the proposed program intellectually. There was no doubt in his mind they all backed the general idea, and would absolutely agree that the values he stated were noble and desirable. But such a wall of resistance! Some called the ideas unrealistic. Some labeled the idea socialistic. Others thought of it as inappropriate, objectives like those he was proposing were not the jurisdiction of business. _Yet_ , he thought, _they would all like to see these values in place._ Fear, then, was the primary basis for their reluctance. The objections and the rationale behind them were window-dressing to cover the fear, he concluded.

He felt calmer. It was clear a different approach was required. That's a good topic to discuss with Mark, he thought. Then he had an idea that initially seemed totally off the wall. How about asking Catherine to join in? He had never ever done that before. Would she want to be involved? After all, her intuition was infallible, her understanding of people was superb, her desire to see transformation happen was unquenchable. So she didn't know much about the investment banking business, or any business, for that matter. She didn't need to. In fact, it could be better that she didn't know the business.

November 14, Hillsborough, the George's Home, 7:32 PM PST

Steven was just coming out of the gymnasium shower next to the guest house when he heard Catherine pulling in. He'd been eager to talk, and Mark hadn't been reachable for the past hour. A strenuous workout seemed like a good way to kill the time and release much of the stress he had taken on since the staff meeting.

_What should I call it?_ he wondered—all this intense introspection? It was getting pretty far along, and he still didn't have a name for it. _How about "crisis"?_ he wondered. _No, too negative. Breakthrough? No. That suggested he was trying to get through something and had finally made it. The same with "quest." No, these words were inadequate._

_Renaissance?_ he wondered. _Too fancy for his tastes. "Awakening" was accurate, but he wondered if it conveyed the experience sufficiently. Rebirth? No, too "New Agey."_

He finished drying himself. Catherine opened the exterior door. "Anybody home?" she called.

"In here, honey," he called back. "I'm clean, naked and eager to see you."

The sun was going down by the time they emerged from the gymnasium, both freshly showered, wearing matching robes. They walked slowly up the grassy incline to the main house, arms around each other like high school sweethearts.

"You know, Steven, I just love the way you are opening up emotionally. There's so much more of you available these days," Catherine said.

He knew she meant it as a compliment but he couldn't help but wonder what had been missing all these years. _She never told me she was missing anything. Why didn't she complain?_ Then he caught himself...there he was again, trying to analyze everything again. _Just accept the compliment, you jerk,_ he muttered to himself.

Still walking as one, they entered the house through the patio sliding glass door into the kitchen. Catherine turned on the light switch and asked her husband if he'd like a snack with his cocktail.

Still in their robes, they sipped from their chilled glasses, looking into each other's eyes like they were on their first date. Catherine was nestled under Steven's right shoulder, her legs curled up alongside her on the big couch in the den. Wearing the same white robes, the two of them appeared as one two-headed creature.

After a long, loving gaze punctuated by another affectionate kiss, she whispered in his ear. "Now, was there something you wanted to talk about?"

"I'd like your input on a problem I'm having getting the staff to buy into the values program I'm proposing," he said.. "I want to ask for Mark's help too, but you have great intuition. I know this is unusual—asking you for business advice—but I'm hoping you'll have some wisdom, some light to shed on this."

"Steven, you know I'm pretty ignorant and uninterested in business. But I do know a lot about people and how they behave. So if the problem is about people and not business, I'm happy to offer whatever I can," she said.

He told her about the meeting and how certain members of the staff had been quite vocal in their objections to the ideas he'd proposed. He told her about his reaction to Jon, in particular, and his anger about all the resistance in general. He recapped the basic plan in greater detail than he'd ever shared with her before.

Catherine knew something about what he was proposing for Ventures. She'd been aware of the general plan, the meetings he was having with various people whose opinions he valued, and the time he'd spent putting his proposal together for the staff. She also knew he planned to preview it with the headquarters staff, get their agreement, and start a concurrent campaign to enroll the rest of the employees in other offices, as well as going to the rest of the board members and the shareholders. It was an ambitious project, and she was a strong advocate for what he wanted to do.

"So all the staff had received my draft proposal, along with the notice for the staff meeting," he told her. "I asked them to review the draft and be prepared to discuss it at the meeting, stressing informed participation was essential—that I wanted everyone to be there and clear about what I wanted to do."

"And that was to enter into a values review program that would culminate in a new standard of business practices for the company?" asked Catherine.

"Yes, provided we received approval of the board and the buy-in of the rest of the employees, or most of them. And, I'm pretty sure I can get that. But I wanted to start here, at our office.

"When the meeting started, I started hearing speeches instead of questions. At the beginning, the first ones to speak were a bit timid, but there was a lot of agreement for what was being said, so they got more and more challenging. When Jon got up, he had already heard from many in the room who didn't like my idea. He could tell that those who hadn't spoken up by that time nevertheless agreed with most of what had been said. All you needed to do was watch heads nodding as others were speaking. By the time Jon got up it felt like a mob in there. So much disagreement with the idea had built up it seemed as if everyone in the room were adamantly rejecting my proposal outright. No questions, no inquiry of any kind—just outright 'no!' I left the meeting fuming mad."

"And just what did Jon say?" she asked.

"Its as much _when_ he said it as _what_ he said. He waited until a number of people had spoken, each one becoming less timid than the previous. So he knew the direction things were going. Hell, I taught him how to do that years ago! I saw him nudge Michelle, prompting her to speak. So she made one of the most forceful statements against making any major changes in corporate culture right now. She also got more heads nodding...or more heads nodding more. Her main concern was how any major change in our culture at this time would seriously jeopardize profit-sharing for the more senior people, at least for a few years, and she was counting on her bonuses.

"Anyway, Jon finally got up. I swear you could hear a pin drop. I was pretty stirred up by now. Pissed off, was what I was. I had expected that this kid I'd groomed since school was going to do a razzle-dazzle defense of my ideas and nip this resistance in the bud. As he began—and he started by sharing some of the early days when he began at our old company—he went into a short story about being there when Ventures acquired us. I could see many of the younger staff looking at him almost as a mentor, the old-timer—the young old-timer. Then he took off on this track about how changes in the core mission of the company would make it vulnerable, susceptible to takeover, erratic stock price oscillation, layoffs and bonus reductions. I couldn't believe I was hearing it.

"I'd decided before the meeting to let everyone have their say and only answer questions. Since all the commentary was statement rather than inquiry, I said nothing until the very end. When I finally did say something I was so surprised—no, shocked is the word— I wasn't particularly articulate. I was so angry, so goddamn angry," he said.

"Were you hurt?" asked Catherine.

Steven looked up and their eyes met. She could see tears welling up in his eyes.

"Yeah," he said in a whole different tone. "Yes, I was hurt. After all, I did—"

"Don't go there, Steven," she said. "Don't get righteous, dear. Just allow yourself to feel the hurt. You know how to do that, right?"

"Yes. But old habits are hard to break. I guess there is some ego satisfaction in making him wrong, bad, and ungrateful. Plus if I get really righteous I don't need to feel the pain," Steven said.

"I felt betrayed by him, I guess," he added. "Especially when I'd fully expected his support." He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his robe and looked somewhat sheepishly at Catherine.

"Are you embarrassed by tearing up over this, sweetheart?" she asked, dabbing some tears from his checks with her sleeve.

"A little bit, I guess. I'm still pretty new at this feeling stuff, you know," he said.

They sat for a few moments, sipping from their drinks. He finished his martini, set the glass on the table, and looked down at his wife.

"Well my dear, any ideas? What do you see, huh?"

"For one thing, you need to process the anger toward Jon," she said. "There's some major sore spots around him, and I don't get what they are right now. Maybe you've had more of a co-dependent relationship with him than you realized. Maybe your generosity and tutorship over the years has been part manipulation, and you thought you were owed something.

"Then there's the issue of what you are calling 'buying in,' and what that looks like from the staff's viewpoint. You're used to getting your own way at the office, honey. After all, you were the one who started the business, and you own a considerable amount of its stock. You're the chief executive and have called the shots for almost your entire life. The term 'buy in' implies a certain verticalness in its implementation—like 'I need to get someone else to agree with me that this is a good idea.' Isn't that the essence of what it means?" she asked him.

He nodded. "It's close enough for..."

"For government work," she said with a grin, having heard the old pun for many years. "Another piece comes to mind...they may think you've gone off the deep end somehow. You may have lost their respect on some level, or they've realized you may have feet of clay. The staff may think of you much more suspiciously than they used to, when you were the omnipotent leader who was always right, the rock on whom they relied for their careers. Steven, you have been a big part of their lives! "

Steven was stunned by what Catherine had said as well as her ability to go right to the heart of a difficult business situation. He'd never seen the last thing Catherine had mentioned. And he'd thought 'buy in' meant enlisting partnership. He saw the superficiality of it for the first time.

"I'm a bit overwhelmed by how much you just delivered, my dear. I mean, I feel like I've just been hit between the eyes with a whole bunch of insight and wisdom. Let me sit with all that for a bit. Wow!" he said.

"Sounds good," said Catherine. "This might be time for me to serve up the dinner Martha made for us. There's a risk of it getting too dried out in the oven if we don't eat soon."

November 16, Napa Valley, St. Helena, George's "The Cabernet House," 6:12 AM

Steven poured another cup of decaf. Catherine would be coming up later today, but he wanted some quiet time to think, to ponder, to pray for clarity about his next steps.

He walked over to the breakfast table... his eyes caught the email he'd received from Mark the prior evening. He'd printed it out so he could read it without having to turn on his laptop again. When he first saw it onscreen last evening, he'd chuckled, then winced with a pain of recognizing Ventures in the story.

Mark introduced it simply: "Saw this in a book by a futurist and wanted to share it with you. Best wishes, Mark." What followed was a story—"The Story of the Five Apes."

Put five apes in a room. Hang a banana from the ceiling and place a ladder

underneath the banana. The banana is only reachable by climbing the

ladder.

Have it set up, so anytime an ape starts to climb the ladder, the whole

room is sprayed with ice-cold water. In a short time, all the apes will

learn not to climb the ladder.

Now...take one ape out and replace him with another one (ape number six). Then disable the sprayer. The new ape will start to climb the ladder and will

be attacked unmercifully by the other four apes. He will have no idea why he

was attacked. Replace another of the original apes with a new one and the

same thing will happen, with ape number six doing the most hitting.

Continue this pattern until all the original apes have been replaced. Now

all the apes will stay off the ladder, attacking any ape that attempts

to climb it, with absolutely no idea why they are doing it.

This is how company policy and culture are formed.

Somehow, the story hit harder this morning than it had last evening. Steven felt a knot in his lower abdomen—a mix of embarrassment, self-blame, hurt, and anger.

The culture that had been allowed to develop within Ventures was so much more powerful than he could ever have imagined. And he was part of its origin. He was the person who had more to do with its character—its DNA—than any other. Yet knowing this alone was in itself insufficient. _Frankenstein must have felt like this when his creature went out of control,_ Steven thought.

As he allowed the despair to seep in, and he fully owned what he had dedicated his life to thus far, Steven found himself wondering who was really in control of the world. Who was in charge, anyway? If corporations were in ultimate control, as many said, then who was controlling them? He knew from personal experience that board members didn't feel as if they were in control—not really! And management answered to directors, so they weren't in charge. What about shareholders? Weren't they supposed to be the primary beneficiaries, and thus ultimately in control? Not if you asked investors. They would tell you they didn't feel any power.

_So who is at the top of this system that seems so out of control?_ he wondered.

Like a lightning bolt from the heavens, Steven realized it. Speculators and gamblers had become the modern-day tyrants of the world. Through their betting on stock options, futures, and other short-term hedges, they were responsible for more mass, more energy affecting the values and priorities of the marketplace. As multinational corporations were the locomotive pulling the train of society, and the economic system was the fuel for the locomotive, the engineers running the train were day traders and other financial speculators whose primary purpose was short-term profit. And, the shorter the term the better. Everyone else in the chain worked to satisfy these people's goals without being aware of it. Stock value at any one moment on the major exchanges reigned supreme, and this was the commodity the speculators dominated.

With a heaviness that felt like an anvil on his chest, Steven sunk further into the chair. _My God,_ he thought, _and I have been one of the leading proponents of this! I have traded and manipulated and speculated and made a few hundred people very rich. I have gotten very rich making our rich customers even richer._

_I am one of those tyrants!_ If he had been standing he may have collapsed at this insight. _My God, I'm one of the villains in this scenario....oh my God._

An even deeper realization sunk in. He could now see he had created a system called Ventures International in which thousands of speculators from all over the world could play their money games. He'd built a casino where the modern-day tyrants could hang out and manipulate the rest of the world, which danced to their music and ran around as servants to these new aristocrats—these tyrants of the new economy. Not only was he one of the tyrants, he had created a field of play for other tyrants.

"My God," he said out loud, followed by another "my God," and another and another. "My God," he muttered again, sitting in the den with a blank stare and very heavy heart.

Hours later, Catherine pulled into the driveway.

"How's the introspection going, sweetheart?" she asked him without any sarcasm as she entered the house. "Any light bulbs gone off yet?"

"Something has most certainly happened, my dear—and just this morning! But it seemed more like TNT than a light bulb," he answered, still in a state of dumbfoundedness. Catherine immediately stopped emptying the grocery bags and came to him. She put her arms around him and looked him squarely in the eyes. "Boy, it must have been a doozy," she said softly. "Whatever it was, it got my guy pretty good. You still look dazed, my sweet, like you saw a ghost!"

Steven sat on one of the counter stools and told Catherine about his early morning realizations while she put away the groceries. When she finished, she walked over to him, kissed his cheek, took his arm and marshaled him into the living room, where they sat side by side.

And as Steven gazed out the window, she gazed upon his glowing face and felt another presence in the room—the presence of God, a Divine presence whose energy surrounded the two of them.

December 13: Hawaii, the "Big Island," Mana Lani Resort, 11:55 AM HST

He hung up the phone. He was tired and needed to stretch. He got up from his chair, opened the glass door to the balcony, and stepped outside, inhaling the humid Pacific air.

In the past three weeks Steven had interviewed seventeen consulting firms—probably forty people in all—as potential vendors for this ambitious undertaking. From his vantage point, they were all very interested in landing the contract to work with Ventures. After all, it represented many millions in revenue to them and would be a significant trophy account for any firm who got the engagement. But he needed to feel sure the firm he selected would be the best candidate. After all, they'd be doing some major surgery on his baby.

He had one more company to interview, and their people were due this afternoon. He was hoping they'd be able to offer him something he hadn't found so far. He had his favorites among those he'd interviewed, but he would rather be more excited about the team he picked than he was at this moment.

The people coming this afternoon were relatively new to this particular practice, calling it "organizational transformation." Steven had certainly heard this term before. It was hardly new. However, most usages of the term were cosmetic—the word "transformation" had become trivialized by overuse. It had become synonymous with mere change, thanks to all the authors, consultants, and practitioners who tended to misuse the term. It had been cheapened through the years, Steven thought.

True transformation, it seemed to him, meant more than mere changing of the content of something. It meant a change in the very essence, nature, or context of something or someone.

There was something he couldn't quite put his finger on about this particular group, who called themselves the Choicepoint Consulting Group. Perhaps it was his fascination with the term, which he fondly used to describe his own process.

Steven had not used consultants very much. Usually, they were hired to do technical tasks at Ventures, but rarely were they retained to monkey with the organization. That had always been Steven's private domain—although it was not explicit in the company culture. In fact, Steven hadn't even realized it was implicitly his territory until after that evening talk with Catherine. Only then was he able to see how sacred this territory was for him—at least the "old him."

In the days that followed that eventful evening, the two of them had talked a lot. She had downloaded an article on "conscious organizations" from the Internet and suggested he add it to his reading stack. Steven was familiar with a "learning organization"—a model for continued openness to learning and innovation rather than the stodgier know-it-all model that had nearly killed so many companies in the 1980s. Having become popular in the early 1990s, learning organizations had become the new buzzword for most companies even if it was more talk than walk. But the term "conscious organization" intrigued him.

The author was proposing the conscious organization was a natural evolution from the learning organization. While the latter was based on continuous learning and openness to new ideas, the former was based upon continued expansion of people's consciousness. This also meant creating a culture that turned lights on whenever any darkness was discovered, so that shadowy behaviors—unconsciousness of any sort—would be eagerly engaged, exposed and corrected.

The idea of an organization committed to its own consciousness excited Steven. If his work could be as exciting as his personal life had become as a result of his transformation, how exciting it would be to work in an environment that was constantly looking for ways to grow. Of course, this would require thinking about growth in entirely different terms from the traditional mindset. But traditional growth in business could not be sustained indefinitely. Like all physical realities, there were limits to possible growth in revenues, expansion, and other measurable aspects. But consciousness! Steven could not imagine any limits to growth from a consciousness perspective.

For him to gain this integration he was seeking, the company he was leading needed to operate differently, _very_ differently. He could no longer pretend he didn't know about certain things, like the impact business had on the quality of _all_ life on the planet, or how destructive the existing economic systems were for humankind. Steven could see how he'd wanted to avoid knowing many things because they'd seemed like threats to the lifestyle he'd built for himself and his family, or threats to the company he had spent so much time building, or threats to values and beliefs he couldn't bear to reassess.

Now he could see that all these threats only _seemed_ like they would destroy him, or his family, or his company. In his new consciousness, he could see they were only a real threat to his image, or his ego.

The idea of integrating his work with his personal values—having his work life catch up with him—was so exciting, Steven couldn't sleep that night. After an hour of lying awake, he got up, went back downstairs and reread the article again and again. At about four AM, he realized he could make Ventures into a conscious organization. It really could be done!

The despair he had been feeling earlier had been transmuted into enthusiasm for his vision once again, and he was going to be in a much better mindset to meet with this last group of people.

He went upstairs and was able to go to sleep instantly.

December 15: Red Bank, New Jersey, Red Restaurant, 8:22 PM EST

The two couples had just finished dinner. Ty was pleased with how the evening was going. His health club buddy was thoroughly enjoying his date for the evening. Ty had hired Brawny and Colleen for the night....he knew they could fill the bill as out-of-town visitors. They were dressed perfectly for their roles as high-level executive assistants from Los Angeles.

Joe Hughes had no idea that this was all a setup, and he didn't need to be too charming to get laid tonight. It was a done deal—already paid for. A background check told Ty that Joe had become a widower less than a year before, making him just about prime for a sexual escapade. Brawny had her own car with her—which Ty had rented for the occasion—and Colleen would return to Manhattan with him.

Ty felt no shame for this charade. It was all part of the deal-making as far as he was concerned. He'd make millions from his seemingly harmless conversations with this man, not a bad investment for a mere $5,000 for their dates tonight. Getting any advantage he could was what separated the winners from the losers, he rationalized. For Ty, manipulation was an art form, and he had become very good at it.

March 22: Northern California, Sonoma County, Jack London Retreat Center, 2:34 PM PST

Jean opened her eyes after the meditation. It took some time for her eyes to adjust after having them closed for nearly forty-five minutes. She was still new to meditation, but it provided her with such incredible serenity. Everyone if the room remained silent after the guided meditation had concluded. Some stood and stretched. Others lay down on the carpeted floor and relaxed. No one said anything, although smiles and comforting glances were exchanged among the fifty or so people in the room.

She had come to this weekend retreat with her friend Mary Catherine, whom she'd met through the Course. She missed having Terry around, but she'd met several new friends through Timothy's work and still stayed in contact with some of her Stanford buddies. Mary Catherine had taken the Course first; Jean took it a few weeks later. She found it enormously valuable and, since it was her first experience of deep engagement with her own psyche, she had recommended it to several friends from work as well as some former buds from school.

She was discovering a world she'd never known before. Prior to completing her MBA, she'd had no idea there were so many people doing this kind of personal, introspective work. Not only was this new world a delightful discovery, but she was also learning about herself, and why she believed as she did and why she did things that she did. She was falling in love with herself.

Honoring silence was still somewhat foreign to her, after years of being taught to have the correct answers and demonstrating what you knew to show how smart you were. She was now seeing that silence and listening for messages from outside of one's consciousness were as important as thinking and talking. As another friend had said to her, "It is difficult to hear anything God might be saying to you, if you're always thinking or jabbering away."

March 25: Hillsborough, the George's home: 4:34 PM PST

Steven stood and stretched. He suddenly realized how deathly still it was, not a sound to be heard in the house. He felt a bit light-headed when he stood, after sitting for hours without a break with his legs tucked underneath his chair sitting at the computer. _Where had the time gone? What time was it anyway?_ He glanced at his watch and was surprised at the time. He sat down a bit after one o'clock and here it was more than three and a half hours later.

The new plan was almost finished and he was starting to feel more confident....like they would be prepared for the first quarter board meeting coming up late next month. He had all his ducks lined up and thought they'd be well prepared as well as successful in gaining the Board's acceptance.

It had been a ton of work, though. He had focused on little else since he returned from Hawaii just before Christmas. He was barely around for much of the holidays, playing hooky at work, being only a ghostly presence at home. _Thank God for Ruth and Catherine,_ he thought with gratitude. _Without them pulling far more than their usual weight during those days he would never have been able to get the formal proposal to this stage._

Steven had planned to take The Course either at the end of last year or the beginning of this one, when things were normally slow for him in the business. But the combination of spending so much time with Timothy and getting lots of benefit from their conversations, meeting all the wise people he had been connected to, and the decision to create a plan for the company that would have the best chance of being accepted by the skeptics inside the company and a team who could effectively implement it, his time evaporated.

He was quite pleased with the team they'd put into place to do the implementation, a huge undertaking by anyone's measure. He was also extremely happy with the strategy they created, after many hours of seeking out advice and counsel. When they couldn't integrate the wisdom they discovered internally, they were able to retain the services of those who possessed innate talent for this work, the "naturals" who were keenly intuitive, gifted in organizational change and transformation.

He learned from his peers around the world who had attempted things like this, although a smaller scale and often without success. But he knew most wisdom is not gained from one's successes but from failures. The difference was to learn from the failures and not be emotionally burdened by them.

One of his biggest learnings was the advice he received from a colleague at one of the Big Four consulting firms. Mike was a partner based in the UK and had been assigned the task of implementing their Corporate Social Responsibility consulting practice. His friend had a long track record working on environmental and social programs with the United Nations before joining the firm, so he had great depth of knowledge in the field. His challenge was to sell the new practice area, known in Europe as "CSR," to other consultants within the firm, and all the local offices.

He told Steven each office had its own culture and required slightly different emphases and vernacular. Additionally, offices in other countries, with workers from other nations, also possessed their own cultures so the pitch he would make to an office in China would be different if the people in that office were primarily local or if more of them were either ex-patriots or foreigners living there.

"Different regions of the world have different sensibilities around CSR," he told Steven. "One culture may value social values and issues and another may put more value on environmental matters. Some may value both. But you need to pay attention to the mindsets of the people you are talking with if you are proposing a major change in the way they do things and how they think about their work."

He also warned Steven about varying attitudes about litigiousness. Mike told him how some offices were located in countries where lawsuits were more likely, like the U.S., and this could influence the reception he might receive. Sometimes people saw any departure from the corporation's conventional routines as a basis for a lawsuit, citing any number of silly charges, as long as they made a case for the lawsuit. In litigious societies, it didn't seem to matter if the lawsuit had merit as long as there was enough to get it filed and start settlement negotiations.

A big surprise for Steven was his friend's experience with different people in the same office, not only based on their nationality but also on the role they played. "You have a marketing challenge, Steven, and you need to pitch your plan just like you would sell an investor in one of your deals: you address the things that matter most to them," Mike said.

"The marketing people are more concerned about how this change in culture will give the company better advantage over rivals. So you might want to point to a competitor who is ahead of you on this. Similarly, human resource people can be persuaded by the argument that the company will be more attractive to new employees, kids coming out of business school.

"Some country managers might appreciate getting all the answers they might anticipate from their people so they don't have to research it themselves...in other words, make it easy for them to say 'yes.' Remember you are dealing with people, all of whom have egos, Steven.

"Markets vary in maturity too," Mike told Steven. "It is amazing how an office in the states can seem as compared to another in India or Thailand. Asians have well-developed consciences and a sense for social justice as do the Europeans, particularly the Northern Europeans, who have environmental concerns high in their priorities. The Arab states have strong interest in environmental laws and enforcement policies."

Mike also told Steven something that was enormously valuable, something he was so glad to know before they embarked upon implementing their plan once it was accepted and approved. "Once you push the button and get your program in place and the culture starts changing, you will have opened Pandora's Box, Steven. Once people embrace this new philosophy about doing business more consciously, they may start coming up with things you could never foresee. Just go with it! Don't try to control all the innovation and creativity that starts to flow. If you do, you will sabotage yourself. People will feel the whole thing was bullshit, close back down and return to their cynicism about you, the program, everything.

"You will be surprised, most of the time delightfully. Things will be unpredictable because you are taking the lid off the box and giving people permission to care about things they've been privately concerned about for years. Tell them this may happen and to be prepared for it. Celebrate it.... don't try to crush it." Steven recalls seeing how excited Mike was getting when he gave him this advice. Obviously, he still could tap into the passion he felt for his work in his company.

Steven walked over to the window and looked out over the lawn, cracked the window open, and took a deep breath of the outside air.

It is just possible these revisions will make it through and this might be the final document. If so, then the visuals need to be created, the team briefed on the changes and a final meeting of the team before we present it to the Board.

Steven looked at the calendar on his desk and estimated that would be in just over five weeks when they present it to the Board. _At last, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel,_ he thought.

April 30: San Francisco, World Headquarters, Ventures International, 10:09 AM PST

Steven walked into the boardroom where most of the members were waiting for him. The noise level was higher than usual, with nearly everyone inside engaged in lively conversation, much like a successful cocktail party. He felt fairly confident he'd receive sufficient support for the proposal they had before them today—a proposal prepared by a team that included himself, representatives of the management staff as well as a cross-section of all their employees—even the interns—the new Ventures internal consultant, and the external consultants. The Values and Priorities Program—or V2P as it had been nicknamed—had been the most inclusively created document he'd ever heard of. It certainly was a milestone in Ventures' history of participative management.

The vision for V2P was truly transformational. It wasn't such a large change in what functions the company performed, but it was a huge shift in the types of ventures they supported and the kind of investors they would serve.

First thing, they'd go private. Since investment banking was reliant upon eventual public offerings, and one of Ventures' values was to reject traditional approaches to the public marketplace, IPO activity would be seriously reduced—at least in the early years of V2P.

Ventures would work exclusively with companies that passed muster for their social responsibility policies, sustainable business practices, and humanistic management. Mergers and acquisitions projects would be entertained only when all the stakeholders would be served—not merely the capital markets. Employees in both companies being merged, the communities affected, as well as vendors would all be considered.

Bonds and Treasury notes would be the least affected by V2P. People—including employees, communities, and small investors—would receive equal respect and priority to large investors in all future deals. No consulting, advising, underwriting, or other activity would be offered unless the venture had a significant social agenda and conformed to strict criteria shared by all Ventures stakeholders. It was very clear the new Ventures would be the first major investment banker to step away from conventional, dollar-chasing transactions and make profit and income one of many criteria for themselves and their partners rather than the sole motive.

Steven was thrilled that a journey described by some of his closest advisors as totally impossible was about to begin. He stood silently for a minute in quiet reflection, took a deep breath, and headed for the conference room.

"People, it's time to begin," he said to open the meeting. "We have an ambitious agenda today and, last time I checked, your collective time was worth close to three hundred thousand dollars an hour and I don't want to waste another dime," Steven said with a smile as the last people took their seats. "First of all, good morning to you all and welcome to San Francisco. I know some of you are here for the first time, either because you are new to the board, or because I asked you to come to this particular meeting in person.

"You should know I received the resignation of Joe Hughes yesterday, who decided he had to leave our board for personal reasons." Steven noticed some quizzical looks at this news but decided not to elaborate. "We're grateful to Joe for his service and wish him well."

He then turned the agenda over to Ruth who oversaw the early agenda items. By the time the Values program had come up on the agenda, people had loosened up a bit. Several jackets had been shed, and coffee and teacups had been refilled a time or two. Steven made sure he had a freshly filled cup of decaf when it was time for the proposal.

The door opened and Ruth led in a man and a woman, each carrying briefcases and looking quite self-assured. The man, Rick Overmyer, was thirty-eight and represented Choicepoint. The woman was Brenda Bartholomew, a recent hire and team leader for Ventures' in-house consultants who had been totally dedicated to this project since they'd hired her four weeks ago. Brenda was thirty-one, but had a maturity about her that suggested wisdom far beyond her chronological age. Steven had spent more time with these two young people in the past month than he had with Catherine. The three of them had been so immersed in this project, he felt a certain pride as they prepared for the presentation—like he was watching his children walk on stage for the school play.

As if by magic, a large projection screen began to lower itself from the ceiling above the west wall and the draperies started closing. The quiet whirring of the electric motors operating these remote devices filled the background as Steven spoke.

He proceeded to introduce each of them, keenly aware of the need for him to appear neutral, since he was acting in the capacity of board chair for this meeting.

The plan was not simple. It was quite complex, and very ambitious. One of the key parts of the program—and one which would have to precede everything else—was taking the company private. Rarely had any publicly traded corporations been successful in repurchasing sufficient amounts of outstanding stock. Not only did this involve huge sums of capital and credit lines, but secrecy was absolutely essential—it was a sort of hostile takeover from the inside.

Secrecy at this stage required everyone in the room be bound by a written contract not to reveal anything they heard, Rick explained. Billions could be lost because of one person's inability or unwillingness to maintain secrecy. But Steven was convinced that if each and every person who heard of the plan knew they were being entrusted with knowledge that could sabotage the entire project, they would be responsible and adhere to the confidentiality agreements they each had signed.

He recognized he had a lot riding on his conviction. The scariest part of the whole thing, Steven knew, was that there was no place for any failure. Like defusing a bomb, there was either total success or none.

When Rick and Brenda's presentation concluded, Steven opened the floor for questions. He expected this agenda item would fill their entire morning and was relieved they were now becoming fully engaged in the process of determining what they were made of as a company.

As lively exchanges were taking place all around him, Steven felt his gut tightening again—that mixture of positive excitement and fear, enthusiasm and apprehension, worry and glee. _A most interesting potpourri of emotions,_ he thought. The room seemed to be getting warmer by the minute as the intensity and volume grew.

April 29: San Francisco, Nob Hill, Fairmont Hotel, Laurel Court, 5:43 PM PST

Steven and Mark walked into the restaurant where Ruth had made dinner reservations for a group of them to gather after the arduous board meeting. The idea had been quite spontaneous, and he was very excited that both Catherine and Kathy were able to join them. Ruth greeted the two men as they entered, cocktail glass in hand and obviously much more relaxed than she'd been all day.

"How many of us are there?" Steven asked. He'd been preoccupied since the meeting ended.

"An even dozen, counting Kathy and Catherine, boss," Ruth told him. "This was all I could get on such short notice. I tried to get a private room but the Hotel was completely booked except for this end of the restaurant. With such a small group I thought it would work."

"Never mind," Ruth. "It's fine! All we need is each other to celebrate and we could do that out on the street," said Steven, obviously much more relaxed than he'd been for many months.

The celebration continued until nearly midnight. Once the group had adjourned to the adjoining room for dinner, impromptu toasts began. They continued long past the anticipated time for the gathering to end. As they headed down the Bayshore Freeway in the limo during the early morning, Steven wondered how the opposing board members were dealing with the board's decision. He hoped they could recover from their defeat and align behind the Values and Priorities Program. He told himself these people were professionals as well as experienced board members—not likely to hold a grudge and resent the company taking any course they did not support initially.

Five board members had opposed the plan as too risky—the final tally was fifteen for and five against, with two abstentions and a newly vacated seat.

He remembered the very difficult meeting he'd had with Joe Hughes last night. Some weeks before, he'd been informed by the company's compliance officer of some shady trading going on with Ventures stock and it appeared there were some insider leaks to a Wall Street speculator. This kind of activity could not be tolerated for even one day after the facts of V2P were known. At the suggestion of legal counsel, the compliance officer, and several of his vice presidents, Steven authorized retaining a private detective to confirm the identity of the leak.

Yesterday, while Joe had been in transit from New York to California for today's board meeting, Steven had seen the report that itemized the "friendship" that had been developing between Joe and a Manhattan trader named Tivor Sagi, a man who had a questionable reputation although he clearly had done very well for himself financially. Based on the report and from knowing Joe personally, Steven was convinced that the former engineer had been an unwitting party to any insider trading that went on. He was absolutely confident that Joe had not profited any from the transactions. But, whether he was aware of what he was doing or not, he nonetheless had improperly discussed Ventures business with someone in a position to profit from the knowledge gleaned.

He recalled when Joe's wife had died over a year ago, and how hard he had taken it. He'd started drinking a bit too much and lost contact with most of his old friends. Then he moved down to southern New Jersey where he lived a relatively quiet life after a stellar career in the aerospace industry. It wasn't hard to imagine how someone who was cunning and conniving could "work" Joe for news that wasn't generally public information.

Steven had no choice but to ask Joe to resign and keep him from the next day's board meeting where secrecy was so essential. Embarrassed and ashamed at how he'd been duped, Joe offered no resistance. Eager to make things right, he offered to resign before even being asked. He also told Steven he'd sever the relationship with Tivor Sagi immediately and tell him of his plans to inform the federal and New York state authorities, so that whatever punishment was called for would be forthcoming, hopefully soon.

_Too bad_ , Steven thought. _Joe was really a good person. He'd just gotten himself into a position where he'd been compromised._ He chewed his lip a bit as he fought back some tears himself. _God_ , he said to himself, _I hope I never have to go through that again!_

With a squeeze of his hand, Catherine brought his attention back to the present. She leaned over in the plush rear seat of the limo and gave him a big kiss.

"Wonderful party, darling. Congratulations once again." Her hand slid up his thigh and settled on his groin.

He put his arms around her and took in a long, deep breath. Despite the late hour, he was also feeling amorous and looked forward to getting home. His attention started moving rapidly from his head to his lower torso where Catherine's gentle touch seemed to be having quite an effect. At this moment, he was on top of the world.

April 30: New York City, Offices of Tivor Sagi, 3:30 PM EST

Ty was furious! Joe Hughes had called him to tell him he'd just returned from the West Coast where he'd resigned from the board of Ventures. Joe had become aware he had been duped into providing Ty with insider information and was really pissed. While he was professionally embarrassed and feeling quite repentant, he minced no words in telling Ty what he thought of him and the way he'd manipulated the so-called friendship. He'd called Ty a fraud and a few other things before he hung up.

Ty sat there staring at the phone. No one had ever talked to him like that before. Joe was meeting with his attorney within thirty minutes and expected to report the activity to the SEC, the National Association of Securities Dealers, and any other state or federal regulating bodies he could think of.

Ty's anger was mostly with himself. _Where did I mess up?_ he wondered. He was so cock-sure that his manipulations of Hughes had been perfect his mind wouldn't let go of what went wrong. He was sure he handled the transactions discreetly so no one would suspect insider activity. His puzzlement over this was more troubling than the potential ramifications of his being reported to the authorities.

Still wondering how Hughes had found out, he started going through his inbox, which he'd started sorting through when Joe called. He saw a confidential memo sealed in an envelope from his understudy, the young woman who'd been serving as an apprentice.

Hand-written across the envelope was "IMPORTANT." He opened the envelope and quickly scanned the typed message. In seconds he realized Joyce had resigned and her resignation was effective immediately. She disclosed in the letter she'd become aware of his shady dealing with Joe Hughes and made the connection with his trading on the Ventures options after she'd talked with a private detective hired by the company.

"So that's it," he muttered under his breath as he leapt from his chair and started toward the two EAs in the reception area. Then, he stopped, thought better of having any tirades in front of the help, and returned to his office to ponder how he would cover his ass. For one of the first times in Ty's life, he felt panic.

August 30: Over Eastern Canada, United Air Lines, Flight #988, Seat 3A, 10:37 AM

Steven sipped the decaf the flight attendant had just served him as he pondered the challenges ahead. He felt as if he had climbed a very high mountain.

It had taken almost four months, but Ventures was now privately held, with employees owning a majority of the stock. The first phase of V2P was complete. Steven's ownership remained essentially the same. He had not sold any of his shares as testimony to his faith in what the V2P meant for the future of the company. The buy-out of unrelated shareholders had gone smoothly and, as far as he could tell, no one felt they'd been treated unfairly. Some of the hardboiled bottom-liners who had no stake in Ventures other than their stock rattled some sabers and threatened to sue for a bigger piece of the pie but the team skillfully negotiated the transfers and settlements. All in all, they were under budget in the reacquisition cost and the financing worked out well, particularly since interest rates dropped a bit in the interim since the bank consortium's commitment.

Now that Ventures was off the trading exchanges, the next phase in implementing V2P involved selling the project to all the company's satellite offices and staff. Getting employees around the world to agree to a leveraged buy-out, resulting in their gaining ownership in Ventures, was a fairly easy task, given they were pretty savvy about stock ownership. Selling the social responsibility piece would be more difficult, they figured, since most employees came to Ventures to make big bucks and some might think the new vision could reduce their earnings. To achieve this, they created a "road show" team that consisted of Steven, Brenda, Rick, and two support people who would meet with each and every employee and all in-house contractors. They planned to visit each office around the world, individually arranging for everyone who was on the road or telecommuting to come into the closest office while the road show team members were in the area. They would spend about two and a half days at each site, on average.

When they drafted the Plan, they set very high objectives for employee buy-in. They did not want to settle for a simple majority. They wanted 100% acceptance of the Plan by every employee and were committed to work toward that goal. This would require varying degrees of explanation, hand holding and patience.

Based on Steven's knowledge and relationships with his key executives in Ventures satellite offices, some extra effort went into explaining the program to key people in each city. These were the people the team saw as leverage points—leaders of the regional office staffs. Some of them were designated leaders with position and rank indicating their place in the office hierarchy. Some were simply people who had unofficial influence over the staffs' collective opinions, whose leadership among their peers was more subtle and intrinsic—like an executive assistant in Stockholm and one of the more charismatic account executives in New York.

The V2P Program was an ambitious one—more ambitious than any corporate change program Steven had ever heard of or read about. Its objectives were also the most comprehensive and transformative that Choicepoint had ever taken on. Everyone on the team knew this. The consultants had not kept this a secret like some firms might. This honesty and forthright dealing was one of the major reasons Steven had selected the Choicepoint people to work with. They hadn't tried to bullshit him, pretending they had experience in doing programs this ambitious, or avoiding the truth.

The team also knew unless they had near-perfect execution of the buy-in phase, it would be a total and very expensive flop. It would probably also be the end of Steven's career.

In many ways, the road show was pivotal to the success of the whole V2P Program. The road show had to succeed if the program were to have any chance of being implemented.

The first road show was in London, in a few short hours. He took another sip of his decaf, and looked out the window and wondered at the sea of cotton clouds below him.

September 3, London, Ventures International UK Ltd., 1:46 PM GMT

Steven looked across the Thames at Parliament. _A magnificent view_. He was enjoying a break.

Implementation of the V2P plan had begun with a lot of work, required of every single employee. No one was exempt from extra effort. Even the stock analysts reps' jobs had become more complex. Explaining the nature of what Ventures was trying to do was challenging for them when the conventional investor mindset was so resistant to such new thinking. But week by week, the program had become more and more a routine part of everyone's workday. The Europeans were certainly easier to convince than Americans, just like Mike advised. This was a pleasant relief. He didn't need many more Jon Franklins blocking his way.

The extra stress from the added work had resulted in several people talking about leaving. Anticipating this, they had a small cadre of previously interviewed executive coaches, some with psychotherapy backgrounds, who were available to talk with these employees. The strain of changing things at such a primordial level was very difficult for some Ventures people, both seasoned veterans who were used to things being a certain way and newcomers fresh out of business school. But the bulk of the employees worldwide were excited. Some needed a little morale boost once in a while, so Steven would pack his bags and speed off to visit his teammates in Asia or Europe or wherever he could—serving as corporate cheerleader.

Steven's presence on this occasion was largely window dressing—the "main man" from headquarters here to demonstrate his commitment to the program.

The formal presentation was delivered by Brenda and Rick, much as it had been done in San Francisco, with Steven sitting in the audience. There was no mistaking the power he evoked as the chairman of the company, so he was clearly the center of attention from the inferential perspective. He knew many of the questions that would follow the presentation would be asked as if he would be answering them, even though protocol called for them to be asked of the presenters in front of the room.

The Ventures Values and Priorities program was a "noble undertaking," as one of the board members had put it in San Francisco. But Steven had a vision far beyond nobility. He saw this program as being essential to aligning soul and work, not only for him but for anyone interested in working for a better world while making a good living for their families.

It would have been impossible to say who was the actual author of the program since so many people were involved in its creation and so many others were expected to be involved in revisions and additions as it was being received by the entire Ventures stakeholder body. However, it was inarguable that Steven had been the genesis—the father of this noble undertaking—and that it would never have happened had it not been for him and his own personal transformation.

Rick and Brenda clearly explained that profitability was still very much a requirement for the company and they were not proposing that Ventures be converted to a charity. The new company might be even _more_ profitable. But its driving force would be to serve the well-being of humanity _as well as_ shareholders. They pointed out how commercial ventures were initially created to fill a need in society, to serve the citizenry. Over the last couple of centuries business had become more exploitive, often putting its own needs ahead of the rest of society, shifting from a service orientation to an exploitive one.

V2P would require each and every person inside Ventures to do their own soul-searching, perform their own introspections. It would be impossible for any employee, officer, or contractor to remain part of the Ventures organization and stay in their old mindset about how the business would be run. This might be particularly difficult for all the MBAs Ventures hired, they explained, since some of these new values would be contradictory to the sole focus on the financial bottom line. To be implemented, the program would require every person in the organization to reassess their own personal values and the values they embraced if they were to remain with Ventures.

There was no doubt that the V2P program was historic. And it _was_ ambitious. Its implementation called for three phases, taking between twenty-four and thirty months to complete and integrate. They were presently immersed in the first phase—getting everyone's agreement on the idea and their commitment to the Plan—two separate yet very important ingredients. The V2P team was fully aware mere agreement to the terms of the Plan was insufficient, since history had proven millions of times that agreeing to ideas offered no assurances people would stand by them or honor them. This was not because people were not trustworthy. It had more to do with the systemic pressures —real or imagined—people felt they were under.

Personal commitment would be essential if this ambitious plan were to have any chance for succeeding. People had to own this Program as if they had authored it, or they would not be served by it. They would fight it if they felt it was being imposed on them. The team members had seen plenty of great change programs fail because people had felt they were being forced to accept changes they didn't like or agreed with.

Every Ventures stakeholder—employee, board member, vendor, shareholder, and investor-partner—was invited to be a member of the change team, with encouragement to participate in critiques and improvements to the plan. Suggested in the plan was that there be several teams, each dealing with specific aspects of the transformation. People could serve on more than one team if they wished. One team would be what they call the Internal Team—stakeholders from around the world who would focus on the well-being, success, and communication among staff, field managers, portfolio managers, account representatives, and board members. Then there would be an External Team, which would focus on relationships with vendors, the investment community, the media, local communities, and other groups outside of the company. Within these two primary teams there were smaller teams focused on a specific objective to be coordinated with other teams. Of course, the lines were blurred between internal and external—a condition which would become even less clear as the transformation neared completion.

Then there was a need for Regional Teams, consisting of people from each region where Ventures had clusters of people, who focused on the specific needs of the local cultures.

In Steven's view, it would be ideal if every stakeholder became a participating member of one of the change teams. The Plan relied on high levels of participation from Ventures people, rather than farming all the work out to consultants. The entire transformation of this $12 billion company would depend on six outside consultants from Choicepoint and Brenda's in-house team of six—positions that would be considered permanent after V2P had been fully implemented. The rest of the work would rely on stakeholders.

An in-house newsletter was being launched to keep everyone informed as to the progress of the transformation, but the contributing editors of this newsletter included everyone at Ventures. Anyone could post stories of successes and failures to the newsletter, eliminating much of the need for gossip networks. A blog series was also launched, with total access for any Ventures employee, vendor or shareholder. Such a democratic and transparent way of dealing with everything would allow for total self-expression.

The third phase included the grunt work—where the rubber met the road, so to speak. With systems and structures in place so the changes would be sustained once they were made, specific work with the people of Ventures began.

Brenda and Rick were winding up their presentation now, and Steven shifted his weight in his chair, knowing he would soon become the center of attention.

September 4, San Francisco, Ventures International Headquarters, 8:37 AM PST

Ruth sat ready to hear from Steven, who was supposed to have called a few minutes earlier. She was quite comfortable with the agenda she had prepared for them to discuss. As a matter of fact, she was feeling _very_ comfortable holding down the fort while he was traveling around the globe, tending to this new program. He'd be calling from London this morning and would want to hear about activities here at home over the past several days.

Ruth was becoming more of a believer in the Program. When her boss had first come up with this idea, she'd been sure he'd gone off the deep end. It was one thing to have suffered the tragedy Steven and his family had experienced. It was another to go through such a powerful personal change as he clearly had, even if he seemed a bit out there in the ethers when it came to hard reality. But to bring all his newfound spirituality or whatever you called it into the business—she really had her judgments about that. She'd thought Steven was wrong and told him so. She'd been concerned about the company's ability to survive such a radical reorganization, but initially doubted Steven would be able to sell it anyway. Then, when he'd succeeded convincing the board, she was flabbergasted. She found herself in the awkward position of going along with things without really believing in their chances for pulling it off. For the first time since she'd come to work with Steven, she'd actually thought about quitting.

Now, after seeing the enthusiasm and professionalism with which Steven and the transformation team had enrolled others in the Program and were implementing it so effectively, she was becoming a believer herself. In addition, Ruth was starting to enjoy her new role—sort of an assistant CEO. She realized she was probably as familiar with the everyday challenges and dynamics at Ventures as anyone except Steven. In fact, in recent weeks, with Steven's attention so focused on the implementation of the program, she might even have a better grasp of the day-to-day crises and issues facing the company.

She felt a tinge of guilt at the thought. She told herself while she might be managing some things temporarily; she was far from being in complete charge of everything permanently. The phone rang and she picked it up.

"Hi, Ruth. Good to hear your voice! How are things?" Steven asked after she answered his private line.

"Everything's in good order, Steven. I have those things you wanted, and I have a couple of questions for you," she answered. "But first, how did it go yesterday?"

"Colin's got everything in great shape here, Ruth. He really did a good job. I was mostly cheerleader. He could have done it all fine without me."

"But, Steven..."

He interrupted Ruth and said, "I know, I know. My presence here was important for morale. Yeah, I know."

He asked Ruth to let Catherine know he'd be calling that afternoon—about three PM. She told him she thought Chelsea was going to be staying over tonight, so maybe he could visit with her too if she was there that early. Steven was very pleased to hear he might be able to speak with both his wife _and_ his daughter.

March 18, San Francisco, Ventures International Headquarters, 11:25 AM PST

The transformation team's trip was a huge success, with over ninety percent of the employees, contractors, and part-time consultants enthusiastically endorsing the program. Of the 771 people at Ventures the team had met with over the past six and a half weeks, only twenty-five managers were considering early retirement as a result of learning about the program. To date, only three senior people had decided to leave Ventures, one in Hong Kong and two in San Francisco. Jon Franklin was one. The biggest problem for most of these people had not been a conflict in the explicit values being proposed, but the amount of work and chaos they'd envisioned coming about as a result of any attempt to implement such a comprehensive plan.

The remaining stakeholders were enthusiastic about the paradigm-change. The Plan had sparked the innate visionary residing in them all, had awakened their spirits and warmed their hearts. While they were nervous, even scared a little, they were also stimulated and excited about what they were part of.

Steven knew seven of the departing managers quite well and supported their early retirement. He knew they were fair weather types who would find any adversity too stressful. Besides, they wouldn't be good soldiers—what he liked to call "spiritual warriors"—when it came down to the rigor of living the values they would be adaptive and compliant but the new Ventures needed more from them. The remaining eighteen were less known to him. The consensus was the company would be better served without these managers as it moved forward to implement the ambitious plan worldwide.

A full-participation teleconference, a follow-up to the road show, was attended by all the same people. The teleconference was scheduled so that it was an inconvenience for the fewest number in different time zones. Steven presented a summary of the program to everyone, and then Brenda and Rick reported on the trip as a whole. After an hour of questions and responses from various directors and team managers, the teleconference closed on a high note when a vice-president from Great Britain and a manager from Brussels each conveyed their excitement at being a part of such a pioneering effort in their industry. Each of their eloquent statements served to excite everyone else, and the teleconference ended as upbeat as could be imagined.

What Steven and the headquarters staff couldn't hear afterward was the spontaneous applause that independently broke out at each site after the link was cut by the satellite company. Even if the sound link hadn't been cut, the headquarters staff might have had difficulty hearing anything, the applause in their own conference room was so loud.

"We couldn't have planned a better end," shouted Brenda excitedly. "That was terrific! Weren't Warren and Ingrid incredible there at the end?"

"Yes, they were," yelled Steven over the applause and whoops. He and Brenda and Rick embraced at the podium in a spontaneous act of solidarity and emotion. Each of them had tears running down their cheeks.

"We're on our way," shouted Steven. "From here on out, it's a matter of implementation!"

**Chapter Eight: A TIME FOR NEW BEGINNINGS**

April 15, San Francisco, World Headquarters, Ventures International, 8:14 AM PST

One of the major lessons Steven had learned—no, he was _still_ learning—was how new beginnings require old ways to die. When he thought about it, it made total sense.

Steven knew at a very deep level it was time for him to leave as CEO of Ventures. He had no plans to stop working, but all his inner voices were in absolute agreement that his work was elsewhere now, and it was time to leave the past and create a new future.

He and Catherine had talked about his decision this morning, before he'd left home and after some wonderful lovemaking earlier, while it was still dark. He'd discussed his idea with Mark and Chelsea before that. All had agreed that what he was planning was very risky. It could also be a huge political mistake, they'd reasoned. But it was courageous by all standards, and Steven felt pretty strongly about his decision, and his enthusiasm and passion for it were very convincing to his close-knit brain trust.

Ruth's voice came through on the intercom. "Are you ready for us, Steven?" she asked.

"Sure," he said as he was putting away the last few things cluttering his desk top. The door opened, and Ruth walked in followed by Ventures' Senior Vice President of Operations, Diane Bailey, Morgan Sheppard, head of all the portfolio managers worldwide, and Peter Chandra, a new addition to headquarters who'd come over from Bombay immediately after V2P was announced. Peter seemed totally aligned with the vision, and had quickly become one of Steven's favorite management team members, serving as Ventures' new controller.

"I've asked you to meet with me this morning to tell you that I have made a decision—a big one—and I wanted you to hear it first," Steven said.

"I'm stepping down as CEO of Ventures..." he stopped mid-sentence, surprised by the welling up of emotion in his chest. Tears came to his eyes quickly, and he looked away for a moment. His hand came up to his face as he put his index finger under his nose and pressed his lip against his upper teeth. After a few seconds, he tried to resume.

"I have decided it is time for me to step down as the leader of this company..." Tears flowed freely, and Steven let go of any concerns about how he came across to his colleagues. "Ahem...and transfer the day-to-day running of this organization...over to someone else." He needed to stop again and gather enough composure to continue. "I think I can best serve the company by becoming a steward for what we have birthed over these past few months. The near future will not be easy, given the stand we have taken with the V2P program,...now that we have everyone's commitment, it will take an enormous amount of will, focus, and reinforcement to avoid things going back to business as usual. Each of you knows the enormous power and influence—mostly invisible and unconscious—of the old system, and how it will want to return, much like a bungee cord or rubber band. The media, the financial markets, our competitors and vendors will all be operating in the old system and, unless we are incredibly diligent and use the utmost discernment, we could find ourselves regressing back to the old ways very quickly.

"I want to focus all my energies on being a steward for this transformation, rather than on managing the enterprise. I will work very closely with the new CEO, as sort of a 'vice president of consciousness' I read about once. I will serve on the Executive Committee and report to the new CEO and the Committee about how things are moving, where we might be backsliding, and other matters concerning this culture change we are going through."

Steve paused and glanced down at his notes. He was glad he was only talking to Ruth, Diane, Peter, and Morgan right now. He knew he'd be saying this to a much larger audience soon, and repeating it dozens of times after the press got wind of it. He checked his notes and saw something else he wanted to say before he identified his successor.

"I want to assure each of you that my stepping down is a true turning over of the reins. It is not merely symbolic. My role as an Executive Committee member will be just that—as an ordinary _member_...well, 'CEO Emeritus' maybe....I will thoroughly support the new CEO as best I can, and I will continue to serve Ventures International to the best of my ability. The only difference is that I will not be the boss. I will have no staff under me. No one reporting to me. I'll be like an independent consultant, working for the Executive Committee."

The shock started wearing off and, finally, Morgan asked, "Who can take your place, Steven? Who could possibly replace you, especially now that we've bitten off this enormous project? Who—"

Steven interrupted Morgan. "I think I know who can step into my shoes and do a fine job. This person is not a stranger. We have known each other for some time."

"Is it your friend Mark?" asked Peter.

"No, it isn't Mark, Peter, although he'd be a fine choice if he were interested," Steven said. "So, as I was saying, this person and I have known each other for some time. We have also worked together enough that I am absolutely convinced this person has the best interests of Ventures at heart."

Morgan was bursting with curiosity. "Is it Colin, then?" he asked, naming the head of their Great Britain office.

"No, it isn't Colin, although he'd also be a great choice," Steven said. "No, this person is right here in this room."

The two men looked at each other like teenagers who'd just heard the prom queen wanted to ask one of them to be her date for the big dance. Diane looked like someone just asked her if she's like to be the prom queen! Steven was amused. He glanced in Ruth's direction. She was still apprehensive, wondering who her new boss might be.

Ruth's mind was racing. Would she stay if Steven left this office? Would the new CEO want her, or would he bring in someone else? Was it time for her to leave Ventures after all these years? Would—Steven's laughter interrupted her mental chatterbox.

"No, no, folks. It isn't one of you. I have decided that the best person to succeed me is Ruth," he said.

All four inhaled in surprise, and then a hush came over the room. You could hear a pin drop.

Ruth was frozen in surprise. Steven walked over next to her, took her hands in his and looked directly into her eyes. "Ruth, I cannot think of anyone better suited to take over this office than you. I cannot imagine a smoother transition in the company's leadership. You have been the closest to me through all these years. You've been with me during those moments of brilliance and those times of utter darkness. You know the ropes better than anyone else in the world. And, you have the ability and the skill to be an excellent CEO, maybe even a better one than me," he said with a twinkle in his eyes and a broad smile.

"I plan to nominate you as my replacement at the Board meeting at the end of this month, Ruth," he said directly to her. Then he turned to the others. "And I'd like the three of you to back me. I expect they will go along on an interim basis, knowing I'm around for consultation if needed. I'm not leaving the company, after all."

Still stunned, Ruth asked if they could take a short break before talking any more about this. The three executives welcomed the suggestion and Ruth left the room. Diane and Morgan followed her and Peter remained is his chair, pondering the news. All this was done in complete silence.

May 3, San Bruno, Skyline Apartments, #309, midnight PST

When Jean heard about the board's decision to confirm Ruth as interim CEO, she had jumped with joy. Not only did she like Ruth enormously, but she was thrilled Steven had named a woman as his heir apparent.

There was something poetic about this, she told herself. This man has definitely had a major transformation—a complete reinvention of who he was and how he thought of himself. She first started hearing about his process shortly after she started working at Ventures. Then she started digging for more about this man. She had occasions to visit with Ruth a few times and they developed a mentor-mentee sort of relationship. Ruth seemed to like having a young woman to take under her wing and Jean was happy to oblige. But the changes going on with the company's founder fascinated her. Steven George had become her focus much like her dissertation a short time ago.

She loved everything she learned about his process and the women who were involved. There was his wife, spiritual partner and soul mate Catherine, about whom she learned much from Ruth. The tragic death of his oldest daughter Kirsten. The incredible introduction to a whole new world of self observation by his youngest daughter Chelsea. Not to mention his mother's influence—both intentional and unintentional. Women had been major catalysts for changing Steven George and making him into the man he was today. Having Ruth as her new boss seemed just about perfect to Jean.

But she also felt enormous pride in her former boss. After all, how many men—for that matter how many _people_ —would have risked so much? Her heart filled with admiration and respect for the man, and she silently committed herself to support the same ideals and principles Steven had introduced her to at such a young age. She was so fortunate. Gratitude and admiration swelled in her chest.

As she slipped under the sheets, Jean's eyes were shedding a few tears. But these weren't tears of sadness. They were tears of joy.

**Chapter Nine: LIFE AS AN EVANGELIST**

August 12, Atlanta, Georgia, CNN News studios, 8:03 AM EST

Steven and Catherine sat in the green room, waiting for his segment on the business news show. This was about the twentieth business show he'd been on in the past few weeks. He was amazed at how popular he was getting as word spread about what they were doing at Ventures. Clearly, the V2P program was something everybody wanted to see happen in business. It had become clear to Steven that one reason for its enormous popularity was so many people had become resigned that business could not be socially constructive and contribute to any positive future for the world.

V2P in all its iterations was serving as a rallying cry for many of these former cynics and pessimists in corporations all over the world. It had tapped into a deep-seated pool of mass denial about the kind of future the world was headed for as long as runaway, publicly traded multinational corporations were allowed to run unfettered—like robots taking over the world.

Steven was encouraged by the flow of deals that continued to come into Ventures after an anticipated slowdown after the public announcement. They were being offered twice as many opportunities as they could handle. They were busy hiring new MBA graduates, recruiting from alternative business schools that taught social responsibility as well as business. Luckily, there were a couple of these "green MBA" schools on the West Coast. They also were getting record numbers of unsolicited job applications from people who heard what the V2P stood for and wanted to work for such a company. Ventures had more business than it could do, which reinforced their business model and dispelled the myth that doing good would be bad for business.

It was clear that sanity had been restored in some corner of the business community, and that a sufficient number of Steven's counterparts in corporate life had become inspired by a new possibility he had helped them to see. The writing was on the wall. Steven could see the day would soon be here when any corporation that did not become more socially conscious would eventually die off like the dinosaurs.

He recalled all those major shifts that happened in history—cultural shifts precipitated by some bold actions by a few people—sometimes purposefully and sometimes quite accidentally. He recalled how many of these major cultural changes seemed as if they had always been _after_ the shifts had occurred.

October 20, Hillsborough, George residence, 7:12 AM PST

"It sure doesn't feel like you're retired," said Catherine as Steven appeared for breakfast. Martha was pouring his coffee as he walked past.

"Well, that's because I'm not!" he said. "In some ways, this new job is as time-consuming as my old one. But dear one, I am loving this work so much, so much more than the old work. I'm so happy about what we are up to, and I feel so blessed with the terrific people I'm working with! Wow!"

"How's Ruth doing? What's it been now, five or six months?" Catherine asked.

"Just over six. She's doing terrific! It was such a good decision. I'm so proud of her. She's doing even better than I thought," he said, "which makes me feel _really_ good. Her interim title should get dropped any day now. I think the board is comfortable with her. Hell, some board members have openly stated that she's better than I was!"

Steven admitted to himself that Ruth was indeed actually better at delegating than he ever was—something he believed might be better done by women than by men who tended to tough it out and go it alone. _All that silly macho crap_ , he thought.

"Well one thing for sure," Catherine said softly. "I haven't seen you look this relaxed, and this happy, while you're working since we got married. Well, maybe that time up at Shasta Lake on that vacation about twenty years ago. Remember, the kids were small and your mom was with us?"

Suddenly, Steven realized he could now relax about the change program. He could stop wondering _if_ it were going to work, _if_ everyone would get behind it, _if_ the rest of the business community could see the value of it. He saw that it _had_ succeeded—without question—and that people did get behind it and many forward-thinking business leaders around the world had been inspired to make similar changes in their organizations. He could stop his wondering, and begin rejoicing.

It had worked! And they had succeeded. He could relax and really celebrate.

Steven looked at Catherine and they both had the same thought at the same time. Their eyes teared up together as they remembered Kirsten.

"We'll never get over this," she said as he was nodding in agreement simultaneously, reaching for a Kleenex.

"I hope we never do," he whispered, choking back a sob. "I hope we never do."

"You know she'll always be with us, don't you?" asked Catherine, knowing how her husband would respond.

"Of course, my darling, I can feel her right now—here with us. It's like she isn't confined to time and space these days, and she can hang out with us, and whomever else she wants to, all the time. She is _really_ free!" he said.

They embraced and walked out onto the patio together. The sun was up and the moisture was evaporating off the rear lawns—a sort of private tulle fog in their backyard. They walked into the sunshine, then stopped and remained in each other's arms. Kirsten was with them both.

June 12: Hubert H. Humphrey Center Auditorium, University of Minnesota, Minneapolis, 9:23 PM CST

Steven stepped down from the podium and walked through the curtain to the backstage area as the audience was still applauding. People were standing and clapping loudly. Some were whistling. Some were shouting. Despite the number of months he'd been on the stump for organizational transformation, he still felt some self-conscious embarrassment at the enthusiastic response he was getting, but was also deeply moved and very excited at such overwhelming acceptance for the message he'd just delivered. The auditorium had seemed to be absolutely packed and they had told him the room held over 3,000 people.

Catherine was waiting in the wings for him, wholeheartedly applauding and beaming so brightly. _And I'm married to this woman_. Gratitude overwhelmed him and he burst into tears. Catherine's hands stopped applauding, and her arms surrounded her husband as they stood there embracing as they both sobbed uncontrollably.

A stage manager asked him if he wouldn't mind going back onstage. It was only then Steven realized the noise level in the auditorium hadn't subsided one decibel. It was as if the audience was _demanding_ he come back. He knew what this was like as a member of the symphony back home—but from the audience perspective.

Steven's life was now more different than he could have ever imagined—even one year earlier. He had never, ever considered being in a position where he wasn't running an enterprise, responsible for huge budgets, making payroll, and surrounded by staff. He was now an independent lecturer, traveling around the world speaking to rooms filled with people who held senior positions in large corporations, or who had started their own companies that had grown into multimillion dollar enterprises.

He recalled talking with a retired Christian evangelist who'd once hosted his own television show. He recalled how this man had talked so openly about the temptations to "taste the grape of self-indulgence" and become impressed with his own charisma and appeal to so many people. "They wanted to transfer all their hopes and dreams onto me," he'd told Steven, "and my task was to remain myself...to remain true to my Self...and not get absorbed into my own self-importance, or buy into being what they wanted me to be. I had to fight a few demons, but I could see that I had to stay me and not become anything other than me."

In many ways, Steven had become something of an evangelist—a spokesperson for millions of people who worked and managed, who led companies large and small, and who really wanted to make a difference in the world. He recalled the evangelist's warning and saw how tempting it could be to allow himself to go there. In the moment, he was feeling enormous gratitude for that preacher.

June 20: San Francisco, Frascati's Restaurant, corner of Hyde & Green Streets, 7:55 PM PDT

A cable car went rolling by out in front of the restaurant. They sat at the corner table, with windows on two sides of them. _Allen was turning out to be a pretty neat guy_ , Jean thought. They were seeing each other several times a week now and no red flags had come up yet. _Could she be mellowing as she neared twenty-five?_ she wondered.

The waiter arrived with the wine they'd selected. They each sampled it and nodded their approval in unison. After their glasses were filled, Allen's eyes suggested that she say something. Without thinking, Jean found a toast coming from her lips and raised her glass: "Here's to Steven George—a man who had a dream and the balls to carry it forward."

Allen smiled, knowing how important her work was to her and how grateful she was to be working at Ventures. As happy as he was for Jean, he felt a tinge of jealousy that his own employer wasn't as visionary or courageous as hers. Still smiling, he wondered if he should become a champion for the change he saw was needed. _Could he be another Steven George?_ he wondered.

June 21, Northern California, Shasta Lake, Little Backbone Arm, 8:44 PM PDT

Steven stood on the rear deck of the luxurious houseboat he and Catherine had rented for the week. The night air was warm, and the skies were incredibly clear. The full moon was shining across the tranquil cove where they had tied up for the night. The sunset was backlighting the sky behind the hills along the Western edge of the Lake.

Crickets and frogs were engaged in a private symphony for their human audience of one.

_God, it's beautiful up here!_ he thought.

While he was lost in the beauty of this moment, the rest of the George party were carrying on a lively discussion up front, where dinner was being prepared. A loud roar of laughter echoed down the passageway toward Steven, gently nudging him from his reverie. He heard a large splash as a brown trout broke the surface of the water a few feet away.

Steven looked down at his martini, lifted the olive and inserted it between his lips, and took the last sip with total awareness of each sensation in his mouth. He felt it with his tongue, the roof of his mouth, and his throat as he swallowed slowly, savoring every drop.

The aroma from the barbecue on the front deck had found its way to the back of the boat. Then he heard the unmistakable laughter of Chelsea echoing around the cove. _Dear Chelsea. How he loved her and appreciated her, now more than ever._

His thoughts went to Kirsten, dear Kirsten, and he felt enormous warmth and more appreciation. Little grief remained these days. He saw Kirsten as a soul who had blessed his family with a visit, a visit that had lasted over thirty years. He could now see what he couldn't when he was consumed by grief. He could now appreciate the enormous impact his daughter had made on his life, on all their lives! _Wow, what a contribution she'd made. What a difference she'd made!_

He felt blessed to be able to see Kristin's passing as a blessing now, not a tragedy. Boy, that would have sounded so insensitive to him in his old skin. He would have punched out anyone who suggested he'd be grateful for it someday. And now, here he was.

She's still out there someplace, he thought, and raised his empty glass in a salute to his oldest girl—out there somewhere. He gazed in awe into the night sky and wondered at the density of the stars which were starting to shine now that the sky had started to darken. There was Venus, just barely visible over the western horizon, still baking in the remnants of the sunset. _Thank you, Kirsten darling_ , he thought closing his eyes. _Thank you for everything you've done for this family._

As he remained there with his eyes closed, he distinctly heard the voice of his oldest daughter. "You're most welcome, Daddy," the voice said. "Tell everyone hello for me and I love you all." He opened his eyes slowly and soaked in the warmth of all the love he could feel, feeling grateful he was now able to take it in. He touched his chest with his free hand and felt tears of pure joy swelling in his eyes.

_Does it get any better?_ he mused. He felt a sense of pride in the accomplishments of the past couple of years. He felt enormous gratitude for all the support and love that had come his way, from his family, from his friends, from his co-workers. Actually, he was feeling so much gratitude, he wasn't even sure it was aimed at any one person or group. It was kind of an overall gratitude—for being alive and in the here and now. Geez, he was grateful!

Slowly, he walked around the large table that had already been set for eight—eight people he felt so privileged to know and be known by, to love and be loved by. _These are people I would trust with my life,_ he thought. _These are people I would go mountain climbing with. I would tell these people anything about myself. God, I am fortunate. Thank you, God, for all the wonderful blessings you have given me,_ he said to himself.

He could feel a tingling sensation throughout his torso, rushing up and down his arms and throughout his back. He felt warm all over and surrendered to the sensation. It was pure love. Kirsten was here. He could almost smell her. He inhaled deeply, sucking in all this wonderful love.

He was so glad to be alive! He took another deep breath and felt a big grin come to his face. To say he was content at this moment would be a gross understatement.

He entered the rear cabin and walked forward to rejoin his guests up front.

THE END

**About the author**

John Renesch is San Francisco-based businessman-turned-futurist, keynote speaker and writer whose published works include twelve non-fiction books all focused on the subject of organizational and social transformation. His most recent non-fiction book is _Getting to the Better Future: A Matter of Conscious Choosing_ and his website is http://www.Renesch.com. This is his first novel.

**Acknowledgments**

Several people offered to critique this work while it was still in its infancy. In the beginning I interviewed several people who were helpful to me. These include Claude Rosenberg, Bill Burdette, Jack Forem, and many others. Many thanks to Gloria Gotti, Eleanor Austerer, Bert Berson, Val Lafoon, Sharon Gadberry, Marilyn Reidel, Dee Lesser, Suzanne Tucker, Leslie Lawson, and Tina Rasmussen for giving me their critiques of those early manuscripts. Helping this work progress toward publication were Josh Wimmer and my dear friend Herman Maynard who supported this work getting out into the world.

I also wish to thank Mike Kelly, Peter Ressler and Sonia Stojanovic for reviewing close-to-final drafts and providing valuable feedback regarding the financial services industry. And special thanks to Bill Liao, Bud Stone, Bill Gladstone and Steve Banks for their contributions to me.

Thanks also to Adrian Preuss for his help in getting the book's cover into a format that would work in the Kindle format.

Finally, I'd like to thank all those who have been part of my adventures in the field of merging social consciousness with business and large scale organization change. Some of these people are mentioned in the story as themselves and others help make up the completely fictional characters. Thanks to you all for your inspiration, your wisdom and your example!

—JR
