Yank was completely mystified by Mitch's anger. "Woz and I like each other's work," he said in his reasonable, logical voice. "We've always helped each other out."

Sam and Susannah had been playing Super Pong together when the eruption occurred. Observing the curious stares of a couple in a nearby booth, she moved her body slightly, hoping to block some of the confrontation from public view while Sam tried to calm Mitch.

"Look, it's a different world out here," Sam said. "Yank's a hacker. Hackers can't even understand the concept of proprietary information."

Mitch's expression grew fierce. "Listen to me, all of you. We're not playing games with SysVal. From now on every piece of information on the Blaze design is proprietary-right down to the number of screws holding on the case. This is not debatable! No one talks publicly about anything, do you hear me? No one!"

Yank turned away from Mitch to gave Sam a long, piercing gaze, and then he said distinctly, "This is crap."

It was the first time Susannah had ever heard him use a vulgarity. Without uttering another word, he stalked away from the three of them and left the restaurant.

Mitch was as angry as she had ever seen him. Sam, in his impulsive manner, wanted to deal with the situation in the middle of Mom & Pop's, but she hustled both men outside and they drove to Sam and Susannah's apartment.

The apartment was small and dingy, with a view of the trash Dumpster, but Susannah loved having a place of her own and didn't mind its shabbiness. They had neither the time nor the money to improve it, which was probably just as well because Susannah had finally admitted to herself that domesticity had never interested her. When it came to a choice between spending her time working on the development of the Blaze prototype or picking out living room draperies, the Blaze won hands down.

Sam grabbed a beer from the refrigerator for Mitch and a Coke for himself and then began to pace the floor. Susannah took a seat in the room's only armchair. Mitch, whose outrage over Yank's breach of security hadn't eased at all, sat on the couch and scowled. They were in the positions they usually occupied late at night when the three of them got together to refine their business plan and define exactly what they wanted their company to be.

How many nights had they spent like this, with Sam painting word pictures of a company that had glass walls, open doors, and rock music playing, while Mitch countered with his own, more pragmatic vision-one centered on swelling market share and snowballing profits instead of a Utopian working environment? Despite the friendship between the two men, they were frequently at loggerheads, and Susannah had to act as mediator. She realized that this night would be no different.

Sam planted his hands on his hips and looked over at Mitch. "You've got a Master's from MIT, but Yank and I are Valley kids. We weren't trained in colleges. Our roots are in the suburbs-in garages. For hackers, the rewards come in breaking codes and in getting into closed systems-in showing your design to someone who's smart enough to understand the dazzle of what you've done. When you tell a hardware hacker like Yank that he can't show off a brilliant piece of design to one of the few people he knows who can really appreciate it, it's like you've cut off his oxygen supply."

"Then we have a serious problem," Mitch said coldly.

Silence fell between them.

Susannah sighed in frustration. Why couldn't either of them ever see the other's viewpoint? Once again she found herself wanting to bang their heads together. Mitch grounded everything in reality, Sam in possibility. She alone seemed to understand that only with the melding of both philosophies could the true vision of SysVal emerge.

She slipped into her customary role of mediator as if it were an old, comfortable bathrobe. "Don't forget that while Yank is showing off the Blaze, he's also looking at the Apple II. Surely there'll be some benefits in that."

"That's nuts," Mitch protested. "What if-by the grace of God-we actually manage to make a success out of this ridiculous company? We can't function indefinitely with our newest technology flying out the window all the time."

"You're right," she said, "but in this case being right doesn't make any difference, because Yank simply won't pay attention." She had already given the matter some thought, and now she shared her ideas with them. "As soon as we're able, we need to begin surrounding him with the most brilliant young engineers we can find-eccentric thinkers like he is. We have to create the Homebrew environment internally."

Sam's head snapped up, his eyes grew bright. "That's no problem. The best people in the world will be standing in line to work for us. There won't be any time clocks. No assholes in three-piece suits telling people what to do."

"But everything will be directed," Mitch said. "Everybody will be working together toward a common goal."

"The goal of giving the world the best small computer ever made," Sam said.

"The goal of turning a profit," Mitch replied.

Susannah smiled and took a sip of tea. "You're absolutely right."

December passed-sometimes a blur of activity, at other times painfully slow. Christmas was difficult for Susannah. While they exchanged presents around Angela's artificial tree, garishly decorated with plastic ornaments and ropes of pink tinsel, Susannah's thoughts wandered to the towering Douglas fir that would have been erected in the entrance hall at Falcon Hill, its branches glimmering with French silk ribbon and antique Baroque angels. Had Joel and Paige thought about her at all today? It had been foolish of her to cherish even a dim hope that the Christmas season would magically bring them all back together again. As she looked up at the plastic Santa on the top of Angela's tree, she felt unbearably sad.

She told herself she mustn't do it, but late that afternoon, while Sam and Angela were watching a football game on television, she slipped into the kitchen and dialed Falcon Hill. The phone began to ring, and she bit the inside of her lip.

"Hello."

Her father's deep, abrupt voice was so familiar, so beloved. Her own voice sounded thin in response. "Father? It's-it's Susannah."

"Susannah?" His voice lifted slightly at the end of her name, as if he might have forgotten who she was.

Her knuckles grew white as she gripped the receiver. "I-I just called to wish you a Merry Christmas."

"You did? How unnecessary."

She squeezed her eyes shut and her stomach twisted. He wasn't going to give in. How could she have let herself hope, even for a moment, that he would? "Are you well?"

"I'm fine, Susannah, but I'm afraid you've picked rather a bad time to call. Paige has planned a marvelous meal, and we're just sitting down to eat."

She was overwhelmed with memories of past Christmases-the sights and smells and textures of the season. When she was a little girl, her father used to lift her high up on his shoulders so she could put the angel on top of the tree. An angel for an angel, he had said. Now Paige would be sitting in her seat at the bottom of the table, and that special smile he had once reserved for her would be given to her sister.

She was afraid she was going to cry, and she spoke quickly. "I won't keep you, then. Please tell Paige Merry Christmas for me." The receiver hung heavily in her hand, but she couldn't sever this final connection by hanging up.

"If that's all?"

She hugged herself. "I didn't mean to interrupt. It's just-" Despite her best efforts, her voice broke. "Daddy, I got married."

There was no response. No words of acknowledgment, let alone expressions of affection.

Tears began to run down her cheeks.

He finally spoke, in a voice as thin and reedy as an old man's. "I can't imagine why you thought I'd be interested."

"Daddy, please-"

"Don't call me again, Susannah. Not unless you're ready to come home."

She was crying openly now, but she couldn't let him go. If she held on just a little longer, it would be all right. It was Christmas. If she held on just a little longer, there would be no more angry words between them. "Daddy-" Her voice broke on a sob. "Daddy, please don't hate me. I can't come home, but I love you."

Nothing happened for a moment, and then she heard a soft click. In that moment she felt as if the remaining fragile link between father and daughter had been broken forever.

In the kitchen at Falcon Hill, Paige held the receiver tightly to her ear and listened to the click as her father hung up the telephone on her sister. She replaced the receiver on the cradle and wiped her damp palms on her apron. Her mouth was dry and her heart pounding.

As she returned to the stove, she refused to give in to the memory of herself standing in a dingy hallway with a dirty telephone cord wrapped around her fingers while she tried to pry some words of tenderness from her father. She refused to feel sorry for Susannah. It was simply a matter of justice, she told herself as she turned the heat down under the vegetables and pulled the turkey from the oven. She had spent last Christmas stoned and miserable in a roach-infested apartment. This year Susannah was the outcast.

The servants had the day off, so she was responsible for Christmas dinner. It was a task she had been looking forward to. The turkey finished baking in the oven along with an assortment of casseroles. The counter held two beautiful fruit pies with an elaborate network of vines and hearts cut into the top crusts. In the past seven months she had received a surprising amount of pleasure from simple household tasks. She had planted a small herb garden near the kitchen door and livened up the corners of the house with rambling, old-fashioned floral displays, instead of the stiff, formal arrangements Susannah had always ordered from the florist.

Not that her father ever noticed any of her homey touches. He only noticed the jobs she forgot to do-the social engagement she had neglected to write down, the closets she hadn't reorganized, the plumber she had forgotten to hire-all those tasks her sister had performed with such relentless efficiency. As for the latest Ludlum thriller she had left on his bedside table, or the special meal waiting for him when he got back from a trip-those things didn't seem to matter.

"Do you need some help, Paige?"

She smiled at Cal, who had poked his head into the kitchen. She knew that Cal was an opportunist, and she doubted that he would have proven to be such a good friend if she hadn't been Joel's daughter. But he understood how difficult Joel could be, and he listened sympathetically to her problems. It was wonderful to feel as if she had someone on her side.

"Let me just set the turkey on the platter, and you can carry it in," she said.

Since there would only be the three of them for dinner, she had decided to forgo the huge, formal dining room with its long table for a cozy cherry drop-leaf set up in front of the living room fireplace, where they would be able to see the Christmas tree through the foyer archway.

When all the food was in place, she seated herself and removed the red and green yarn bow from her napkin. The center of the table held an old-fashioned centerpiece she had put together the day before with evergreen bows and small pieces of wooden dollhouse furniture she had unearthed in the attic. It had amazed her how many of her childhood toys had survived, even a few sets of tiny Barbie doll shoes. She couldn't believe those little plastic shoes hadn't been lost over the years, until she remembered how careful Susannah had always been with their toys.

While her father carved the turkey, old memories slipped over her. She saw Susannah's auburn hair falling forward in a neat, straight line as she dug out a tiny Monopoly house Paige had lost in the thick pile of her bedroom carpet. She saw Susannah in spotless yellow shorts stooping down on the brick terrace to rescue crayons her sister had left in the sun. Paige wouldn't use the crayons once the sweet, sharp points had worn off, but Susannah used them forever, patiently peeling back the paper until only a waxy nub was left. Unexpectedly, Paige felt a hollowness inside her.

Despite her careful preparations and Cal's attempt at conversation, the meal wasn't a success. Joel seemed tired and said little. Her own conversation was stiff. Paige didn't blame Cal for taking his leave not long after they had finished dessert. When she walked him to the door, he gave her a sympathetic glance and a friendly peck on the cheek. "I'll call you tomorrow."

She nodded and returned to the living room. Joel had seated himself on the couch with a book, but she had the feeling he wasn't really reading it. She felt even more lonely than when she was by herself.