:: has been hired to head up a new business unit on behalf of the :: multinational giant Westinghouse. The appointment stands as more :: proof of Church's power to cloud men's minds with pretty empty :: words about the half-baked dot-com schemes that have oozed out of :: Silicon Valley and into every empty and dead American suburb. It was hypnotic, like staring into the eyes of a serpent. Her pulse actually thudded in her ears for a second before she took a few deep breaths and calmed down enough to finish the article, which was just more of the same: nasty personal attacks, sniping, and innuendo. Freddy even managed to imply that she was screwing all of them -- and Kettlewell besides. Kettlewell leaned over her shoulder and read. "You should send him an email," he said. "That's disgusting. That's not reportage." "Never get into a pissing match with a skunk," she said. "What Freddy wants is for me to send him mail that he can publish along with more snarky commentary. When the guy you're arguing with controls the venue you're arguing in, you can't possibly win." "So blog him," Kettlewell said. "Correct the record." "The record is correct," she said. "It's never been incorrect. I've written an exhaustive record that is there for everyone to see. If people believe this, no amount of correction will help." Kettlewell made a face like a little boy who'd been told he couldn't have a toy. "That guy is poison," he said. "Those quote-marks around blog." "Let him add his quote-marks," she said. "My daily readership is higher than the Merc's paid circulation this week." It was true. After a short uphill climb from her new URL, she'd accumulated enough readers that the advertising revenue dwarfed her old salary at the Merc, an astonishing happenstance that nevertheless kept her bank-account full. She clicked a little. "Besides, look at this, there are three dozen links pointing at this story so far and all of them are critical of him. We don't need to stick up for ourselves -- the world will." Saying it calmed her and now they were at the airport. They cruised into a private gate, away from the militarized gulag that fronted Miami International. A courteous security guard waved them through and the driver confidently piloted the car up to a wheeled jetway beside a cute, stubby little toy jet. On the side, in cursive script, was the plane's name: Suzanne. She looked accusatorially at Kettlewell. "It was called that when I bought the company," he said, expressionless but somehow mirthful behind his curved surfer shades. "But I kept it because I liked the private joke." "Just no one tell Freddy that you've got an airplane with my name on it or we'll never hear the fucking end of it." She covered her mouth, regretting her language, and Kettlewell laughed, and so did Tjan, and somehow the ice was broken between them. "No *way* flying this thing is cost-effective," Tjan said. "Your CFO should be kicking your ass."