The Cloud Read Online Free PDF Page A

office, having taken a rushed shower in the bacteria-smeared bathroom in the hallway, and then bought a tie from the Green Love shop. If you look too closely at the faint horizontal image on the tie, you can make out a couple having sex standing against a tree. On the plus side, at a distance, the blue tie simply looks nicely patterned, and, plus, it’s made of hemp. I pull my sport coat closed and button it over the tie.
    “And we don’t just need a free press that is permitted and encouraged to expose injustices big and small. That is not enough,” Andrew continues. He’s physically sturdy, a cyclist, I’d guess, with a fitness room in his basement, but with gray dominating his still-full hair, a presage of the frailty that will creep up on him in ten years. “We need individual journalists like Nathaniel who aren’t afraid to take on the jailers of the truth.”
    He launches into my boilerplate biography: my upbringing in Colorado, my medical-school training, a summary of my stories about how digital gadgets can have an addictive quality that, if not managed, can lead to a short attention span and disrupt our ability to effectively create, and analyze, information. Affect our memory and our capacity to connect with other people.
    As he makes me sound worthier than I am, I scan the room looking at the faces of the captivated. They are taking in the Silicon Valley icon, the immigrant who symbolizes the essence of the meritocracy that the region considers its defining characteristic, and someone who can write a check that in a nanosecond changes the fortunes of their start-up or foundation. They also, apropos of nothing, have the usual range of medical conditions. A woman in the front row in a smart blue suit can’t suppress a deep cough consistent with the tail end of walking pneumonia, less throaty than bronchitis; two tables away, a retiree curled unnaturally over his lunch like a question mark looks to have camptocormia, a bent spine we now know to have degenerative origins, not psychological ones, as once thought. Across from him sits a rail-thin man with angular features and a bald head so shiny that I wonder about seborrhea, excessive secretion of the sebaceous glands. Oily skin.
    And then there’s the man in the doorway. It’s not pathology that catches my eye, but the long, black leather coat, which seems out of place inside in midday Palo Alto, and, more so, the stare, the crew cut, like AstroTurf, covering the big, square head. Arms crossed, he’s looking at me intently, right until I look back at him. He averts his eyes. He curls out of the doorway.
    “Before I sum up,” Andrew says, “I want to take a brief moment to do some unctuous politicking with the people who really set me free in this lifetime. To my beautiful and stalwart wife”—a few in the crowd coo—“thank you. And to my first Silicon Valley partner, Gils Simons, an operational genius, many thanks for turning ones and zeroes into a fortune, and for continued friendship.”
    I look at Gils. He’s a fifty-year-old bland Boy Scout, tight haircut, sweater vest, the quintessential organizational guy who was the behind-the-scenes straight man responsible for the boring business side of early Leviathan Ventures while Andrew played mad digital scientist.
    Andrew pauses. “Nathaniel, Nat, if I may,” he then says after his beat, and I can feel him looking at me. I look back at him from my seat at the front table. “It has not been easy for you. You’ve fought through great personal and professional obstacles the last few years to remain devoted to your craft and to the pursuit of truth. While the rest of us have blindly embraced technology, me as much as anyone, you’ve shown us its limitations and even its potential dangerous side effects.”
    He looks at the audience, another pause, this time to reinforce the idea that he, one of the Internet’s pioneers, appreciates a skeptic. I think: I wish Faith could bear witness—not Polly, I