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ran his music software than in the act of making music itself. His mother's encouragement became prodding, and then pestering, and finally verged upon abuse. But it was all for nothing: by the time little Wolfgang had become big Wolfgang, it was clear that the boy possessed no musical talent, and less inclination.
    He was duly sent off to school where he surprised everyone by displaying an absolute genius for abstract computational and algorithmic theory, a talent no one had suspected since he had previously been forced to spend all of his free time and energy scratching away miserably at a violin, while his mother kept time.
    He graduated cum laude with a degree in software architecture and was instantly snatched up by one enormous software consultancy after another, until finally Archimago Technologies made him an offer he couldn't refuse. Although the industry trade journals noted his new position, the offer was made in private, and he had never revealed what terms had been so attractive that he had resisted all subsequent offers to defect...but friends noticed that where he had always worn a look of scowling intensity at his other jobs, he seemed now contented. One mentioned at a party that it was as if Wolfgang had solved some complex problem which had been troubling him for years. The wrinkles of intense concentration on his forehead smoothed. He lost weight. And despite generous bids for his services from rival companies, he remained happily at Archimago, moving up swiftly through the ranks of programming administration, the only remaining scars of his mother's expectations an encyclopedic knowledge of classical music and a tendency to hum snatches of melody while he worked.
    As Wolfgang approached the great blued glass panes which fronted the lobby of Archimago Technologies' central office building, he wondered whether today his boss' expectations of him would be met or not.
    Even as he reached the doors, a sleek stretch limousine, painted an outrageous electric blue, glided into position directly outside. The uniformed driver skipped to the passenger door, just as the Archimago security guard reached the doors to the lobby. Wolfgang watched in admiration as the two performed a sort of ballet: synchronized door-opening. From the invisible interior of the car, a gangly form unfolded itself into the shape of his newemployer.
    Vitus Calloway was, like Wolfgang Wallace, a man used to foiling peoples' expectations. In an age in which the wealthy made an art of understatement, embarrassed, perhaps, of their riches, Calloway was ostentatious. Lumpy gold rings bedecked his long fingers. His electric blue limousine was in no way complimented by the fuchsia Italian suit which covered his gawky frame, nor the thin tie sparkling with holographic flames. Tiny round glasses perched on his beak-like nose, their wire stems hidden in the mane of white hair which flowed down to shoulders. He leaned forward over a diamond-crusted walking stick which had probably cost even more than the limousine.
    For another thing, while all of his vast investments were in American companies, he was British; pretentiously so. "'S Wallace, in'nit? Brilliant!"
    "Yes, Mr. Calloway. Wolfgang Wallace, head of systems architecture. Pleased to meet you, sir. We're happy that you could make it." That was another thing which many people didn't expect: Wolfgang could be downright charming when the situation called for it.
    "Wolfgang, right, knew it, knew it!" Calloway bobbed his head animatedly, his mane of unruly white hair flapping away. "Wouldn't miss it. Been most keen on this project, very keen indeed. Have you met my son?" He switched gears with the abruptness sometimes seen in those who were very old or very rich, or, as in Calloway's case, both.
    "I don't believe so, sir."
    "Right! Bernardo! Out ye come, lad! Lively now!"
    He flapped a hand at the impenetrable interior of the limousine -- Wolfgang supposed it was meant to be an encouraging wave -- and was