San Jose, California.
The landing gear tires of the Gulfstream G4 shrieked as they bit into the scorching concrete runway, sending a barely perceptible tremor through the cabin. Through the oval windows, the scenery of Northern California burst in—harsh, white sunlight with a violent directness that made the ground shimmer.
As the cabin door opened, a dry, baking heatwave assaulted them, thick with the scent of aviation fuel and fine dust.
"This is... Silicon Valley?"
Emi stood at the top of the gangway, blinking in a daze. In her mind, Silicon Valley should have been a futuristic neon landscape like Ginza, or a city from a sci-fi manga filled with towering skyscrapers and chrome machinery.
Instead, she saw a despairingly flat wasteland. The distant Santa Cruz Mountains were a withered brown, like burnt toast crusts. Low-rise bungalows huddled together, surrounded by remnants of old orchards. Aside from the blinding sun, it looked more desolate than the rural stretches of Saitama Prefecture.
"Did the pilot land in the wrong place?" Emi muttered, gripping the handrail.
Satsuki stepped down behind her, adjusting a pair of oversized sunglasses that covered half her face. She wore a light silk printed shirt tucked into high-waisted wide-leg pants and carried a wide-brimmed straw hat.
"No, we didn't," Satsuki said, her heels clacking crisply on the hot metal steps. "Welcome to San Jose, Emi. This is the center of the world."
At the edge of the tarmac, there were no rows of black town cars. Instead, a bright red Cadillac Eldorado convertible sat waiting, looking like a fiery land yacht. Fujita Tsuyoshi was already in the driver's seat, his rigorous dark grey suit clashing hilariously with the flamboyant American muscle car.
"Get in," Satsuki said, opening the door herself. "Since we're on vacation, we should act like it."
As the V8 engine let out a low, predatory roar, the Cadillac shot out of the airport and plunged into the boundless California sunshine.
Highway 101.
The wind was a physical force, whistling into the convertible and making their clothes flap noisily. Emi pressed her silk scarf tightly to her head, staring at the scenery.
There were no tall buildings. The roadside was lined with "matchbox" buildings—two or three stories high, painted pale yellow or off-white. Occasionally, she saw signs: Intel, Apple, HP. They were small, almost modest compared to the gargantuan corporate towers of Tokyo.
"Saionji-san..." Emi shouted over the wind. "Are those people really engineers? They look like they just woke up!"
On the sidewalks, people wore loose T-shirts, baggy jeans, and flip-flops.
"This is Silicon Valley," Satsuki replied, holding the brim of her hat. "Here, no one cares what you wear. They only care what's in your head. See that garage?" she pointed to a row of unassuming suburban houses. "Perhaps at this moment, behind that shutter, a few people who look like beggars are coding something that will halve IBM's stock price next year. Every speck of dust here holds gold, Emi. The air isn't filled with fruit; it's filled with greed and ambition."
The car drove into Palo Alto. The atmosphere shifted—the red-tiled roofs of Stanford University appeared through groves of palm and oak trees. On University Avenue, the vibe was leisurely yet intense. Open-air cafes were packed with young people debating passionately over bulky portable computers and thick textbooks.
"Stop the car," Satsuki commanded. She walked to a roadside ice cream stand, queuing behind students in Stanford hoodies. She didn't wait for her bodyguards; she looked like any other tourist.
"Vanilla and strawberry," she ordered in fluent English, handing a cone to Emi.
"It's sweeter than Ginza's!" Emi exclaimed.
"Because there's an excess of sugar here," Satsuki leaned against the Cadillac door. "Emi, do you see the difference? In Tokyo, everything is orderly. Everyone is on a track. Here, there is a wild, chaotic vitality. Chaos is the breeding ground for innovation. We aren't here to buy shares of boring, mature companies. We're looking for the beasts still struggling in the chaos—the ones who haven't learned to wear suits yet."
Evening. Garden Court Hotel.
The suite was Mediterranean luxury: beige walls, terracotta tiles, and a terrace overlooking the fountain courtyard.
"Get me a burger," Satsuki told Fujita. "The biggest one. Extra patties, oozing cheese, a large order of fries, and an ice-cold Coke."
Twenty minutes later, a silver platter of American junk food arrived. Satsuki took a massive bite, completely discarding her heiress image. Emi followed suit, devouring the greasy, fragrant meal.
"This is the taste of America," Satsuki wiped her mouth. "Rough, greasy, but full of energy."
She pushed a folded, grease-stained piece of paper toward Emi. "Are you full? Then get to work. This is tomorrow's itinerary."
Emi looked at the handwritten address: 2400 Charleston Road, Mountain View.
Next to it was a strange symbol—a series of vertical lines resembling a bridge.
"Where is this? A headquarters?"
"No," Satsuki smirked. "It's a garage. The home of a couple named Sandy Lerner and Len Bosack. I hear they're going through a mess with investors."
"Are we mediating a divorce?" Emi asked, bewildered.
"No, we're giving them money. Emi, you wanted to know how to connect every computer in the world? Tomorrow, in that dirty garage, you'll see the answer."
"The answer is called Cisco."
Satsuki turned to the terrace, the evening breeze ruffling her hair. "Wear your Chanel tomorrow, Emi. We're going to wear our most expensive clothes to enter the dirtiest garage in the valley."