“Mask allows you layer two different stack containers on top of each over. In fact you can either have a plain text list or have each item actually link to each item!” “Why? Because X-Ray auto-magically creates a list of all the files and folders of any directory on your web server. “X-Ray,” I said, picking one out at random. “Demand?” I looked at all the stacks piled ceiling-high on pallettes all around the workshop. “Welcome to the world of supply and demand,” he said.īut I wasn’t through with him yet. Workman had travelled the same hard road and he watched me now as I reached the same conclusion. Could developers become addicted to their own products? Maybe in a topsy-turvy world it didn’t amount to a stack of beans, but the complulsion to buy every RapidWeaver add-on known to man is a cruel condition undocumentated in any respected medical journal. He did, I could tell, but he shrugged it away. “You want to talk to me of suffering? Do you really know how it feels to run out of Peanut Butter?” You forget I’m a weaver myself, subject to the same pressures we all suffer.” Beautiful new themes, great new stacks, new products every day, draining their resources, taking advantage of their helpless addiction…” You ever think of that? You developers make it impossible for weavers to lead a normal life. “And all of them brand new and ready to unleash on a grateful RapidWeaver community.” It was the smile of a man who had a map and knew where he was on it. “Three stacks?” I let my scorn encompass the room. “He sees a conspiracy wherever three stacks are gathered together. He swivelled in his chair, pushed back his porkpie hat and regarded me like a specimen under a microscope. Workman was at the far end of the room, seated at a console that had more controls than a space shuttle. Exotic names like Mask, Totem, Google Maps floated before my eyes. There wasn’t much of it that wasn’t littered with stacks. Three painful flights later they dragged me in to the workshop and threw me to the floor. “Mr Workman says, ‘Come on up to the house, why don’t you?’”Ĭasa Monton. All my years of brutal SAS training coalesced in those last 20 yards before someone stuck a pistol in my ear. Crickets chirped as I crawled across the dusty earth, bullfrogs croaking as I bellied through clumps of wild sage. The night was black, the sky open all the way back to the Big Bang. I parked at the foot of the canyon and approached the house on foot. No wonder Control was concerned.Īn hour later I pulled off the Pacific Highway just north of Stack City Bay, left the ocean in my rearview and wound up into the foothills looking for the Pila Canyon my GPS had promised me was just around the corner for the last forty miles. Three years in his file that were unaccounted for, a black hole in his life no one wanted to talk about. Was now rumoured to be angel- funding some new internautical startup, all strictly hush-hush. Made his fortune in real-estate and then ventured into stacks. What did I know of Joe Workman? Only what I’d read in the papers, seen on TV. He was reaching for the phone even before I closed the door. I said I had but Control didn’t look convinced. Just in and out, find out how he does it and report back. Some are just more predetermined than others.Ĭontrol said, “No, you won’t need your gun. Think of it more as a controlled implosion. I didn’t exactly self-destruct in Berlin.
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