What they’d believed to be groundbreaking work had been recognized. The venture capital arm of a U.S. intelligence agency had tentatively agreed to finance their research project, but along with that came top-level introductions to other private venture firms. His team now represented the very bleeding edge in the field of visual intelligence. All their personal rancor and disagreements had been for a purpose, and now the entire crew shouted another toast, enjoying the moment—Chatterjee, Koepple, Prakash, Wang, Kasheyev—a truly international team. And then there were the other lab teams in the cluster, along with their faculty advisors. There were spouses and significant others, as well—turning it into a full-scale party. Strickland wished he had someone to share it with too. But that would come in time, especially now that success had found him. In a few years he hoped to be a partner in some venture capital firm on Sand Hill Road. He was on his way.
Strickland stepped up onto an office chair as someone steadied it for him. He raised his glass and Lei Li, their mentor, called out for quiet—with everyone suddenly shouting, “Speech! Speech!”
In a few moments the music got turned down, and in the sudden silence Strickland raised a plastic cup sloshing with champagne. “Guys, I want you to know what an honor it’s been to work with this team. I’m aware that the brilliance lies not with me, but with all of you”—he pointed—“Sourav, Gerhard, Bao, Nik, and of course, the inimitable Vijay.” There was applause and cheers with each name.
Prakash stood near the wall, arms crossed, watching Strickland with something approaching disdain. Prakash wore his trademark khaki pants and blue Oxford button-down shirt. His hair, as always, closely cut and perfect. Bollywood good looks.
What was the deal with this guy? Why couldn’t he just loosen up? Strickland tried to ignore him. “I think it’s fitting that in a building where Google was born—bringing Web search to the world—visual intelligence would also be born, bringing the ability to search reality in real time. You guys will make history, and I’m just glad to be along for the ride.”
“Hear, hear!” Another cheer went up and glasses were drained. The music came up again, and the crowd resumed shouted conversations, while lab members mugged before the video cameras.
Strickland noticed Prakash still staring daggers at him, so he waded through the crowd to him. “Vijay, what’s wrong with you, man? You look like Kolkata just lost the cricket finals or something.”
Prakash eyed him. “Speaking as one of the ‘brilliant’ team members, I don’t appreciate you monopolizing the conversation with DARPA. We make decisions as a team, Josh. The only reason you have the title of ‘team lead’ is because you’re good at dealing with suits, and it keeps you out of my way.”
“I was just setting a date for the next meeting. We’ll confirm it by e-mail later.”
“We need to be involved in every decision that occurs—no matter how small.”
“We’re not a hive mind, Vijay. Occasionally tasks need to be delegated, and I don’t see the point of bothering you with—”
Prakash got in his face, finger jabbing. “This is not the first time I’ve had to remind you. I do not work for you, Josh, and I expect you to represent the interests of the team, not just yourself.”
“Whoa, whoa! Hold on a second. We all agreed from the get-go that since I’m the extrovert that it would be best if I did the talking, especially with the defense folks. That’s what I’ve been doing.” He gestured back to the chair he’d been standing on. “Did I not just lay literally all of the credit onto everyone else’s shoulders?”
“And rightly so. The next time we communicate with the U.S. government, I expect to be copied, Josh.”
He studied Prakash’s face. Did he know? There had indeed been a few other communications, but it had only been an oversight. “Look, I don’t know what you think I’m up to, but in case you haven’t noticed, you’re sort of critical to this project. I can’t screw you without screwing myself. You’re on the patent applications.”
Strickland wondered if Prakash’s highly competitive upbringing was behind this. He knew that the guy’s father was a real type-A businessman—a real ballbuster who practically rode his sons with a riding crop. Old school. Very class conscious too.
Was that it? Strickland sometimes wondered if Prakash thought less of him simply because Strickland was straight middle class—the son of schoolteachers. He’d seen photos of the Prakash summerhouse in the south of France, and photos of Prakash literally in a polo outfit, holding the reins of a pony—like he was friends with the British royals or something. It was easy to forget that this guy might just look at him like he was one of the help.