Bill Gates, everybody's favorite nemesis, was living in splendor in his
Xanadu, Linus resided with his wife and toddler daughters in a cramped
Santa Clara duplex. He apparently was unconcerned about the fabulous
wealth that was being rained upon the flocks of less-talented programmers.
And his very presence raised an unutterable conundrum among the stock
option-driven minions in Silicon Valley: How could anyone so brilliant
possibly be so uninterested in getting rich?
Linus has no handlers, doesn't listen to voice mail, and rarely
responds to email. It took weeks for me to get him on the phone, but once I
did he easily agreed to an interview at his earliest convenience; which was
about a month later: May
1 999. Having developed a professional passion
for putting interview subjects into compromising positions, I decided that a
Finnish sauna might be the perfect backdrop for the profile. In a rented
Mustang convertible, with a photographer at the wheel, we headed over to
Santa Cruz and what was recommended as the Bay Area's best sauna,
which was on the grounds of a New Age/nudist retreat.
He was armed with an opened can of Coke as he emerged from the
innards of Transmeta's offices in an anonymous Santa Clara office park.
He wore the programmer's uniform of jeans, conference T-shirt, and the
inevitable socks-and-sandals combo that he claimed to have favored even
before ever meeting another programmer. "It must be some programmer's
law of nature, " he reasoned when I asked about the footware choice.
The first question to Linus, as we sat in the backseat, was a
throwaway. "Are your folks in technology? " I asked while fiddling with
my tape recorder.
"No, they're all basically journalists, " he replied, adding: "So I
know what
scum
you are. "
He didn't think he could get away with that.
"Oh. You come from scum?" I responded.
The world's best programmer laughed so hard that he coughed out
a spray of Coke onto the back of the photographer-driver's neck. He turned
red. This would be the start of a memorable afternoon.
It only got more bizarre. Finns are fanatical about their saunas
and this was to be his first visit to one in nearly three years. The pale,
naked superstar with steamed-up glasses sat on the highest perch, with his
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wet tan hair matted down on his face and a river of sweat flowing down
what I would later, purely out of good will, describe as his "incipient
paunch. " He was surrounded by tanned, self-obsessed Santa Cruzans and
their monotonous New Age rantings, and he seemed above it all, eagerly
pointing out the authentic features of the sauna. He had this beatific grin
on his face.
It's my conviction that, for the most part, people in Silicon Valley
are happier than everybody else. For one thing, they're at the control
panel of the economic revolution. More importantly, they're all getting
insufferably rich, both New Valley and Old Valley. But one never sees
people smile there, at least not outside the confines of their brokers' offices.
Most acclaimed technologists-even most of the unacclaimed
ones-have this immediate desire to let you know how brilliant they are.
And that they are critical players in a mission that is far more important
than, say, the struggle for world peace. That wasn't the case with Linus.
In fact, his lack of ego seemed downright disarming, and made him
uniquely likable amid Silicon Valley's bombastic elite. Linus appeared to
be above it all. Above the New Agers. Above the high-tech billionaires.
He seemed less like a reindeer caught in the global headlights than a
delightful alien beamed down to show us the madness of our selfish ways.
And I got the feeling that he didn't get out much.
Linus had earlier mentioned that an important part of the sauna
ritual involved sitting around afterward, drinking beer and discussing
world affairs. In preparation, we had stashed cans of Fosters in some
bushes. We retrieved the beers and settled into the "quiet" hot tub, where
we opened the Fosters while the photographer took his pictures. I found
Linus to be unexpectedly knowledgeable about American business history
and world politics. In his view, the United States would be better served
if both corporations and political parties adopted the conciliatory approach
of European politicians. He dipped his glasses into the hot tub in order
to clean them, mentioning that he really didn't need glasses but started
wearing them as an adolescent under the logic that they made his nose look
smaller. That's when a clothed female manager appeared at the hot tub
and humorlessly ordered us to hand over our beers, which were considered
contraband in the otherwise free-spirited surroundings.
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j u s t fo r F u n
Our only option was to shower, dress, and find a cafe for finishing
the conversation. Most folks one meets in Silicon Valley have a cult-like
zeal about them. They focus so intently on their business or killer
application or The Industry that nothing else seems to exist. Nothing
interrupts the continuous loop of self-congratulation that passes for
conversation. But there we were, sitting in the sun at a microbrewery,
sampling the Godawful barleywine, with Linus chattering away like
an uncaged canary-confessing his addiction to Classic Rock and Dean
Koontz, revealing his weakness for the dumbest sitcoms, sharing off-the
record family secrets.
And he didn't have any great desire to circulate among the rich
and powerful. I asked him what he would like to say to Bill Gates, but
he wasn't the least bit interested in even meeting the guy. "There wouldn't
be much of a connection point, " he reasoned "I'm completely uninterested
in the thing that he's the best in the world at. And he's not interested in
the thing that maybe I'm the best in the world at. I couldn't give him
advice in business and he couldn't give me advice in technology. "
On the ride back over the mountain to Santa Clara, a black
Jeep Cherokee pulled up alongside our car and its passenger yelled
"Hey
Linus ! "
and pulled out a throwaway camera to capture his apparent hero,
who was sitting in the Mustang convertible's backseat, grinning in the
breeze.
I showed up at his house a week later at bathtime. He fished his
one-year-old blond daughter out of the tub and needed someplace to deposit
her while he fished out his two-year-old blond daughter. He handed the
younger daughter to me and she promptly let out a yell. His wife Tove,
who had been in another room the entire time, emerged to help. She is on
the short side, pleasant, and bears a thistle tattoo on her ankle. Soon we
were all reading Swedish and English bedtime books to the kids. Then
we stood around in the garage, amid unpacked belongings, where the
Torvalds discussed the impossibility of affording "a real house with a
real back yard" in Silicon Valley. There was no bitterness about it.
And, magnificently, they didn't appear to see the irony.
Soon we were watching jay Leno, with cans of Guinness. That's
when I realized it made sense to do a book.
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