Gregory's response to this freedom was touching. According to one of the programmers, his contract with Autodesk gave him a budget that specifically ensured the office had comfortable furniture and nutritious food. Mark Miller gave himself up to Xanadu's pull and rejoined the project full time. The programmers' offices opened onto a large common space, and the walls were covered with white board, which quickly became a tangle of multicolored lines, words, circles, and squiggles.
Gayle Pergamit helped Xanadu establish some basic accounting and purchasing systems, but the programmers' attention was never focused on business details. Rather, they took the opportunity to contact everybody they felt might be able to assist them in their last, grand, month push. Other programmers who had contributed over the years, including Eric Hill and Roland King, joined the team. McClary had plenty of experience taking obscure directions from technical managers and turning them into massive, working programs in C.
He abandoned his lucrative Michigan consulting practice to rejoin the project he had left unfinished nearly 10 years before. Xanadu's most unlikely new recruit was Marc Stiegler, who became the project's manager. Stiegler was an even-tempered software developer whose just-published science fiction novel, David's Sling, presented a scenario in which a hypertext system saved the world. After working for nine years in the software industry, Stiegler had earned enough money to take some time off.
But Xanadu, with its daunting record of failure, enticed him nonetheless. Before the Autodesk acquisition, Stiegler had met Nelson at a CD-ROM conference sponsored by Microsoft, where he found himself in an audience of 1, listening to a speaker he didn't recognize. He was looking at a Xanadu flyer, which was absurdly amateurish, and he was listening to Ted Nelson's presentation, which was manic.
Stiegler's first impulse was to laugh. Then, like so many earlier Xanadu recruits, he was touched by something in Nelson's proposal that transcended plausibility. Through the primitive medium of Xanadu's printed materials and Nelson's barely convincing lecture, Stiegler thought he heard a call from the future. I looked around at all the other people in business suits and I realized that I was the only person in the room who understood. As soon as Nelson was finished, Stiegler hurried over to the stage entrance, where he found Nelson, better known than Stiegler realized, surrounded by a dozen admirers.
Stiegler waited patiently, and when everybody had had their say, he stuck out his hand. Stiegler thanked the inventor and walked away. In , however, Stiegler's desire to meet Eric Drexler brought him to the Xanadu office, and Phil Salin went to work explaining to the successful executive that Xanadu represented the chance of a lifetime. The match between Stiegler and Xanadu was doubly unlikely; not only was Stiegler happily unemployed, but the Xanadu programmers did not seem to place high value on management personnel. This was hardly Stiegler's style. This irresistibility derives, first, last, and always, from the grand Xanadu dream.
Stiegler wasn't sure that Xanadu would work, but if it did, the consequences would be magnificent. Gathered together in a nice, new office in Palo Alto, with fully stocked refrigerators and comfortable furniture, the Xanadu team prepared to build the ultimate hypertext system.
For once, they had tools, including as much computing power as their hearts desired. Regular paychecks allowed them to be revolutionaries and pay their rent. And even their executive manager accepted that their mission was to change the world. Of course, the new situation also had its confusing aspects. In , Xanadu was forced for the first time to operate as a commercial software concern. Xanadu's regular Tuesday meetings were messy; Nelson would arrive from his Sausalito office with his note cards and his tape recorder and his video camera and wave his hands furiously in front of the white boards.
Although he did not control the development process, Nelson's energetic lectures ensured that nothing in his grand design was forgotten. When Nelson was not presenting, Miller and Gregory argued about the value of the work completed during and since the Swarthmore summer, and the programmers played their favorite game, in which any moment of aphasia or unsuccessful mental search for the name of an author or book was followed by the traditional exclamation, "If only we had Xanadu!
Stiegler saw that he had his work cut out for him. Looking around the office, he attempted to divine who could help the company move from volunteerism to profitability. Divisions were already brewing: on one hand, the Xerox PARC alumni favored the new programming language Smalltalk and found themselves often in agreement; on the other, the old-style C hackers, like Johan Strandberg, McClary's closest friend on the project, tended to be more skeptical, traditional, and careful.
Then there was Roger Gregory. Stiegler describes his situation with a parable. And there's a guy who is going east, but he's drifting north. This guy is a hero. He's going mainly east, but he'll eventually get to the North Pole. He's a hero! But in a company where you are paying salaries and where you will run out of money eventually, the guy who is traveling east and drifting north is somebody you have to fire.
Roger Gregory had promised Walker that the project would be finished in 18 months. The design was completed in the early '80s, and the task now was to quickly embody this design in sufficiently bug-free and elegant code. Gregory believed that he had large amounts of the Xanadu code near completion. Over the years, he and various contributors had built a prototype of a Xanadu server, the central machine that stored the information and made it available to users on remote client machines. During the first months at Autodesk, this Xanadu server was the focus of most of the programmers' attention, and Gregory got far enough to send an alpha version out to some users to examine.
They examined it. It was broken. Perhaps the alpha version was fixable. But Miller felt the problem was deeper than the old code. Even if the server worked, it might not work well enough to rescue Xanadu's battered reputation. Nelson had been stumping for his universal hypertext system for 25 years, and the computer industry had already grown supremely comfortable with the notion that the product was vaporware.
The Autodesk acquisition inspired a new round of press coverage, which raised the level of doubt another notch. Ten years after the Swarthmore summer, Miller did not want to release a creaky and crippled version of the software he had helped design. The basic features of the Xanadu hypertext system planned at Autodesk in were relatively unchanged from the ones discussed by the early Xanadu programmers at Swarthmore in In fact, the design was still similar in many respects to the sketches Ted Nelson made back in Xanadu was to consist of easy-to-edit documents. Links would be available both to and from any part of any document.
Anybody could create a link, even in a document they did not write. And parts of documents could be quoted in other documents without copying. The idea of quoting without copying was called transclusion, and it was the heart of Xanadu's most innovative commercial feature - a royalty and copyright scheme. Whenever an author wished to quote, he or she would use transclusion to "virtually include" the passage in his or her own document.
Nelson was frequently frustrated by his failure to convince casual questioners of the importance of his transclusion idea. Transclusion functions like the "make alias" command familiar to Macintosh users. An alias works as a fully functioning copy of a file or application, but it is really just a pointer, or virtual copy. Click on the virtual copy, and the original file or application begins to run.
The key to the Xanadu copyright and royalty scheme was that literal copying was forbidden in the Xanadu system. When a user wanted to quote a portion of document, that portion was transcluded. With fee for every reading. Transclusion was extremely challenging to the programmers, for it meant that there could be no redundancy in the grand Xanadu library. Every text could exist only as an original. Every user in the world would have to have instant access to the same underlying collection of documents.
Miller noted that the current version of Xanadu handled transclusion in an extremely clumsy fashion. It also lacked the ability to keep track of different versions, did not scale well, had no multimedia capabilities, no security features, and performed poorly. The years of work Gregory had devoted to writing code seemed as much a burden as a resource. Miller wondered if it wasn't time to wipe the slate clean and start again.
Soon after the Autodesk investment, the power to control Xanadu's development began to slip from Gregory's grasp. His erratic behavior prevented him from rallying support as Miller and Stiegler took charge. And, at least at first, Gregory trusted Miller. The two had been working on Xanadu for many years and had together invented the tumbler addressing system. McClary, like Gregory, had less and less influence as the months passed. McClary's years of consulting at large Michigan auto companies had taught him the virtue of silent forbearance, and when he became aware that his opinion hardly counted, he retreated into ill-spirited silence.
Soon after his arrival in Palo Alto, McClary was shuffled into a small office he resentfully called "the phone closet," which gave him a quiet seat from which to observe the action.
Photos: The Legendary City of Xanadu | Live Science
By , the split in the Xanadu programming team was growing. On one side were the Xerox PARC computer scientists who were prepared to use the latest, avant-garde programming tools to completely reprogram the hypertext system. On the other were Gregory, McClary, Johan Strandberg, and a shifting group of Xanadu hangers-on who skeptically sniped at what they saw as Miller's pursuit of an ever-receding mirage of design perfection. Eventually, Stiegler fired Strandberg.
And Gregory only kept his job thanks to his history with the project, his partial ownership of Xanadu Operating Company, and his special relationship with John Walker. Gregory's old Xanadu code was thrown away. The programmer's face, seven years later, still goes slack with disappointment when he thinks about it. For 12 years of missed deadlines, Gregory had nurtured his complex, nonworking, but possibly fixable technology.
His code was the accumulation of all Xanadu's relationships and struggles since the early '70s. Through those years, he had been sustained by his belief that Xanadu was close, very close, to success. After deciding to jettison the old code, which meant an implicit agreement to ignore John Walker's month deadline, Miller and the other lead architects made a second key decision.
They chose to program in Smalltalk. To the programmers who had been at Xerox PARC, Smalltalk seemed perfectly suited to the rapid transformations of their design. Smalltalk is a programming language based on distinct modules of code that can be strung together into a working program. Program prototypes could be hacked out in Smalltalk in days.
Frequently, by the time McClary started work on the translation, the design had evolved into a new shape. Encouraged by the flexibility of Smalltalk, the Xanadu architects became obsessed with developing the widest possible applications of hypertext technology. A universal democratic library, they decided, was only the beginning. Xanadu could also provide a tool for rational discussion and decision making among very large groups.
In the Xanadu docuverse, an assertion could always be followed back to its original source. An idea would never become detached from its author. Public discussion on important issues would move forward logically, rather than merely swirling ineffectively through eddies of rhetoric.
In fact, any reader could, by creating and following links, freeze the chaotic flow of knowledge and grasp the lines of connection and influence. In a paper titled "The Open Society and Its Media," Miller, Tribble, Pandya, and Stiegler pointed out that with transclusion, links to critical information would remain intact no matter how many times a passage was quoted.
No form of communication in history had ever offered this possibility. In books, television, and radio, the truth is a slave to a good story, and convincing lies are remembered while dry, factual refutations are forgotten. In Xanadu, this problem is solved. Transclusion and freedom to link are crucial to social progress, the programmers argued, because otherwise, the constant mutation of a discussion "would destroy selection by leaving criticisms behind.
The echoes of evolutionary theory were intentional. During the weeks, months, and then years of sophisticated redesign of Xanadu at Autodesk, the architects began to believe they were helping human life evolve into an entirely new form. Under Autodesk, Miller had complete freedom to pursue his mathematical solutions for data storage and retrieval, and he found enthusiastic companions in Tribble and Pandya.
But the problems they were solving were general issues of hypertext design. They did not have a customer in mind, and they gave little thought to the ways their hypertext system would be used. To Gregory and McClary, the three scientists from Xerox appeared to be working purely for the sake of mental pleasure. The split between the programmers widened when, during one Tuesday meeting, Miller held a ceremony to proclaim Tribble and Pandya "co-architects" and handed them a baton to symbolize their new authority. McClary was embarrassed and insulted.
As the horizon of a release date continued to recede, the atmosphere at the company's offices grew increasingly unpleasant. Tribble and Miller rented two-thirds of a triplex, and, according to McClary, began to hold meetings without the other programmers present. McClary recalls numerous surreal incidents. Once, Miller called the technical staff together and lectured at length about Xanadu's final shape. It took McClary some time to absorb everything and come up with his questions, but when he returned to Miller to explore the issues further, he discovered that every single thing he had wondered about had been completely redesigned.
To get his bearings, he challenged the Xanadu architects to describe a typical customer for their software. He found their answers vague. In Miller's view, the Xanadu technology was so radical that predicting its future uses was difficult. Writers, teachers, and scientists; movie directors, commodities brokers, and sports fans - Xanadu promised to remake everything. Shapiro also discovered that the group had been working together so long it had developed a kind of private slang. It took months to comprehend what the programmers were talking about.
Most of them were book lovers and trivia mongers who enjoyed developing a metaphor based on obscure sources and extending it via even more unlikely combinations. For instance, the object in the Xanadu system that resembled a file was called a bert, after Bertrand Russell. With files called bert, there had to be something called an ernie, and so in the Xanadu publishing system, an ernie was the unit of information for which users would be billed. To understand the details of Xanadu, Shapiro had to learn not only the names for things, but also the history of how those names had come to be.
Ted Nelson also found the slow progress of Xanadu distressing, but his mind was on other subjects. He had arrived in California extremely burnt out and depressed, and on the advice of a former girlfriend, he signed up for some sex-liberation seminars. He soon took all the workshops. Nelson continued to develop his general philosophy, General Schematics. A visitor to Nelson during his years at Autodesk recalls an evening when the inventor, wearing a velvet vest and a satin shirt, lectured about social status and its relationship to an internal, biological status regulator, called a biotstat.
However, Nelson's book on the topic, Biostrategy and the Polymind, which he considers the "foundation" for the next generation's social sciences, was never published because he mislaid the computer printout with his revisions. Nelson remained proud of his ambivalent relationship with computers. Right at the peak of the desktop-publishing frenzy, Nelson became obsessed with non-computerized xerox machines, Post-it notes, and transparencies. And yet, despite his scattered interests, Nelson continued to exercise an influence over the Xanadu programmers. For instance, Nelson's theory of language holds that every time a concept changes, the word to describe must change as well.
There ought not be any "slippage" of one term into another. New idea, new word. Applied to the development process at Xanadu, this rule meant a constant stream of fresh jargon; the system was filled not just with berts and ernies, but also with "flocks," "shepherds," "abrahams," "dybbuks," and "crums. Working at Xanadu offered a constant flow of scholastic argument over throwing out names, switching names, and substituting names. John Walker, Xanadu's most powerful protector, later wrote that during the Autodesk years, the Xanadu team had "hyper-warped into the techno-hubris zone.
It's always a bad manager, problems with tools, etc. Miller, of course, did not agree. He knew that Xanadu's delays were frustrating. But he also saw that despite the carping by critics both inside and outside the project, they were making significant progress toward a real, revolutionary hypertext system. By the end of , Miller felt that the most difficult design problems had been solved. But none of them blew up! That was the most fun of all. Miller, having pushed through the skepticism of his colleagues, mastered the manic design process, and parsed the peculiar vocabulary, recalls that he was nearly prepared to show his work to the world when, in February , Autodesk celebrated its 10th anniversary with an announcement of a bad sales quarter and a catastrophic collapse of its stock.
The stock was first pounded when the company reported an unprecedented drop in earnings for the fourth quarter of fiscal year Autodesk quickly rallied, but beneath the surface, chaos spread as managers desperately cut spending and reduced investment. When Walker returned to Autodesk from his now-permanent residence in Switzerland in January before the announcement, he found his company "heading for a train wreck of Wagnerian proportions.
But the stock still plummeted. Autodesk's pounding by Wall Street produced a number of computer-industry legends, including the story of Walker's famous attack on his own company's management. His managers were "genial, well-meaning, and for the most part hard-working individuals," Walker had written, with merciless condescension, before describing their passivity and incompetence. The poor sales figures and Walker's undiplomatic attack, which circulated widely outside Autodesk, spelled trouble for Xanadu.
To industry analysts with influence over the price of Autodesk shares, the crisis at Autodesk looked like evidence of a battle between headstrong hackers who built the company, such as Walker, and professional managers who arrived later. A reorganization along more conservative lines was inevitable, and by April, Autodesk had found a new person to take charge. Carol Bartz's task during her first months on the job was to take a stern inventory of the company's most promising projects. And four months after she became CEO of Autodesk, Bartz announced that the company's investment in Xanadu was finished.
When Autodesk crashed, tales of Xanadu's eminent demise were greeted by many in the computer industry with a smirk; after all, the whiz kids had been hacking away for four years, spending piles of corporate cash, and the system was still as vaporous as ever. But to Mark Miller, the timing of the Autodesk crisis was extraordinarily cruel. Today, Miller insists that the programmers at Xanadu had their hypertext system within a heartbeat of completion. How long a heartbeat? Roger Gregory was crushed by the programmers' failure to fulfill his promise to Walker that a working system would be available within 18 months.
He had been overruled by Miller and the other more well-spoken members of the design team when they wanted to trash the first Xanadu code, he had been brushed aside by Stiegler, and he had been kept by his own bad temper and depression from influencing Xanadu's development. Now, as the Xanaduers contemplated a cashless future, Gregory had nowhere to go. The other architects had promising research and industrial careers. Gregory was left with a small home in Palo Alto and his unrequited love for the hypertext future.
For Michael McClary, the end of the Autodesk investment was an opportunity to cut himself loose. He returned to private consulting.
Stiegler also looked for an exit. He paused briefly to help AMIX, also dropped by Autodesk, make a transition to independence, and then retired to a ranch in Arizona. Xanadu had been the most frustrating professional experience he had ever had. But the three lead architects - Pandya, Tribble, and Miller - were not quite ready to quit. They announced that they'd give up their larger dreams of hypertext, at least temporarily, if the right backers could be found to support a more modest product.
Finding these backers became Jonathan Shapiro's job. Shapiro had a crucial advantage over Marc Stiegler and Xanadu's other mentors and supervisors since he did not believe hypertext was going to save the world. The aggressive posturing, grand dreams, and boastful proclamations that typified Xanadu since Nelson first started offending his professors were part of the project's childhood and adolescence.
Now, after a few hard knocks, Xanadu seemed ready to grow up. Shapiro quickly began working with Miller and the other designers to accomplish what they had always felt free to ignore - identifying the specific, present-day commercial needs Xanadu could meet, for instance, and creating materials to show potential backers.
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In a race to prevent years of effort from disappearing into the trash heap of unreleased Autodesk software, Stiegler fiercely lobbied Autodesk for some transitional funding to keep Xanadu alive. Autodesk, after much discussion, charitably gave the Xanadu team a small amount of cash.
Meanwhile, Shapiro tried to find buyers. The programmers vacated their Palo Alto offices and moved into Dean Tribble's home. After Autodesk announced divestiture, in August , ownership of Xanadu Operating Company reverted to the programmers and a few other longtime Xanadu supporters. Roger Gregory and Ted Nelson now owned about half the company. Nelson was startled by this turn of events. Every time the inventor had asked about Xanadu's progress at Autodesk, he had been told that the system would be ready within six months.
It was not until a Xanadu meeting in the summer of that he first felt the cold shock of reality. Nelson watched the spin-out warily. The new executive concluded that the key to Xanadu was its potential as part of a publishing and royalty system, and he reached out to a company that was attempting to manage an enormous number of royalty and copyright contracts - Kinko's.
Xanadu's proprietary data structure offered the possibility of a unified tracking system for all the college material Kinko's was printing. Using the transition funding from Autodesk, along with a workable demonstration of the system, Shapiro believed he could get Xanadu into a deal with Kinko's or another publisher within 30 days. But the Kinko's deal resembled the royalty-based publishing scheme to which Ted Nelson, and not Xanadu Operating Company, had exclusive rights. In the end, Jonathan Shapiro did not manage to sell Xanadu to Kinko's. Instead, the Xanadu programmers staged one of the most bizarre shareholder battles the bewildered executive had ever seen.
Until , Xanadu had been a cooperative venture, a brave band of fellow crusaders whose credo was "share and share alike. But The Silver Agreement in created two Xanadus. Nelson's Xanadu was his imaginary system of information franchises. The Silver Agreement gave Nelson exclusive right to any royalty-based publishing business.
Meanwhile, Xanadu Operating Company retained ownership of software being developed by Roger Gregory and others. The Silver Agreement required Xanadu Operating Company to give Nelson the Xanadu software for use in his Xanadu franchises, while allowing the company to control the development of the software and to use it in any other commercial venture. Nelson's success was dependent on Xanadu Operating Company's success - there could be no franchises without the underlying technology.
And Nelson remained a large shareholder in the company. But so far, Nelson's franchises had been an illusory business based upon a nonexistent technology, a dream built on a dream. Now that the fantasy threatened to become real, certain aspects of The Silver Agreement seemed vague. What, after all, was publishing? If Kinko's were to track its copying business with Xanadu technology to meet agreements with the owners of the copyrights, was this not perilously close to the royalty-based publishing business exclusively reserved for Nelson?
And Xanadu Operating Company had another problem. Most of the programmers owned only a negligible amount of stock.
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Now that Autodesk had cast them out, they were facing a period of hard work for little pay. Shapiro wanted to spread the ownership of the company a little deeper. Nelson, however, did not feel like sharing his stock. Just as the negotiations with Kinko's were getting under way, Nelson, whose lifelong dream was about to take its first step toward genuine, if diminished, realization, attempted to take over the company. The programmers, who had seen Nelson's management style firsthand during the early '80s, resisted.
But Ted was determined to control it. The more determined Ted got to control it, the more determined the programmers got not to be under his thumb.
Photos: The Legendary City of Xanadu
Nelson blamed Miller, Stiegler, and Shapiro for Xanadu's long delays. He had resigned himself to losing control of the software development process at the time of the Autodesk investment, but he had consoled himself with the thought that the professionals were qualified to complete their task. Now that these professionals had failed decisively, Nelson wanted his company back.
The programmers declined to work for Nelson. Miller and Shapiro were confident they could retain control of Xanadu, since Nelson possessed neither the skill to finish the code himself, nor the money to hire new programmers. But they were facing a master strategist who understood the power of escalation.
Nelson soon found a way to provoke the desired crisis. The two owned nearly half the company, and together they could thwart nearly any plan. The final battle for control over the remains of Xanadu was not nice. After Stiegler's resignation, Shapiro had come to represent, to Nelson, the narrow-minded managers and punishing authority figures the inventor despised. To Nelson, Shapiro was "an asshole. Shapiro countered that if Nelson would give more ownership of the company to the programmers, he would agree to resign as chief executive officer.
Nelson accepted the deal, the shares were re-distributed, and Shapiro departed. For the programmers, it was a Pyrrhic victory. By the time the battle was over, Kinko's senior management had stopped returning phone calls, most of Autodesk's transitional funding had been spent on lawyers fees, and the Xanadu team had managed to acquire ownership of a company that had no value. While Xanadu was dying, Charlie Smith was starting a company. It was called Memex, and its first product would be a record-keeping system for insurance companies.
Smith examined the remains of Xanadu, which, though it had no money, no working code, and no prospects, did possess some groovy data-storage and retrieval algorithms Smith thought he might use in his soon-to-be built software. What Smith offered was a half-success - barely. Under Memex, the code would be torn from its integrated global information network. Xanadu, heir to so many hopes, would become an organ donor, its powerful algorithmic heart beating in the center of an insurance-industry database.
Smith had little money.
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But the wrangling over the dying Xanadu had sapped the participants of their possessiveness. When Memex offered to license the technology and hire some of the employees to complete it, Miller, Tribble, and Pandya, along with fellow programmers Christopher Hibbert, Eric Hill, and Rob Jellinghaus, signed on. Gregory, while remaining a large shareholder of Xanadu Operating Company, did not go to work at Memex. Jonathan Shapiro was replaced as Xanadu executive manager by a newcomer, Ann Hardy. From their headquarters in Dean Tribble's house, the surviving Xanadu programmers moved back to California Avenue in Palo Alto, where Memex had its offices.
The quarters were familiar. It was the same building that had housed Xanadu during the years it was supported by Autodesk. The youngest member of the Xanadu programming team, Rob Jellinghaus had been with Xanadu for about two years when Autodesk cut off its support. He was a lean, inexperienced year-old, yet he seemed more worldly than Xanadu programmers twice his age.
In , hackerdom was no longer a despised subculture. Friendly, articulate, and respectful, Jellinghaus could have been an apprentice member of any professional guild - a graphic designer, a screenwriter, a young architect. He had not yet been born when the first Xanadu designs were made, and he had received his inspiration firsthand, from primitive hypertext software, CD-ROMs and the Internet. The presence of Jellinghaus at Xanadu was a sign that Nelson's invention was becoming common property.
Jellinghaus's office was up in Sausalito, with the more mainstream Autodesk projects. He hadn't been close enough to Xanadu to witness the project's last phase of self-destruction, and he was young enough to accept the financial risk. So, after Memex licensed Xanadu, Jellinghaus and Dean Tribble tackled a long-delayed task - writing a "front end" for the system. This need was urgent: the front end, or user interface, would show potential investors and customers what a redesigned Xanadu system could do in the service of a specific commercial task.
The lack of a front end had been a perennial problem. The Xanadu philosophy had always held that if a perfect back end could be created, the front end would take care of itself. While the Xanaduers paid lip service to libertarian ideals, they imagined a more traditional revolution in which all users would be linked to a single, large, utopian system. But in their quest for a 21st-century model, they created a Byzantine maze. Not only was it not easy to use, it wasn't anything even remotely resembling fast. The more I worked at it, the more pessimistic I got. The young programmer's doubts were magnified by his dawning realization that a grand, centralized system was no longer the solution to anything.
He had grown up with the Internet - a redundant, ever-multiplying and increasingly chaotic mass of documents. He had observed that users wanted and needed ever more clever interfaces to deal with the wealth of information, but they showed little inclination to obey the dictates of a single company. Moreover, if you do have a good front end, it doesn't matter how bad the back end is. Although he sympathized with the fanaticism of his colleagues, Jellinghaus also began to question whether a hypertext revolution required the perfect preservation of all knowledge.
He saw the beauty of the Xanadu dream - "How do you codify all the information in the world in a way that is infinitely scalable? We find them responding to our needs immediately and always with a smile and cost effective solutions. Auckland Hockey Association. The staff we deal with and in particular Allan Hunter show good technical skills, react promptly and have a flexible approach to the services they provide that particularly suits a business such as ours.
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