"Hi, I'm Millie. That's short for Emily." The young woman gets off her ergonomic chair to greet me. She is the project leader who needs my help for a problem of pin placement on a multi-layer chip. I am visiting the QuidComp Engineering Research division as a consultant on a recommendation from Jack, a friend who works there. Millie is wearing navy-blue corduroy shorts in serious need of ironing. The flaps of the back pockets stick out like deformed airplane stabilizers. Her oversize dark brown sweatshirt gapes at the collar to reveal two layers of polo shirts of uncertain hues. Her enormous sneakers sport bright green stripes that must glow in the dark. "Hi," I say, "I'm Curt. That's short for Curt." She finds that very funny and laughs while reaching for a bottle of Evian water by her computer screen. She takes a swig. She offers to walk me to the coffee station, which I accept. It is early morning, and on the way I have a good look at the arrival of the "brains" that keep QuidComp's technology competitive. Everybody looks at least a generation younger than I. There is a certain uniformity of dress, somewhere between casual and sloppy, and closer to sloppy. T-shirts, sweatshirts, blue jeans---relaxed fit only---or Banana Republic shorts, and big, garish sports shoes prevail. Here and there I can spot a shirt with button-down collar, beige twill pants, and tassel loafers, the Silicon Valley manager's uniform. Backpacks have replaced the briefcases of yore, and most people carry bottles of springwater. At the coffee station, Millie points at a large tray of muffins: "This is free. The coffee too. Go ahead." I grab a mug on the counter, wash it, and fill it with coffee. When I turn around towards the muffins, I see a balding, paunchy man in a black Grateful Dead T-shirt and black jeans busy removing raisins from the top of a muffin, the third one to get this treatment. The man looks at me, frowns, grunts, grabs two intact muffins, and exits the coffee station. I find that rather strange and look at Millie, but she does not comment. We go back to her cubicle.

Millie's habitat is the standard 8'x12' Dilbert cage fenced by fabric walls 6' high. The shelves overflow with the most heteroclite mix, software manuals, two pairs of sports shoes, terry towels, a Panama hat, empty Evian bottles, full Evian bottles, Lego pieces, a foot air pump, and a rolled-up sleeping bag. A bicycle wheel leans against the wall under the shelves. The rest of the bicycle is against another wall. A bicycle tire lies on the floor, partly covered with a mess of books, manuals, electronics panels, a few dirty coffee mugs, and a woman's suit jacket in a bunch. She kicks aside some of the mess and drags a chair for me by the computer screen. We sit down and she competently describes her problem, her attempts to solve it, and the software she used. We look at the results of her experiments. Fortunately, her mind is better organized than her cubicle. I take notes. Every five minutes, she takes a swig from her Evian bottle. She also scratches her head when she discusses the fine points of her work. A couple of hours later, I figure that I have enough information to solve the problem and to produce a proposal. The scratching has turned Millie's hair into an interesting collage of cowlicks. She excuses herself for a few minutes---too much Evian. When she comes back, we conclude the meeting, and she walks with me to Jack's cubicle. On the way, I get glimpses of cages as messy as Millie's, with lots of junk on the floor.

Jack and Bob, the department manager, are waiting for us. Bob, in a designer denim shirt with button-down collar, beige pleated twill pants, tassel loafers, a day planner in one hand, a bottle of springwater in the other, a cell phone clipped to his belt, inquires about my meeting with Millie. He seems mildly pleased at the news that I can help, and says "we want to leverage expertise to advantage our products." After a pause, he adds "this is the new industry metaphor," with all the gravity of a prophet. The "metaphor" does not look that new to me, only Bob's semantics, which he must have lifted from the CEO's vision statement. In the small talk that ensues, Bob manages to mention a few times that he holds an MBA. Of course he does, what with his leveraging expertise for the industry metaphor. The four of us then head for Bob's cubicle, where he wants to check his e-mail before we go to lunch. There, the shelves are bare, save for a few books on self-improvement, management methods, and programming. One big poster on a wall invites us to "Imagine the Impossible" over the ubiquitous Apollo 10 picture of the earth. Another boldly affirms "Diversity ... Our Strength ... Our Survival" amid images of crowds of all possible ethnic sorts. On the floor, an open briefcase is half-buried under computer printouts, a broken keyboard, and a pile of what looks like dirty laundry. A cafeteria tray with mummified food remnants sits next to the computer monitor. I expect to see mice come out of this mess at any moment. In a corner, worn-out sports shoes wrapped into a bath towel are wedged between the processing unit and the monitor of a dusty old Apple machine. It seems that a strain of sloppiness affects most QuidComp employees. Jack must be an exception, perhaps because he is a good twenty years older that most of his coworkers. Bob remarks that I wear a tie and adds that QuidComp has no dress code, which he seems to consider a big deal. Millie says "Yes, it's great!" I guess that pleated twill pants, tassel loafers, and denim shirts with button-down collars don't count. Or managers feel obliged to show by their dress that they're not common folks.

As we walk to the cafeteria, Bob tells me that QuidComp's concern for health makes its employee restaurant one of the best in Silicon Valley. We stop in front of a big board at the entrance where the fare is posted below an official "Food Guide Pyramid" from the US Department of Agriculture. Each item is assigned an approximate calorie content. "What do you think?" Bob says with a smile. I try to guess the meanings of "Provincal (sic) Squash Ragout," "Vegetarian Charcuterie Assette (sic) ," and "Aztec Feast." Overwhelmed by the task, I answer "Great!" but my brain is working hard on the "assette" puzzle. A small disk is a diskette, but I doubt that the same logic should apply to "assette." Fortunately, the grill section advertises hamburgers.

We take our trays to a table in the vast, well-lighted dining room, which has a glass side overlooking a small park pleasantly landscaped. Framed photographs are hanging on the far wall under a sign that reads "Families." Bob asks whether my hamburger is to my taste and finds it remarkable that I seasoned it with fresh salsa. He then inquires about Millie's "Vegetarian Charcuterie Assette," which gives her the opportunity to tell us about the wonders of vegetarianism. Bob nods in assent when she says that "vegetarians are nonviolent people." Yeah, right! Mussolini and Hitler were vegetarians. But it's not the time or place to talk about history. The conversation then drifts to hobbies and leisure. When asked about his vacation plans, Jack mentions a hunting trip to Montana, which brings the conversation to an abrupt end. Obviously, Bob and Millie disapprove. I give them an approximate date for my contract proposal and they part.

Jack takes me to the far wall of the cafeteria, the one with the "Families" photo exhibit. The top rows show families of all races having a good time---at a backyard barbecue, on a fishing trip, at Disneyland, on a ski trip, etc. The black-and-white prints are artfully composed and perfectly convey the pleasures of family life. The rest of the show is dedicated to less traditional images, under a sign that reads "Love makes families." Obviously, the families in question are of the "two mommies" and "two daddies" types. Jack says, "That gives you an idea of what's going on here. Political correctness is everywhere. You can't even have lunch without it. And people gobble it up without a wince. They're just like little kids." As I go by, I glance at the other wall. It is covered with oversize posters obviously directed at women. One, which reads "You Are Important" in bold lettering, displays images of a woman at the office (black pantsuit), in the gym (spandex and dumbbells), and reading to children in the backyard (denim coveralls). Another poster is about "Managing Work and Personal Life." Yet another claims that "The Sky is the Limit." The inescapable image of the earth from Apollo 10 adorns the hallway out, above a long line of recycling bins for all imaginable sorts of materials. It reads "There Is Only One Earth ... Take Good Care of It!"

On my way home, I think of Jack's remark. He's right. They're little kids who haven't changed much since their playpen days. The cubicle with the mess on the floor is just a bigger playpen. They still wear T-shirts and baggy pants. They walk around with their bottles. They carry backpacks as they did in kindergarten. They soak up political correctness and conformist indoctrination the same way they soaked up Sesame Street and feel so good about it. They are "the new industry metaphor," as Bob would put it.