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As soon as Jobs got the call from Wozniak that Sunday afternoon, he knew they would have to get their hands on the technical journal right away. “Woz picked me up a few minutes later, and we went to the library at SLAC [the Stanford Linear Accelerator Center] to see if we could find it,” Jobs recounted. It was Sunday and the library was closed, but they knew how to get in through a door that was rarely locked. “I remember that we were furiously digging through the stacks, and it was Woz who finally found the journal with all the frequencies. It was like, holy shit, and we opened it and there it was. We kept saying to ourselves, ‘It’s real. Holy shit, it’s real.’ It was all laid out—the tones, the frequencies.”


Go to bed, my little son, since you have got hashed, said she.-- Bed be hanged, cried he. What good is bed? That's a silly oldcustom wants doing away with. It weakens you: it turns you intotrain oil: it is the doctor's friend, and the sick man's bane. Manya one dies through taking to bed, that could have kept his life ifhe had kept his feet like a man. If I had cut myself in two I wouldnot go to bed,--till I go to the bed with a spade in it. No! sit uplike Julius Caesar; and die as you lived, in your clothes: don'tstrip yourself: let the old women strip you; that is their delightlaying out a chap; that is the time they brighten up, the oldsorceresses. He concluded this amiable rhapsody, the latter partof which was levelled at a lugubrious weakness of his grandmother'sfor the superfluous embellishment of the dead, by telling her it wasbad enough to be tied by the foot like an ass, without settling downon his back like a cast sheep. Give me the armchair. I'll sit init, and, if I have any friends, they will show it now: they willcome and tell me what is going on in the village, for I can't getout to see it and hear it, they must know that. Seated in state in his granny's easy-chair, the loss of which afterthirty years' use made her miserable, she couldn't tell why, leSieur Dard awaited his friends.


Next came the power supply. Digital geeks like Wozniak paid little attention to something so analog and mundane, but Jobs decided it was a key component. In particular he wanted—as he would his entire career—to provide power in a way that avoided the need for a fan. Fans inside computers were not Zen-like; they distracted. He dropped by Atari to consult with Alcorn, who knew old-fashioned electrical engineering. “Al turned me on to this brilliant guy named Rod Holt, who was a chain-smoking Marxist who had been through many marriages and was an expert on everything,” Jobs recalled. Like Manock and others meeting Jobs for the first time, Holt took a look at him and was skeptical. “I’m expensive,” Holt said. Jobs sensed he was worth it and said that cost was no problem. “He just conned me into working,” said Holt, who ended up joining Apple full-time.


Jobs lavished similar attention on the title bars atop windows and documents. He had Atkinson and Kare do them over and over again as he agonized over their look. He did not like the ones on the Lisa because they were too black and harsh. He wanted the ones on the Mac to be smoother, to have pinstripes. “We must have gone through twenty different title bar designs before he was happy,” Atkinson recalled. At one point Kare and Atkinson complained that he was making them spend too much time on tiny little tweaks to the title bar when they had bigger things to do. Jobs erupted. “Can you imagine looking at that every day?” he shouted. “It’s not just a little thing, it’s something we have to do right.”


He fought manfully against this weakness, with which his wound andhis fatigue had something to do, as well as Rose's bitter words; andafter a gallant struggle he returned her her haughty stare, andaddressed her thus: Mademoiselle, I feel myself blush, but it isfor you I blush, not for myself. This is what BECAME of me. I wentout alone to explore; I fell into an ambuscade; I shot one of theenemy, and pinked another, but my arm being broken by a bullet, andmy horse killed under me, the rascals got me. They took me about,tried to make a decoy of me as I have told you, and ended bythrowing me into a dungeon. They loaded me with chains, too, thoughthe walls were ten feet thick, and the door iron, and bolted anddouble-bolted outside. And there for months and years, in spite ofwounds, hunger, thirst, and all the tortures those cowards made mesuffer, I lived, because, Rose, I had promised some one at that gatethere (and he turned suddenly and pointed to it) that I would comeback alive. At last, one night, my jailer came to my cell drunk. Iseized him by the throat and throttled him till he was insensible;his keys unlocked my fetters, and locked him in the cell, and I gotsafely outside. But there a sentinel saw me, and fired at me. Hemissed me but ran after me, and caught me. You see I was stiff,confined so long. He gave me a thrust of his bayonet; I flung myheavy keys fiercely in his face; he staggered; I wrested his piecefrom him, and disabled him. Ah! I crossed the frontier in the night, and got to Bayonne; andthence, day and night, to Paris. There I met a reward for all myanguish. They gave me the epaulets of a colonel. See, here theyare. France does not give these to traitors, young lady. He heldthem out to her in both hands. She eyed them half stupidly; all herthoughts were on the oak-tree hard by. She began to shudder.

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Jobs tapped as a replacement Debi Coleman, the spunky but good-natured Macintosh financial officer who had once won the team’s annual award for the person who best stood up to Jobs. But she knew how to cater to his whims when necessary. When Apple’s art director, Clement Mok, informed her that Jobs wanted the walls to be pure white, she protested, “You can’t paint a factory pure white. There’s going to be dust and stuff all over.” Mok replied, “There’s no white that’s too white for Steve.” She ended up going along. With its pure white walls and its bright blue, yellow, and red machines, the factory floor “looked like an Alexander Calder showcase,” said Coleman.



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