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In Dr. Mike Burry's first year in business, he grappled briefly with the social dimension of running money. "Generally you don't raise any money unless you have a good meeting with people," he said, "and generally I don't want to be around people. And people who are with me generally figure that out." He went to a conference thrown by Bank of America to introduce new fund managers to wealthy investors, and those who attended figured that out. He gave a talk in which he argued that the way they measured risk was completely idiotic. They measured risk by volatility: how much a stock or bond happened to have jumped around in the past few years. Real risk was not volatility; real risk was stupid investment decisions. "By and large," he later put it, "the wealthiest of the wealthy and their representatives have accepted that most managers are average, and the better ones are able to achieve average returns while exhibiting below-average volatility. By this logic a dollar selling for fifty cents one day, sixty cents the next day, and forty cents the next somehow becomes worth less than a dollar selling for fifty cents all three days. I would argue that the ability to buy at forty cents presents opportunity, not risk, and that the dollar is still worth a dollar." He was greeted by silence and ate lunch alone. He sat at one of the big round tables just watching the people at the other tables happily jabber away.

When he spoke to people in the flesh, he could never tell what had put them off, his message or his person. He'd made a close study of Warren Buffett, who had somehow managed to be both wildly popular and hugely successful. Buffett had had trouble with people, too, in his youth. He'd used a Dale Carnegie course to learn how to interact more profitably with his fellow human beings. Mike Burry came of age in a different money culture. The Internet had displaced Dale Carnegie. He didn't need to meet people. He could explain himself online and wait for investors to find him. He could write up his elaborate thoughts and wait for people to read them and wire him their money to handle. "Buffett was too popular for me," said Burry. "I won't ever be a kindly grandfather figure."

This method of attracting funds suited Mike Burry. More to the point, it worked. He'd started Scion Capital with a bit more than a million dollars--the money from his mother and brothers and his own million, after tax. In his first full year, 2001, the S&P 500 fell 11.88 percent. Scion was up 55 percent. The next year, the S&P 500 fell again, by 22.1 percent, and yet Scion was up again: 16 percent. The next year, 2003, the stock market finally turned around and rose 28.69 percent, but Mike Burry beat it again--his investments rose by 50 percent. By the end of 2004, Mike Burry was managing $600 million and turning money away. "If he'd run his fund to maximize the amount he had under management, he'd have been running many, many billions of dollars," says a New York hedge fund manager who watched Burry's performance with growing incredulity. "He designed Scion so it was bad for business but good for investing."

"While capital raising may be a popularity contest," Burry wrote to his investors, perhaps to reassure them that it didn't matter if they loved their money manager, or even knew him, "intelligent investment is quite the opposite."

Warren Buffett had an acerbic partner, Charlie Munger, who evidently cared a lot less than Buffett did about whether people liked him. Back in 1995, Munger had given a talk at Harvard Business School called "The Psychology of Human Misjudgment." If you wanted to predict how people would behave, Munger said, you only had to look at their incentives. FedEx couldn't get its night shift to finish on time; they tried everything to speed it up but nothing worked--until they stopped paying night shift workers by the hour and started to pay them by the shift. Xerox created a new, better machine only to have it sell less