Chapter Thirty: The Ultimate Tool for Amassing Wealth

Faced with such a situation, the journalists were deeply frustrated. Fear had taken root among them; several of their colleagues had already been taken to court, and they no longer dared to fabricate outrageous stories. When ordinary people sued, the newspapers hardly cared—after all, they had ample resources to handle such cases—but it was a different matter with the wealthy elite. Lawsuits of this kind could bankrupt them.

Meanwhile, the IT industry was suddenly abuzz with excitement. Microcomputers, which had once developed at a steady but unspectacular pace, were now drawing a surge of attention. Apple shipped nearly twenty thousand units in May, and it looked as though that momentum would continue through the current month. The numbers were staggering; at this rate, shipments might reach thirty thousand by year’s end.

With such volumes, Apple’s revenue would exceed one hundred million. Though profit margins were not especially high, investment banks remained cautiously optimistic. The bulk of Apple's funds were being poured into research and development for new products, marking the company as a worthy long-term investment.

More and more fund managers were seeking to invest in Apple, forcing Morgan Stanley to revise its initial pricing. To insist on the old numbers now would risk a falling out. White Software was drawing even greater attention. At first, when industry insiders learned that the company was constructing its own office building, they mocked the founder as a nouveau riche upstart. Now, their laughter had dried up.

Other versions of White Office Software had been released, all enjoying excellent sales. A third-party report revealed that in June alone, White Software shipped over fifty thousand units—a conservative estimate at that. The reason was simple: previous customers had all purchased bare-bones machines, back when pre-installed software was unheard of. Naturally, these clients now needed software, and so White Software began its cash-in journey.

Fund managers noted that the company seemed to have virtually no costs. If software sales could reach several million dollars, then the profit margins were simply terrifying. No wonder their office building was so lavish—clearly, money was no object.

If this growth continued, the company’s revenue would reach fifty million dollars the following year, a very cautious estimate. The market even predicted that next year’s microcomputer sales would easily surpass one million units. Judging by the current software installation rate, White Software would become a company with annual revenues in the hundreds of millions—a staggering figure for a firm with only a few dozen employees.

A tiny staff meant an incredibly high value-added per employee. Most galling of all was that the owner seemed to have anticipated this outcome from the start, planning to begin Series A financing only the following year. The original valuation of twenty million dollars had been offered through gritted teeth; in hindsight, it was laughable.

A software company capable of generating a hundred million dollars in revenue per year was almost impossible to value. To outsiders, it looked like sheer luck. Compiling a software suite was not especially difficult, nor was imitation. The problem was that White Software had clearly planned ahead, and their array of patents was nothing short of formidable.

There was little commercial value for individuals to imitate their products, while any large company that tried would be buried in litigation. Such a leading edge was hard to quantify, so there was no rational way to price the company. William White, however, was unconcerned—he had no intention of going public this early, nor of letting others profit at his expense.

To fund managers, the owner seemed hopelessly distracted—running off to make movies, of all things. Writing novels was already rather bohemian, but directing films was truly outlandish. Wasn’t this the time to focus on developing the business and consolidating a lead? Apple was already developing its third-generation machine; had they even finished the next version of their software? And then there was that damned CEO—a mere salesman, utterly clueless about computers, yet somehow made chief executive. How unreliable could they get?

Leaving aside their tangled worries, William White had begun post-production on his film—a step that was anything but easy. It wasn’t just about editing; there was also the score to compose, and the dubbing to arrange. Fortunately, money solved many problems, and under the onslaught of his dollars, post-production progressed at a miraculous pace.

The hardest part was, in fact, the editing. William White worked with astonishing speed, leaving the two assisting editors reeling—they had never seen anyone cut a film like this. But then, there hadn’t been any extra footage to begin with, which made for a rapid edit.

Thus, the alternate-universe “Police Academy” came into being ahead of schedule. William White believed this version far surpassed the original from his previous timeline. The original had been a one-off, a small-scale production, with subsequent sequels awkwardly cobbled together. While box office numbers were decent, the later scripts became increasingly contrived.

This was, in truth, the norm in Hollywood. Every studio wrung their IPs dry: James Bond was ruined, Spider-Man as well. For films of this caliber, a sequel every two years was the norm, but eventually, the scriptwriters simply ran out of ideas. Bond even wound up at Casino Royale, driving the thunderously mediocre Mondeo. If you wanted to poke fun at John Bull’s economy, that might have worked; you could have explained that the government was strapped for cash, hence the downgrade.

Unfortunately, Ford had paid handsomely and would never allow such disparagement. To them, the Mondeo was a high-end sedan with European pedigree. As a result, there would be no more 007—audiences were utterly disillusioned, and voted with their feet.

William White was different. He had planted plenty of Easter eggs; dedicated fans would surely find them. If you didn’t watch closely, it hardly mattered—after all, it was just a popcorn flick, with no pretense of educational value. As long as it didn’t corrupt the youth, that was good enough.

While he busied himself with post-production, the IT giants found little respite. Based on William White’s recent hires, it was almost certain that their next software would be some kind of database product. Larry Ellison was furious—his company had lost at least five senior engineers, all of them experts in database compilation, and now they belonged to William White.

He was a maverick in Silicon Valley, known as a madman, and most people avoided crossing him. He could never hold his tongue and was not known for his tact. Now, there was sure to be a spectacle. William White was unfazed, and the headhunting firm he employed even less so. As long as the talent fit, the boss was exceedingly generous.

They never cared where you poached your people from—there was only one requirement: genuine ability. If you could recruit someone from a federal prison, they would still pay your fee.

Oracle was a supplier of server-based database software, and though they had struggled miserably in recent years, they still liked to put on airs. With William White poaching their talent and planning to enter the database field, his attitude toward microcomputers was clear enough.

At this time, no tech giant publicly supported microcomputers. It was all about vested interests. The booming sales of microcomputers were clearly eating into the market for minicomputers. Their attitude was all too predictable.