Chapter Forty-Five: The Damned Economy

The economic crisis triggered by the Americans was ravaging the globe; if not for their military might, they would have been swarmed and beaten by the masses by now. This crisis was especially peculiar, rendering central banks everywhere helpless.

Ordinarily, if a crisis was caused by inflation, you could simply tighten monetary policy; if by deflation, injecting liquidity would solve the problem. Not this time. Inflation and deflation arrived hand in hand, putting central banks on the rack. Confronted with such a contradictory crisis, all you could do was pick one side to fight. The Federal Reserve, it seemed, had chosen to tackle inflation first.

In a sense, this was a kind of shock therapy. Handled well, it could lead to a rebirth from the ashes; if handled poorly, war might be inevitable. War was the last resort for stimulating the economy, something best avoided unless absolutely necessary.

The Americans had no face left to devalue the dollar again. The current wave of inflation stemmed from abandoning the Bretton Woods system; the dollar had already depreciated significantly. Another round would surely alienate even their staunchest allies.

It was not an easy decision. The economy was already dire; tightening further would bankrupt a swath of businesses and farmers. If the Donkey wanted to be re-elected, it was pure fantasy; everyone would vote with their feet.

In such an environment, it was wiser to avoid grand gestures and quietly make money. William White already drew enough envy—earning over a hundred million so effortlessly left others with nothing to say. The Hollywood giants were all losing money this year; it was best to keep a low profile.

Toronto was far more pleasant, cool and comfortable in the mornings and evenings. Since this was a deluxe version of "Home Alone," the props could not be too shoddy. The two hapless robbers looked strange enough to provoke a punch at any moment. They were lucky, too—a two hundred thousand dollar paycheck was more than generous.

But the heart of this film was the child. Some people are born actors—like today’s boy, whose large, expressive eyes sparkled with life. With such a lively child on set, it was impossible not to have a boisterous atmosphere. William White saw no reason to intervene and indulged his mischief without restraint.

He sometimes wondered if the boy got a whipping at home; he’d never seen a child so outrageously naughty.

With prior experience, shooting went even more smoothly this time. The crew no longer relied on outside cinematographers, making organization that much easier.

America’s economy had slipped into shock; unemployment had reached staggering levels. Factories closed daily, and displaced farmers were everywhere.

But not everything was bleak—the semiconductor industry was thriving, with stock prices even rising. William White was at a loss to comment. The Americans’ luck was uncanny; on the surface, things looked dire, and negative GDP growth seemed possible.

Negative growth was not an option. A slower increase was acceptable, but a contraction spelled disaster. And don’t forget, if you deducted inflation, the economy was shrinking dramatically.

From the perspective of future generations, this crisis was a blessing in disguise, wiping out backward sectors at a stroke—if not all, then at least most. Without it, obsolete capacity would never have been eliminated; closing factories now left the unions powerless. It wasn’t that owners didn’t want to continue, but they simply couldn’t go on. No amount of protest could change that; with bankruptcy, nothing else mattered.

“Young master, several nearby farms have expressed a desire to sell.” Uncle Fu’s face was heavy with concern.

“If they truly wish to sell, we’ll buy them at a fair price. No need to press too hard.”

“Understood, young master. There’s nothing else we can do.”

“Expand the vineyard, then; agricultural products aren’t selling well anyway.”

“Young master, wine won’t sell well this year either. Our inventory is already quite large.” Uncle Fu remained worried.

“It’s all right. Sooner or later, things will turn around. Red wine doesn’t spoil, after all.”

Uncle Fu offered no objections to his young master’s judgment. After all, there were many success stories. Besides, the wine cost little to produce; it wasn’t much of a risk.

Selling their farms to William White gave them a chance to start over; if the banks took them, they’d be finished. White Farms wasn’t making money either and might even post a loss this year, but William White didn’t care. Once the economy recovered, the land would no longer be so cheap.

The location was favorable, close to Houston. When prosperity returned, these investments would pay off.

He wasn’t short of cash anyway. The office software was selling splendidly, and at this rate, next year’s valuation would be impressive.

Next year was also an election year in America; everyone would vie to promote this new industry.

Outside of high-tech, all other sectors were laying off workers. No one knew what to do—they could only wait for the darkness to pass.

There were exceptions. Life was good in the Island Nation—their exports and domestic economy were strong. This was a source of American irritation; the junior partner was rising too quickly and had to be contained.

Big Blue intended to sound out White Software’s position. Even if they couldn’t acquire it, they hoped to buy a stake.

William White was hesitant. To collaborate better, he couldn’t outright reject the olive branch, but he also had to keep his distance. If they swallowed him up, it would be a calamity.

“Tom, during next year’s Series A, give them five percent. I don’t want cash—they can swap it for their own shares.”

“Yes, boss. I’ll get back to them.”

Big Blue couldn’t complain; given their size, White wouldn’t part with much equity. Otherwise, it would be an acquisition, not cooperation.

William White suspected they were merely probing—they might not even partner in the end. They wanted to move quietly, drawing no outside attention.

It was absurd, really. Working on microcomputers seemed almost shameful; even Big Blue was furtive about it. William White couldn’t understand—was it really so bad?

CPU performance was growing geometrically. Today’s humble junk would have been cutting-edge a decade ago. The mighty mainframes of today would be scrap in ten years.

How ironic—this was Silicon Valley. How could such a conservative crowd exist here? Had the lure of present profits so clouded their vision?

Aside from Big Blue, HP, and Xerox—once pioneers—they now seemed weary and stagnant.

Such was America: once you were tied to capital, you were better off abandoning your dreams. The cost was simply too great, and shareholders would not approve.