Byron Holmes, son of Jonathan Holmes,
founder of ICP.
"What's so damn funny?"
Peter touched the man's arm in apology. "I was just thinking how
funny it is for us to meet. Go on, please. What did you do after
the 990?"
"Revise, revise, revise."
"Things moved more slowly back then, didn't they?"
"Back then? You make it sound like I figured out how to add three
wheels to one, so that families could take kids to the dinosaur
races."
Peter could see that the man was enjoying this as much as he was.
He became wholly attentive and invigorated.
"You kids from the Valley think your teensy computers are going
to replace our Goliath machines someday, don't you?"
"I wouldn't know anymore. I'm out of the business."
"Poppyshit!" Holmes said, rapping his hand down on the table.
"Don't give me that sour-faced hurt-boy story. Doesn't fly with
me."
"I made that company what it is," Peter said, instantly somber.
"And then it was taken away from me."
"That's craziness," Byron said, moving his chair closer. "Boy,
I'll tell you something. After I made the 990 what it is, they
moved me into big management. Sure, it was my dad's company. But
I had the right education for it, so I could have done it anyway
if my heart had been in it. But it wasn't. All I wanted to do was
make those big, beautiful machines.
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