At the peak of the Lynchburg section of the Blue Ridge Mountains, a dazzling crystal hotel sparkled in the sunlight.
Its design—deep American redwood combined with vast panes of glass—created a structure that seemed to merge perfectly with nature.
Sweaty scientists who had just finished the climb stood in awe. Faced with such breathtaking architecture and scenery, their fatigue and complaints seemed to vanish in an instant.
At that moment, the doors of the mountaintop hotel swung open. Standing there as the host was Leo, welcoming each of the scientists.
"This building is truly a miracle of mankind," said Claude Shannon, who was helping Leo greet the guests. The other scientists nodded in agreement, echoing Shannon's praise.
Leo smiled.
"This is just the appetizer. The real feast lies ahead. Follow me."
He led the eager scientists down a dark corridor to an ornate set of doors. With a grin, he pushed them open.
Before their eyes appeared a magnificent, arched conference hall made almost entirely of glass. The scientists didn't even wait for an invitation—they rushed inside with childlike excitement.
Gasps of wonder filled the air. They turned in circles, eyes wide: above them stretched the azure sky, in the distance spread endless plains covered with vibrant cornfields, and to the right lay rolling forested mountains, a vision of unspoiled beauty.
Scientists had seen many beautiful places, but never such a unique setting. Almost every one of them thought the same thing: Only a billionaire could come up with this. Truly extravagant.
The glass hall fulfilled the dream of "being one with the scenery," while its air-conditioning shielded them from the summer heat. With Blue Mountain coffee, Cuban cigars, and fine delicacies at hand, they felt not only comfortable but deeply respected.
Leo's generosity had already won their admiration, and now his image was carved even more firmly into their minds.
As they took their seats, Leo noticed something peculiar—scientists, too, had factions.
Aside from Thomas J. Watson, CEO of WLI Research, and Philadelphia's mayor, Alson, the remaining scientists sat clearly divided into two camps on either side of the round table.
On Leo's left sat an elder with sharp eyes, a stern face, and a soldierly bearing: Vannevar Bush.
Leo had barely known his name in his past life, but in this one he was a legend—a "scientific general," vice president of MIT, President Roosevelt's wartime science advisor, and the man behind radar and other advanced military technologies.
It was no exaggeration to say that the military–industrial complex owed much of its vitality and innovative power to Vannevar Bush.
Beside him sat a familiar figure Leo had met not long ago: Frederick Terman, vice provost of Stanford and dean of engineering.
Next to Terman was Claude Shannon, who had organized the meeting. Leo had chosen Shannon over Terman partly because he didn't know Terman's wider connections, but mostly because Shannon had been the teacher of Venina, Leo's confidante and deputy research chief at WLI.
Most importantly, Leo had repeatedly encountered Shannon's name in lucid dreams of the future—most memorably in college, when a professor lecturing on computer history spoke of the groundbreaking figure Claude Shannon and his Mathematical Theory of Communication. That book was the very origin point of information theory, computing, and the internet.
By Shannon's side sat his close collaborator and friend, Warren Weaver. Leo didn't know him well, but anyone who partnered with Shannon had to be formidable.
Further down was Werner Jacob, a stern-faced German. Leo had no impression of him either, and planned to quietly assess whether he was a genuine scholar or just another fraud—a common problem in that era.
Most of these men, aside from Bush and Shannon, bore a distinctly bookish air. In Leo's mind, they were "academic types," worlds apart from the more practical men across the table.
On Leo's right, the atmosphere was very different—more grounded, more pragmatic.
A man at the head of that side stood and introduced himself:
"Mr. Valentino, it's an honor to attend this closed-door meeting. I am Sean Buckley, head of the physics research group at Bell Labs."
He gestured to the men beside him:
"This is my partner, Walter Brattain. Next to him is John Bardeen, deputy head of the physics lab, along with his collaborator, Walter Brattain."
Leo knew little about Bell Labs in his past life, only that by the 1950s and 1960s its patents had deeply shaped America's development.
But here and now, what struck him first was the sheer power of the American Telephone and Telegraph Company (AT&T) that owned it. Every phone call, every telegram in the country meant money flowing to AT&T.
On the New York Stock Exchange, AT&T was one of the top earners, with annual revenues of $3 billion—a staggering fortune born of monopoly.
Though Bell Labs had been nominally independent since 1925, Leo saw it as little more than a fig leaf; its biggest funding still came directly from AT&T, and its research leaned heavily toward physics and communications—the company's core needs.
Sean Buckley was one of those communication-driven geniuses. When he heard that Claude Shannon was organizing a gathering on semiconductors and information theory, his curiosity compelled him to attend. He soon learned that the true organizer was none other than Leo Valentino.
Eager to secure Leo's support, Buckley convinced Shannon—then, when Shannon hesitated, sought help from Philadelphia's mayor, Alson Beckett. That was how he and his team managed to attend.
Though Bell Labs scientists theoretically had no shortage of funding, competition inside was fierce. Buckley, disillusioned with its conservative ways, dreamed of founding his own lab to pursue the faint glimmers of the semiconductor future.
To the academic faction, Bell Labs' aggressive bid for Leo's patronage was distasteful—after all, Leo had originally invited Shannon.
At this tense moment, Bush glanced at Shannon, who seemed hesitant and timid. Bush shook his head. His student was undoubtedly a genius, but came with all the flaws of one. Beside him, Terman remained cautious and calculating, unwilling to stir trouble while enjoying Leo's patronage.
For the sake of science—and his own ambitions—Bush decided to intervene personally.
Seizing a pause in Buckley's words, he rose and cleared his throat:
"Mr. Valentino, I notice that everyone here is devoted to semiconductors or information theory. May I ask why you've gathered us?"
Leo laughed.
"Because I'm deeply interested in this field. I wanted to bring together the best minds to discuss the future. By the way, Mr. Bush, any relation to the Bush family of Florida?"
"We share a common ancestor, immigrants from England in the 18th century," Bush replied. "But tell me, Mr. Valentino—what exactly do you mean by the future?"
"The future belongs to information and semiconductors," Leo said firmly. "Or more precisely, to all of you who devote yourselves to this field."
Though the importance of these industries was rising, many still clung to mechanical computing. Shannon's Mathematical Theory of Communication, published just last year, was still hotly debated. His concepts of bits and entropy were so novel that some even questioned his integrity.
Academic rivalries were fierce, with scholars undermining each other behind polite facades. And with the advent of "mechanical brains," veterans in that line—like IBM—were fighting to defend their dominance.
Leo reflected on a saying: From the present, fate looks like a straight line. From the past, it looks like a many-faced crystal. He knew the future lay in semiconductors and information, though most were still blind to it.
That blindness forced scientists to gamble—staking careers and lives on fragile hopes of success. No wonder competition was cutthroat. For many, Bell Labs remained the only refuge willing to fund their work.
So when Leo declared the future of semiconductors and information, the room lit up with excitement—except Bush, who remained composed. His goals had moved beyond science; he now sought to secure lasting government investment, to cement his own place in history.
He was no longer just a scientist, but a science bureaucrat—and founder of Raytheon besides. Money didn't interest him as much as political influence did, and Leo had plenty of that. So rather than expose Leo's tactic of using prestige to rally the young, he went along with it:
"Indeed, Mr. Valentino. Information and semiconductors are the future. Since you're interested, why not begin with a small academic exchange today? Claude, why don't you share your research?"
The moment Shannon began, the atmosphere exploded. Discussions quickly escalated to heated debates, almost degenerating into a brawl had Leo not been present.
Leo, for his part, made new acquaintances. Though he struggled with the dense technical language, he could tell from their reasoning that these were sincere scholars.
The exchanges lasted until dinner, finally ending with a toast of champagne.
Leo raised his glass:
"Today's exchange was a great success. I've learned a lot. We should host more of these. Tomorrow evening, same place. Bring more friends—after the conference, we'll hold another seminar here!"