An hour later, in Exidy's factory office.
Ethan sat casually on a plain sofa, one leg crossed over the other. A cup of steaming coffee rested on the low table in front of him.
Across from him, Samuel Hawes—so wild earlier while playing Snake—now sat stiffly. Beside him, Peter Kaufman, the man who had been in contact with Ethan, looked deeply uncomfortable. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, a hesitant expression on his face.
"Mr. Jones," Peter said, cautiously, "we've never done anything like licensing production or sales before."
Ethan gave a relaxed smile. "If you've never done it, then it's a good time to learn. After all, no one is born knowing how to walk."
"But the problem is," Peter replied, fidgeting, "no one in the market is doing this kind of business right now. We don't even know what the standard terms for cooperation are."
He hesitated, then added, "What we do know is the typical pay for a game developer—it's around two hundred dollars a week, or about $10,400 a year…"
"Oh, Mr. Kaufman!" Ethan interrupted him with a sharp but still smiling tone. "If that's what you're telling me, then you're not being sincere at all."
Peter looked startled, but Ethan continued, still smiling but with an unmistakable edge in his voice.
"Let me explain something," he said, leaning forward slightly. "In this world, human labor is the cheapest resource. In 1970, our country did a census—200 million people. Out of those, there are hundreds of thousands who could build arcade machines. But how many can create a game that fascinates people?"
He paused, letting his words sink in. "Only one," he said softly, pointing at himself with a smirk. "Only. One."
Peter instinctively tilted his head, uncomfortable with Ethan's confidence. He glanced at Samuel Hawes, who was now frowning so deeply his brow.
"We need to discuss this," Samuel said quickly, catching the silent plea in Peter's expression. He stood up. "Mr. Jones, if you don't mind waiting a moment."
"Please," Ethan said politely, leaning back and sipping his coffee. "Take your time."
He watched them leave, completely at ease. Back when Samuel had fiercely shielded the joystick and shouted at Peter, everyone in the room had felt that something was off. When the chaos settled and all eyes turned to Ethan, all they saw was a man with a calm, confident smile.
Great continuation — the scene is filled with intense emotion, era-specific conflict, and believable business dynamics.
This realization hit them hard: they were at a disadvantage in the negotiation. Their enthusiastic reaction to the Snake game had given too much away. So, they invited Ethan into the office under the guise of "discussing cooperation."
Exidy's plan? Offer a flat fee and buy out Snake completely.
Their internal pricing tiers were: $20,000… maybe $30,000… push it to $40,000… at most, $50,000.
But how could Ethan ever accept that? Sure, in this era, the average American makes a little over $5,000 a year. $50,000 was a decade's income.
For some, a lifetime. Even if you stretched it absurdly—a hundred years, a thousand years—it still wouldn't scratch the surface of what Snake was worth.
Even if Ethan had been kicked in the head by a Texas mule…
There's no way he'd sell it.It had to be licensed. But licensing? In this industry? That wasn't how things were done.
After Ethan left the office, Peter Kaufman could no longer contain himself. He exploded the moment the door shut.
"Authorization?!" he barked. "Is anyone even doing licensing right now? If this gets out, people will laugh at us!
Everyone in this business is ripping each other off! No one pays for video game copyrights! Not even Magnavox! They've had to go to court just to protect their own games!"
He was practically shaking with fury. "And now this guy walks in here and wants a revenue share?" He scoffed. "I was being generous offering him fifty thousand! That's fifty thousand dollars! Fifty! Thousand! Dollars!!!"
With a violent kick, Peter slammed the factory's iron door. It rang out!!—echoing through the space.
The sound made Samuel Hawes flinch. His eyes darted toward the office, narrowing. After confirming nothing unusual, he gestured to nearby employees to keep an eye on things. Then he grabbed Peter by the arm and dragged him farther away from earshot.
"Jesus Christ," he hissed. "Are you insane? Even if you don't want to pay him, do you have to shout like that?!"
"I'm angry! This is blackmail!" Peter snapped. "He just stared at me and said 'Only One!' Who the hell does he think he is? Tesla? Let me tell you something—no matter how brilliant Tesla was, he still couldn't beat Edison! And alternating current? It didn't make him rich either! He didn't get a damn penny! That's what I'm saying!"
Samuel stared at him. "So… you want to plagiarize it?"
Peter didn't even blink. "Why not?" he said, shrugging. "Everyone else is doing it. We already know how the game works. As soon as he's out the door, we copy it. Give us five days—we'll have it on the market before he even finishes negotiating with someone else."
Peter Kaufman shouted at the top of his lungs:
"What did he just say? Manpower is worthless? That's naive!"
He stomped forward, eyes blazing. "Since he dares to wave that game in front of us, we have to teach him a lesson! In the video game industry, the most valuable thing isn't people—it's inspiration! Developers don't deserve money. Whoever can build arcade machines, get venue owners to buy them, and make them explode in popularity—they win!"
Peter stood there, breathing heavily, staring at his partner like a possessed.
Samuel Hawes looked back at him. Then, silently, he closed his eyes. The lines on his forehead deepened as his thoughts churned. His slow pacing across the floor wasn't just from anger—it was calculation. Risk. Exposure. Legality.
he stopped and shook his head. "Pete…" Samuel said gravely. "If this Ethan Jones guy had the guts to come to us directly, he must've registered the copyright. And he said he came from Magnavox. There's no way he doesn't know about what Atari pulled—how they copied Magnavox and made millions off it."
Peter shrugged with a grin. "So what?" he said. "Even if he has the copyright, we can still copy it. If the game makes us millions, who cares about losing some in a lawsuit? This is America, Sam! The loser gets nothing! The winner? Takes it all."
Samuel want to protest, but Peter cut him off. "Don't back out now! You saw that game—it's brilliant! It'll cause a sensation the moment it hits arcades! If we make even ten million dollars off it, we'll be the richest damn men in America!"
Peter stepped closer, his eyes wide with conviction. "You hear me? We're one step away from the top. All we have to do… is dare. Like Dupont dared! And don't forget—Nolan Bushnell ripped off Odyssey's table tennis and he's still living like a king!"
Samuel froze. The logic was corrupt but tempting. The silence stretched as he stared down at the floor.
Then he exhaled, muttering: "MFXXK..." He glanced up. "Okay. Okay! You're right. But if we're gonna copy it, we need to know who he is first. If he's just some regular engineer… then yeah. We hit him hard, and we hit him once."
Peter grinned, The thrill of the the gamble—lit him up. He'd chosen the right partner.
Back in the office, Peter and Samuel re-entered with renewed energy but more cautious smiles. Time to feel Ethan out.
Peter, choosing his words carefully, said, "Mr. Jones, we want to move forward—assuming you're the one in control of this project. Can you confirm if you solely own the rights to Snake?"
Ethan, reclining comfortably on the couch, smiled. His years in finance had taught him to sniff out these kinds of games.
"Oh, of course not," he said breezily. "I didn't build the machine alone. I just provided a bit of... inspiration."
"He didn't make the machine?" That thought hit both men like a jolt of electricity. Their eyes lit up.
"I see," Peter said slowly, trying to contain his excitement.
"Then—just for clarity—who did build it? With all due respect, if the copyright isn't fully in your name, a deal might be... complicated."
Ethan gave a knowing nod. "I understand. If you're serious about cooperating, I can call her over this afternoon. My partner. We can sit down and work out the contract together."
"Her? A woman?"
Peter and Samuel glanced at each other, the same thought flashing through both minds:
If the rights are shared, it'll be even easier to plagiarize.
So far, Peter Kaufman and Samuel Hawes had never heard of any woman playing a role in the video game industry.
And judging by Ethan Jones's casual tone, this "woman" he spoke of seemed to be quite idle—uninvolved, maybe even amateurish.
If that's the case… Then perhaps these two—Ethan and his mysterious female partner—were just nobodies with no serious backing?
Was this trouble? Peter rubbed his hands together, barely holding back a laugh.
This might be easier than expected. He was already imagining sending Ethan off politely... and then plagiarizing Snake behind closed doors.
But just as he was about to end the meeting—
Ethan smiled and said: "It's not troublesome, really. Stanford is only a few dozen minutes from here."
Peter and Samuel froze. The air went still.
Samuel stared blankly. "What… What did you just say?"
Ethan leaned back with a relaxed grin. "Yeah. My partner's a Stanford graduate student. Class of this year. She's busy with her research, so she asked me to handle the commercial side of things."
He casually spread his hands. "Is there a problem?"
Yes! There was a massive problem! Peter and Samuel both stared at Ethan, trying to find something—anything—in his face that would reveal a bluff.
But that calm, unshakable confidence? It wasn't an act. And they knew, better than anyone, what that meant. They were based right next to Stanford. They knew how fiercely the university supported its students.
How ruthlessly it protected its reputation. How aggressively it pushed entrepreneurship through its school-enterprise co-construction plan.
They knew that for the past 20 years, Stanford had been waiting—desperate—for another HP to emerge from its student body. Even a shadow of HP would be enough to light a fire in the media and give hope to their student entrepreneurs.
And now, Snake was the work of a Stanford student?
Peter and Samuel understood everything. Why Ethan had dared to walk into their office like some arrogant nobody. Why he wasn't afraid of being plagiarized. Outside California, Stanford might not intervene. But in California?
Here? Stanford would go to war. Plagiarize? No loss to Ethan.
Succeed? He'd just let his partner cry in a lecture hall, and the law school faculty would handle the rest.
No—chances were, the lawsuit would be filed immediately.
After all, Fred Terman—the father of Stanford's entrepreneurial spirit—was still alive. He gave speeches every year, urging students to chase their visions. If this ended up in court, even the judge might be a Stanford alum.
Thirty minutes later, without any agreement in place, Peter Kaufman and Samuel Hawes watched Ethan Jones's car slowly disappear down the road.
Peter. "Do you think everything he said is true?"
Samuel shook his head. "I don't know."
Peter scowled. "Don't you know anyone at Magnavox? Can't we ask around?"
Samuel sighed. "Only some of their sales reps."
But seeing his partner's tangled, he eventually nodded. "Fine. I'll make a call."
Ten minutes later, Samuel returned.
"Damn it. Drop the plagiarism idea." His voice was tight. "Ethan Jones isn't some nobody."
Peter blinked. "What? Why?"
"His family owns over a hundred acres of land. An orchard. In Santa Clara County. They provide jobs to dozens of people every year!"
"What the—" Peter choked. "More than a hundred acres? Are you saying—he's a landowner?"
Samuel nodded grimly. "If we copied his game, Stanford wouldn't even need to move. The local agriculture bureau would send the cops to raid us."
Peter staggered back a step. "Oh, FXXK!" he growled.
Then he slammed the table so hard it rattled the papers.
"Why do these people always have such good backgrounds!?"