"President Truman calls on Congress to swiftly pass the Housing Act, so that the American people may enjoy the fruits of victory!"
Evan set down the World News. In this round, victory was his.
He knew Truman well—when the President bowed his head once, it usually stayed bowed for one or two months.
The Housing Act fit perfectly with Truman's vision of fair governance. Naturally, Truman would seize the chance to leverage it for political influence.
And this bill was immense—covering nearly every American city, involving tens of billions of dollars. Far beyond the restrictive acts Evan had previously pushed through.
So many hands wanted a share. No one would agree without months of haggling.
Many believed Evan intended to use the Act to monopolize the American real estate industry.
But Evan knew better. The specter of monopoly would invite dangerous attention. He wasn't that foolish.
The Housing Act was a distraction, bait thrown to capture both enemies and allies.
His true plan was already shifting—toward a multi-industry layout.
The more industries he held, the thicker his lifeblood bar would be.
The day he could control life and death across several entire industries would be the day he became the father of all Americans.
"Boss, Walker and his brother Sam are here," Walter reported.
"And Harley?" Evan asked. "Has he arrived?"
Walter nodded. "He was the earliest. Chairman Watson of LWI Data Research, along with chief researcher Mauchly, are already discussing the final data with him."
"Good. Then let's begin." Evan rose. He was in the New York headquarters of LWI Data Research Company—the new facility in Philadelphia was not yet built.
Pushing open the doors to the reception hall, he found everyone assembled. Each man rose and nodded in greeting as Evan entered.
At first glance, grocery stores and an information company seemed worlds apart. But today would prove epochal for both.
"Sam, I promised you the tool of God. Today, I've found it for you. Mauchly, show them."
"Yes, boss."
Adjusting his thick glasses, Mauchly drew back a curtain to reveal a massive rectangular machine, nearly nine square meters in size.
Sam was riding high lately—his Valentino Town groceries had expanded to more than twenty outlets in a single year. He was content with the achievement.
Expansion beyond that, however, seemed impossible. He had already poured nearly all his time into management, sacrificing even intimacy with his wife. At most, he could open one or two more stores. His time was simply too limited.
So when Evan promised him "God's tool," Sam scoffed inwardly. He planned to dismiss this iron monster as useless—and use the moment to demand his own independent supply chain. With it, he could instantly outpace his brother Walker's city retail business.
Ambition gnawed at him. Despite Walker's warnings, Sam could not suppress the thought. Managing groceries had revealed his natural talent; money flowed to him as easily as water downhill.
If not for Evan's generous pay and unmatched resources, Sam might already have broken away to start his own chain back home.
Walker, meanwhile, struggled.
With the creation of American Real Estate, not all of it belonged to Evan personally. Valentino Retail Group, however, was his private property. Whether Sam's town groceries or Walker's city stores, to secure outlets in new malls developed by the real estate arm, they had to pay real money.
True, they enjoyed a twenty percent discount, but that did little for Walker. His stores targeted prime urban centers—locations everyone else also coveted. Buying was impossible, renting ruinously expensive.
Thin retail margins shrank under the weight of rising rents. Sears and Macy's bore down on him as well. Walker had managed only three new stores across New York State, all operating at a loss, propped up by older outlets.
Repeatedly, he had begged Evan to restore the old "free premises" policy. Each time, Evan refused, citing "fair competition."
In truth, "fairness" was a fig leaf. Business in America was harsher than in the East—a pure jungle. Coddled flowers would not survive here. Evan needed fighters, not dependents.
Now Mauchly, calm and precise, stepped to the machine. By contrast, CEO Thomas Watson Jr. was visibly tense. This deal would determine whether his company could surpass that of his father, Thomas Watson Sr., who held IBM.
Though LWI was already worth hundreds of millions, its future looked grim. The domestic market was nearly saturated. War-torn Europe could not absorb even as many machines as a single U.S. state.
Until now, their clients had been government agencies and universities. With those exhausted, growth was stalling.
This machine, however, was different: built to Evan's order, it was the first computer designed purely for business use.
If successful, with Evan's media empire promoting it, Watson Jr. believed they would create a giant rivaling American Real Estate itself. Perhaps even one that could bury IBM.
And he would have no guilt in doing so. His father's control over IBM was a façade; the Watson family held little true power.
For Watson Jr., excluded from the inner circle and scarred by childhood humiliations, this was revenge.
Mauchly began simply. He and Harley lifted several heavy steel cases.
"Gentlemen, you've seen these before. Two days ago, machines like ovens were installed in your stores. Those were data input machines. These here are storage units. All your past month's sales are preserved within them."
Evan watched Harley struggle to heft the cumbersome drives. He thought of the future—when storage would shrink to a device no bigger than a fingertip USB stick—and marveled at progress.
Walker and Sam, however, were baffled. Data storage? The term meant nothing to them.
So Mauchly skipped explanations. He slotted the drive into the machine's right-hand port, flipped the switches, and pressed "Read."
Green symbols danced across the dim screen.
Five minutes later, with a rumble, paper smelling of fresh ink rolled out from a slot below.
Unlike later computers, this screen was not for user interaction—only for technicians to confirm operations. Real use lay in the buttons and two dozen levers below.
Harley gathered the pages, studied them carefully, then nodded. "The data checks out."
His hands trembled as he passed the sheets to the brothers. Even after days of testing, he could not shake the awe. This machine truly felt like God's tool.
Walker and Sam glanced down. Their eyes widened.
The papers contained their sales figures for the last quarter of 1948—exact, detailed. Yet some numbers differed slightly from their own tallies.
"There are errors," Sam said with relief. If the machine faltered, his talent at hand-calculation still mattered.
But Harley gave him a pitying look. "Sam, if your numbers differ from the machine's, odds are—you're the one mistaken."
Sam bristled. "Impossible! I was the best at data processing in Naval Intelligence!"
Walker backed him. "Yes, Harley. Machines make mistakes."
Harley merely shrugged. He had once thought the same. Now he knew better.
Soon, staff hauled in reams of calculation papers—Harley's manual checks of the machine's accuracy. Beside them lay mountains of scratch work.
Evan smiled. "Sam, Walker. If you don't believe it, calculate yourselves. Food is on me."
Two days later, Evan re-entered the room.
The brothers looked up from their desks, hair disheveled, eyes bloodshot. Sam's expression mixed disbelief with despair.
He had calculated without rest. And each time, the machine was right.
"Boss," Walker whispered hoarsely, "it takes more than twenty accountants ten days to compute a quarter's retail data. This machine did it in five minutes. And flawlessly. It's a miracle."
Sam, shaken, now stared at the machine with new hunger. "Mr. Valentino, this machine must be worth a fortune—far more than the salaries of twenty accountants."
Evan knew his mind.
"Yes. Development cost was three hundred thousand dollars. Unit production around two hundred thousand. Even with mass production, the price won't fall below a hundred thousand.
True, that exceeds the wages of twenty accountants. But the machine lasts three to five years. In time, it is far cheaper.
And unlike accountants, it can do far more. Show them, Mauchly."
The researcher launched into action, pressing buttons, yanking levers. Soon the printer roared again, spitting out more sheets.
This time the reports stunned the brothers:
—Customer purchase records.
—Inventory data.
—Optimized stock management analysis.
—Consumer habit reports.
—Supply chain collaboration analysis.
—And most staggering of all: a breakdown of regional consumption patterns and differentiated procurement strategies.
The numbers meant little to outsiders. But to Walker and Sam, each figure was priceless.
"With this machine, the two companies can share one supply chain," Sam admitted, eyes red. "But I request priority. With it, I could open a hundred more groceries—spanning five states!"
Walker leapt up before Evan could reply. "Boss, give it to me first. With such a machine, I can match Macy's profit margins—and in a year, surpass them."
Harley only smirked. He knew there was more than one machine.
And Evan confirmed it: "No need to fight. Valentino Town gets one. Valentino City gets one. No upfront cost—the profits will pay off the loan.
As for you, Harley—you'll have ten. I need you to build a retail network across the Eastern Seaboard.
And your clients won't be limited to these two. Their rivals will also be on your list. When we control the supply chain, it no longer matters who runs the stores."
Evan paused, giving Sam a knowing look.