"Don't let the numbers go to your head," Takuya Nakayama interrupted his daydream. "The stock price doubling means the ammunition in your hands has also doubled."
Frank's laughter faded on the other end of the line as he waited for the next words.
"Initiate the stock-swap acquisition plan," Takuya Nakayama commanded. "Target search engine technology teams and content aggregation platforms with potential. Use our high-priced stock to acquire them. Do not use cash."
"Understood. Use stock to buy assets."
"What's the latest on Netscape?" Takuya Nakayama asked.
"Marc Andreessen did an interview with Wired magazine. He's taking shots at us," Frank said with a hint of disdain. "He claims that portal sites are just fancy directories, and that the browser is the true cornerstone of the Internet."
"Let him talk," Takuya Nakayama said, putting down the report in his hand. "Microsoft's IE 3.0 will be bundled and pushed with the next Windows 95 update. Netscape's real troubles are yet to come."
"Do we need to kick them while they're down?"
"No need," Takuya Nakayama replied, leaning back in his chair. "Just focus on go.com's compatibility. Make sure our users can access the site smoothly on any browser. Also, accelerate the preparations for the Olympics Special Edition. I want to see half of all U.S. internet users setting our homepage as their default by the opening ceremony."
"Consider it done. We've already doubled the editorial team, and we're adding more server nodes."
"Go celebrate, Frank," Takuya said, preparing to hang up.
"Takuya," Frank called out, stopping him. "Are you really not planning to come visit California?"
"I trust you with the Internet business," Takuya replied, and hung up.
Mid-June in New York.
On the electronic display at the Nasdaq Trading Floor, the numbers next to the ticker symbol SV0L fluctuated around $45.
More than half a month had passed since go.com went live.
Wall Street analysts were already typing up their conclusions in their respective columns.
They had determined that Silicon Valley Online had already fully capitalized on its traffic dividend. The growth curve for new users brought in by email registrations was beginning to flatten.
The stock market needed a new catalyst. Otherwise, after consolidating at its peak, a correction was inevitable.
Redwood City, Silicon Valley Online Headquarters.
Frank tossed several bearish research reports into the wastepaper basket.
Across the desk, the Technical Director handed over the final test report.
"Server expansion complete," the Technical Director said, pointing to the data in the report. "The Passport System's data storage architecture has been redundantly backed up. The editorial team of two hundred people is working in three shifts, and the direct lines to the news agencies are all live."
Frank glanced at the calendar on the wall.
The Atlanta Olympics were less than a month away.
"Take down the GG banner on the homepage," Frank ordered. "Replace it with the new one. Let those Wall Street types see what a real traffic harvester looks like."
San Francisco Bay Area.
Richard sat down at his workstation with a cup of coffee.
He turned on his computer and skillfully typed in go.com.
The page finished loading.
The banner at the very top had changed.
The old GG brand, urging people to sign up for free email accounts, was gone.
In its place was a visually striking banner.
The background was a promotional poster for the Atlanta Olympics.
The Olympic Rings were emblazoned in the center.
To the right, a line of bold text read: The Sole Official Internet Sponsor and Information Platform of the 1996 Atlanta Olympics.
Below it was a red button: Enter Olympics Zone.
Richard paused, his coffee cup halfway to his lips.
A sports fanatic, he had been eagerly anticipating the Games next month. The TV networks ran trailers all day, but to find the exact schedule for each event, he still had to pore over the sports pages of the newspaper.
He moved his mouse and clicked the red button.
The page jumped.
A multi-dimensional information matrix unfolded across his screen.
On the left was a schedule arranged by date, precise to the minute, with the broadcasting channels of major networks thoughtfully listed beside each entry. The right side featured a placeholder for the medal tally. The center was filled with news flashes categorized by sport.
Richard noticed a pop-up window in the bottom right corner of the page.
"Tell us, what do you want to see?"
Below the question was a survey listing dozens of Olympic events, as well as the USA Dream Team and the names of star athletes from various nations.
Richard checked the boxes for basketball, track and field, and swimming.
He clicked submit.
The page refreshed.
The layout of the website changed.
In the central news feed, information on basketball and track and field was automatically pinned to the top.
A system notification popped up: Your personalized Olympics Channel has been created.
This setting has been saved to your G0 Passport.
Richard leaned back in his chair.
The feeling of being served was wonderful.
He no longer had to sift through a pile of gymnastics and equestrian news to find the basketball updates he cared about.
At UC Berkeley.
Eric stared at the Olympics Zone on his screen.
"They got the exclusive online sponsorship rights," Eric said, pointing to the Olympic Rings logo to his roommate behind him. "How much did that cost?"
"The money isn't the point," his roommate said, pushing up his glasses. "Look at the underlying logic. They've tied user preferences to Passport accounts. This means every time you log in, the server retrieves your data and re-renders the page."
Eric scrolled his mouse, watching the real-time participant count for the survey.
The numbers were jumping rapidly.
"This is a ruthless move," Eric analyzed. "Traditional media has editors decide what readers see. Silicon Valley Online lets readers tell editors what to write. With this survey data, their reporters don't even need to run around blindly—they can just target the events with the highest vote counts for their coverage."
"And to keep their customized pages, users will stay logged in," his roommate added. "That's going to push the daily active user count to terrifying heights."
Redwood City, Editorial Department.
The large open-plan office buzzed with the sound of keyboards clattering.
The Editor-in-Chief stood before a whiteboard, where real-time vote counts were scrawled in marker.
"The Dream Team III is ranked first in attention!" the Editor-in-Chief shouted. "Send three people to stake out the USA Men's Basketball Team's training camp. Even if Charles Barkley eats three burgers for lunch, I want a breaking news update on it!"
"The vote count for track and field is climbing. When will Carl Lewis's exclusive interview be ready?"
"Buy the wire service's press release and add our own commentary. Take those highly-upvoted prediction threads from the BBS and turn them into a special feature."
The editors at Silicon Valley Online didn't need to guess the public's taste.
The backend data reports were the most precise navigation system.
Whatever the users wanted to see, they produced.
New York, NBC Headquarters.
The executive in charge of the Olympic broadcast stared at the printout on his desk.
It was a screenshot of go.com's Olympics Zone.
"They've copied our entire broadcast schedule," his assistant reported, standing beside him.
The executive rubbed his temples.
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