Super Synergy: ISDN
The super synergy effect. “Did you say Integrated Service Digital Network?”
At Yoo Jae-won’s question, Minister Oh Myung looked genuinely surprised. ISDN was simply the acronym for that very phrase. In Korean it was called the Integrated Services Digital Network—a technology designed to deliver high-speed digital communications over the ordinary telephone lines the public already used. Its base speed was a brisk 64 Kbps; with dual channels it could reach 128 Kbps. The modem currently attached to Yoo Jae-won’s computer ran at 2,400 bps, so this was twenty-six times faster. Dual-channel would make it fifty-two times faster.
“How on earth do you know that? And at your age—your English is that good too?”
“Working with computers made English feel natural. Besides, while using the internet I often looked up the latest technology news. If this can be introduced and used right away, I couldn’t ask for anything more.”
It was an extraordinary technology, yet in his previous life it had failed spectacularly. Delayed for various reasons, commercial service only began in 1993, and the price was exorbitant. Then, from the mid-1990s onward, affordable high-speed internet services such as Hanaro Telecom and Thrunet appeared, and ISDN quietly faded into history. But what if the rollout came earlier and the rates were reasonable? Until true broadband arrived, it would revolutionize a computer-communications market still dominated by modems.
“As expected, voluntary curiosity and self-directed learning produce far greater results than forced study. Mm… when the ISDN pilot service—well, when testing reaches the research stage—I’ll see to it that you can participate as well.”
“Wow! Thank you!”
Coming from a high-ranking official, such a positive statement was essentially a firm promise to deliver the service to Yoo Jae-won as quickly as possible. He was already conducting business with the United States from his room using the still-nascent internet. Faster communications would only increase efficiency. There could be no better gift.
“And one more thing. You may receive an invitation to a Cheong Wa Dae event around the end of December. The exact nature of the event hasn’t been finalized yet, but the invitation itself is all but certain. Keep that in mind.”
“End of December. Understood.”
“A small piece of advice: even a modest transaction record with the United States would be helpful.”
“A transaction record?”
“Yes. The largest year-end event at Cheong Wa Dae is the Night for Export Companies. Chaebol chairmen attend. As a special case, even a small achievement should be enough to secure your place.”
“I see. I understand.”
What Yoo Jae-won needed was recognition. He had no reason to decline such an opportunity. Of course, those issuing the invitation had their own motives—transparent ones. Yet if they wanted him to play the role of mascot, he was perfectly willing to meet their expectations. Still, one concern lingered: how the President would treat him. The current President was nicknamed the “Water President,” and the National Assembly was controlled by the opposition. The recent parliamentary audit had demonstrated the opposition’s strength without restraint, and a hearing for the former President was imminent. The President was not without power, however. Like his predecessor, he enjoyed extracting money from corporations. Knowing this, Yoo Jae-won worried the man might try to squeeze funds from him as well. Surely he wouldn’t pick the pockets of an elementary-school student. That would be beyond absurd.
The final stop on his Seoul business trip was the office of Attorney Choi Kang-wook—or, more accurately now, the Seoul branch of ID Technology. ID Technology had taken over the lease of the office Choi Kang-wook had previously used. From now on, ID Technology would pay the rent and cover all operating expenses. Since Choi Kang-wook would no longer accept private clients, the signboard would also be changed to ID Technology.
During the transition, the status of the support staff Choi Kang-wook had employed became ambiguous. These were the people who had delivered documents to courts and prosecutors’ offices or handled bookkeeping and other clerical tasks. For the remainder of the year they would remain employed by Choi Kang-wook; afterward they would either join ID Technology or be introduced to other law firms.
Although the Seoul branch had been established, it would not engage in sales activities. It would handle only specialized legal documentation and administrative work requiring legal expertise, so it was quieter than the advertising shop in Yeoju that fielded constant phone calls.
“Here it is.”
Choi Kang-wook handed over a document. As Yoo Jae-won received it, a wave of emotion swept over him. The patent certificate for the Ribbon Interface had finally arrived. Exactly as Choi Kang-wook had promised, it had been granted without any modifications. In addition, the design utility model had also been approved.
“You can expect good news from the United States and Europe soon as well.”
Because copyright protection was far stricter in Western countries, he had little to worry about on that front. The real question had been whether a software interface could even be patented in Korea, yet thanks to a capable attorney the matter had been resolved smoothly. From now on, the Ribbon Interface belonged to ID Technology.
“By the way, I hear orders are pouring in these days.”
“Yes. We’re receiving orders of three to five thousand copies at a time.”
Because the company was doing so well, the conversation with Choi Kang-wook flowed easily. When yesterday’s orders were tallied, the total already exceeded fifteen thousand units. The thirty-percent discount had been extended only to Sambo Computer; other companies received at most ten percent, so the margins were excellent. ID Technology had no factory with high maintenance costs. The largest production expense was labor; after subtracting modest material costs and taxes, everything else was profit. Most importantly, all transactions were settled in cash. The moment anyone so much as mentioned promissory notes, the automatic reply—“That would be difficult”—eliminated the problem. Funds were steadily deposited into the company account, already approaching two hundred million won. Achieving such sales in 1988 with a single software product was undoubtedly a record.
One small secret Yoo Jae-won had not yet fully grasped was that these figures would have been impossible had Keyboard Warrior been sold directly to individual consumers in the retail market. As he had seen at Yongsan and Seewoon Electronics Plaza, awareness of software piracy was virtually nonexistent. Corporations were different. Any pre-installed software had to be genuine. That was why software companies fought desperately to secure supply contracts with computer manufacturers. By opening negotiations with large corporations from the very beginning, Yoo Jae-won had placed the business on a smooth trajectory.
“When I think back to what I was doing at twelve, I feel ashamed.”
It was an unnecessary self-reproach. Choi Kang-wook was certain that if the attorney ever learned the full, complicated story, he would never again voice such regret or complaint.
In any case, the conversation naturally turned to the enormous sum of money now available and what to do with it. Just as he had with the chairman of Sambo Computer, Yoo Jae-won began explaining the money tree and the methods for investing the profits. Choi Kang-wook listened attentively, nodding from time to time. Unlike the Sambo chairman, he had no aversion to purchasing real estate. Yet when the discussion reached a certain point, a question arose.
“Distributing one hundred million won in dividends is perfectly understandable—shareholders have that right. But investing the remainder in stocks… I’d rather you didn’t. Why not buy land instead?”
December 30. A Friday—the final business day of 1988. Yoo Jae-won intended to hold a shareholders’ meeting and announce that one hundred million won of this year’s net profit would be distributed as dividends. He felt no reluctance whatsoever; the money was simply a token of gratitude to the investors who had believed in him. Moreover, of ID Technology’s shares, 50.1 percent belonged to Yoo Jae-won himself. Of the remaining 49.9 percent, his father’s side of the family held 5 percent and his mother’s side held 4 percent. The true outside investors—the principal, the vice-principal, President Hyun Mi-yu, and others—held 40.9 percent.
The share structure had not been forced upon the investors; they themselves had decided it. The company existed solely because of Yoo Jae-won’s talent and the innovative Keyboard Warrior program. The monetary value of his program and talent was deemed equal to the total capital contributed by the teachers, President Hyun Mi-yu, and the relatives on both sides of the family. Therefore, no matter how much the investors contributed, Yoo Jae-won’s stake remained 50 percent. To secure management control, he had additionally contributed 200,000 won in cash for a 0.1 percent stake, completing the current structure. Originally he had planned to contribute the emergency fund he had earned from selling songs, but the teachers and President Hyun Mi-yu had recognized his ability as equity, so it had proved unnecessary.
In his heart he had wanted to distribute the entire profit as dividends, but the tax burden on dividend income was substantial and there were many places requiring investment, so he had limited the amount to one hundred million won. Next year would be different.
“Stocks are too risky.”
Choi Kang-wook raised no objection to the decision to pay dividends. He simply wished to discourage investing the remaining profits in stocks.
“Is your view that stocks are risky based on common sense, or on an analysis of the current market?”
The sharp thrust left Choi Kang-wook momentarily speechless, despite being a lawyer by profession. The conjecture was correct. He had the general impression that stocks were dangerous and could lead to ruin, yet he had never studied them properly. Still, he was not without a counterargument. If stock trading were a discipline that could be mastered through study, Newton would never have lost his fortune, and countless economists would already be wealthy.
Just as he was organizing his thoughts to reply, Yoo Jae-won continued.
“What are your thoughts on the outcome of the American presidential election in a few days?”
“Hmm? With both stocks and elections, you have to open the lid to know, don’t you?”
It was a commonsense remark, yet the expression on Yoo Jae-won’s face belonged to someone who already knew the answer.
“I’m speaking from an analysis indicating that the stock market will rise at least until late spring next year. The same applies to the American election. There are more than ten reasons why Republican Bush will become president, but not a single reason why Democrat Dukakis will.”
“Really? Bush is going to be the next American president?”
“Yes. The result will be clear in just a few days. If Bush becomes president, please proceed with stock investments based on my analysis.”
“Hm. Understood.”
Faced with Yoo Jae-won’s certainty, Choi Kang-wook had no choice but to agree.
Three days later, on November 8, Republican candidate George Bush was elected the 41st President of the United States—exactly as history had recorded. A closer look, however, revealed a slight difference. The number of electoral votes each candidate received remained identical to the original timeline, yet Bush received roughly 300,000 fewer popular votes than before, and Dukakis received about 150,000 fewer. The reason was immediately apparent. The sole point of divergence between the original America and the present one was the massive popularity of Keyboard Warrior. No other variable appeared in any newspaper. Bush had once again relied on relentless negative campaigning, while Dukakis had responded with gentlemanly silence. The outcome was the same, but voter turnout had declined. For the United States the development was unfortunate, yet for Yoo Jae-won, on the verge of an official launch, it was an excellent signal. It meant his product wielded enough influence to depress turnout even slightly.
Having confirmed the American election result, Choi Kang-wook quietly began preparing to invest in stocks. All that remained for Yoo Jae-won was to earn as much money as possible to buy those stocks. Naturally, he looked toward the United States. Domestically, orders from nearly every major corporation had already been secured; there was no room left to expand. Only one card remained, but Yoo Jae-won felt confident.
In his hand he held the name of Electronic Arts, North America’s largest software distributor. And Electronic Arts was already waiting eagerly, excited and ready for Yoo Jae-won to appear.