"You kids from the Valley think your teensy computers are going to replace our Goliath machines someday, don't you?"
"I wouldn't know anymore. I'm out of the business."
"Poppyshit!" Holmes said, rapping his hand down on the table. "Don't give me that sour-faced hurt-boy story. Doesn't fly with me."
"I made that company what it is," Peter said, instantly somber.
"And then it was taken away from me."
"That's craziness," Byron said, moving his chair closer. "Boy, I'll tell you something. After I made the 990 what it is, they moved me into big management. Sure, it was my dad's company. But I had the right education for it, so I could have done it anyway if my heart had been in it. But it wasn't. All I wanted to do was make those big, beautiful machines. After a short while I stepped down, moved in another fella, a guy that managed the schedule and all that stuff. Kept our friendship golden after all these years. Now he's the big cheese there.
"I stuck around for a long time. I was vice chairman, and spent years evolving the 990 design into what it is now, which'll probably see them through to the year 2000. As I was nearing the age everyone says is the time to leave, I had a heart attack. Guess I thought I was still a youngster. I retired, and me and my wife have been enjoying ourselves and playing around like kids ever since. Not bad for seventy-four years young, eh?"
"But it's not the same. I could have run the company. With all due respect, you inherited yours. I started mine from scratch. They just didn't give me a chance," Peter said.
The older man discounted the younger with a wave of his arm.
"Nah. You'll come around eventually. Can't have both, you know."
"I could."
The older man's tone turned serious. "That's just pure, one-hundred percent poppyshit, is all." He pointed his finger at Peter with rigid authority. "You need to squeegee all that anger out of your system so you can get back out there and do something. Again."