Chapter 106 Gates's mockery: What do people who make mobile phones know about PCs?

Xia Weiliang's Phillips screwdriver was still dangling in mid-air.

A small dab of off-white thermal paste clung to the tip of the screwdriver.

A muffled, cold chuckle rumbled from Lu Jingming's throat.

"Tell him to go pick out a grave with good feng shui right now."

These words drifted along the breeze from the air cooler, literally making the hair on Chu Xuan's neck stand on end.

Chu Xuan swallowed dryly and stuffed the crumpled tissue back into the pocket of his floral shirt.

"Boss Lu, Microsoft's market cap is over two trillion dollars."

His voice trembled. "Are we really going to go head-to-head? Maybe we should try testing the waters with a netbook first?"

Xia Weiliang rolled her eyes dramatically.

She jammed her screwdriver into the cooling fins of the Dell Alienware and pried hard.

"Snap."

Two thick, solid copper heat pipes were snapped straight off, copper shards scattering everywhere.

"A netbook? Do you think this is ten years ago?"

Barefoot, Xia Weiliang sifted through the parts scattered on the floor and picked up a black chip.

"What Boss Lu wants to build is a monster that can sweep all those X86 Architecture relics into the trash heap."

She lifted the entire motherboard of the Dell Alienware.

"Look at this power supply module."

Using the screwdriver as a pointer, Xia Weiliang gestured to the dense row of capacitors on the motherboard.

"To power that lousy CPU, they just blindly stacked twenty power phases. This isn't a computer; it's a miniature power substation."

Lu Jingming stared at the dense cluster of solder joints, ignoring Chu Xuan's cowardly remark.

He fished out a green plastic lighter from the pocket of his faded jeans.

He pressed his thumb against the flint wheel.

"Click."

A deep blue flame flared up, illuminating one side of his sharp canine tooth.

"The Americans are used to 'brute force creates miracles'."

Lu Jingming closed the lighter, and the flame died out.

"They've become numb from monopolizing; if they can't control the power consumption, they add a fan. If the fan isn't fast enough, they add water cooling."

He tapped his knuckles against the stainless steel tabletop, producing a steady, dull thud.

"It's time to teach these foreigners what a real underlying architecture is."

A few hours earlier.

On the other side of the ocean in Seattle, it was a sunny afternoon.

On the top floor of the Microsoft headquarters building, in a 300-square-meter luxury lounge.

The air was filled with the aroma of top-tier civet coffee.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Lake Washington shimmered.

Gates sat on a custom-made, handcrafted calfskin sofa.

He wasn't wearing a suit jacket, just a finely crafted light blue cashmere sweater.

In his hand, he held a freshly printed copy of The Wall Street Journal.

The bold characters on the front-page headline were particularly striking.

"Xinghai Technology Goes on a Buying Spree, Aiming to Break the PC Monopoly?"

Gates snorted coldly.

He tossed the newspaper onto the expensive marble coffee table.

The paper slid about half a foot, stopping next to a steaming cup of black coffee.

"Have the Chinese people made a little money in the mobile phone market and burnt out their brains?"

Gates pushed up the rimless glasses on his nose, crow's feet forming at the corners of his eyes in a mocking gesture.

On the other side of the lounge.

Ballmer was holding a plate bigger than his face, stuffing black truffle sandwiches into his mouth.

His shiny bald head reflected the light from the overhead lamps.

Hearing Gates' words, Ballmer paused.

He swallowed the food in his mouth with difficulty, his fat chest heaving twice.

"Boss, I was just about to talk to you about this."

Ballmer grabbed a napkin and wiped his greasy mouth indiscriminately.

He laughed so hard his fat quivered, revealing his back molars.

"I just got a call from Intel. That kid Lu Jingming is snatching up high-frequency memory sticks in Taiwan."

Ballmer waddled over to the sofa and plopped down.

The sofa let out a pained groan, sinking under his weight.

"Does he really think he can piece together a computer just by buying some off-the-shelf parts?"

Gates picked up the cup of black coffee.

No sugar, no milk.

The bitter taste spread across his tongue, but he squinted in enjoyment.

"Mobile phones and PCs are completely different dimensions."

Gates tapped his finger on the photo of Lu Jingming wearing a black T-shirt in the newspaper.

"Our Windows system has been built up over thirty years."

His voice carried a sense of condescending arrogance, as if he were stating an obvious, self-evident truth.

"Thirty-five million application programs globally. From trading terminals on Wall Street to control consoles at The Pentagon."

Gates paused.

"All written with underlying code based on our X86 Architecture."

He leaned back on the sofa and crossed his legs.

"That so-called Xinghai system, to put it bluntly, is just a skinned mobile Android."

Ballmer laughed even louder, spit flying everywhere.

He slapped his fan-sized palm against his thigh, making a loud smacking sound.

"Exactly! Even if he uses an ARM chip to build an iron box with a keyboard."

Ballmer panted heavily, sweat beads streaming down his bald head.

"It's not like it can even open Excel upon startup. Is he going to make users hold a dozens-of-inches screen to play Fruit Ninja?"

A harsh burst of laughter erupted in the lounge.

Several executives gathered at the bar joined in the amusement.

In their eyes.

Xinghai Technology's cross-industry behavior was no different from a monkey throwing knives in a circus.

It looked lively, but in reality, it was incredibly stupid.

Ballmer walked to the liquor cabinet and poured himself half a glass of bourbon whiskey.

Ice cubes clinked in the glass.

"Boss, actually, we don't need to do anything."

Ballmer took a big gulp of the liquor, the liquid dripping down his chin onto his expensive tie.

"Forcing an ARM chip to translate the Windows system—the heat generated is not something passive cooling can handle."

He let out a drunken hiccup.

"Unless Lu Jingming straps a dry ice machine to the back cover of his computer."

Ballmer exaggeratedly gestured a large circle.

"Otherwise, five minutes after turning it on, the whole casing would be hot enough to cook an egg."

"They don't understand what an ecosystem moat is at all."

Gates shook his head and placed the empty coffee cup back on the coffee table.

The porcelain base clicked against the marble, making a dull thud.

"The ARM architecture is naturally crippled. The computing power is low, and the instruction set is as simple as a picture book for elementary school students."

He reached out and pulled over another internal market research report.

"Forcing it to run our system-level applications? With that pitiful computing power, just translating the code would burn right through the motherboard."

Ballmer nodded repeatedly, the fat on his neck folding into several layers.

"Boss, that Mr. Yang from Lenovo just called me overseas to pledge his loyalty."

He pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, wiping the sweat off his bald head.

"He said he would absolutely blockade any factory in the Yangtze River Delta that does OEM work for Xinghai."

Gates' eyes turned cold.

He didn't care about the survival of those comprador enterprises; he only cared about Microsoft's absolute hegemony.

"Lenovo's bunch of fools can't stop Xinghai. That kid has a valuation of one trillion in his hands."

Gates rubbed his index finger back and forth along the edge of the coffee table.

"With money, you can always buy a factory that isn't afraid of death."

He raised his head, his gaze crossing the floor-to-ceiling window to stare at the sailboats on the lake in the distance.

"Since they want to play, let's teach this young Chinese man a lesson."

Gates picked up the bone china coffee cup, finishing the last bit of residue at the bottom.

He took a sip of the bitter black coffee.

The taste was stronger, but he swallowed it smoothly.

"Ballmer."

Gates didn't turn his head, his voice not loud but carrying an unquestionable tone of command.

"Have the PR department post a tweet, teaching that young Chinese man how to write code."

He put down the cup and adjusted the cuffs of his cashmere sweater.

"Tell the whole world, a peasant who makes phones shouldn't dream of touching the knives and forks on the table."

Ballmer stood up.

His hundreds of pounds of weight deformed the surface of his expensive leather shoes.

He clutched the damp handkerchief in his hand, laughing so hard the corners of his eyes nearly disappeared into his flesh.

Ballmer wiped the sweat off his bald head, his fat quivering all over.

"No problem, Boss. I bet he can't even make a boot screen before the motherboard burns to ashes!"