Chương 63: Book 3 - Chapter 5 C

The next morning I told Matt I wanted to go to the park first. At Portsmouth Square, I joined the local Tai Chi group. They had already started, a congregation of mostly elders moving with the deliberate, flowing grace of long practice. I walked up quietly and found a spot on the edge, matching their tempo and form without a word. I flowed through the movements, settling into my center with deliberate grace. My mind was free and calm as I brushed against the Now.

I simply executed the choreography from a thousand recalled futures, making my motions as clean and perfectly weighted as a master's. I followed the teacher and eventually came to a stop. As the final posture settled, the silence that fell was heavy with unspoken curiosity on the verge of eruption. The movement had stopped, and all eyes in the circle were on me, the small white boy who had moved with the fluidity of a seasoned practitioner. They gathered around as I stood there with a calm smile.

Their movements were still slow and deliberate, but their eyes were intensely inquisitive. The teacher, an elderly man with a neat grey queue and a gentle but commanding presence, stepped forward first. He addressed me in polite English.

"Your form is excellent, young man. Very strong, very controlled. Where did you learn such discipline?" he asked, while the others murmured in the background. I bowed deeply, placing my hands together in a sign of respect, and responded in fluent Cantonese, the dialect of the local community.

"Laoshi (Teacher), your praise brings me great honor. I try only to find the quiet place. I've been practicing for a year." The transition from English to perfect, respectful Cantonese caused a visible ripple of surprise. The teacher's eyes flickered and a warm smile finally replaced his formality. He switched to Cantonese as well.

"Ah, you speak the mother tongue! You move like a son of the city, yet you are not a son of the city. Tell us, little friend, why are you not in school this morning?" one of the women, a friendly, silver-haired Dajie (Big Sister), piped up, curiosity overcoming etiquette.

"I am visiting from Oklahoma. My lectures at the University have just concluded," I explained humbly. A man next to her, a stout Shushu (Uncle), laughed.

"Lectures? You? You must mean you were listening to lectures! What is a boy your age teaching at the University?"

"I am a guest speaker on Physics, Shushu. I will return home in a few days," I clarified, avoiding a full explanation of my PhD, which was too complicated for a morning at the park. The teacher cut in gently, his eyes searching my face.

"Your Qi is profound, little master. It is rare to see such concentration at your age. Did you come here specifically for the Tai Chi? You should return many times. We are happy for the chance to learn from your fine example."

"I am happy to be invited. To practice with a group of such masters is a privilege I will not forget," I replied, bowing again. Our conversation was brief, despite the consistent offer of food from the Ah Yi (Aunties), it ended with handshakes hugs and genuine smiles. Matt, who had been watching from a distance, came over as the group dispersed, heading off for their morning tea. I had been invited to join the group anytime.

After lunch, we embarked on a scenic drive across the iconic Golden Gate Bridge, heading towards Marin County. Our progress was halted by a guard gate, a stern sentinel barring entry. I identified myself, "Dr John Cook to see Mr Lucas. I'm expected." There was a brief conversation between the guard and someone on a phone. Matt was directed to the guest parking. Upon arriving at the impressive estate, I was escorted to meet George Lucas in what looked like a library. The room smelled of old wood and new film stock.

"Dr Cook, thank you for making the drive," George said, standing to greet me. He was wearing jeans and a button-down shirt, looking more like a college professor than a mogul.

"Mr Lucas, it's a genuine pleasure," I replied, shaking his hand.

"I brought a couple of things." I gave him an autographed copy of my latest book, the 3D autostereogram one.

"This is mostly for your daughter. You'll like it too." He smiled, flipping through the strange pages.

"I appreciate that. I must say, I read your first novel, 'Alone on Mars,' and I really loved it. Great voice, and the technical details were spot on."

"Thank you. That means a lot coming from you," I said, pulling out a small, carefully wrapped book.

"Since you liked the first one, I brought an autographed first edition for your collection." We moved to sit in comfortable leather chairs. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"So, you're the nine-year-old with the PhD and the checkbook," he said, settling in.

"I understand you're interested in the remnants of the computer graphics group. The one we call Pixar."

"I am," I confirmed.

"I know it's a drain on your resources. It's an incredible collection of talent, but the underlying problem is that the hardware is simply not ready for their ambition. Rendering a single frame of high-quality CGI currently takes hours, sometimes days on the machines they have."

"Exactly. It's a marvelous research unit, but it's a hole in the budget," George sighed.

"I've been carrying the losses hoping someone with vision would come along."

"That's where I come in," I said.

"My lawyers put an offer on your desk: five and a half million for your share, with an immediate additional five million investment into the company. The key is that second part—the investment."

"To buy better computers?" he asked, skeptical.

"No, sir. To buy them time," I clarified.

"Moore's Law is relentless. In three to five years, the hardware will start to catch up. Investing in computers today is foolish. My five million is for developing the next-generation rendering software, the advanced shading models and the animation algorithms they need. They should spend the next few years building the tools that will be ready the minute the hardware arrives. That software is the real value, not the current machines." He leaned forward, his hands clasped, a thoughtful look on his face.

"That is a different perspective. You see the software, not the silicon. You understand what they're doing." He paused, tapping his fingers together.

"I'll have my team look at your offer seriously. It's the most compelling vision I've heard." I nodded, satisfied, then steered the conversation.

"Which brings me to my next topic. I heard you talking about sequels and prequels and that you're ready to move on."

"I am. I've told people I won't be making any more Star Wars films," he said firmly. He shared a few anecdotes about the stress of the original trilogy, the merchandise and the sheer management effort required.

"Frankly, I just want to direct a quiet, personal film again, not run a galaxy."

"Then you should," I agreed.

"Look at Steve Jobs. He just shed the burden of Apple and he's already buzzing with new ideas. Freedom is a powerful motivator. If you're done, you should be truly done. The IP, the franchise—it's still a massive responsibility to manage."

"It provides some income still, there's a new cartoon, toys and t-shirts," he countered, gesturing vaguely.

"That's managing a business, not creating art. That's a distraction," I pressed.

"If you sold the entire thing—the films, the name, all the derivative rights to games, toys and such—you'd never have to look at a spreadsheet again. You could just go make movies." I took a breath and made my pitch.

"I'm offering you a clean break. Would you consider one hundred million dollars to buy all of Star Wars from you? That's a significant amount of money to finance any passion project you desire for the rest of your life." George leaned back, considering the figure.

"One hundred million is a big number, Dr Cook. But the value of the merchandising rights alone is immense, and it's only growing. That seems a little low for a universe, even a finished one."

"I agree the potential is higher, but the Star Wars phenomenon is dear to my heart. I have to admit, I'm a fan-boy. I also believe its true value will only be realized with sequels or prequels, which you don't intend to make. I'm taking the risk on the future, but it's something I love, so I'm happy to do so," I calculated.

"How about one hundred fifty million dollars." He smiled, a flicker of genuine interest in his eyes.

"That's a very fast escalation. You have the cash on hand to commit to that, I take it?"

"I have the funds," I assured him simply. He took a long moment, looking past me as if seeing the far-off planet of Tattooine.

"How about I think about it. I've got your number."

"I hope you do, Mr Lucas. It would be an honor to be the custodian of your universe," I said, standing up. He stood as well.

"I can at least offer you a look around. You'd be interested in the library and the archive."

"That would be fantastic. Thank you for your time." We spent the next half hour walking through the main house, where he showed me the extensive research library—which was the real heart of the ranch—and a small screening room. I particularly enjoyed seeing a few original model miniatures and props he had stored away, realizing I was looking at genuine cinematic history. Then we went back to the Hotel. The next morning I found Matt standing over me as I woke up.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"I've been better. Why do you ask?"

"It sounded like you had nightmares all night. Do you need a Doctor? Are you hurting?" he asked. I smiled at his mothering.

"I'll be fine. I'm just nervous about the flight home. Do you think we could go by the park again so I could do Tai Chi before we head to the airport?" I asked him. He looked at his watch to check.

"Yeah. We've got plenty of time. When do they start?"

"Pretty early. Lets go through McDonald's for breakfast and head to the park."

"Sure, boss. We can do that." I arrived at the park before everyone else, so I started. Sinking into the Now. The others slowly trickled into the park, surprised but happy to see me. Seeing I was already started, they joined my slow steady movements, following my lead. When I finally felt like I was back, firmly centered in the present, I slowed further and came to a gentle stop.

"Little master," the teacher said in the local Cantonese, addressing me.

"Thank you for leading the group." I gave him a sincere respectful bow.

"Thank you for joining me. I needed peace this morning," I replied in the same language.

"Why does someone so young need peace?" a nearby Shushu (Uncle) asked.

"I'm flying home in a couple hours. I was feeling nervous. I don't like flying this time of year."

"Well, we wish you peace and a safe flight little master. You are welcome to join us anytime."

"Thank you teacher," I said with full sincerity.