The day Takuya Nakayama left Santa Clara, Mountain View was already in a frenzy.
In late March, Netscape Corporation announced a set of figures: by the end of the month, the company had accumulated over $7 million in profits.
While this figure might not seem remarkable in traditional industries, the timing was perfect.
Silicon Valley Online had just set the American investment community ablaze with an 84% first-day stock price surge. Before the fervor had even cooled, Netscape threw another log on the fire.
This time, even Wall Street had lost the appetite to feign composure.
The two events combined to form a clear logical chain: the Internet industry wasn't just about hype; it was actually making money.
Silicon Valley Online was profiting from virtual avatars and pets, and Netscape had earned $7 million in profit by selling software through online distribution.
This was exactly what the market craved: a living, breathing, numerically proven precedent.
The investment bankers arrived almost simultaneously.
The drive from San Francisco International Airport to Mountain View took about forty minutes. In the final days of March, the parking lot outside Netscape's offices was packed with cars bearing out-of-state license plates. The lobby was swarming with people from Morgan Stanley, Merrill Lynch, and DLJ. The receptionist had to repeat herself dozens of times a day: "The CEO has no scheduled appointments today."
It was useless.
The crowd was still there the next morning.
News of the situation eventually reached Takuya Nakayama, who was on his way to Los Angeles.
He put down the files in his hand and asked the driver to turn on the car radio to the business channel.
"—Netscape Browser's user base has tripled in the past six months. Analysts widely believe that the release of these earnings figures will significantly accelerate the company's IPO process—"
Takuya Nakayama turned the volume down by two notches.
He had been closely monitoring Netscape's actions since the end of last year.
This situation was entirely within his plans.
Marc Andreessen's logic was straightforward: the browser was the user's gateway to the Internet. If they controlled that gateway, they could figure out how to monetize it later.
The $7 million was just the first step; what made Netscape truly valuable was its tens of millions of users.
The problem was that Microsoft was also fiercely guarding that gateway.
Andreessen should have known this, but with the market in such a frenzy, no one wanted to discuss risks during a celebration.
The assistant, sitting in the passenger seat, turned and handed him a fax.
"This is from New York. Goldman Sachs, Morgan Stanley, and several second-tier investment banks are already competing for Netscape's underwriting rights. George Fischer reportedly flew to Mountain View this morning to meet with Andreessen in person."
Takuya Nakayama glanced at the fax, folded it, and placed it on his lap.
"George is quite the opportunist. We forced him to back down last week, and now he's already chasing a new deal. Wall Street people truly don't hold grudges."
The assistant simply smiled without responding.
The car fell silent for a while.
Outside the window, the traffic on Highway 101 flowed endlessly, and low-hanging clouds pressed down on the southern horizon, Los Angeles still hundreds of kilometers away.
Takuya Nakayama reopened the file he had set aside earlier—the floor plan for the Los Angeles Convention Center, specifically the layout for E3.
Compared to the buzz in Mountain View, this matter felt far more concrete to him.
The IDSA had printed the site allocation diagram of the Los Angeles Convention Center on A3 paper, folded it neatly, and tucked it into the folder.
His escort from the IDSA was Kevin, a man in his early thirties. He wore a perfectly buttoned suit and had followed Takuya from the parking lot, a leather briefcase tucked under his right arm and a bundle of blueprints in his left hand. Though he spoke little, he exuded an air of professionalism.
As the automatic doors slid open, a cacophony of noise rushed in—another trade show was winding down its setup in the West Hall. Workers were maneuvering display racks with forklifts, the metallic clatter echoing under the high ceiling.
Takuya accepted the booth layout diagram Kevin handed him, unfolded it, and glanced at it before heading straight for the central hall.
The central hall was a vast, empty square space, still relatively clean.
The main stage for E3 would be built here, along with venues for all the companies' press conferences and media interviews.
Takuya Nakayama walked around the venue, stopping at the marked boundary for the main stage area. He stared at the floor for a moment, silent.
Kevin caught up and explained, "The main stage construction plan has been approved, and we received bids from three candidate construction teams last week. We're currently comparing..."
"Is the central aisle wide enough?" Takuya interrupted, pointing to the demarcation lines on the floor. "When each press conference ends and attendees disperse, they'll head to the South Hall. If this area isn't handled properly, the crowd will get bottlenecked here, and no one will be able to complete their conference."
Kevin flipped open his folder, pulled out a detailed blueprint, and showed it to him. "We've allocated space in accordance with fire evacuation regulations. The main aisle is no less than—"
"I'm not talking about fire safety, I'm talking about the attendee experience," Takuya interrupted, taking the blueprint and staring at the dense annotations. "Just meeting regulations isn't enough for crowd flow. I trust you to figure this out."
Kevin raised his notebook and quickly jotted down some notes.
After leaving the central hall, they went straight into the South Hall.
This newly completed exhibition hall spanned over thirty thousand square meters, with a high ceiling and a faint smell of fresh paint on the floor.
The booths of the five console manufacturers—Sony, Sega, Nintendo, Atari, and 3D0—were all arranged here.
Takuya Nakayama stepped inside, slowing his pace.
According to the floor plan, Sega's booth was located slightly left of center near the South Hall's entrance, diagonally opposite Nintendo.
Sony's booth was closest to the central corridor entrance, occupying the area with the best natural light and foot traffic flow in the entire South Hall.
"Did Sony fight for this spot themselves, or was it assigned by the IDSA?" he asked casually.
Kevin paused for a second. "I'd need to check the archives to confirm that—"
"Never mind, it's not important." Takuya handed back the floor plan and continued walking deeper into the hall.
The wall at the far end of the South Hall had been whitewashed. Several workers stood on ladders, installing lighting fixtures.
Takuya Nakayama stood there, mentally reviewing the entire layout of the hall.
He glanced back at the reserved area for Sega's booth, mentally calculating the number and arrangement of display machines. Then he turned and walked toward the West Hall.
The West Hall had a more traditional layout.
Konami, Namco, Capcom, and EA were lined up in a row, each occupying a large section.
As he entered the West Hall, the noise intensified.
A group of logistics workers were unloading boxes, stacking them half-way up their chests. Forklifts crisscrossed the area.
Kevin maneuvered around a forklift and hurried to catch up, nearly getting hit in the shoulder by a worker pushing a cart.
"Sorry, another exhibition is setting up simultaneously today. We've got two extra construction teams compared to what we expected—"
"Understandable. The busier the better—means the schedule's packed." Takuya Nakayama sidestepped a cart, stopped, and pointed to a specific area. "How much space is left around this section?"
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