Lloyd Rich arrived at Paramount at two in the afternoon on a Thursday, and he looked like a man who had been living on the streets for two weeks straight.
He was fifty-eight years old, silver-haired. His suit slightly wrinkled at the elbows, which told Duke that Rich had been working before this.
"Mr. Hauser," Rich said. No handshake. No pleasantries.
He sat down, opened the briefcase, and began pulling out folders, each one tabbed, color-coded, and thick enough to suggest that the entirety of Atari's patent portfolio had been translated into a language only a lawyer could understand.
"Lloyd," Duke said. "Coffee?"
"Had four cups on the morning. If I have another, I'll be able to hear colors." Rich arranged his folders. "Let's get to it."
Duke settled into his chair. The office was quiet.
Rich opened the first folder and spread a set of documents across the desk.
They were Atari's core patent filings, the original applications, the granted claims, the technical schematics that described, in excruciating detail, the electronic architecture that made a video game cabinet work.
"I've spent the last fourteen days doing nothing but reading these patents, reading the FTC's preliminary correspondence, and talking to every antitrust litigator I trust," Rich said. "Here's what I've found."
He looked at Duke.
"The FTC isn't worried about kids playing games. They don't care about Pong. They don't care about Speedway. They don't care about the phenomenon of the American arcade." Rich tapped the patent documents.
"What they care about is this. Your patents. Specifically, the broadness of your patents. Atari's core filings cover not just the specific designs of your machines, but the fundamental principles of how a video game cabinet operates.
He pulled a paper and showed it. "Look at these the display system, the input mechanism, the scoring logic, the coin-operation interface. These aren't narrow patents. These are architectural patents for the sector."
"Which is what patents are supposed to do, describe my technology to avoid copycats." Duke said.
"Which is what good patents do, yes. And your patent attorneys did excellent work."
"But here's the problem, when your patents are so broad that they effectively define the entire category, and when you're the dominant player in that category, the FTC starts to see you not as an innovator protecting his invention, but as a gatekeeper controlling access to an entire sector of the American economy."
"I licensed to Ross. I created competition."
"You created a competitor. One who is already big and could had bypassed your patents. Under terms that you dictated, in a market defined by your patents. That's not competition in the FTC's eyes."
Rich leaned back and folded his hands. "Let me tell you what happens if you fight this head-on and lose."
"Tell me."
"If the FTC escalates to a formal complaint and prevails, they can petition for a compulsory licensing order. That means the government forces you to license your patents to anyone who applies, on terms the government sets. But that would be the mild outcome."
"The aggressive outcome, and this Commission has been aggressive under the current chairman is that they challenge the patents themselves. They argue that the claims are overbroad, that they stifle innovation, and they petition the Patent Office for reexamination."
"If the patents are narrowed or revoked, the technology enters the public domain. Anyone can build a video game cabinet without paying you a cent."
The room was very quiet. Duke could hear his own breathing, steady and controlled.
"That's the nuclear option of course," Rich continued. "It probably won't happen. But the threat of it is enough to distort everything, your financing, your negotiations, even you loans. The shadow of an FTC investigation is almost as damaging as the investigation itself."
"And in the meantime," Duke said, "the clones are already out there."
Since Pong did it's mark on the industry, small time copycats copying every part of Pong had rosen up one by one on the market. Atari had enforced their patents on each and every one.
Rich nodded. "That's the other piece of this. Domestically, you've been aggressive about enforcement. The lawsuit against Amutronics for their Pong clone is solid, clear infringement, strong evidence, good facts."
"But Amutronics is a small company, and they're screaming to anyone who'll listen that Atari is a bully using its patents to crush the little guy. That narrative plays directly into the FTC's concerns."
"And internationally?"
"Internationally, you have a blind spot on the Pacific Ocean. Japanese companies, Taito, Sega, others are producing Pong clones and distributing them across Asia and Latam. You haven't filed international enforcement actions because, frankly, your coverage outside the U.S. is thin."
"The Japanese are also operating in a legal gray zone, not quite infringing under their domestic patent laws, not quite safe under international treaties. They're making money, and they're building market share, and every day you don't address it is a day they get stronger."
"So the picture is this," Duke said to Rich. "Domestically, the FTC thinks I'm a monopolist. Internationally, the pirates think I'm toothless. And my own enforcement actions are being used as evidence against me."
"That's a fair summary."
"Great." Duke looked at the ceiling. He wasn't smiling, but neither was he grim.
"Alright, Lloyd. What's the play?"
Rich reached for the last folder, the thickest one, the one he'd kept at the bottom of the stack. He opened it and slid a single sheet of paper across the desk.
On it was a diagram, a circle in the center labeled "ATARI PATENT POOL," with arrows radiating outward to a dozen smaller circles, each labeled with a different company name.
"The Standard play," Rich said. "You stop defending the monopoly. You dissolve it voluntarily on your terms."
Duke picked up the diagram and studied it.
"Here's how it works," Rich continued. "You create a formal patent pool, an open licensing program under which any qualified manufacturer can obtain a license to Atari's core arcade patents. The royalty rate is five percent of gross revenue. That's it. Five percent."
"Low enough that no one can credibly argue it's exclusionary. High enough that it generates a significant passive income stream."
"Five percent," Duke repeated.
"Five percent. On every arcade cabinet manufactured in the United States. By anyone. Including Kinney-Midway. Including Amutronics. Including any new entrant who wants to build a cabinet. They all pay the same rate. They all get the same terms. Non-discriminatory. Open. Transparent."
"And the FTC?"
"The FTC gets exactly what it wants, an open market with low barriers to entry. The investigation loses its teeth, because you've voluntarily done what they would have spent three years trying to force you to do."
Duke sat back down. He set the diagram on the desk and stared at it for a long moment.
"If I open the licenses," he said slowly, "I get more competition in the arcade market."
"Yes."
"More companies building cabinets. More machines in the field. More options for operators."
"Yes."
"Which means Atari's market share drops. We go from ninety percent to... what? Sixty? Fifty?"
"Probably seventy to sixty in the first two years. Maybe lower eventually but youre the market leader. But and this is the key your revenue shouldn't drop."
"Instead of earning a hundred percent of the revenue from ninety percent of the legal machines, you earn five percent of the revenue from every machine. The total addressable market gets dramatically larger, because you've removed the barrier to entry."
"More manufacturers means more machines means more venues means more players means a bigger industry. And you get a piece of everything."
Duke thought about a principle he carried in his memory, a principle that wouldn't be articulated publicly for decades.
Piracy was a service problem. Bootleg circuit boards existed because legitimate access was too expensive or too restricted. If you made the legitimate path easy and affordable, you eliminated the incentive to steal.
The people who were cloning Pong in garages and selling knockoff boards at swap meets weren't doing it because they were criminals. They were doing it because the gate was locked and they wanted in.
Open the gate. Charge a toll. And watch the traffic flow.
"There's one condition," Duke said.
Rich raised an eyebrow.
"The patent pool covers arcade technology. Cabinet design, coin-operation systems, the core electronic architecture of an arcade unit. That's what the FTC is worried about, and that's what we open up."
"The home console patents stay locked. Separate portfolio. The technology that goes into the Atari Home System, the television interface, the cartridge architecture, the controller design, none of that is part of the pool. None of it is licensed."
Rich was quiet for a moment, processing. Then he nodded.
"If you give licenses to your patents to a lot of domestic manufacturers, we can also advocate for the japanese to play fair using the goverment trade agreements."
Rich closed his folders and stacked them neatly.
"I'll draft the settlement proposal this week," Rich said. "Open licensing, five percent royalty, non-discriminatory terms. I'll present it to the FTC as a voluntary compliance initiative, Atari acting in good faith to ensure competitive access to arcade technology. It should satisfy the Commission's concerns without any formal finding of wrongdoing."
"How long to close it?"
"Sixty to ninety days if they're reasonable. Six months if they're not."
"Make them reasonable."
"That's what you're paying me for." Rich stood and extended his hand. Duke shook it.
At the door, Rich paused. "One more thing, Mr. Hauser."
"Duke."
"Duke. The Japanese companies, Taito, Sega, the others. Once we open the domestic patent pool, they're going to want in. They'll argue that if U.S. companies can license for five percent, international companies should be able to license on the same terms."
"Let them argue. We'll set up international licensing through a separate program with appropriate terms. Five percent domestic. A higher international. Non-negotiable."
"That's going to generate significant revenue." Rich smiled. "I'll be in touch."
He walked out, and Duke sat alone in his office.
---
On a taqueria in a sun-bleached corner of East LA where the menu was handwritten on a chalkboard. The tables were plastic.
Duke was sitting at a corner table with a cold beer and a basket of chips when the representative from Blue Ribbon Sports walked in.
His name was Jeff Johnson, and he was, a former distance runner turned sales agent for a shoe company that most people had never heard of.
"Mr. Hauser?" Johnson extended his hand with the eager, slightly nervous grip of a man who hadn't expected to be sitting across from the owner of Paramount when he'd woken up that morning.
He had gone to Connecticut to negotiate a small advertising placement in a Basketball comic book.
The meeting had been redirected, upgraded, and relocated by Duke's assistant, and Johnson was clearly still processing things. Duke had called Blue Ribbon to discuss an investment opportunity.
"Jeff. Thanks for coming. Sit down."
They ordered. Johnson, ordered the large plate without hesitation. They talked for a few minutes about nothing, while the food arrived and Johnson relaxed enough to stop sitting like he was at a job interview.
"So," Duke said, setting down his fork. "Blue Ribbon Sports."
"Yes, sir. We-"
"Tell me about the company. Not the pitch."
Blue Ribbon Sports was founded in 1964 by Phil Knight and Bill Bowerman. Knight was a former track runner from the University of Oregon. Bowerman was a legendary Oregon track coach, a man who was obsessed, to the point of madness, with the idea that a lighter shoe made a faster runner.
They'd started by importing Japanese running shoes from a company called Onitsuka Tiger and selling them at track meets out of the trunk of Knight's Plymouth Valiant.
"We've grown," Johnson said. "We're in about a hundred retail stores now, mostly on the West Coast. Revenue last year was just over a million dollars. Phil's designed our own shoe, the Cortez and it's selling well. Bill's in his workshop every night, tearing apart shoes and rebuilding them."
"And the problems?"
"Cash flow," Johnson said. "We're growing faster than our financing can support. Phil's got bank loans that are stretched to the breaking point. The relationship with Onitsuka is... complicated. They see our growth and they're starting to make noises about either buying us out or cutting us off."
"And we need capital for our own manufacturing if we're going to stop being a distributor and start being a real shoe company, we need our own factory, our own supply chain, our own everything."
"How much?"
"It's not a secret Phil is looking for financing, but we need about two hundred thousand dollars just to keep the lights on through the end of the year. For real growth, our own manufacturing, our own marketing, we'd need ten times that."
Duke ate a chip. He ate it slowly, deliberately, giving himself the seconds he needed to organize the next sentence.
"Jeff, as you already know, I didn't bring you here to buy an ad in Slam Dunk. I want to invest!"
"Mr. Hauser, we're a small-"
"You're a small company with a great product, a visionary founder, and a distribution problem. That's exactly the kind of company I like to invest in." Duke leaned forward.
"Here's what I'm offering. A loan of two million dollars, delivered in two times, one million immediately, one million upon completion of a six-month operational milestone that we'll define together."
"In addition, Blue Ribbon Sports gets exclusive, cross-media promotional integration across the PULSE publishing platform. Seven hundred fifty thousand readers, every week, seeing your shoes on the feet of the most popular characters in American comics."
"In exchange," Duke continued, "We acquired twenty-five percent equity in Blue Ribbon Sports and a 0.50 cents commision until the loan it's repaid. That way we become partners and we share in the growth."
The taqueria was full of noise, but at the corner table, there was only silence.
"Two million dollars," Johnson said, as though repeating it might make it more real.
"Two million dollars. And a partnership with a media company that reaches more young Americans than any other publisher in the country."
"Phil's going to-" Johnson stopped. Started again. "I need to call Phil first."
"Of course you do. Take your time."
"Can I finish my carnitas first?" Johnson asked.
Duke laughed. "Take all the time you need. The food here are too good to rush."
They finished their meal. They talked about shoes, about the Cortez's revolutionary cushioning, about Bowerman's waffle iron experiments, about the vision Phil Knight had for a shoe company that didn't just sell to athletes but inspired them.
By the time they shook hands on the sidewalk outside the taqueria, the sun was low over East LA and Johnson was holding Duke's business card.
"Call Phil tonight," Duke said. "Tell him everything. And tell him I want to meet him in person."
"I will. Mr. Hauser- thank you."
---
It was seven-forty-five at night when Archie Goodwin walked into Duke's Paramount office.
Under his arm was a report, bound, thick, bristling with papers that he set on Duke's desk.
Goodwin pulled the report toward him and opened it to a tabbed section. The pages were dense with sales figures, market-share analyses, and distribution data, the raw numbers that told the story of who was winning the war for the American newsstand.
"June 1971 sales audit," Goodwin said. "Top ten comics by monthly circulation per issue. Final numbers, confirmed by the distributor."
He turned the report so Duke could read it and pointed to the first entry.
"Number one. Mad Magazine. 1.9 million copies."
Duke nodded. Mad was a category unto itself, not quite a comic, not quite a magazine, not quite anything. It had been the best-selling publication on the spinner rack, and it showed no signs of slowing down.
"Number two." Goodwin's voice shifted. A note of pride crept in, carefully controlled but unmistakable. "PULSE Weekly. 1.1 million copies."
Duke looked at the number. Looked at it again.
"One point one million?"
"One point one million. Driven primarily by Ben 10, which has become the single most popular comic series in America among readers aged eight to fourteen. The fan mail volume has tripled since January. We're getting letters from kids in forty-six states."
"One point one million," Duke repeated. The number was staggering.
Not because it was unexpected, he'd built PULSE to succeed, but because of what it meant in context.
A publication that hadn't existed two years ago was now the second-best-selling comic entity in America, trailing only a comic that had been dominant for two decades.
"Now here's where it gets interesting," Goodwin said, turning to the next entries. "Number three. Archie Comics. 390 thousand copies."
Duke's eyebrows rose. "Archie? Ahead of Superman?"
"Ahead of Superman. Ahead of Spider-Man. Ahead of everything except PULSE and Mad."
"How?"
"The 'Sugar, Sugar' song. The animated series, the music, the Saturday morning presence, Archie Comics has become a lifestyle brand for pre-teen and young-teen readers. They're not selling comics. They're selling a world."
"The Archie world. Wholesome, fun, relatable, with just enough romantic tension to keep the older readers engaged. They've cracked the code on media saturation, the comic feeds the show, the show feeds the music, the music feeds the brand, and the brand feeds the comic."
Duke was quiet for a moment, processing. He'd been so focused on Marvel as the primary competition, Spider-Man, the X-Men, the superhero arms race, that he'd overlooked the quiet, relentless efficiency of a company that had figured out how to be everywhere.
"Number four," Goodwin continued. "Superman. 317 thousand copies."
"Superman is fourth."
"Superman is fourth. And trending downward. The quality issues we identified in the DC audit are showing up in the sales data. The stories are unfocused, the art is inconsistent, and the readers, especially the young readers who should be the core audience, are drifting toward books that feel more relevant, more exciting, more alive."
"Spider-Man?"
"Number five, Amazing Spider-Man. 288 thousand copies. Still strong, still the flagship of the Marvel line, but not growing. Stan Lee's reduced his day-to-day involvement, and it's showing. The recent storylines have been solid but not spectacular."
"Let me make sure I understand the landscape," he said. "We're number two in the country with PULSE. We own DC, which gives us Superman at number four and the entire DC catalogue below that."
"Marvel has Spider-Man at five and a deep roster beneath it. And Archie, is at three, ahead of both Superman and Spider-Man, because they figured out how to turn a comic book into a multimedia brand."
"That's the picture."
"So the question isn't how we beat Marvel. The question is how we beat Archie. How we take the media-saturation model and apply it to our properties."
Goodwin leaned forward. This was the conversation he'd been preparing for, the strategic framework that would guide DC's revival under Ajax Group ownership.
"I've got a three-part plan," he said. "I'm calling it the 'Everywhere' strategy."
He pulled out a separate set of documents, mock-ups, distribution maps, retailer agreements, and spread them across the desk.
"Part one. the Five-Minute Rule. Right now, the average American child encounters a comic book in one of two places, a dedicated comic shop or a newsstand. That's insufficient."
"I want DC and PULSE books in every location where a child might have five minutes of unstructured time. Laundromats. Barbershops. Dentist waiting rooms. Convenience stores, not just the 7-Elevens we already have, but the independents, the mom-and-pop shops, the bodegas. If a kid has five minutes of boredom, there must be a DC book within arm's reach."
"That's a distribution challenge," Duke said.
"It's a distribution challenge that we're uniquely positioned to solve, because we now own the largest comic book catalogue in the industry. We have the inventory. We have the backlist. And we have the distributor relationships, thanks to the PULSE 7-Eleven deal, to place product in non-traditional venues at scale."
"Part two?"
"The Value Bag." Goodwin produced a mock-up,a clear plastic bag containing five comic books, sealed at the top, with a cardboard header that read. DC COMICS SUPER VALUE PACK. 5 GREAT ISSUES, ONLY 59¢!"
"We take back-issues, overstocks, returns, slow movers, bundle them in packs of three to five, seal them in plastic so the buyer can see the covers but can't browse the contents, and place them at grocery store checkouts. Impulse purchases. Fifty-nine cents for a bag of comics that a mother grabs for her kid while she's waiting in line at the Safeway."
"It clears inventory," Duke said, seeing it immediately.
"It clears inventory, generates revenue from product that would otherwise be written off, and it creates instant new fans. A kid who's never picked up a Superman comic opens that bag and finds five issues of a story he's never read."
"Part three?"
Goodwin's eyes brightened. This was the piece he was most excited about, and it showed.
"The Toy Aisle." He produced another set of mock-ups drawings, these were more elaborate, showing comic books displayed not on a traditional spinner rack but on a merchandise shelf, alongside action figures, board games, and model kits.
"We move comics out of the newsstand and into the toy departments at Sears or JC Penney, alongside several toys of our heroes."
Duke looked at the mock-ups spread across his desk. The Five-Minute Rule. The Value Bag. The Toy Aisle.
Three strategies, each one elegant in its simplicity, each one designed to solve the same fundamental problem, access.
The superhero genre didn't need better stories- although better stories would certainly help. It needed to be available everywhere, at every price point, in every context where a child might encounter it.
The Archie model, scaled up and applied to the most iconic characters in fiction.
"Archie, this is outstanding work," Duke said.
Goodwin allowed himself a small smile.
"One more thing," Duke said.
"Yeah?"
"PULSE Weekly at one point one million. Ben 10 driving the growth. I want a meeting with the Ben 10 creative team next week. If that property is resonating this strongly with eight-to-fourteen-year-olds. we can maybe do Animation soon. Toys. Lunchboxes. The whole thing."
"I'll set it up."
"I'll have the distribution proposals on your desk by Friday," Goodwin said.
"Thank you, Archie. Get some sleep."
___
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