Andrei POV
August 1975
The knowledge didn't come from a void. It was cultivated, daily, between the toast and the tea.
Our breakfast table was my first intelligence briefing. As Damien raced through his cereal and Daphne conducted elaborate negotiations with a spoonful of porridge, Dad would read snippets from the Financial Times to Mum.
"Listen to this, Maggie," he'd say, his finger tracing a column. "Another piece on that Californian valley—'Silicon,' they're calling it. This 'Intel' company's new microprocessor is causing quite a stir. Orders piling up from electronics firms."
Mum would glance up, her economist's mind engaging. "The toolmaker for the new age. Speculative, but foundational. Like investing in steel before the railways."
Another morning, it was a different sector. "American agricultural report. That 'Monsanto' chemical firm is in the trade papers again. Pushing a new herbicide. Claims it will change large-scale farming."
"Betting on chemistry over tradition," she'd muse. "A high-stakes game. The regulatory path will be everything."
I absorbed it all, the quiet satellite at the table. The names—Intel, Monsanto—were not plucked from my future memory during those sessions; they were noted, with clinical interest, as significant variables in the present-day system my parents were describing. When I later sat down to draft my first formal investment proposal, the sources were not mysterious. I simply compiled and extended the logic of their own observations.
The proposal was a single, typed page. Two names, three bullet points of rationale for each, and a suggested allocation from my now £5,800 trust fund.
I presented it after Sunday lunch. Dad read it, then passed it to Mum.
"Intel and Monsanto," he said, his tone neutral but his eyes sharp. "You've been paying attention at breakfast."
"The reasoning is an extrapolation of your own points," I said carefully. "One builds the future of processing, the other of production. They're infrastructural." It was the "Sound Investor" doctrine, wearing the clothes of a dutiful son.
"The logic follows," Mum conceded, setting the page down. "But there is a principle here beyond the stocks. If this is your education, the risk must be yours to feel."
Daniel nodded. "Your trust fund from Lionel is yours to direct, with our approval. But for any further personal speculation, you will use your own resources. Allowance. Gift money. Your skin in the game."
It was a masterstroke of parenting. It granted agency but enforced consequence—a lesson my first life had taught brutally; they were teaching it safely.
"Understood," I said.
Before the discussion could go further, the late-night call came from Indiana. Grandfather Harris, Mum's father, had suffered a mild heart attack. He was stable, but shaken.
"We're all going," Mum declared, her voice leaving no room for debate.
The journey was a long haze of airports. We arrived at Harris Farm not to a sterile hospital room, but to a sprawling homestead where Grandfather, pale but stubborn, held court from a wraparound porch.
The next days were a different education. I saw my mother transform. The polished London economist vanished, replaced by a farmer's daughter who could discuss crop rotation and commodity futures with her brothers. This was her other library.
I watched the vastness of the operation—the machinery, the logistics. It gave the Monsanto idea visceral weight. This wasn't just a stock ticker; it was chemicals on these fields, research into seeds that could feed millions.
One afternoon, exploring the barn loft, Damien and I found a crate of vintage Superman and Archie comics. I touched a faded cover.
[ SYSTEM NOTICE: LOCAL ARCHIVE DETECTED. ]
[ Material: Period-specific American pop culture (1950s-1960s). ]
[ Asset: The Library - OFFLINE SCAN AVAILABLE. ]
I selected 'Y.' A quiet hum, perceptible only to me, seemed to emanate from the crate. The System was always working.
That night, as fireflies dotted the Indiana dusk, Grandfather Harris fixed me with a watery, sharp gaze. "Your mother says you're smart. Writing books. That's good. But remember, all wealth… it starts here. With the land. With things you can touch. Don't get so lost in your head you forget the dirt under your feet."
It was the oldest wisdom. A week ago, I was analysing semiconductor markets. Now, I was being taught about root systems.
On the flight home, a new notification appeared.
[ PARENTAL DECISION: INVESTMENT PROPOSAL ]
[ Status: APPROVED, with stipulations. ]
[ Vehicles: Intel Corp. (INTC), Monsanto Co. (MTC). ]
[ Capital Source: Andrei Stevens Trust Fund (Lionel Royalties). ]
[ Note: Future personal speculation limited to disposable income. ]
[ New Data Integrated: Foundational Wealth Theory (Land/Commodities). ]
I looked out at the clouds. I had my first real investments, justified by my parents' own words. I had touched the soil of my mother's past. And in a dusty barn, my Library had absorbed a piece of America's past.
The game was no longer just on a spreadsheet. It had roots. It had dirt on its boots. For the first time, I understood that the path to a legacy in Hollywood might just run straight through a cornfield in Indiana, and that the most powerful cover story was simply paying attention at the breakfast table.
A/N
The investments are live, grounded in a plausible cover story. The "Harris Directive" — remembering the dirt — is now a core principle. How will this balance between high-tech investing and foundational wisdom shape Andrei's next move?)