The glass doors of Atari's El Gato headquarters swung open, and Duke stepped into it.
Nolan Bushnell appeared from behind an arcade. "Duke! You're finally here," Nolan shouted over the noise of a nearby testing station.
He met Duke halfway, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "You're not going to believe the progress we've made. Remember that concept you gave us? Come see."
They wove through the workbenches, dodging tangled nests of cables and discarded prototype boards.
Nolan led him to a quiet corner of the engineering bay where a lone cabinet sat. With a theatrical flourish, Nolan yanked the tarp away.
Beneath it stood the Breakout prototype. It looked unfinished with plywood panels, exposed screw heads, and a frantic bundle of wires hanging out of the back, but the screen displayed a paddle at the bottom and a wall of rectangular bricks at the top.
Nolan reached and pulled out a prototype controller, and handed it over. It was a clunky, hand-wired box with a single aluminum dial, "You described it. The team spent weeks straight studying to be able to pull the logic that this needed," Nolan said, bouncing slightly on his heels.
Duke stepped up to the machine, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a quarter, and dropped it into the coin slot.
The screen flickered, Duke gripped the dial.
As he turned it, the paddle on the screen moved with precision. He pressed the launch button.
The digital ball took off, streaking upward and cracking into the first row of bricks. Two of them vanished instantly.
The ball ricocheted, hit the right side wall with a sound effect, and came back down toward the baseline. Duke tracked it with his eyes, adjusted the dial, and caught the ball on the edge of the paddle, sending it back up at a higher speed.
Nolan watched Duke's face, searching for a tell, his hands shoved into his pockets.
For nearly three minutes, Duke didn't say a word, entirely locked in.
As the wall of bricks thinned out, the ball began to pick up speed, but Duke was making it work.
Eventually, the ball took a sharp deflection he didn't anticipate, slipping past the paddle's edge and disappearing.
The screen flashed a bright GAME OVER.
Duke let go of the controller and turned to Nolan with a smile across his face.
"It's too easy, Nolan," Duke said, his voice calm.
Nolan's face fell instantly, his excitement deflating. "What? Duke, we've got guys in here who can't even clear the third row yet. The physics are solid."
"The physics are fine," Duke countered, tapping the glass screen. "But the ball speed is predictable. After five minutes, a teenager with decent reflexes is going to figure out the pattern and play for an hour on a single quarter. That's bad business."
"We want people to sweat. It needs random deflection angles based on where it hits the paddle. It needs variable acceleration, every time it hits the back wall, it should come back ten percent faster. And once they hit a certain score threshold?" Duke grinned. "Release a second ball."
(I actually played this for an hour just a few minutes ago and its entertaining)
Nolan pulled a notepad from his back pocket and began scribbling, his mind already racing through the problem. "We can adjust the collision logic... the randomizer is already in the code, we just have to increase the variance. A second ball? That's going to be a nightmare for the memory, but it's a good idea."
"Yeah," Duke said. "People pay for the thrill."
"And the cabinet?" Duke asked, moving toward a separate area of the lab. Nolan led him to a mockup that looked vastly more polished, in a strong bright orange color with black lines.
Duke circled the machine slowly, running his hand along the smooth edge of the wood. "It's bold, Nolan, I like it."
Nolan nodded, he then beckoned Duke toward another section of the floor where some more machines sat in a demo loop. "While your team was perfecting the brick-breaker, we've been testing a few other concepts. This one is Space Race."
Duke watched the screen. Two rockets moved vertically across a star-flecked field, dodging white dots that represented asteroids. It was simple, and competitive, it sort of reminded him of the future classic traffic crossing game 'Frogger'.
"What's the feedback from the field?" Duke asked.
"The operators are already asking for it," Nolan grinned. "It's not Pong, but it's a solid earner. The head-to-head aspect keeps the quarters flowing. If you lose, you immediately want to go again."
Nolan walked Duke toward the glass exit as the California sun began to dip. "We're on track for a spring release 1974 on Breakout," Nolan promised. "I'll have the team implement the 'chaos' variables by Monday."
"Good," Duke said, as he walked out.
___
On the night of the same day, the premiere of The Exorcist had finally arrived, it was 28 of November.
Duke sat in the back of a pristine black Cadillac Fleetwood. Beside him, Lynda was on a crimson gown. Duke, was back in a bespoke tuxedo.
Lynda was busy with a small silver mirror, applying a final touch of lipstick, she finally snapped the mirror shut, turning her gaze toward him. "Duke, we really need to talk about Christmas. We're running out of days."
Duke continued to look out the window at the crowds on the sidewalk. "What about it? We'll have a tree, we'll open some champagne, and I'll throw my new years party. Standard procedure."
"You know exactly what I mean," Lynda said, her tone softening but remaining firm. "My parents. Arizona. You promised me back in August that you'd make the trip this year and we're running out of days until the end of the year."
Duke let out a slow sigh, "I know, Lynda. I've been busy. Between Jaws, The exorcist, American Graffiti, and the mess with the oil holdings, I've barely had time to breathe. This is the first year I havent even published anything."
"You're always busy, Duke. That stopped being an excuse after 6 months." She reached over, placing a hand on his arm.
"I've been putting it off for a while, i know, I'm slightly nervous, alright? Are you happy now?"
Lynda laughed, a sound that cut through the tension in the car. "You? Nervous? Duke Hauser, the Chairman of Paramount is actually afraid of meeting a divorced working class couple from Scottsdale?"
Duke's mouth twitched into a wry smile. "I'm not nervous about meeting them, Lynda. I'm nervous about disappointing you if anything goes wrong."
Lynda's slid across the leather seat and took his hand in hers, squeezing tightly. "Duke, you could show up on their doorstep wearing that Leatherface mask and they would still love you. You don't have to perform for them. Just don't mention immigration, politics, Mexico or Illegals."
Duke was silent for a moment, "Alright. Christmas in Arizona it is."
Lynda laughed and kissed his cheek. "Deal."
As the Cadillac pulled up to the red carpet, the atmosphere outside was hysterical.
The rumors about The Exorcist had been circulating for weeks, with Paramount spending a lot on publicity.
Stories of audience members fainting, projectile vomiting in the aisles, and people fleeing in the middle of the film appeared across several newspapers across america.
Duke stepped out of the car first, buttoning his jacket, and then reached back to help Lynda onto the pavement. Reporters screamed questions about the movie, about the skyrocketing price of gas, and about whether Duke thought the country was falling apart.
He ignored the noise, offering his arm to Lynda with a poker face.
Inside the theater, Duke settled into his seat as the film began.
The story begins in Iraq, where the elderly priest Father Lankester Merrin discovers a figure of the demon Pazuzu. This ancient evil eventually finds its way to Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
The heart of the story belongs to Chris MacNeil, a famous actress and single mother, and her twelve-year-old daughter, Regan.
Regan starts as a sweet, typical child, but her behavior becomes increasingly erratic. What begins as bed-shaking and foul language quickly descends into physical transformation and inexplicable phenomena.
Chris, a rationalist, takes Regan to a group of doctors. In one of the film's most unsettling sequences, Regan undergoes grueling, painful medical tests.
When science fails to find a cause and as the girl's condition becomes undeniably supernatural the doctors suggest an exorcism as a shock treatment.
While Regan is the center of the conflict, the protagonist is Father Damien Karras, a Jesuit priest and psychiatrist.
Karras is in a profound crisis of faith. He is burdened by the guilt of his mother's lonely death and feels disconnected from God.
When Chris begs Karras for help, he approaches the case with extreme skepticism. He views Regan's behavior through a psychiatric lens until she speaks to him in the voice of his late mother, revealing things no stranger could know.
The Church eventually summons Father Merrin, the experienced exorcist who was in Iraq at the beggining of the film, to lead the ritual.
The final act is a grueling battle of wills within Regan's bedroom. The demon uses psychological warfare, taunting the priests with their personal failures and insecurities.
The film's major plot twist occurs during the final confrontation.
After Father Merrin dies of a heart attack mid-ritual, Karras is left alone.
In a moment of desperation, Karras realizes that the demon cannot be "ordered" out through traditional prayer alone.
In a final act of defiance, Karras physically attacks the possessed Regan and screams at the demon to "Take me!"
The demon obliges, transferring its presence into Karras. In his final moments of lucidity, Karras throws himself out of the bedroom window, plunging to his death on the stone steps below. By sacrificing his life, he destroys the demon's vessel and saves Regan.
The film ends with Regan being restored, remembering nothing of the ordeal, and Chris takes her away from the house.
As they exited the theater, the press mob was waiting like a pack of hungry wolves.
Microphones were shoved into Duke's face, the light from the television cameras blinding. "Mr. Hauser! What is your opinion on the Watergate Hearings?" Duke ignored the question.
"Is it true the Catholic Church dissaproves of this film?" a reporter yelled.
Duke paused, shielding Lynda with his frame, and looked directly into the nearest lens.
"William Friedkin has created a masterpiece of horror. This story is to be an apologia for the faith, a way to demonstrate the existence of the supernatural and the devil in an increasingly secular, materialistic world," Duke said, his voice carrying perfectly over.
With that, he ushered Lynda back into the Cadillac, the door closing,
Later that night, the Owlwood Estate was filled with silence, the whole house was dark, save for the flickering amber glow of the fireplace in Duke's private study.
Lynda had gone to bed an hour ago, the intensity of the evening finally catching up to her.
Duke, however, was wide awake.
He looked at the heavy black rotary phone on his desk, then picked up the receiver and dialed a private number from memory.
The line clicked over after two rings. A gruff, gravelly voice answered. "Griffin."
"David. It's Duke. Sorry for the late hour, but I needed to contact you. How bad is it getting out there?"
David Griffin, the CEO of Vanguard Petroleum, a company Duke had quietly created to take advantage of the Oil crisis, let out a dry laugh.
"Bad, Duke? That's an understatement. Right now, It's total chaos. The OAPEC embargo is squeezing the life out of the coast. I've got reports of gas lines stretching for three miles in New Jersey."
"Stations are closing their gates because they've got nothing left to pump. The truckers are starting to strike in the Midwest, and the farmers are panicking about the harvest. We're one week away from actual riots in the streets."
Duke leaned back in his chair, swirling the scotch in his glass, the ice clinking softly. "And Vanguard? How are we positioned?"
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "Vanguard is printing money faster than the Treasury. Remember those five hundred stripper wells you made me acquire last year? The ones every expert said were junk?"
"I remember their comments vividly," Duke said, he had even invited Bush Jr to invest with him, who initially agreed but later just never contacted him again.
"Well, they aren't talking now," Griffin said. "Those wells are pumping at full capacity, twenty-four hours a day. Because we're producing domestically, we aren't beholden to the Saudi price hikes, but we're selling our crude at the new market rate, which has literally quadrupled since October."
"Our operating costs were locked in months ago. Our margins are... well, they're obscene, Duke."
"Give me a number, David. I'm not in the mood for metaphors."
"This quarter alone? Conservatively? We're looking at fifteen million in net profit. And that's after we've hidden as much as the accountants can legally move. If this embargo holds through the winter, we're looking at thirty, maybe forty million by spring."
Duke let out a low, appreciative whistle.
He quickly thanked the OAPEC nations in his mind for deciding to do this to Oil prices.
"Did you knew something before this?" Griffin asked, "I mean why else push for those stripper wells. Everyone in the industry thought Duke was just a movie guy playing at being an oilman. How the hell did you see the embargo coming a year ago?"
"I didn't see the embargo, David," Duke said, staring into the embers of the fire. "But we are country that runs on a resource we don't control, if anything happens to oil prices, Stripper Wells are the best assets cause the goverment cant regulate their prices directly."
Since the embargo began in October, the price of a barrel of oil had jumped from three dollars to nearly twelve.
The American dream of the open road was evaporating in real-time, replaced by gasoline rationing and Sunday driving bans.
President Nixon was on television talking about 'Project Independence,' trying to figure out how to stop the bleeding.
"So what are your orders, Duke?" Griffin asked. "Do we keep the current output, or do we start looking to expand?"
"Keep pumping," Duke said, "But I want you to keep a very low profile. No press releases about record earnings. I don't need the feds looking at Vanguard's books while they're out hunting for 'price gougers' to throw to the public."
"Understood. And the surplus? Where do you want the capital moved?"
"Reinvest it directly," Duke commanded.
"Yes, sir," Griffin replied. "I'll get the paperwork started on acquisitions tomorrow morning."
"Good work, David. Get some sleep. You're going to be very busy for the next few months."
Duke hung up the phone. The study was silent again. He took a final sip of his scotch, feeling the warmth spread through his chest.