Chapter 359:
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"We're not interested…" Mr. Truman, who had just locked his car door, happened to walk over. He shook his head and politely declined the stockbroker's pitch.
Lynch, on the other hand, didn't mind handing the man a business card. The young broker knew this wasn't the place for a lengthy conversation, especially with someone around who clearly disliked him. Without pressing further, he chose to leave.
There was no anger or frustration on his face—this sort of rejection was all too familiar. Some people would even curse at him or chase him away. Compared to those experiences, these two were practically gentlemen.
In truth, the broker recognized Lynch. Most people in financial circles, political spheres, or anyone keeping up with current affairs knew who Lynch was. Even if they didn't recognize him immediately, a second glance usually did the trick.
This encounter was an opportunity. He'd dared to pitch his wares to Lynch, specifically the small yellow sheets he carried. He'd tried, and while it wasn't a resounding success, Lynch had given him something valuable—a chance.
As the visibly encouraged young man walked off, Mr. Truman shook his head and remarked, "You shouldn't have given him your card. He'll keep pestering you. And besides, those guys only deal in small yellow sheets."
Back before information technology made everything digital, stocks still came in physical form. At present, there were two main types of stock certificates circulating in the market. The first type resembled rectangular bonds—large ones. They featured a blue border, intricate anti-counterfeiting patterns, and security measures. Printed on them were details like the number of shares, the issuing company, regulatory bodies, bank seals, and signatures from authorized personnel.
These were mostly older stocks, issued when anti-counterfeiting methods were rudimentary. To prevent forgery, issuers relied heavily on handwritten signatures and official stamps. But as technology advanced, newer, harder-to-replicate security features emerged. Stock certificates shrank in size, now roughly the dimensions of two or three hundred-buck bills laid side by side. Their production employed cutting-edge anti-counterfeiting techniques comparable to those used for currency, ensuring that counterfeiters couldn't mass-produce fake stocks.
Whether old or new, these stocks shared one common trait: they had blue borders and backgrounds. The shade wasn't a deep, striking blue but rather a muted tone. These were known in the industry as "little blue sheets," tradable through the three major banks.
Blue symbolized safety, stability, and trustworthiness—a universal color code in the Federation.
However, beyond the little blue sheets, there existed another kind of stock—the infamous small yellow sheets. These occupied a gray area between legality and illegality. Often issued by companies or individuals without proper listing qualifications, the small yellow sheets operated in a loosely regulated market. It was like the Wild West—a forest where anything could happen.
Technically, they weren't even stocks; calling them fundraising slips or capital-raising notes would be more accurate. More importantly, the small yellow sheets were essentially concocted by Bupayne's stock brokerage firms.
Here's how it worked: let's say someone believed their invention had potential but struggled to attract investors. They needed funding to continue their research. What to do? Enter the brokers—or more often, the brokers found them. A deal would be struck: for every 500 bucks handed over to the brokerage firm, they'd issue 5,000 bucks worth of stock and actively promote it.
It was a gamble, plain and simple. Invention itself is inherently a bet. No one knows whether their creation will become one of history's world-changing marvels or end up forgotten in obscurity. Every year, tens of thousands of inventions emerged in the Federation, yet only a handful—perhaps twenty at most—ever made it into everyday life. This staggering disparity convinced many that inventing was impossibly difficult.
But the real challenge isn't creating something—it's determining whether what you've created holds any value. That uncertainty fuels the gambling spirit.
Inventors take risks. They raise money by issuing small yellow sheets to fund their projects. Investors buying these sheets also take risks because no one knows how much of what the brokers say is true. Everyone's betting, but the real winners are the brokerage firms, raking in hefty service fees.
While regular stock trades incur fees ranging from 0.5% to 2%, commissions for small yellow sheets soar above 50%. And due to lax oversight, underreporting is rampant. With minimal regulation, the yellow sheet market operates in chaos. As long as they don't break laws—or break them too egregiously—the audacity of these brokers and firms might leave even the President speechless.
From the outset, the small yellow sheets were designed by unscrupulous financiers to swindle money from unsuspecting entrepreneurs and naive investors. No one anticipated how massive this scam would grow, eventually birthing an entire specialized market and trading system dedicated to small yellow sheets.
Each week, Bupayne's numerous brokerage firms published advertisements in The Weekly Trading Gazette, touting various small yellow sheets. Tales abounded of people purchasing cheap shares that skyrocketed overnight—multiplying hundreds, thousands, or even tens of thousands of times in value. Some stories were true. While small yellow sheets themselves weren't illegal, providing false information certainly was. Brokers avoided outright lies but found ways to nudge such miracles along.
People were dazzled by tales of overnight fortunes. Add to that the promise of vast potential behind each stock, and it's no wonder some folks gambled a few hundred or thousand bucks hoping for astronomical returns.
Oh, but these financially clueless investors weren't gambling—they genuinely believed their small yellow sheets would deliver miraculous wealth. Many brokers and firms survived the harshest economic times thanks to this racket. Now, with conditions stabilizing, they were back in full force, turning major trade shows into prime markets for pushing small yellow sheets. Inventors showcased their creations while brokers sold their dubious stocks, reaping profits from both ends daily.
To warn the public about this murky realm, financial institutions mandated that privately issued stocks must be yellow—a cautionary hue meant to alert investors. But in reality, it made no difference. Naive investors rarely interacted directly with the sheets; instead, they dealt with smooth-talking brokers skilled at spinning tales.
"He mentioned something earlier—radio reconnaissance array. Sounds high-tech and intriguing," Lynch chuckled as they strolled inside.
The term sounded vaguely familiar, though he couldn't quite place it. Given his social standing and wealth, Lynch had the luxury of curiosity.
Mr. Truman said nothing more. He trusted Lynch wouldn't fall prey to the allure of small yellow sheets. If Lynch stumbled in that market, well, then he wouldn't be Lynch anymore.
By the time they reached the makeshift entrance—a crude wooden archway with a signboard and posters mounted on triangular boards—they were greeted by a uniformed soldier who led them deeper into the exhibition hall.
"Today we'll see inventors—and maybe some con artists. Hopefully, we'll find something worthwhile," Truman remarked as they followed the officer.
"This event has two items I'm particularly interested in, both of which the military is watching closely. One is a new harpoon invention, and the other is a novel aircraft…"
At the mention of aircraft, Truman's expression turned peculiar. "Lynch, do you know why inventions related to aviation are considered ‘the most dangerous field'?"
Lynch played along. "Because aircraft can be weaponized for war?"
Truman paused, surprised. "Why would you think that?" Before Lynch could answer, he shook his head and continued, "Never mind. You're partially right, but not entirely."
"The real reason is that in the past decade alone, at least a hundred inventors have died trying to create functional flying machines."
"Falls, explosions, and other mishaps."
"You wouldn't believe this," Truman added with a wry smile, "but someone actually thought launching a wooden bird model—like a glider—into the sky using a cannon-like mechanism was a good idea. Tragic, really."
What Truman didn't realize was that this unfortunate soul's wild idea had actually advanced glider technology. But that was irrelevant to him; he wasn't part of that world.
Speaking of aircraft, Lynch suddenly felt like somewhat of an expert. After all, he'd seen not only planes but rockets too.
The exhibition grounds were vast. It took nearly fifteen minutes to reach the rear section, where things grew quieter. Here, a hundred-meter stretch of hard-packed dirt served as a runway. Beside it stood a rickety set of bleachers already filling with spectators. Compared to the lively displays elsewhere, attendance here was sparse—and notably devoid of children.
No kids meant no families, which wasn't surprising. Parents brought their children to experience the wonders of science, to inspire dreams of becoming scientists—not to witness bloody accidents. Deaths were almost routine at airshows featuring experimental aircraft.
Yes… it was indeed a sad story.
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