Halt and Catch Fire Page #7

37.

CLARK (V.O.)

Ding, ding, ding, and this chip,

the ROM BIOS, is the only part of

the whole machine IBM actually

designed. It is the brain. It is

the magic. Bad news is they

copyrighted it and own how it

works. Good news is, there’s a way

around that. Sort of.

MACMILLAN (V.O.)

Reverse engineering.

-- Days later. MacMillan and Clark in different clothes,

tired. Clark has the chip and its board jerry-rigged to an

output monitor, working.

CLARK (V.O.)

I sit down with the code and

through trial and error we create a

specification manual, a list of the

things a chip has to be able to do.

-- Days later, different clothes. Clark documents with pencil

on paper everything he does. Downing retro cans of Coke.

-- MacMillan transfers the notes into a typed version, prints

them out on Cardiff Giant letterhead.

MACMILLAN (V.O.)

How long do you think it’ll take?

-- MacMillan nods off as Clark works late into the night.

CLARK (V.O.)

I have no idea.

FADE TO BLACK.

CUT IN:

INT. CLARK’S GARAGE -- NIGHT

CLOSE ON MacMillan with his head resting on a work table

amidst scattered circuit boards, screwdrivers. Asleep.

CLARK (O.S.)

That’s it.

A heavy binder lands next to MacMillan’s head with a SMACK,

jarring him awake. He rubs his eyes, takes the binder, begins

to flip through it. He looks over to...

38.

CLARK, in a Texas Rangers t-shirt and looking very sleep-

deprived. He sits forward in a metal fold-out chair, heavy-

eyed but focused. Almost dreading their recent revelation.

CLARK (CONT’D)

The entire layout of the IBM PC ROM

BIOS chip. The system map,

everything.

A beat. They look to each other.

MACMILLAN:

Now we just make our own chip.

CLARK:

Correction:
We make an even better

chip.

CUT TO:

INT. WHATABURGER -- LATER

MacMillan and Clark sit in a booth, uneaten burgers unwrapped

in front of them. The place done up in those three fast-food

shades of brown. Both men seem distant, contemplative.

CLARK:

I feel like we just figured out who

killed Kennedy.

MACMILLAN:

I feel like we’re 16 and we just

got the keys to Dad’s car.

CLARK:

So what now?

MacMillan flips through the book of precious research.

MACMILLAN:

We go to the marketplace with a

better product. Cheaper, better,

faster.

CLARK:

This is dangerous territory, man.

MACMILLAN:

This entire industry is built on

people ripping each other off.

(pause)

(MORE)

39.

MACMILLAN (CONT'D)

It trades on a remarkable idea that

from the moment something is

created, every second something new

is made that does more, and costs

less.

CLARK:

(hanging head down)

I feel a little sick.

MACMILLAN:

We did good. I’m gonna use the

phone.

CUT TO:

INT. SENIOR VICE PRESIDENT’S OFFICE -- DAY

John Bosworth at his desk. As if he never leaves his perch.

The phone RINGS and he answers.

BOSWORTH:

(into phone)

This is Bosworth.

INTERCUT -- JOHN BOSWORTH / DALE BARNES PHONE CONVERSATION

INT. DALE BARNES’ OFFICE -- CONTINUOUS

Dale Barnes. He’s tanner. His office is bigger. Life has

improved.

BARNES:

(on speaker phone)

John. It’s Dale Barnes.

BOSWORTH:

Who?

BARNES:

Senior Vice President of Sales,

North America.

BOSWORTH:

(half-interested)

Well good for you, Dale.

BARNES:

At IBM.

This is enough to give Bosworth pause.

40.

BARNES (CONT’D)

Heard you got one of my boys down

there.

BOSWORTH:

Yes, we do. MacMillan. Interesting

fellow.

BARNES:

Yeah, he’s damaged goods, John.

Probably should’ve warned you, but

now it might be too late.

BOSWORTH:

What do you mean?

BARNES:

I’m here with Rebecca Taylor, our

senior legal council.

REBECCA TAYLOR (41) a shrewd b*tch in a business suit,

shoulder pads and all, steps closer to Barnes’ desk.

TAYLOR:

Hi, John. We’ve got a problem.

CUT TO:

INT. SENIOR VICE PRESIDENT’S OFFICE -- LATER

Bosworth is now up out of his desk, pacing. Fuming. Al is

also standing, angry, but more imitative, like a child

pretending to be his father.

ANGLE ON NATHAN CARDIFF (60), relaxed in chair near the

window, worn cowboy hat in his hand. He puts his snakeskin

boots up on John’s desk, whistling “Red River Valley.”

BOSWORTH:

I’m sorry we had to pull you away

from the ranch, Nathan.

CARDIFF:

Don’t mind. I wanna meet the two

boys who put my company in the

ground.

The door opens. MacMillan walks in fairly grim, carrying the

binder, followed by a trepidatious and slow-moving Gordon

Clark. Al closes the door behind them.

AL:

You guys screwed the pooch.

41.

BOSWORTH:

Shut up, Al.

(to MacMillan, Clark)

You two sit down.

MacMillan and Clark obey. Al slinks back toward the corner, a

wounded animal.

BOSWORTH (CONT’D)

(gesturing)

This is Nathan Cardiff. He started

the company you destroyed.

Clark starts to rise, Cardiff holds him in place with a hand.

CARDIFF:

I’d rather not shake your hands

right now, gentlemen.

Bosworth leans against the front edge of his desk, crosses

his arms. Glowers down at both men.

BOSWORTH:

We just had a two and a half hour

jaw with IBM’s legal team,

including your old boss Dale

Barnes.

MACMILLAN:

(deadpan)

Oh yeah? How’s he doing?

BOSWORTH:

He’s doing pretty splendid, given

the fact that Big Blue is gonna

liquidate this place to the tune of

several dozen million dollars in

legal damages because two retards

in our employ decided to rip off

their flagship product.

CLARK:

We didn’t do this as Cardiff Giant.

That wasn’t the idea, we did it

rogue-

BOSWORTH:

Rogue, huh? On your own? Like

whatever Silicon Valley rat hole

you crawled from, right, Gordon?

(pause)

Turns out, doesn’t matter. And

trust me, we tried to throw you to

the wolves.

(MORE)

42.

BOSWORTH (CONT'D)

But since MacMillan here worked for

IBM, and you two were ours at the

time of your little project, the

project is ours now, for better or

worse.

CARDIFF:

Worse, in this case.

BOSWORTH:

Barnes and this woman Taylor are

headed down here tomorrow.

BOSWORTH (CONT’D)

(in MacMillan’s face)

So did you just not understand when

I said we do systems software and

don’t TOUCH PC’s?

CLARK:

How the hell did IBM find out?

MACMILLAN:

I told them.

Silence in the room. All eyes on MacMillan now.

CUT TO:

EXT. CARDIFF GIANT PARKING LOT -- LATER

MacMillan walks to his car, putting on his sunglasses. Clark

follows, almost chasing after him.

CLARK:

Hey. Hey! HEY!

MacMillan turns around.

CLARK (CONT’D)

You called them the other night,

didn’t you? The moment we finished.

What happened, Big Blue kill your

dog?

MACMILLAN:

Just let everybody cool off.

CLARK:

Let them cool off?

MACMILLAN:

Gordon. It’s gonna be fine.

43.

Clark DECKS HIM across the face without a word, knocking

MacMillan’s sunglasses to the concrete. Despite the violence,

MacMillan remains calm as he retrieves them, puts them on.

CLARK:

I don’t know who you think you are.

But you’re wrong. You can’t just

walk into this company, walk into

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