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Authors: Glenn Beck
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listen to AM radio again.”
“But that’s wonderful—”
“No, Howard, it’s not wonderful. It’s a threat to the fortunes of a thousand men that you don’t want to cross. More than that, they would never allow you to cross them, and neither will I. You’re right about one thing, this is the future, and you should be proud of what you’ve done. But the future has to wait.”
Armstrong was getting angry.
“I won’t do it. What if I don’t sign? Then what are you going to do?”
“You don’t want to find that out, Howard. Don’t you read the business section? I don’t get ulcers, brother, I give them.”
“You’re going to threaten me now? Don’t make me laugh! The patents are mine—”
“Did de Forest teach you nothing at all? Do you really imagine you can walk out on this deal with any hope of beating me at my own game?”
“I’m not walking out,” Armstrong said. “This is my laboratory—”
“No, it isn’t, Howard, not if you turn this down. And I take it your answer is no.”
“That’s right.”
“Okay,” Sarnoff said. “You’ve got until the end of the day to pack up and clear out. You can go back to that basement at the university because I need my space here for another team. While you’ve been playing around with radio, we’ve been working on something much bigger.”
Sarnoff paused to let the tension build.
“Television.”
• • •
Over the next few years Howard Armstrong poured every ounce of time and energy into the uphill battle of promoting the benefits of FM radio.
The costs were astronomical. He created a production chain to make and sell receivers to a growing number of enthusiasts along the East Coast. He sold franchises and licensed other entrepreneurs to manufacture his name-brand sets. At the same time, he built a 40-kilowatt FM radio station, W2XMN, to transmit his high-fidelity broadcasts for a hundred miles in all directions. He also inked a deal with the Yankee Network to help them found the first FM radio conglomerate. Before long more than 200,000 listeners were tuning in to FM every day.
It was grueling work and the budget was always down to the bone, but he and Marion were happier than they’d ever been. Their destiny was in their own hands.
One afternoon, Armstrong returned to his small office to find David Sarnoff sitting in his chair.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Sarnoff said.
“What are you doing here, David?”
“I’ve got one last offer for you,” Sarnoff said, sliding a document across the desk.
At first glance it looked like the same offer that Armstrong had turned down long ago, with one notable change: Rather than a permanent share of all future profits from his FM patents, the figure was now a flat fee: one million dollars.
“Why on earth would I accept this?” Armstrong asked.
“Because it’s the only way you’re ever going to win.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m on my way to half a million listeners. I have new stations on the drawing board from here to Chicago. Before long we’ll be as big as NBC.”
“If you don’t believe any other thing I say today, Howard, believe this: That will never, ever happen.”
“A million dollars? Just my facilities here are worth more than that, not to mention future earnings on FM. I wouldn’t sign my rights away for a hundred times what you’ve offered.”
“Last chance,” Sarnoff said, but there was no reply. He shook his head and stood, and then he took his time to fold and pocket therejected contract. “Very well, then. Get a long last look at this friendly face, Howard. Because the next time we meet, I’m afraid you’re going to see another side of it.”
In the back of his limousine on the way back to New York, David Sarnoff picked up the handset of the car’s intercom.
“Make a note on my schedule,” he said. “When I walk into my office I want a conference call waiting with Frank McNinch in Washington, D.C. . . .
“But that’s wonderful—”
“No, Howard, it’s not wonderful. It’s a threat to the fortunes of a thousand men that you don’t want to cross. More than that, they would never allow you to cross them, and neither will I. You’re right about one thing, this is the future, and you should be proud of what you’ve done. But the future has to wait.”
Armstrong was getting angry.
“I won’t do it. What if I don’t sign? Then what are you going to do?”
“You don’t want to find that out, Howard. Don’t you read the business section? I don’t get ulcers, brother, I give them.”
“You’re going to threaten me now? Don’t make me laugh! The patents are mine—”
“Did de Forest teach you nothing at all? Do you really imagine you can walk out on this deal with any hope of beating me at my own game?”
“I’m not walking out,” Armstrong said. “This is my laboratory—”
“No, it isn’t, Howard, not if you turn this down. And I take it your answer is no.”
“That’s right.”
“Okay,” Sarnoff said. “You’ve got until the end of the day to pack up and clear out. You can go back to that basement at the university because I need my space here for another team. While you’ve been playing around with radio, we’ve been working on something much bigger.”
Sarnoff paused to let the tension build.
“Television.”
• • •
Over the next few years Howard Armstrong poured every ounce of time and energy into the uphill battle of promoting the benefits of FM radio.
The costs were astronomical. He created a production chain to make and sell receivers to a growing number of enthusiasts along the East Coast. He sold franchises and licensed other entrepreneurs to manufacture his name-brand sets. At the same time, he built a 40-kilowatt FM radio station, W2XMN, to transmit his high-fidelity broadcasts for a hundred miles in all directions. He also inked a deal with the Yankee Network to help them found the first FM radio conglomerate. Before long more than 200,000 listeners were tuning in to FM every day.
It was grueling work and the budget was always down to the bone, but he and Marion were happier than they’d ever been. Their destiny was in their own hands.
One afternoon, Armstrong returned to his small office to find David Sarnoff sitting in his chair.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Sarnoff said.
“What are you doing here, David?”
“I’ve got one last offer for you,” Sarnoff said, sliding a document across the desk.
At first glance it looked like the same offer that Armstrong had turned down long ago, with one notable change: Rather than a permanent share of all future profits from his FM patents, the figure was now a flat fee: one million dollars.
“Why on earth would I accept this?” Armstrong asked.
“Because it’s the only way you’re ever going to win.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m on my way to half a million listeners. I have new stations on the drawing board from here to Chicago. Before long we’ll be as big as NBC.”
“If you don’t believe any other thing I say today, Howard, believe this: That will never, ever happen.”
“A million dollars? Just my facilities here are worth more than that, not to mention future earnings on FM. I wouldn’t sign my rights away for a hundred times what you’ve offered.”
“Last chance,” Sarnoff said, but there was no reply. He shook his head and stood, and then he took his time to fold and pocket therejected contract. “Very well, then. Get a long last look at this friendly face, Howard. Because the next time we meet, I’m afraid you’re going to see another side of it.”
In the back of his limousine on the way back to New York, David Sarnoff picked up the handset of the car’s intercom.
“Make a note on my schedule,” he said. “When I walk into my office I want a conference call waiting with Frank McNinch in Washington, D.C. . . .
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