Chapter 22

Chapter 23

At the end of 1993, Lenovo proposed creating a domestic computer brand, raising the slogan, "Shoulder the banner of the national computer industry." I knew that slogan would only begin to become reality in 1996; before then, brand distributors still had plenty of room to survive. By this point, though, Sun Electronics' brand had been selling for some time and doing very well, so I was not afraid. As far as national industry went, it was better if everyone made money. Having a monopoly would certainly be comfortable, but then there would be only one company to shoulder all the risks facing the IT market in the future, which would not be much fun. Although I knew the various changes the IT market would undergo, things might not follow the same course once I got involved. Besides, Lenovo's technical foundations were beyond the reach of ordinary companies. Even if I really wanted to suppress it, I might not come out ahead.

Lenovo's Hong Kong operation would be losing money by 1996. Its profits were still substantial in 1994, but memory prices fell in 1995, and inventory overstock alone cost Lenovo over a hundred million. I knew about all of that too. Holding our position domestically for the moment, I told Liu Mingyao to gather talent as quickly as possible and open a new front in Hong Kong. This time, Liu Mingyao asked me very cautiously, "Aren't we spreading our front a little too wide?"

I answered noncommittally, "Relative to the number of talented people we have, a little."

Liu Mingyao gave an enlightened "Oh," then said, "I understand."

I knew he really did.

Three days later, Sun Electronics once again launched a nationwide recruitment drive offering high salaries. Zhang Xiaotong and I no longer cared to read the papers. They were full of related reports, while the company sent us regular recruitment progress reports that were countless times more detailed.

While Sun Electronics' recruitment campaign was in full swing, sales of Sun Red Tea also began getting the green light, reaching their first peak.

Really, it was simply the end of the year, the first battle of the year-end sales war. People were getting a little tired of carbonated drinks. Tea drinks offered novelty and tasted good, but more importantly, they fit Chinese people's longstanding ideas about health better. After all, carbonated drinks and the like were still "unorthodox," while juice drinks were too expensive, or else suspected of containing "too much artificial coloring." For all sorts of reasons, people ended up choosing tea drinks. I had conducted similar market research at the consulting firm before, so I had a general idea why China's tea beverage market later grew from several hundred million to several billion within a few years, then kept doubling. These reasons all played a part.

Since sales were rising, promotion had to increase alongside them. Under the usual rules of business, twenty percent of sales profits went toward promotion. By that ratio, the pitiful little sum I currently spent on promotion could hardly have been any smaller. This also had something to do with my former line of work. Back when I devised campaigns for clients, I always pursued the greatest impact for the smallest investment. It had become a habit.

For example, I once worked on the launch of a liquor brand. We had two proposals to choose from. The first was to hire a parade to deliver the liquor directly to hotels and shopping centers we had contacted beforehand. Four planners, including me, spent an entire day drawing routes on a city map, then personally walked them. We found the plan unworkable; it would cost far too much money and time, so we switched to the second proposal.

The second proposal was very simple: rent a few helicopters during the busiest hours of the weekend and scatter diluted baijiu and banners in broad daylight. Surprisingly, this cost comparatively less than the drums-and-gongs approach, so we ultimately chose it.

The launch ceremony itself had only an average effect. There were plenty of spectators, but nobody reacted immediately.

The effects began to show the next day. Almost every website and newspaper in the country reported the incident. Chinese people had a habit of discussing every topic over and over. Spraying liquor around and wasting large quantities of grain was itself socially unacceptable, yet it looked extravagant. The news coverage took different positions, making the incident known throughout the country.

Things were easy after that. Other people were effectively promoting us. Attentive readers could tell from the news that a new liquor had launched, seemingly backed by deep pockets, and figured either its quality or its price must have something going for it. Some could also tell that a reasonably capable planning team was behind the marketing. Whether such a company hired an outside team or had its own planning department, it had quite a future. Within a few days, business began to increase. That was an example of a successful campaign, though luck had played a part too.

With that experience behind me, I always felt reluctant to spend actual money on promotion. After all, we were still pretty poor.

There had once been an incredibly badass example in China's campaign-planning industry. Through the maneuvering of a famous planner, a certain Zhejiang conglomerate spent nearly four hundred million a year to buy exclusive naming rights to prime-time drama slots on provincial television stations across most of China. I simply could not understand how money could be spent that way. Whenever we discussed that example back then, we admired that planner to death, convinced he must have a gift for persuading other people to marry their daughters to him. I certainly could not have done it. Even the country's most expensive advertising auction slot did not cost that much...

After leaving the planning industry at the end of 2002, I began to loathe writing proposals. Of all the jobs that involved catering to bosses, this was the least fun. Work summaries, budgets, reports, and spreadsheets were all tolerable. The problem was that planners generally did not deal directly with the boss. When dealing with the boss's subordinates, you had to consider whether they would steal your ideas and take the credit, whether the client company would grasp your idea and implement it without paying, or whether they would demand that you take responsibility when their execution went wrong, and so on and so forth... I had only written those proposals for Zhang Xiaotong a while ago because circumstances had forced my hand. Now that I had people under me, I might as well let them write them.

During a conference call with Lu Wei and Liu Mingyao, I told them to find department heads and managers under them who were good at expressing themselves and have each write on an assigned topic. Ideally, none of them would know what the others were writing. Then I gave the two of them various promotional topics to write down and distribute.

Liu Mingyao himself was very interested in these topics and volunteered to write one too. I snorted. "You're not allowed to get Cai Qing to help." He immediately wilted.

I could hear Lu Wei's teasing laughter over the phone, so I gave a dry cough. "You two, plus Cai Qing, who's out on business right now-the three of you are to write me a summary of the company's current shortcomings. Don't always make us do it ourselves. As you know, schoolwork actually keeps us pretty busy..."

Liu Mingyao gave an odd cry. "Do you know what my face looks like right now?"

I said irritably, "You're rolling your eyes, right?"

"Damn, you can even guess that?"

"The moment you stick your ass out, I know you're..." Halfway through, I remembered there were two girls listening and hastily stopped. "We've been operating for quite a while now. The easier it is for a company to make money, the more problems it has. Get moving. We're making or losing hundreds of thousands a minute. Time is money..."

"You little money grubber," Zhang Xiaotong said beside me. "Don't listen to him. Work comes first. Just submit all the reports before the end of the month. Employees can choose whether to sign their names or remain anonymous."

Playing along, I sighed beside her. "Ah, money just keeps getting harder to make..."

Zhang Xiaotong looked at me with a smile. "Aren't you going to give them advance notice about the shift in our business focus?"

I slapped my forehead. "Oh, I was so busy reading I forgot. How embarrassing, and I supposedly never forget anything I read... Hey, Liu, assign some of your people to support our Sun Red Tea. Don't worry about whether they know the industry. I trust anyone you choose to get the work straightened out within a month. Also, we can pause the chicken bouillon promotion for now. Put some money into sponsoring a national youth essay competition. We'll have Zhang Xiaotong enter. We could save quite a bit by winning the prize ourselves, couldn't we?"

That last sentence was a joke, of course, but I was in the habit of being serious one moment and flippant the next. Nobody spoke, apparently considering the feasibility of what I had said. That would not do, so I hurriedly interrupted. "All right, all right, don't listen to my nonsense. Essay competitions are fine, scholarships are fine, prize promotions are fine too, but we absolutely must keep our own people from participating. If we really give people something to use against us, we'll never be able to explain it away."

Finally, to emphasize my point, I added an unnecessary remark. "Chinese people are good at turning three parts into ten. That's fine with good things, but when people do it with bad things, it's painful."

Everyone agreed. By now, they were used to hearing me ramble like an old man, and nobody stopped to wonder why an elementary school student could spout so many grand but useless platitudes. I thought that was rather good too. As time slowly passed, these puzzling things about me would eventually disappear, and all my secrets would remain hidden forever.

My final instruction was to reclaim as many of the distribution rights granted during the initial launch of the Young Dreamer series as possible. We would manufacture and sell it ourselves. At this point, Liu Mingyao aptly reminded me that he was already putting together our own technical team, whose first task would be to diversify our branded computers. On this point, we were of one mind: sell concepts, creativity, looks, and price. As the personal computer market gradually expanded, market segmentation was absolutely inevitable. A single brand and selling point would surely stop working before long.

Still, I was in no hurry. The bulk of Sun Electronics' business lay in custom-built computers and individual components. I had repeatedly stressed that we had to do this well, precisely to lay the groundwork for the nationwide computer-room installation boom of 1994. In my memory, computer assembly business grew like crazy in 1994 and 1995, with computer rooms, The Legend of Sword and Fairy, and Richman everywhere. In fact, Sun Electronics had already grown beyond my original expectations. Initially, I had only intended to fish in troubled waters during the golden years, make eight or ten million along with everyone else, then get out. I had never expected it to grow this big. Perhaps I had overlooked one thing: many domestic industries only gradually took shape after 1994. Competing against them with knowledge and development trends they had spent nearly ten years accumulating, I naturally made an outrageous amount.

After laying out the main points, I had Zhang Xiaotong call Dong Qinghua. Crimson Youth's circulation was steadily improving now, and he deserved much of the credit. Aside from churning out articles for the magazine, Zhang Xiaotong, its nominal editor-in-chief, did practically nothing. Sun Software was run entirely by another team, and we never interfered. That team might not even know that Zhang Xiaotong and I existed. Zhang Xiaotong gave Dong Qinghua another red envelope containing over ten thousand to thank him for handling distribution, then asked him to do something for her.

By now, it was almost a conditioned reflex for Dong Qinghua. Whenever he heard she needed something done, his eyes would surely light up like a weasel's. "What is it? Tell me."

Zhang Xiaotong stammered, "I... I'd like Uncle Dong to help me contact those people you know at a few provincial television stations..."

Dong Qinghua was taken aback at first, then understood. "Oh... you want to promote Crimson Youth?"

Zhang Xiaotong admitted it. "I've watched the youth programs on most stations. An interview, a guest appearance-any format would do. I'd like the editors from our editorial office to go on and promote it."

This surprised Dong Qinghua. "Not you?"

"I'm the mastermind behind the scenes now," Zhang Xiaotong said with an innocent smile. "Our editors all look presentable. They won't embarrass us on television."

Dong Qinghua thought it over. He was handling distribution for Crimson Youth, so good promotion would benefit him considerably too. He promptly nodded. "I'll contact them for you next workweek and try to get you onto a winter vacation special or a Spring Festival special."

After she hung up, I pinched my nose and gave a strange laugh. "See? Putting personal interests above everything else is the winning approach."

Zhang Xiaotong scoffed. "Keep being wicked. Maybe one day you'll even scheme against me."

"Huh? Haven't I already?"

"When did you scheme against me?"

I lowered my head and counted on my fingers. "There seemed to be this evening called Christmas Eve. I knew a certain someone would..."

Before I could finish, Zhang Xiaotong clapped her hand over my mouth, leaving me thoroughly frustrated. Why was this girl so unromantic? Use your mouth to shut mine...