In the restaurant, a few scattered tables of diners sat waiting to enjoy a wonderful lunch.

The third floor of Golden Exchange Bank headquarters was not open to regular employees, only to middle and upper management. Those who could dine here were basically members of the management, and in the absence of board members, Carl was already considered to have the highest status here.

To express respect for Carl and highlight the hierarchical corporate culture, those with insufficient status actively chose to sit closer to the exit, further away from Carl.

So even though everyone was sitting in the same space, they didn't know what Carl and Lynch were talking about.

What were they talking about?

Carl cleared his throat, the smile on his face was somewhat strange and indescribable. His voice remained slightly lower than usual, "The Federation will allow approved enterprises to issue corporate bonds..."

Lynch's pupils slightly contracted; corporate bonds, a formal term for what essentially meant allowing enterprises to raise funds from society.

Bonds have interest, but sometimes this interest isn't paid in the form of "currency." It could be products, a job, or even a house.

Thinking of this, he chuckled. For enterprises, for Federation enterprises, for Federation capitalists, this might be the second good era after the brutal and wild growth of the Golden Era—a Silver Era.

The reason is simple: issue bonds and then go bankrupt. As long as you have enough courage and shamelessness, a million, ten million, it's all just a blink of an eye.

Lynch was curious to know who the hell was so clever to propose this idea, "Was this suggested by the Gold Authority?"

Carl leaned back, spread his napkin, and nodded, "They wanted the banks to fund, but as you've seen, we have several billion in bad debts this year. This is after loosening our evaluation standards. If we were stricter, the figures would be terrifying."

"The banks are somewhat pained right now, so they're naturally unwilling to shell out money, and plus..." Carl grinned, "Apparently, someone complained during a meeting about how every time disasters like those in Galilee occur, many investors get trapped."

"So the deputy director of the Gold Authority proposed a rough outline, allowing enterprises to issue bonds to society. At the very least, everything would be in one pot."

Whenever there's a financial issue, a group of foreigners runs off with the money, and this is why the bank executives openly criticized during the meeting.

If the money stayed domestically after a financial disaster, there wouldn't be a problem. At least this money would remain within the entire societal monetary system, as banks, the most crucial part, would benefit somehow.

But when the money is taken by foreigners, the banks have to carry various bad debts, and now they're expected to come forth with money, which the banks surely disagree with.

Thus, under various coincidences, this plan was introduced: in simple terms, it's raising funds to start operations, giving those who want to strive an opportunity.

This is no joke.

"I know you have some companies. You can also prepare some materials. The first batch of approvals should be easy to get through. Then you can issue bonds to society," Carl hinted again. This news, from its inception to execution, surely won't achieve true fairness and justice.

Just like now, the news hasn't been announced, yet Lynch and some others have received it. They've prepared their materials and either await or have already submitted them.

Once the policy is announced, within days the first batch with the most relaxed review standards will be publicized. When others think of joining, the review standards will become stricter.

This is an embodiment of a characteristic in Federation Society—the information society.

"Thank you!" Lynch nodded, already thinking about how to write an anonymous thank-you letter to Carl. He's a good person, and good people should be praised.

Carl laughed heartily, his voice returning to normal, "We're friends!"

Soon, a sixty-something-year-old chef led several junior chefs, pushing a dining cart and a cooking cart over. They stood at some distance from Lynch and Carl, cooking on the spot.

Indeed, this sixty-something skilled immigrant chef had some prowess. From the way he made a simple grilled fish fillet fancy, it was clear this meal would be delicious.

Grilled fish fillets are available in many places, but today's grilled fish fillets were slightly different. The fish fillet ingredients in Federation cuisine are sourced from sea fish.

Sea fish have fewer bones and more meat, which suits the preference of Federation people for food ingredients. Different fish meat exhibits various characteristics during grilling, some becoming a bit loose.

This is a description of texture; fish meat fibers themselves lack fat membranes, so when dehydrating during frying, the muscle fibers scatter, like the fish meat they were eating today.

However, the chef miraculously solved these issues with egg whites, keeping the texture firm while maintaining the distinctive grilled fillet traits.

A satisfying lunch.

On the way back, Lynch kept pondering about the issue of corporate fundraising... no, issuing corporate bonds, even though these could be considered the same.

Lynch's thoughts were very divergent, and what he thought about seemed disconnected at first glance, but in reality, there was a clear thread connecting them.

For instance, the first thought that came to him was about the President. Pushing an economic stimulus plan at this time means the President has great confidence in winning the election.

Otherwise, launching this plan now is precarious. If it fails, it's like warming up the stage for someone else, and the victor can then boast these events happened during their term—they aren't lying, just expressing it differently, and if someone misunderstands, it's not the President's fault.

Now daring to release the plan is partly due to confidence in winning, and partly to attract more voters.

So this stimulus plan, which should've been issued after the Presidential win, was released early.

Next, Lynch thought of Mr. Truman's attitude toward capitalists. From Carl's words, it's not hard to see that maybe he had a contest with those big capitalists, with wins and losses.

Driving out those greedy financial consortiums from small projects could actually be seen as Mr. Truman achieving a victory.

Then Lynch thought of his own factories, wondering if he could... also let the workers subscribe to bonds?

Thinking of this, he couldn't help but laugh, like watching the Federation's finest comedian performing a hilarious comedy—it was a heartily laugh.

Think about it, when capitalists need to fundraise to make money for themselves, who are they going to turn to first?

Other broke capitalists?

Sly speculators?

Bupen's financial vultures?

Or... those workers waiting for jobs?

Surely the latter, and whether the workers can find suitable jobs will depend on how much money they can contribute to the factory.

"I spend money helping capitalists oppress and exploit myself" is no longer the drunken delusion of capitalists but a reality about to unfold!

After wandering outside for a while, Lynch took a ride home. The current him was no longer who he used to be; every time he walked the streets, many people would follow.

Some might think this looks impressive. Some people have groups surrounding them to make themselves look powerful.

Lynch had moved beyond such a phase. After wandering for a while, sensing the eyes of the crowd avoiding him, Lynch voluntarily got into the car and returned home.

Just outside the villa area, as the convoy was about to enter the community, a guard approached the window.

"Mr. Lynch, there's a gentleman who says he knows you, but from what I see..." The guard pursed his lips, and Lynch roughly understood his meaning, then looked toward the booth.

Beside the booth stood a middle-aged man, disheveled and uneasy. When Lynch looked at him, he suddenly strode toward the car Lynch was in.

The bodyguard beside him immediately grabbed his neck, pressing him down to the seat bottom, and drew out a pistol from the holster...

Two minutes later, Lynch, rubbing his neck, still had to commend the bodyguard for doing well, then had to reassure her not to think too much about it, and even had to give her a little reward.

Even though he knew these were the most correct actions, it was still somewhat frustrating.

The man who was striding toward the car was someone he knew. A year ago, Lynch had invested ten thousand dollars in this guy at a trade fair for that radio reconnaissance array.

This world is quite a strange place; naturally, this could be related to the absence of some important scientists here.

So Lynch sometimes didn't mind investing in some small things, hoping that he might reap some scientists someday.

At Lynch's invitation, the radio scientist came to Lynch's villa, let's call him that for now.

Sitting on the sofa, the scientist felt somewhat emotional. Indeed, to a self-taught scientist, in his world and understanding, perhaps he was "better" than Lynch in many ways, yet Lynch was richer.

People often say knowledge is priceless—it truly is, as most of the time, it's not worth much. Only a minority can make it valuable.

"Mr. Lynch, I've run out of money," said the radio scientist, placing down the cup of coffee, pulling out a notebook from his pocket, opening to the first page, and then handing it over.

"This records the specific usage of the funds you invested, with every penny documented on this notebook..."

Lynch took the notebook and glanced through casually. From an aluminum tube to a piece of copper wire, frequently appearing coffee beans—there were too many things. He casually flipped through a few pages before tossing it back onto the table.

"Have you reached a point in your research?"

"In other words, has the money I invested in you shown some of its value?"

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