Bill Gates is the pope of the personal computer industry. He

Host: The morning haze drifted across the city skyline, a veil of light and glass, as if the sun itself hesitated before touching the world. From the 32nd floor, the view was a mosaic of steel, billboards, and motion — the kingdom of ambition. Inside the conference room, everything gleamed: chrome, polished wood, screens glowing cold blue with silent numbers.

Jack stood near the window, hands in pockets, watching the world that seemed to run on data and caffeine. Jeeny entered quietly, holding two cups of coffee — the only warm thing in the room.

Host: The air smelled faintly of ozone and power — the strange perfume of technology’s sanctuaries.

Jeeny: (setting the cups down) “Larry Ellison once said, ‘Bill Gates is the pope of the personal computer industry. He decides who’s going to build.’”

Jack: (chuckling dryly) “Yeah. And Ellison would’ve crowned himself if Gates hadn’t beaten him to it.”

Jeeny: “That’s not the point, Jack.”

Jack: “Oh, it’s exactly the point. Power. That’s what he meant. Gates turned machines into a religion, and everyone else became disciples — or heretics.”

Host: Jack’s reflection wavered in the glass, the city’s light crossing his face like invisible code. His eyes were sharp, alive with a kind of tired admiration — the kind reserved for people who both despise and envy control.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like worship. Maybe it was — but maybe it was also faith. People needed someone to believe in during that digital dawn.”

Jack: (turning toward her) “Faith? Please. Gates didn’t give them faith; he gave them an ecosystem. A new world — sure — but one where he wrote the commandments. You either complied or disappeared.”

Jeeny: “And yet that world connected billions, Jack. It put knowledge in every home. Isn’t that its own kind of miracle?”

Host: The hum of the servers from the hallway filled the silence, like a quiet choir of electricity. The lights overhead flickered slightly, as if the building itself was listening.

Jack: “A miracle with a license agreement. Don’t confuse liberation with dependency. Gates didn’t just connect the world — he standardized it. He turned the infinite into something proprietary.”

Jeeny: (frowning) “But every revolution begins with control before it becomes freedom. The printing press was controlled. So was radio. Power centralizes before it spreads.”

Jack: “And sometimes it never spreads. Sometimes the pope stays pope forever.”

Host: Jeeny moved to the window beside him, her reflection merging with his. Below them, the streets pulsed — delivery drones, electric taxis, glowing advertisements for devices that promised to simplify life by owning every part of it.

Jeeny: “You talk like technology’s a prison. But you live inside it every day. You build systems, design algorithms, write code — you’re part of the cathedral, Jack.”

Jack: “Yeah, and maybe that’s the problem. We all are. We kneel to screens now. We confess to search bars. The pope of the PC just passed the throne to a thousand little successors — each one whispering: update or die.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “You think that’s Gates’ fault? Or just human nature — our obsession with control?”

Jack: “Same thing, really. Gates just understood it better than anyone. He saw that people didn’t want freedom; they wanted function. They didn’t want chaos — they wanted someone to tell them what to build, how to build it, and when to upgrade it.”

Host: The light shifted — sharp and sterile, bouncing off the table like the gleam of a blade. Jeeny’s face softened in the glow, while Jack’s hardened, a sculpture of skepticism and fatigue.

Jeeny: “You underestimate the good in structure. Without visionaries, chaos reigns. Gates didn’t decide who built — he decided how people could build together. He democratized creation.”

Jack: “Democratized? By controlling the means of access? That’s like saying a priest democratizes God by selling indulgences.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the alternative? A world with no order? Open source without boundaries? You’d drown in versions and voices. People need a center — something that keeps the noise from collapsing into nothing.”

Host: A long silence stretched. Outside, a billboard shifted to display a glowing portrait of a new tech visionary — another face promising connection, another smile coded for trust. Jack’s gaze hardened.

Jack: “That’s the danger, Jeeny. When the priest and the builder are the same person, faith becomes currency. And the worship never ends.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Maybe it’s not worship. Maybe it’s evolution. Every era needs its pope — its guiding myth. Once it was kings, then scientists, then coders. Maybe what matters isn’t who builds, but that we keep building.”

Jack: “Until what, though? Until the machine replaces the pope? Until the code writes its own scripture?”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s when we finally stop pretending we’re gods.”

Host: The air in the room thickened. The rain began to tap against the glass, rhythmic and restrained. The city below shimmered, pulsing with invisible data — messages, transactions, lives tethered by unseen networks.

Jack: “You really believe control and creation can coexist?”

Jeeny: “I believe balance can. Gates wasn’t a saint — but he taught humanity to build beyond itself. And yes, he held the keys, but someone had to open the gate first.”

Jack: “And once the gate opens, who closes it when it goes too far?”

Jeeny: “Maybe no one should. Maybe that’s how the world grows — by risking collapse.”

Host: A flicker of lightning outside cut through the rain, casting their faces in split illumination — half shadow, half flame. Jack’s eyes softened, the cynicism cracking just enough for memory to slip through.

Jack: “You know… when I was a kid, my first computer ran Windows 95. I remember the sound when it booted — that little chime. It felt like the future was saying hello.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And now?”

Jack: (with a sigh) “Now it feels like it’s always saying update available.”

Host: Jeeny laughed, softly, the kind of laugh that carries both affection and sadness. Jack’s mouth curved, almost involuntarily, like a man realizing he’d been arguing against his own ghost.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the secret, Jack. The future doesn’t belong to popes or prophets — it belongs to those who keep answering the call. Not because they’re told to build, but because they can’t stop.”

Jack: (looking out at the rain) “And because they’re afraid of standing still.”

Jeeny: “Standing still is the only thing technology can’t simulate.”

Host: The rain slowed to a whisper. The skyline shimmered in wet light, as though the city had been washed clean — reborn for a brief moment in its own reflection. Jack picked up his coffee, the steam curling around his face, blurring him with the city beyond.

Jack: “Maybe Ellison was right. Gates was the pope. But we — we’re the congregation that learned how to build churches of our own.”

Jeeny: “And maybe one day, we’ll stop building towers — and start planting gardens again.”

Host: Her words fell softly, but they lingered — like a faint vibration in the circuitry of the room. The screens dimmed, the rain stopped, and in the quiet that followed, the only sound was the city breathing — a living cathedral of code and humanity.

And somewhere between control and creation, between faith and function, the world kept building — because it no longer knew how to stop.