not simply to raise the money for Noyce and Moore: with their track record and his contacts, that would be a snap. Instead, Rock wanted to find investors who could offer some expertise that would be useful to the new business. Partly out of a wish to prevent any single shareholder from becoming too powerful, he decided to scale back the contributions offered by his fifteen contacts. One of the new company’s founding shareholders was Grinnel College of Iowa, Robert Noyce’s Alma Mater. By now, the pig incident had long been forgotten. With Noyce now chairman of the college’s board of trustees, the success of Fairchild made it seem only natural to sell his old college a $300,000 slice of the new venture. The board was happy with the idea; its resident investment guru, Warren Buffett of Omaha, Nebraska, had no objection, and so the investment went ahead. Noyce and Moore had already each put up $250,000; Rock himself came in for $300,000. The backers’ investment in Noyce and Moore would be the best deal they ever made.
It took only a few weeks to choose a business name. The pair started out calling themselves ‘NM Electronics’, but it was agreed on all sides that this sounded kind of old-fashioned. After discarding more than a dozen other ideas, Moore finally came up with ‘Integrated Electronics’. Noyce admitted that it captured just what the new business was about, but suggested that they should contract the name to a single word: Intel. Arthur Rock, whose work in raising the company’s startup capital had earned him the job of Intel’s first chairman, had no objection. The pair discovered too late, shortly after the incorporation papers were drawn up on 16 July 1968, that there was already a company in existence called Intelco. By then, the word was already out about their new venture, and the easiest way to head off any lawsuits was to pay $15,000 for the right to use the Intel name.
Two weeks later, in August 1968, the local Palo Alto Times got wind of the story, and called up Gordon Moore for an interview. The resulting story, which ran across the top of an entire page of the paper, helpfully included both men’s home addresses. Within days, they began to receive résumés, calls and letters of application from talented engineers all over the industry who knew of Noyce’s work on the integrated circuit or of Moore’s achievements at Fairchild. Finding good employees willing to join a startup – usually one of the hardest tasks facing most entrepreneurs – was clearly not going to be a problem.
GREAT CHANGES WERE HAPPENING in the world during the long, hot summer of 1968. In Paris, students set up barricades against their college professors and the government. In Chicago, demonstrations against the war in Vietnam turned into riots that marred the Democratic National Convention. But the foundation of Intel, which has had a bigger effect on the lives of people in the world than either of these, took place without being noticed outside the narrow confines of the Bay Area’s electronics industry.
That was just how Gordon Moore liked it. The very opposite of a self-publicist, he instinctively avoided talking about his achievements until they were complete.
When Moore was asked by one of the local papers at the beginning of August what kind of devices he and Robert Noyce intended to build at their new company, his response was about as uninformative as it could be: ‘We particularly are interested in the product areas that none of the manufacturers are supplying,’ he said.
Come on, Gordon, that’s hardly news. You wouldn’t be setting up a new company just to copy something already on the market, would you?
When asked to elaborate, Moore would offer only two further thoughts. First, the new company would avoid direct government business. Second, the company would keep to the industrial end of the business rather than trying to develop products for end consumers.
From anyone else, this apparent vagueness might have indicated indecisiveness. But Moore hadn’t spent nine years at the helm of Fairchild’s extensive R&D operation for nothing. His principle was straightforward: there was no need to give away any information, however trivial, to potential competitors. If the people who had backed him and Noyce to the tune of several hundred thousand dollars each could do without detailed information on their technical plans, then so could the rest of the world.
This was no surprise to those who had known him at Fairchild. Moore was always hard to pin down on technical detail, even when he was giving a speech in public. When he was once sitting on a panel at a technical conference devoted to semiconductor materials, someone in the audience raised a question about the silicon nitride layers that Moore’s technical team were rumoured to have been experimenting with. What had the results been?
‘We got exactly the effect we were predicting,’ he answered. There was just one piece of crucial information he withheld from the audience. The engineering team had come to the conclusion that silicon nitride deposits would have no useful technical effect, and some careful tests had proved them right. But Moore thought that if it had taken his own researchers weeks to discover that the technology was a dead end, there was no reason to tell the world. Let the competition waste some time, too.
Behind the veil of vagueness, however, Noyce and Moore knew exactly what business they were going to go into. They would build memory devices. Across America, companies were buying mainframe computers to manage their accounting systems or payroll or medical records. In every case the computer needed a place where programs and data from work in progress could be stored, and then retrieved at high speed. Yet while integrated circuits were increasingly being used in the logic devices that carried out the calculations themselves, memory storage was struck in the pre-transistor age. The cheapest form of computer memory was ‘magnetic core’, a tiny magnetic doughnut which stored information in the form of ones and zeros depending on the way it was magnetized. If only a way could be found to integrate memory cells on to the circuits that Noyce had pioneered, then computer memory could become far more compact and speedier to operate. Once one computer company began to use integrated-circuit memory, the rest would follow suit. Then a virtuous circle of increasing volumes and falling costs would follow, ending up with the complete replacement of core memory with the new semiconductor devices. The potential market was millions upon millions of units a year.
A good reason for keeping so quiet about Intel’s plans was that Moore and Noyce were not alone in seeing this potential. The idea that core memory was eventually going to be replaced by semiconductors wasn’t a wild-eyed obsession held only by eccentrics. It was the received wisdom inside the industry. Route 101, the highway that ran south from San Francisco through the Valley and then onwards to Los Angeles, was dotted with laboratories racing to be the first to develop semiconductor memory devices.
Gordon Moore, though, had a head start. Shortly before his departure from Fairchild, a gifted young Italian semiconductor scientist in his department named Federico Faggin, had invented a new variation on the standards integrated-circuit manufacturing process, known as metal oxide on silicon. By 1968 the new technique, called ‘silicon gate’, was working stably in the laboratory, but it was still far from being a commercial product. With $2m in the bank, and a team of good engineers behind them, Moore knew that he and Noyce could make as good a stab as anyone else in the world at taking this technology and developing it to the point where memory devices could be mass produced at low cost.
But silicon-gate MOS was only one of three promising approaches to the problem of building integrated memory circuits. Another was to build multichip memory modules; a third was to use a process known as Schottky bipolar. Moore and Noyce decided that they would pursue all three simultaneously – and sell whichever they were able to mass-produce first. (Since Schottky proved easily replicable by competitors and multichip modules too hard even for Intel, Moore came to refer to the decision to pursue three lines of research simultaneously as the ‘Goldilocks’ strategy. Like the bowls of porridge left by the bears, only silicon gate turned out just right.)
