The first true test of the telegraph did not come from war or disaster.
It came from bureaucracy.
Phillip learned this on a cold morning in Whitehall, when the carriage stopped not at the Admiralty or Parliament, but before a narrower building whose brass plaque read Telegraph Commission – Temporary Offices.
Temporary in name only. Already, clerks moved through its halls with purpose. Desks crowded the corridors. Message slips lay stacked in wooden trays. The faint, irregular clicking of sounders leaked through half-closed doors, stitching the building together with quiet urgency.
Henry stepped down beside Phillip and adjusted his coat. "They've been live for four days," he said. "Longer than planned."
Phillip looked at the windows. Some were open despite the cold. Wires snaked in through the frames, insulated with thick resin collars. "Who authorized it?"
Henry gave a small, tired smile. "Everyone. No one."
Inside, Phillip was met not by ceremony, but by noise.
