The steel blast-proof doors of the Imperial Bank's underground vault slowly closed.
George Templeton stood in front of a row of safes, holding the mortgage documents he had just brought down from the top floor.
Several senior actuaries of the bank were gathered around a long table, rapidly clicking their abacuses and verifying the discount rates of various assets.
"President."
The chief actuary looked up and pushed the glasses on the bridge of his nose.
"According to the agreement, if the tax-free port rights of French Indochina are resold to the Metropolitan Trading Company, the annual net profit will be at least one million dollars. As for those artworks from the Louvre..."
The actuary swallowed hard.
"Although we haven't personally appraised them, if they are mortgaged at twenty percent of the European market price, we are practically buying authentic works by Da Vinci and Raphael for the price of rotten wood. After the war, as long as we hold a few auctions in London or New York, this collateral can be liquidated for nearly ten million dollars."
Templeton locked the documents into the highest-level safe.
"Don't underestimate the value of art in peaceful times; file the documents. I want to see the list of the appraisal team first thing tomorrow morning."
Templeton straightened the hem of his suit.
"In this war, we are laying bricks for the American treasury. Every single one is a blood-stained gold brick."
...
Hoboken coast, New Jersey.
Atlantic Power Shipyard.
Torrential rain pounded the steel plates of the dry dock, making a deafening clattering sound. The intense light of the searchlights pierced through the curtain of rain, illuminating the massive 'neptune' ironclad.
General Manager Ian MacGregor was wearing a yellow rubber raincoat. He stood on the muddy pier with an extinguished pipe clenched in his teeth.
Dozens of shipyard workers in coarse canvas clothes were hanging off the sides of the ship with brushes and paint buckets.
"Move faster, you lazy bums!"
MacGregor roared loudly, his voice drowning out the sound of the rain.
"Cover all the factory names on the stern with black paint; don't leave a single English letter. Apply another layer of anti-rust paint to the armor joints!"
A freight train stopped at the edge of the pier.
Frank Cole, General Manager of Vanguard Armaments, jumped off the train wearing a raincoat. He directed a team of security personnel to unload the heavy wooden crates from the carriages.
Frank walked up to MacGregor.
"Ian, the ammunition has arrived!"
Frank wiped the rainwater from his face.
"Ten thousand rounds of eight-inch main gun shells! Two million rounds of Smokeless Powder machine gun ammunition! It's all here!"
MacGregor spat out the pipe and patted Frank on the shoulder.
"Well done, Frank! Those big tubes you built are already in place. Six Gatlings, all mounted behind armor shields. If anyone dares to get too close, this ship can tear them to shreds."
Frank looked at the hull where the markings were being erased by the workers.
"Did the boss really sell this monster to the French?"
Frank lowered his voice.
"What about the Prussian side? I heard they also made a purchase? If Major Alvensleben finds out we gave a capital ship to their mortal enemy, he might stop future weapon procurements."
MacGregor let out a boisterous laugh.
"Hahaha... Don't worry, my brother. Prussia's should have arrived at their port by now."
"As for selling to France as well—I recall that nothing in the signed cooperation agreement said we couldn't sell to France. Besides, who said we were going to hand the ship directly to the French government? Haven't you learned the boss's methods yet?"
MacGregor pointed at the ship, a hint of smugness on his face.
"This ship will have no name or flag after launching. It will sail out of the Hudson River and into the high seas at high tide tonight. Furthermore, there are none of our own employees on board; the crew consists entirely of independent sailors we've hired. Once it reaches the designated coordinates in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, a merchant ship flying the Portuguese flag will rendezvous with it."
MacGregor leaned in closer to Frank and whispered.
"That's a meeting vessel disguised by the French Navy Department; we'll hand over the ship on the high seas and receive the draft for the remaining balance. As for whether this ship flies the French tricolor or a pirate's skull and crossbones after it returns, it has nothing to do with the Atlantic Power Company. If investigated, it's just a public security incident where the shipyard suffered a theft."
Frank felt this approach was somewhat inappropriate and said speechlessly, "Theft? A four-thousand-five-hundred-ton ironclad was stolen? Will Washington believe such an absurd excuse?"
"Does it matter if they believe it or not! We have people in Congress. As long as the benefits are sufficient, they'll even believe the ship was dragged away by a sea monster."
After speaking, MacGregor turned and shouted at the workers.
"You idiots, hurry up and flood it! Then open the dock gates immediately and prepare to weigh anchor!"
At MacGregor's urging, massive steel gears turned, and seawater gushed into the dry dock through the pipes.
The massive hull of the neptune began to float as the water level rose.
The black hull in the night rain was like a Leviathan awakening from the deep sea. There was no sound of a whistle, only the deep panting of the steam engine.
It slowly slid out of the dock and sailed into the pitch-black sea.
Frank watched the warship disappear into the curtain of rain and tightened the collar of his raincoat.
"Ian, if this thing sails to Europe, the Atlantic shipping routes will be in complete chaos."
"Let it be chaotic; does that have much to do with us?"
MacGregor took a match from his pocket and relit his pipe.
"Besides, man, if the Old World isn't smashed to pieces, how can we build a new world on the ruins? Come on, let's go back to the office for a drink. The slipway is clear; tomorrow we start laying the keels for those two new freighters. The Metropolitan Trading Company is still pressing for grain ships."
Frank thought about it and realized it was true; if Europe wasn't fighting to the death, the Vanguard Armaments he managed wouldn't have so many orders.
"When it comes time for the Committee's year-end meeting report, it won't look good."
As their conversation ended, the night returned to silence.
This also portended that in the storm of 1870, the port of New York became a giant funnel absorbing the wealth of all Europe.
Every ship departing from here was supplying the most lethal nourishment to Argyle's capital empire.
And those emperors and generals issuing orders in the Palace of Versailles and the Tuileries Palace had no idea that what actually decided their fate were those cold mortgage slips on Wall Street.
While Felix was making money in Europe by dealing in various supplies, Edison, who had been at Westinghouse Electric in Pittsburgh for two weeks, was currently facing trouble.
Inside the second-floor laboratory of Westinghouse Electric on the banks of the Allegheny River, a pungent smell of burning filled the air.
Thomas Edison held a pair of iron pliers, pulling a copper coil that was still emitting black smoke off the workbench and tossing it heavily into the scrap bin in the corner.
"Bang!"
The coil hit the bottom of the iron bin, splashing a mess of black residue.
George Westinghouse was hunched over another table, studying improvement drawings for an air brake.
Hearing the sudden noise, he straightened up and wiped the machine oil from his hands with a rag.
"Burned another one, Thomas?"
George walked over, and after a glance at the scrap bin, he immediately understood what had happened.
After all, this wasn't the first time it had occurred.
"I think you should use them more sparingly. You know this is the fourth transformer coil this week, and our stock of high-purity copper wire from London is running dry."
Hearing this, Edison irritably pulled open the collar of his shirt.
God damn it, talk is cheap when you're not the one doing the work. If I don't run enough experiments, how am I supposed to find the right path?
"I know, I know. I've already discovered that the problem isn't the copper wire, George. It's the insulation material!"
Edison slammed his fist onto the workbench in frustration.
He was anxious; if they didn't develop Alternating Current soon, the market would be completely taken over by General Electric.
"You have to understand that once Alternating Current is stepped up to two thousand volts, the electromagnetic induction between the coils generates extreme heat and electric arcs. The ordinary bakelite and varnish we're buying from the market now have too many impurities. In less than ten minutes of power, the insulation layer is punctured. The current shorts out immediately, turning the coil into scrap metal."
"If we keep using this kind of material, it's simply impossible to produce qualified wires at this stage."
Just then, Clive Cavendish, having received word, pushed open the laboratory door and walked in.
He held several telegram copies in his hand, and his expression was grim.
"Mr. Edison, since you know it's a problem with the insulation material, why haven't you made a list to purchase better materials?"
Cavendish placed the telegrams on the table, appearing quite dissatisfied.
"Mr. Morgan in London is paying very close attention to the progress of our research and development."
"Aha? You think I don't want to buy them, Mr. Cavendish!"
Edison spun around suddenly, like an enraged lion.
"I would be more than happy to make a list, but why don't you go ask the Metropolitan Trading Company? Go ask that vampire in New York!"
Edison pointed out the window, his expression of pure resentment making it clear to anyone that he had reached his breaking point.
That fellow Felix Alastor Allen Argyle already anticipated the insulation needs for Alternating Current. He used his capital to buy up all the import quotas for high-purity natural rubber and special insulation lacquer on the East Coast. Everything circulating on the market now is impure, second-rate goods. He's used the supply chain to lock down my transformers!"
Cavendish frowned; if that was the case, things were going to be troublesome.
"Perhaps... Mr. Morgan could arrange for cargo ships to transport rubber directly from South America or Ceylon to the Philadelphia port?"
"Heh... how long would that take?"
Edison personally proved that when a person is truly speechless, they really do laugh.
"We don't have time to wait that long! General Electric's Direct Current grid is spreading through New York and Chicago every day. By the time your rubber arrives, Argyle will have already signed all the factories to ten-year exclusive contracts. By then, who will we sell our Alternating Current to? Sell it to Satan?"
Heavy footsteps echoed on the laboratory stairs.
Andrew Carnegie walked up.
He looked even more haggard than he had a few months ago, with sunken eyes and a messy beard.
He had provided the steel for the Westinghouse Electric factory buildings at cost price.
"I could hear you all arguing from all the way downstairs."
Carnegie skipped the pleasantries and walked straight up to them.
"Mr. Morgan promised me that Westinghouse Electric was established to break Argyle' monopoly. I need your Alternating Current grid laid out as soon as possible. My blast furnaces are about to give out!"
Carnegie looked at Cavendish.
"Mr. Cavendish, I'm relying on low-price mortgages of Midwest Railroad bonds in Philadelphia to get cash for coal. I'm bleeding every day. Argyle has used five-year installment loans to steal away all my railroad customers. If your electrical equipment still can't be produced, we won't have any chips left to turn the tables."
Cavendish picked up his cane, his face full of helplessness.
"Mr. Carnegie, Westinghouse Electric has hit a bottleneck with insulation materials. Argyle has cut off our supply of high-quality rubber."
Carnegie paused for a moment, then turned to look at Edison.
"Insulation? Does it just need to block the current and withstand high temperatures?"
"In theory, yes, but two thousand volts of high-voltage electricity is no joke. Ordinary insulators would be punctured and catch fire instantly," Edison said, leaning his hands on the table.
Carnegie paced back and forth in the lab for a few steps.
"Thomas, there are still some independent coke plants around my steel mills. When we produce coke, we generate a large amount of byproducts. Coal tar, and asphalt."
Carnegie stopped and looked at Edison.
"If we purify the asphalt, mix in some asbestos fiber, apply it to cotton cloth, and then wrap the coils layer by layer... could that provide insulation?"
Hearing this, Edison's eyes lit up, and his mind began to race.
"Asphalt's insulation properties are indeed very high, and it's heat-resistant. If the purity is high enough, and we use an oil-immersion cooling method to lower the temperature..."
Edison slapped his palms together suddenly.
"That's a fantastic idea! It's a bit clunky, but it can definitely bypass Argyle' rubber blockade!"
"Then I'll immediately have people go to the coke plants to collect high-purity asphalt and coal tar," Carnegie said through gritted teeth.
"I'll only charge the cost price, as long as you build those transformers. Then, bring the first Alternating Current grid to my steel mill."
Carnegie stared at George, speaking with absolute seriousness.
"George, as long as you can provide me with power that's cheaper than General Electric's, I can push the cost of steel production down another ten percent. Then, I'll use the lowest-priced steel rails to smash Argyle' installment loan plan."
George reached out and grasped Carnegie's hand.
"It's a deal, Andrew. Trust me, Pittsburgh is our territory. Argyle' Direct Current won't get in; we'll light the first Alternating Current lamp right here."
Cavendish looked at these three industrialists and inventors who had been pushed to the brink.
He knew that a true anti-Argyle alliance had finally been forged at this very moment.
"I will report this to London."
Cavendish adjusted the collar of his trench coat and looked at the three men.
"I believe Mr. Morgan will be very pleased to see your cooperation. Funding will continue to be deposited into your accounts. Gentlemen, please speed up. We don't have much time left."
New York, the underground vault of the Empire State Building.
The heavy blast-proof door stood open, and a blinding golden light illuminated the entire vault.
Tom Hayes and George Templeton stood before rows of newly opened wooden crates.
The crates still carried the salty tang of seawater and the musty odor of a cargo ship's hold.
"Six million dollars in physical gold bars."
Hayes picked up a heavy gold brick, looking at the eagle insignia of the Royal Prussian Mint.
"Even the cash we got from selling off French government bonds in London has been converted, to the last cent, into this hard currency."
Templeton adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, holding a registration ledger in his hand.
"It's more than just this, Tom. Atlantic Power Company's 'neptune' has already completed the handover on the high seas. Although the French didn't pay the final balance entirely in gold, they mortgaged oil paintings from the Louvre and the Bank of France's foreign exchange reserves in London."
Templeton pointed to several large, shockproof tarpaulin bundles stacked on the other side of the vault.
"The appraisers have already calculated it. As soon as Napoleon III is defeated and falls from power, we can take these mortgage documents to the London courts to apply for enforcement. This will be another astronomical profit."
Hayes placed the gold brick back into the wooden crate, clicking his tongue in amazement.
"The boss's intuition is terrifying, betting on both sides of the European battlefield. If the Prussians win, we make money from arms and bonds. If the French lose, we swallow their collateral."
"Isn't that even better? Lock up the vault." Templeton closed the ledger. "Balance the accounts. The boss isn't in the building right now; he's gone to New Jersey."
...
New Jersey, the Acoustic Communications Institute affiliated with the Central Laboratory.
At a detached two-story red brick building, fully armed security guards patrolled the perimeter.
Felix pushed open the door to the second-floor laboratory.
Professor Richard Colton, who had replaced that fellow Edison, was standing in front of a massive mechanical apparatus.
The device looked like a wooden locker magnified dozens of times.
The front was covered with dense brass jacks.
The back consisted of hundreds of fine copper wires wound like a spider's web, connecting rows of electromagnetic relays.
Heinrich White stood beside Professor Colton, holding a test report.
"Boss, you're here."
Seeing Felix enter, White immediately stepped forward to greet him.
Felix walked up to the massive machine.
"Mhm~ So this is the telephone switchboard?"
Felix sized up the brass jacks, feeling somewhat curious.
To be honest, he had never seen one of these before, only heard of them.
Professor Colton took off his reading glasses and turned around.
Although he had been here for less than a month, his complexion was ruddy; clearly, the ample R&D funding had him extremely excited.
"Yes, that's right, Mr. Argyle. This is the first-generation manual telephone switchboard model."
Professor Colton patted the wooden cabinet proudly.
"That Edison's previous design hit a dead end. He wanted to use complex brass gears and iron springs for automatic switching. That would cause massive current crosstalk. As long as several phone lines were powered at the same time, the receiver would be filled with noise."
Colton picked up a tiny silver component from the table and handed it to Felix.
"But I've replaced all the contact points with pure silver contacts. Silver has excellent conductivity and is resistant to oxidation. When the operator inserts the plug into the jack on the front, the silver contacts on the back close, completing a physical-level circuit connection. The crosstalk problem is completely solved."
Felix pinched the silver contact, lost in thought.
"How many lines can this machine handle?"
"Well... I think this current model can handle fifty telephones without any problem. If we increase the cabinet size, it can be expanded to two hundred at most. Beyond two hundred, we'd need several cabinets connected in parallel, with multiple operators handling the transfers simultaneously."
Colton rubbed his chin and answered after a moment's thought.
Felix put the silver contact back on the table.
"It doesn't matter; this is enough. For the first step, we don't need to install telephones in the homes of ordinary civilians. After all, I don't think they can afford it anyway."
Felix turned to look at White.
"Heinrich, have General Electric's woodworking factory begin mass-producing these cabinets. For the first batch, let's build twenty."
White took out a notebook and began recording.
"Then, Boss, how will we lay the lines once the equipment is built? Will it be a monthly subscription fee, like the electric lights?"
"Of course not. The business model for telephones is completely different from electric lights."
Felix walked to the laboratory blackboard and picked up a piece of chalk.
"Electric lights consume energy; telephones consume information channels. We don't sell telephone sets. The ownership of the telephones, the lines, and the switchboards—all equipment—belongs entirely to General Electric."
Felix wrote two terms on the blackboard: Installation Fee, Call Fee.
"Factory owners and Wall Street brokers who want to use a telephone must first pay a hefty 'installation fee.' This money will cover our costs for stringing lines and installing equipment."
Felix tapped the blackboard heavily with the chalk.
"This point is very important!"
"Then, we find a building in New York and establish the 'New York Central Telephone Bureau.' We move all the switchboard cabinets in and hire young women as operators. Women's voices are softer, and labor costs are lower. Every customer with a telephone installed only needs to turn the crank, and the line will connect to the Central Telephone Bureau."
"The operator asks who they are looking for and then plugs the jack into the corresponding socket. The line is connected, and they begin to talk."
"We install timers in the telephone bureau. Every call is billed by the minute. The more they talk, the more they pay. We settle the accounts at the end of the month. If they don't pay, we simply pull their plug at the switchboard. Their telephone becomes nothing more than a piece of scrap wood."
Professor Colton listened, dumbfounded.
"It could be played like this?"
He had studied acoustics in university his whole life and had never imagined that this technology could be turned into such a sophisticated and terrifying money-making machine.
"Mr. Argyle... this is equivalent to grasping the throat of the entire New York business community."
Colton swallowed hard, his mouth twitching.
"If they are all using telephones to conduct business, once the plug is pulled, they won't even be able to set foot out the door."
"That is exactly my purpose, Professor."
Felix threw away the chalk and brushed the dust off his hands.
"Continue to refine your switchboard and make it more stable. As for how to collect the money, that's a matter for the legal and sales departments."
After seeing the switchboard, Felix walked out of the Acoustic Communications Institute in high spirits.
Outside, the sunlight was somewhat dazzling.
Thinking of Bell in Boston, who was still struggling with transmission distances.
While he had already constructed an information web covering the entire city.
As long as the telephone lines were laid out, in this era without anti-monopoly laws, the commercial communications of the entire America would pay a tithe to the Argyle Family.