The elevator car doors consisted of two heavy brass sliding grills.
As the group stepped into the car, the solid hardwood floor beneath their feet didn't make even the slightest creak.
The space inside the car was extremely large, and accommodating eight or nine people including Felix still appeared very spacious.
The four walls were inlaid with polished, mirror-like walnut wainscoting, and a small electric light was even installed on the ceiling.
"Go to the second basement level."
Arthur instructed the elevator operator standing in the corner.
Wearing white gloves, the operator skillfully pulled a thick metal control lever.
"Hiss——"
Accompanied by the slight airflow sound released by steam and hydraulic valves, the car descended extremely smoothly, lacking that stomach-churning weightlessness.
"I've ridden this kind of vertical transportation before at a luxury hotel in Boston."
"But that machine was as slow as a sick snail, and all day it made that creaking sound like it was about to fall apart. The smoothness of this machine is truly astonishing." Tom Hayes gripped the brass handrail along the edge of the car.
"Because of the cost," Arthur explained with a smile.
"That hotel wouldn't spend fifty thousand dollars to customize a dual hydraulic cushioning system."
A few seconds later, the car came to a complete stop, and the grill door was pulled open.
A rush of dry air carrying the cold, hard scent of metal hit them head-on.
This was the second basement level of the Argyle's Empire Building.
Stepping out of the elevator, what met their eyes was not the dark and damp corridor of a traditional basement, but a passageway brightly lit by electric lights with thick concrete walls on both sides.
At the end of the passage stood a circular steel door so huge it was suffocating.
"George, this is your territory." Felix pointed his walking stick at that door.
"The two basement levels, plus the first and second floors above ground. They are all the exclusive areas of the Argyle Empire Bank. And behind this door is the heart of this building."
George Templeton stepped forward quickly.
As a banker who shuttled huge amounts of funds between London and New York year-round, he had an almost pathological requirement for vault security.
He reached out and touched the huge circular steel door.
The surface of the steel door was unpainted, directly exposing the matte texture unique to that special alloy. The door was covered with stout refined steel bolts and extremely complex mechanical combination lock dials.
"The 'prometheus'-class explosion-proof door recently developed by Gold Shield Security Company." Arthur walked over to introduce it.
"The door body reaches a thickness of twenty-four inches, with anti-cutting ceramics and high-grade cement poured into the middle interlayer. It weighs thirty-five tons. Even if someone got a 12-pound breech-loading cannon from Vanguard Military Industry and continuously bombarded it ten times at this range, they wouldn't even dream of blowing it open."
George smacked his lips. He had seen the Bank of England's vault in London before, but compared to this monster in front of him, the Bank of England's wooden door was practically like a toy.
"What about waterproofing and ventilation?" George turned his head to ask.
"You must know that Manhattan's groundwater system is very complex. If seawater backflow or pipe rupture occurs, the bonds and paper money stored inside will be completely destroyed."
"The entire two basement levels adopt a double-layer anti-seepage wall structure, and the space between the walls is filled with asphalt and waterproof glue." Arthur patted his chest in assurance.
"Inside, there are independent mechanical ventilation pipes that can maintain a constant temperature and humidity. Once facing excessive external water pressure, fire, or toxic gas, the ventilation pipes will automatically lock down. The oxygen inside the vault is enough for four people to survive for forty-eight hours."
"Open it up and let's take a look."
George couldn't wait any longer.
The operator stepped forward, turning four different combination dials with extreme tedium, and then inserted two special long-handled keys into the keyholes, turning them simultaneously.
Accompanied by a dull mechanical sound of gears engaging, that thirty-five-ton circular steel door smoothly opened outward on sliding bearings.
Everyone walked into the vault.
The space inside was as large as an indoor stadium.
Row upon row of neat refined steel safety deposit boxes extended from the floor all the way to the ceiling.
"From now on, our railway bonds in South America, acquisition contracts in Europe, as well as those shady bribery ledgers and gold reserves, will all be transferred here."
Felix stood in the center of the vault, his voice echoing in the empty room.
He looked at George.
"The first and second floors above ground, I'll leave to you as the bank's public business hall. The marble counters and glass have already been installed. You can invite your major clients on Wall Street directly here to conduct business. I want every capitalist who deposits money here to develop a religious, blind worship of the Argyle Family's credit the moment they walk into this building."
"They will, boss." Fanaticism flickered in George's eyes.
"Standing in front of this steel door, even the most picky Jewish banker will obediently hand over their gold coins for us to keep."
After visiting the vault, everyone returned to the elevator.
"Let's go up to the third floor," Felix ordered.
The car started up again, rising smoothly.
"The third and fourth floors are the area of the Patriot Investment Company. Tom, this is your battlefield." Felix looked at Tom Hayes.
The elevator stopped on the third floor.
The layout of the corridor was completely different from the basement.
It was covered with thick carpets, and on both sides were individual offices separated by frosted glass. The lighting was adequate.
And in the core large office on the third floor.
Tom Hayes saw the thing that excited him the most.
Along the wall, over a dozen latest stock printers produced by the Standard Commercial Company were neatly arranged. Countless black telegraph wires entered from the specialized conduits outside the building, connecting directly to these machines.
"Every machine here, through our internal privileges within the Western Union Telegraph Company, is directly connected to the dedicated market trend lines of the New York Stock Exchange, the Chicago Mercantile Exchange, and even the City of London."
Arthur pointed at those machines.
"Mr. Hayes, as long as the price on the market changes by even a single cent, the paper tape will immediately print it out here. You don't need to send people to grab news at the entrance of the exchange; sitting right here, you can know the market's bottom card ten minutes earlier than ninety-nine percent of the people on Wall Street."
Tom walked up to one of the machines. Although the market was not open yet and the machine wasn't running, he could already seem to hear that blood-boil-inducing ticking sound.
"Fantastic."
Tom stroked the casing of the machine.
"Boss. Putting the bank downstairs and the investment company upstairs. This layout is simply genius."
Tom turned his head and looked at George.
"In the past, if I wanted to launch a short-selling or M&A, I had to send people with mortgage documents running to bank branches a few blocks away to handle fund clearing. It took at least a few hours back and forth. Now? I only need to glance at the paper tape, confirm the prey, and then directly call George downstairs through the building's internal phone. Funds can complete internal transfer within five minutes! This speed of capital mobilization is enough for us to slaughter those sluggish old-fashioned funds in the market back and forth three times!"
"This is the efficiency I want." Felix raised his eyebrows.
"The elimination of physical distance brings an absolute crushing dominance in information and capital circulation. In this building, we are not doing business; we are manipulating wars."
Felix raised his walking stick and pointed at the ceiling.
"Let's go, finance is just a tool. Let's go up and take a look at those industrial departments that truly create profits for us."
Everyone entered the elevator once more, and as the steel cables pulled, they advanced toward the higher levels of this fortress of power.
The elevator made a crisp pausing sound on the fifth floor, and the gate slowly slid open.
The decor style of the fifth floor was different from the cold and hard, money-oppressing feel downstairs; green potted plants were dotted everywhere, classic oil paintings hung on the walls, and the carpet color had been changed to a soft beige.
"This is the exclusive floor of the Argyle Charitable Foundation." Arthur Hamilton slightly bowed to Catherine.
"Madam, according to your request, we have set up a spacious reception room and review room on the south side with the best lighting."
Supporting her waist, Catherine walked out of the car accompanied by Felix.
She looked around the exceptionally quiet area and nodded with satisfaction.
"A very nice layout. Over the past few days, Anna has still been in Washington handling the follow-up documents from the Department of Education regarding public school sponsorships. When she comes back, I will have her move the entire foundation here."
"Those scientists poached from Europe with heavy funds have already been settled in universities. However, the issuance of their family members' living allowances, as well as the textbook compilation for the 'employee children's schools' we established all over the United States, all require a large number of personnel to coordinate. The space on the fifth floor is enough to accommodate hundreds of clerks working simultaneously."
Catherine walked to a huge glass window, watching the carriages moving back and forth like ants below.
Felix stood beside her and softly added, "Not just clerks. The foundation is the external face of the Argyle Family. Those scholars applying for research funding and local councilors seeking orphanage donations will all be brought to this floor. The beautiful environment can give them a misconception that what they are facing is a group of merciful saviors."
"And those who dare to obstruct us in secret will never have the chance to take the elevator upstairs," Catherine chimed in with a smile, vividly demonstrating the dark humor and tacit understanding between the two in the business world.
The crowd did not stay too long on the fifth floor and continued upward.
"Ding..."
The elevator stopped on the sixth floor.
There was no carpet laid here, but instead wear-resistant hardwood floors. The corridor was divided into four distinct areas, each with an extremely eye-catching brass nameplate hanging at the doorway.
"Saineng Mining Company", "Vanguard Military Industry", "Lex Steel Company", "Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company".
"This floor is the office hub for heavy industry," Arthur introduced, walking ahead.
"Several presidents like Miller and Frank are usually in the mining areas of the Midwest or the armory in Connecticut, and it's impossible for them to stay in Manhattan every day. But there must be a liaison office of the highest level here."
Arthur pushed open the office of Vanguard Military Industry.
The walls of the office were covered with huge military maps of North America and South America, and several telegraph machines were placed inside soundproof glass covers.
"Liaison officers from various branch companies will be stationed here," Arthur pointed at a row of black telephones on the desk.
"This is the terminal for the internal wired telephone. As long as there is a batch of steel rails that need to be transported on the Railway Company's side, the liaison officer doesn't need to send a telegram; they can directly pick up the phone and call the liaison officer of Lex Steel to coordinate production capacity. If the coal-transporting special train of the mining company encounters bandits in the west, it can immediately notify the military industry department to arrange armed escorts to accompany the train."
"Internal collaboration." Felix looked at those telephones.
"In the past, various companies fought on their own, and there was a time lag in information transmission. Now, I want the blast furnace of the steel plant to be ready to receive the moment the coal is mined from the pit. This kind of heavy industry linkage efficiency is something those bosses who started out running family workshops can never understand."
Returning to the corridor, the elevator continued upward.
On the seventh floor, Argyle Food Company.
As soon as President Jones walked out of the elevator, he was stunned by the spacious flat floor before him.
"Th-this big of a place? Boss, the management of the Food Company doesn't seem to need this many offices." Jones felt a bit flattered.
"Who said it's only for the management?" Felix walked to the center of the flat floor.
"Jones, the rations for the black laborers in the South, the military canned goods in the West, and the meat market we just opened in South America—the orders for the Food Company are already as numerous as snowflakes. I want you to set up an order processing center here with more than a hundred people. The material demand lists sent back from the front lines must be classified with the highest efficiency here, and then directly issued to various canning plants and flour mills."
"Understood! I will select skilled employees." Jones nodded forcefully.
On the eighth floor, Metropolitan Trading Company.
Bill pushed open the door of his own presidential office.
Behind the desk hung a huge world shipping route map.
"Bill."
Felix walked to the shipping route map and tapped Argentina in South America with his walking stick.
"The territory that Rambo fought for on the Pampas Grassland cannot just be used to build railways. Starting next month, I want to see Argentina's frozen beef and high-quality leather continuously loaded onto Metropolitan's merchant ships and shipped back to New York. The telegraph room on the eighth floor will directly interface with your captains, and I want to know the approximate location of every ship on the high seas."
"No problem, Boss. Our current fleet flies the flag of British nobility, and the Royal Navy doesn't even dare to inspect them," Bill replied with full confidence.
The ninth floor belonged to Umbrella Pharmaceutical Company.
In the air of this floor, a faint peppermint aroma was even deliberately added.
All the arrangements appeared hygienic and rigorous.
Catherine looked at the rooms lined with filing cabinets.
"Mr. Pasteur's microbiological research institute has already started operating in the university," Catherine said to Felix.
"I will set up a dedicated technology transfer department here. Once Mr. Pasteur or other medical experts have new vaccines or miracle drug formulas, the clerks here will immediately register them for patents and then arrange for Umbrella's factories to put them into mass production, just like the previous Iodine Glycerin."
"Not just curing diseases." Felix lowered his voice.
"Our medical control network in the South and the West is the most effective means to make those laborers and lower-class civilians work obediently. Controlling the pills means controlling their lives. The ninth floor is not only the pharmacy center, but even more so the Sword of Damocles hanging over their heads."
From the capital precipitation of the underground vault to the financial battle on the third and fourth floors; from the charity whitewashing on the fifth floor to the industrial linkage on the sixth floor; and then to the material, trade, and life control on the seventh, eighth, and ninth floors.
These nine floors were like the precise skeletal, muscular, and vascular systems of a human body. They covered all the core elements required for the operation of the family.
And now, they were about to step into the true brain of this huge body.
"Let's go, Gentlemen."
Felix turned around and looked at that elevator.
"Go to the tenth floor. Go see what kind of scenery you can see at the highest place in Manhattan."
The car door closed, accompanied by a slight mechanical ascending sound.
All the presidents and general managers let their imaginations run wild in this enclosed space.
The tenth floor was the Boss's throne.
It was also the territory where Felix led the entire Argyle Executive Committee.
"Ding..."
The elevator let out a crisp chime on the top floor.
This was the absolute peak of this three-hundred-foot behemoth, where even the air seemed devoid of the dustiness of the lower districts, as if imbued with the unique chill of high altitudes.
The brass lattice door slowly pulled open.
What came into view was an open space with almost no partitions.
The floor was covered with a heavy, dark red Persian carpet that completely absorbed the sound of footsteps.
There were no load-bearing walls around to block the view, and glass windows wrapped around almost the entire floor.
Sunlight poured in unhindered.
Looking out from the glass windows here, the hustle and bustle of all of New York was laid out before them.
In the distance, the Hudson River glistened in the sunlight, and the densely packed masts of steamships in the port looked just like matchsticks.
And those bank buildings and municipal structures that once towered into the clouds in their eyes were now all trampled beneath their feet.
"God..."
Jones walked over to the window and glanced down, the sudden wave of dizziness causing him to subconsciously take half a step back.
In an era without airplanes, this three-hundred-foot God's-eye view delivered a terrifying psychological impact to a person.
"Standing here, you will feel that those carriages and pedestrians running on the street are merely a group of ants bound by rules."
Tom Hayes also walked up to the window; there was no fear in his eyes, only an infinitely stimulated desire for power.
In the center of the tenth floor was a large oval conference table carved from a single piece of black walnut.
Around the table sat more than thirty wide, high-backed genuine leather chairs.
This was precisely the highest conference room of the Argyle Executive Committee.
And at the end of the conference table, a heavy, double-paneled wooden door was half-open.
That was Felix's private office, an absolute core of power that could isolate the entire committee when necessary.
Felix walked up to the conference table and casually placed his cane on the smooth tabletop.
Standing there, he turned around and looked at the company presidents and general managers who were still immersed in shock.
"Gentlemen."
The voice resounded across the spacious floor, steady, yet carrying an unquestionable authority.
All gazes instantly withdrew from the scenery outside the window and concentrated on Felix.
George Templeton, Tom Hayes, Bill Carter, Jones, and Edward Frost.
These titans who commanded wind and rain in their respective fields had now put away all their arrogance and stood quietly.
"Last year, when Federal Real Estate drove the first load-bearing steel column here, those old-school bankers on Wall Street mocked us in the newspapers."
"Saying that the Argyle Family was a nouveau riche that only understood violence, saying that we could not build a decent structure in the mud."
Felix paced slowly, his eyes carrying mockery.
"But today, this building is completed. It is taller and sturdier than any building in New York."
He raised his hand and pointed to the marble floor beneath his feet.
"This is not merely a pile-up of steel and concrete. From the vault in the basement to the ticking sound of stock printers; from the telephone lines of the industrial liaison office to the translation of medical patents—this building is the heart where all the blood vessels of the Argyle's Empire converge!"
"In the past, you basically fought your own battles. The bank was at the other end of Wall Street, the trading company was at the docks, and the investment company was in rented office buildings."
"To transmit information, even an expedited courier needed to traverse crowded streets."
"Yet in the strangulation of commerce, a one-minute delay could lead to millions of dollars in losses!"
"Just like that idiot Charles Sterling, if Barings Bank's capital mobilization could have been a day faster than ours, the railways of South America might not have fallen into our hands!"
Felix pressed his hands on the conference table, his body leaning slightly forward.
"This era of inefficiency completely ends today, in this building!"
"George!" Felix called out.
"Present, boss."
The president of the Imperial Bank immediately straightened his back.
"Tom!"
"At your command at any time, boss," the president of the investment company responded loudly.
Felix's gaze swept over everyone, finally fixing on Secretary-General Frost.
"Edward, I do not want to hold any hypocritical ribbon-cutting ceremonies."
"Issue administrative orders immediately. The Argyle Empire Bank, Patriot Investment Company, Food Company headquarters, Metropolitan Trading Company headquarters, and all liaison offices."
"Three days!"
Felix raised three fingers, his tone allowing no refutation whatsoever.
"Within three days, move all important ledgers, contracts, telegraph machines, and core clerks from your respective companies into the corresponding floors of this building for me!"
"Starting at eight o'clock next Monday morning, I want to see the basement vault doors open on time, the stock printers on the third floor begin spitting out paper tape, and the telephone lines on every floor must remain clear."
Ambition burned in Felix's deep black eyes.
"I want those old fogies on Wall Street who are still slowly sipping coffee to wake up on Monday morning and discover that right above their heads, there is a steel machine that never stops, devouring all the wealth of this country at a speed they cannot comprehend!"
"Did you all understand?!"
"Understood! Boss!"
The uniform roar exploded in the tenth-floor conference room.
Without complaining about the urgency of the relocation time, these generals of capital had only fanaticism in their eyes for the upcoming high-efficiency slaughter.
Because they knew that once this vertical commercial hub operated at full load, the business world of America might perhaps have no rivals left.
"Very well, go to work."
Felix waved his hand, signaling that they could leave.
The executives turned around swiftly and walked hurriedly toward the elevator, needing to rush back to their old offices immediately to direct this extremely massive relocation operation.
On the spacious tenth floor, only Felix and Catherine standing to the side remained.
Catherine walked to Felix's side, looked at those hurriedly departing backs, and gently held Felix's hand.
"You are pushing them very hard, Felix," she said softly.
"Because the enemy never gives us time to breathe." Felix clasped Catherine's hand in return and led her to that huge floor-to-ceiling window.
His gaze crossed bustling Manhattan and looked toward the distant European continent.
"Those European royal families and conglomerates will sooner or later realize what we have snatched away. The day they wake up will perhaps be when the real war arrives."
"And this building is our command post. Before the storm arrives, I must sharpen every blade to its sharpest."
For the massive Argyle commercial empire, a three-day relocation period was tantamount to a high-intensity period of overtime work.
The early morning of Wall Street was broken by the sound of dense horse hooves and heavy wheels rolling over the flagstone pavement.
From every corner of Manhattan, hundreds of heavy four-wheeled carriages bearing the crest of the Argyle Family poured like black rivers converging into the sea toward the newly completed ten-story building.
In front of the underground vault of the old site of the Imperial Bank.
George Templeton stood on the steps, holding a long asset transfer list in his hand.
Hundreds of live-ammunition security guards cordoned off the entire block.
"Handle it gently, you idiots! What is packed inside are bearer railway bonds, not sandbags stuffed with stones!"
Templeton shouted at several porters who were loading iron boxes onto the carriages.
Under his command, tons of gold reserves, mountains of commercial paper, and loan mortgage contracts were loaded onto the carriages.
To ensure the safety of this batch of assets that could be called the economic lifeline of the United States, Templeton even mobilized two gatling guns from the warehouse of Vanguard Military Industry in New York, mounting them directly on top of the carriages at the front and rear of the convoy.
"President Templeton, the last batch of gold bars has been loaded. The old vault has been completely emptied," a bank manager ran over to report.
"Selected personnel will stay behind, and the rest will go to the new building. Starting today, this place will serve as a branch."
Templeton stuffed the list into his briefcase and strode onto his private carriage.
Meanwhile, in the old office building of the Patriot Investment Company a few blocks away, it was also a scene of utter chaos.
Tom Hayes was personally supervising workers dismantling those expensive stock printers.
Although the new company had such machines, the old ones could not be thrown away either.
"Be careful with those connecting wires; those are dedicated lines specially pulled by the Western Union Telegraph Company! If you break even one, you won't be able to afford the compensation!" Hayes was sweating profusely with anxiety.
Those Typewriters were his weapons for strangling opponents in the financial market, and absolutely no mistakes could be made.
"Boss, the patch panel on the third floor of the new building has already been tested. As long as the machines are moved over and plugged into power, we can resume receiving market quotes from Chicago and London within five minutes," the technician guaranteed loudly.
"Then hurry up! Time is money, and I don't want to delay outside for even a second!"
It was not just local companies in New York running frantically.
As the instructions of the Executive Committee on the tenth floor of the building were sent across the country via the telegraph network, the presidents of the Argyle's Empire scattered in various places also received mandatory transfer orders to move into the headquarters.
In Nevada, at the desert camp of the Saineng Mining Company.
Miller sat in front of a dusty desk, pinching the newly translated telegram in his hand.
The content of the telegram was very simple: it requested Saineng Mining to immediately select and dispatch liaison officers familiar with mining area operations and security scheduling to report to the sixth floor of the New York headquarters building and be stationed there for office work.
"The boss is trying to hold everything in his own hands."
Miller slapped the telegram on the desk and turned to look at the deputy standing aside.
"Go call Jack over. He has worked with us for three years, has the most agile mind, and understands the mine accounts and those shady rules best. Have him take the special train of Union Pacific to New York today. Tell him to be sharp with his words and actions when he arrives at the sixth floor of the headquarters. Not only are there people from our mining industry there, but also people from the military industry and railways; that is right under the boss's nose."
"Understood, President. I will arrange it immediately." The deputy turned and walked out immediately.
...
In Connecticut, at the arsenal of Vanguard Military Industry.
Frank Cole also received the telegram.
Without hesitation, he directly called the chief dispatcher in charge of logistics allocation and ammunition coordination in the factory into his office.
"Pack your luggage and go to the new building in Manhattan."
Frank handed the other party a train ticket and an appointment letter.
"Listen up. In the future, the production capacity plans of the arsenal, the gunpowder demands of the mining areas, and the arms ships of the Metropolitan Trading Company must all be compiled at the industrial liaison office on the sixth floor of the headquarters. You represent Vanguard Military Industry. If the steel from Lex Steel is delivered slowly, or if there is a problem with the Railway Company's car dispatching, even if you get into a fight with their liaison officers on the sixth floor, you must protect our production plan! Understood?"
"Understood, President. I will definitely not let the Military Industry Department suffer losses." The dispatcher took the document with a solemn expression.
...
In the South, inside a plantation in Georgia.
Silas, the general manager of the Southern Development Company, was riding on horseback, supervising black laborers picking cotton.
A subordinate rode a fast horse to deliver an urgent telegram from New York.
Silas finished reading the telegram and raised his eyebrows slightly.
"The industrial hub on the sixth floor? Interesting."
Silas turned his horse around and instructed his close confidant beside him: "Go back to the office in Atlanta and find David for me. He is a good hand at managing laborer work points and cotton unified purchase. Have him go to the new New York headquarters."
"General Manager, why send him to New York? Do those gentlemen over there know how to grow cotton?" The confidant was somewhat puzzled.
"They don't need to know how to grow cotton; they just need to know how many tools and how much food we need," Silas said expressionlessly.
"Tell David. When he arrives at the headquarters building, he should socialize more with people from the Food Company and the Umbrella Pharmaceutical Company. We need food and medicine to control the laborers in the South. As long as he can snatch two more train cars of canned goods from the Food Company and a batch of quinine from the pharmaceutical company at the conference table on the sixth floor, our company's control network in the South can double. Go, have him set off today."
From the dust-filled western mining areas to the roaring arsenals of New England, and then to the scorching southern cotton fields.
Across the territory of the United States, more than a dozen core backbones representing various factions of the Argyle's Empire, carrying heavy account books and codebooks, boarded trains bound for New York one after another.
They would converge in that three-hundred-foot-tall steel giant tower.
Their moving in meant that the Argyle's Empire was beginning to end the extensive era of feudal lords.
A highly centralized machine capable of mobilizing national resources was being completed in the center of Manhattan.
And this massive relocation and personnel transfer could simply not be hidden from the outside world.
This towering giant tower was forcibly changing the psychological structure of the entire city with an overbearing posture.
The completion of the Argyle's Building and the massive relocation over the subsequent three days became the hottest topic in the entire New York City.
Standing at any corner of the Wall Street intersection, one only had to look up to see that iron monster piercing the sky without a single care.
Its massive volume made the surrounding three- or four-story classical stone buildings look like low mounds of graves.
Whenever the afternoon sun tilted westward, the huge shadow cast by this ten-story building would firmly cover half of Wall Street.
For those peers in the financial district, the shadow brought not only a lack of sunlight, but also fear.
August Belmont's bank was located less than two blocks away from the Argyle's Building.
This Democratic Party benefactor who once commanded the wind and rain on Wall Street was currently standing in front of his office window, holding a cup of thoroughly chilled black tea in his hand, staring fixedly at the giant tower that was continuously moving iron boxes inside.
His chief deputy manager stood behind him, his expression equally gloomy.
"Mr. Belmont. Our informants planted at the docks report that the ocean-going cargo ships of the Metropolitan Trading Company are now all flying the flags of British nobility. Moreover, several of our grain traders in Chicago formally notified us yesterday that they have suspended their credit business with us and fully turned to the Argyle Empire Bank." There was despair leaking through the chief deputy manager's voice.
Belmont did not speak; he looked at the huge emblem on the outer wall of the building.
"That is not just a building, it is a declaration." Belmont's voice was somewhat hoarse.
"A declaration of what?"
"The death of the old era."
Belmont turned around and slammed the cup heavily onto the desktop.
"In the past, relying on the accumulation of several generations, we carved out territories in our respective fields. Those who did banking did banking, those who did railroads did railroads. But Argyle broke the rules. He stuffed banks, mines, railways, munitions, and even food and medicine all into that building. He created a closed loop, a monster that we simply cannot intervene in."
Belmont pointed outside the window.
"When his funds are settled on the second floor, the investment department on the third floor can immediately launch a stranglehold on the market. How can traditional banks like us, who still use messengers to pass checks between various neighborhoods, compete with him on speed? How can we compete with him on volume? In front of this building, all our trump cards have become a joke."
In stark contrast to the fear of the capitalists, the lower-class New York City citizens and workers were filled with a fanatical worship of this building.
As evening fell, the setting sun went down.
The steam generator in the basement of the building began to roar.
Instantly, from the lobby on the first floor to the glass windows on the tenth floor, thousands of incandescent lamps throughout the building lit up simultaneously.
In an era when most buildings still relied on dim gas lamps for lighting.
Even though electric lights had begun to popularize in Manhattan, this giant tower exuding a dazzling white light in the night still looked like a lighthouse descended into the mortal world.
The porters on the docks, the female workers getting off work from the textile factories, and even the street vagrants would spontaneously gather in the streets around the building.
Raising their heads, pointing and chatting.
"Holy Mary. Did you all see that? That light is so bright that even the buttons on the clothes of the people inside can be clearly seen. It's even brighter than the street lamps on the street." A mechanical repairman with oil-stained hands exclaimed.
"That is Boss Argyle' place, my cousin is responsible for cleaning on the third floor inside." Another young cart vendor proudly puffed out his chest.
"My cousin said that the carpet laid inside is thicker than the mattress in my house. You don't even need to climb stairs to go upstairs, there is an iron cage that can pull people straight up."
For these lower-class commoners, this building represented wealth, technology, and invincible power.
In this cruel era, commoners always blindly worshipped the strong. The more the Argyle Family demonstrated this trans-era mighty power, the more awe-struck they became.
And in some corner of this city, within some ordinary families, this worship had transformed into real, tangible ecstasy and pride.
In an ordinary red brick apartment in the Brooklyn district.
Thomas Finch was a middle-level accountant for the Argyle Food Company. He got off work two hours later than usual today, but when he pushed open the door to his home, his face carried an unhideable excitement.
His wife, Mary, was cooking potato stew in the kitchen. Hearing the sound of the door opening, she hurried out to welcome him.
"Thomas, why so late today? The food is almost getting cold." Mary helped him take off his coat and that slightly worn top hat.
"Mary, forget about the potatoes!"
Thomas grabbed his wife in a tight embrace and gave her cheek a fierce kiss.
"Pack your things, tomorrow morning I am not going to the old office building. I am going to Wall Street! To go to work in that tallest building in all of New York!"
Mary froze, her eyes full of a light of disbelief.
"You mean... the Argyle's Building? That steel mountain mentioned in the newspapers?"
"That's right!"
Thomas walked back and forth excitedly in the narrow living room.
"The President issued an order today that the Food Company's office department is to relocate to the seventh floor of the new building. As a core accountant, I was selected to move in among the first batch! Mary, do you know what this means?"
Thomas took out a brand-new brass badge from his briefcase, engraved with his name and the emblem of the Food Company.
"Wearing this badge, I am a formal establishment personnel within the Argyle Family. Not only has my salary doubled, but starting next month, whenever our whole family falls ill and goes to see a doctor at those hospitals controlled by Umbrella, it is completely free. Even when the children go to school in the future, they can go directly to the affiliated schools run by them!"
Mary's tears gushed out.
In this era without a social security system, where a single flu could bankrupt a worker's family, such welfare was simply heaven.
"Thank God... Thank Mr. Argyle." Mary tightly grasped that brass badge.
"Yeah. The boss not only gave us money, he also gave us the confidence to survive in this city."
Thomas looked at that striking luminous building in the night sky outside the window, his eyes filled with absolute loyalty.
"Working in that building, even walking on the street, no police or gangs dare to come and find trouble with me. Because everyone knows that moving someone wearing this badge is going against the entire Argyle's Empire. Mary, our bitter days have finally come to an end."
This night, similar scenes were played out in many families in New York.
Those clerks, engineers, and supervisors selected to enter the new headquarters building became the objects of envy for all neighbors and relatives.
The Argyle Family used the massive relocation not only to integrate commercial resources, but also to build corporate cohesion among internal employees.
When personal survival and dignity are deeply bound to that huge capital monster, they will spontaneously become the most solid cornerstone of this empire.
And Felix's ambition was never limited to New York.
He wanted to radiate the sense of oppression brought by this building to the entire territory of America.
On the third day as the relocation work for the Argyle's Building was drawing to a close, public opinion and propaganda were also being discussed in another building nearby.
Victor Fowler, general manager of the News Media Company, was standing in the huge typesetting workshop, directing the upcoming propaganda bombardment.
Fowler held a press release personally reviewed by Felix in his hand.
Looking at the rows of high-speed rotary printing presses before him, he shouted instructions to the workshop supervisor.
"Listen to me, buddy. The news layout this time must be full, and the headline font size must be the largest boldface. Use the latest etched copperplate engraving technology we just bought at a high price to print the panoramic view of this majestic Argyle's Building for me!"
Fowler waved the newspaper sample in his hand.
"Remember, don't go writing those boring architectural data again, like how many tons of steel were used. Holy shit, ordinary people don't understand that, nor do they like to read it!"
"You know what! I want you to focus on describing the steam elevator that can lift people three hundred feet into the air in the article. Describe the electric lights that illuminate the entire street as bright as day at night. Describe the steel vault door in the basement weighing thirty-five tons and capable of withstanding artillery bombardment!"
"In short, portray it as the place with the best technology and the safest in the world, understand?"
"Yes, yes, yes, understood, General Manager!"
The supervisor replied loudly while wiping his sweat.
Fowler turned his head and quickly gave orders to several telegraph operators around him.
"Send this press release via dedicated line to the editors-in-chief of the Chicago Daily Truth, Philadelphia's The Daily Truth, Boston's The Herald, and more than twenty local newspapers controlled by us!"
"Tell them this is the highest mission! Before this weekend, I want every literate person in America to see this steel giant tower belonging to our boss the first time they open a newspaper!"
As the massive war machine of the News Media Company went into full operation,
hundreds of thousands of newspapers, along with the trains of the Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company and the Pennsylvania Railroad, centered on New York, scattered like snowflakes frantically across the major cities of the United States.
Boston, Massachusetts.
This old New England city, which prided itself on being the cradle of North America culture and wealth, had always been full of upstart-style contempt for New York.
Those old-fashioned families controlling textiles and shipping always habitually maintained their classical reservation.
Amory Lawrence, one of Boston's biggest textile tycoons, was currently sitting in his private club decorated with expensive oil paintings.
On the solid wood round table of the club lay today's Boston The Herald.
Lawrence's business partners were sitting around the table, staring at the huge sketch taking up half the page on the front page of the newspaper, their complexions somewhat pale.
What was drawn on the picture was precisely the brightly lit Argyle's Building.
"Ten floors... three hundred feet. Internally powered, telephones installed."
A partner muttered to himself, his hand holding the coffee cup trembling slightly.
"This is not an office building at all; this is a fortress of the industrial age. Amory, we were discussing earlier about squeezing prices on cotton procurement with the Southern Development Company. Now seeing this, do you think we still need to bargain?"
Lawrence pushed the newspaper aside.
He knew Felix's methods better than these partners.
He was one of the earliest people forced to join Felix's "kickback plan" and deeply bound.
"Squeeze prices? Stop dreaming, Gentlemen."
Lawrence's voice carried bitterness.
"You still haven't seen the true significance of this building. This is not only showing off to ordinary people, but also showing his credit and bottom line to us businessmen."
Lawrence pointed his finger at the description of the underground vault on the newspaper.
"When an individual possesses such a fortress that even artillery cannot blast open, when he crams the command rights of banks, minerals, railways, and munitions all into this building, his commercial credit becomes absolute rigidity. Anyone who wants to short him or violate the contract will not face a company, but a national-level meat grinder."
Lawrence leaned back in his leather chair.
"Resign yourselves to fate. Not only cotton, but in the future, our capital turnover must also lean towards the Imperial Bank. In Boston, we might be respectable people. But in front of the Argyle Family, we are mere vassals. This building is warning us: submit or be crushed."
The same scene was staged in Chicago hundreds of miles away.
Chicago, the meat and grain distribution center of the United States.
Several local powerhouse meat processing plant bosses were gathering in the office of the Union Stockyards, looking at that day's Chicago Daily Truth.
"The headquarters of the Metropolitan Trading Company has moved in, right on the eighth floor of this building."
A fierce-looking slaughterhouse boss pointed at the newspaper.
"No wonder that bastard Bill's acquisition prices in Chicago have been getting lower and lower recently. He doesn't care at all whether we sell or not. There's this building standing behind them!"
Another businessman slammed his fist on the table, both angry and helpless.
"Old fellow, stop slamming the table."
A grain merchant sitting in the main seat sighed.
"Go and find out where the Chicago branch of the Argyle Empire Bank is, and transfer all our deposits in other banks over."
"What? Are you crazy? Why should we send money to him?"
"For safety!"
The grain merchant glared.
"Look at what is written in the newspaper! This building has an independent power generation system and a steel structure capable of resisting fires! Depositing money in such a person's bank, even if Chicago has another fire, our money won't turn to ash!"
"Not only must we deposit, tell the people below that whoever can rent an affiliated office in the Argyle's Building will never have to worry about sales for their business!"
Under Fowler's public opinion manipulation, the Argyle's Building not only became a symbol of power, but was also shaped into the absolute totem of America's commercial credit.
After experiencing initial shock and jealousy, wealthy merchants and industrialists everywhere quickly transformed into pragmatic calculations.
Because they understood very well that in this capital market of the law of the jungle, the safest approach was to tie one's own interests together with the most powerful one.
And this commercial centripetal force brought very substantial deposit inflows to the Argyle Empire Bank within a week.
However, while businessmen were calculating profits and risks,
some politicians at the core of power, upon seeing this giant tower rising from the ground, inexplicably felt a chill down their backs.
Washington D.C., The White House.
The classical white domed building symbolized the supreme authority of the Constitution and democracy.
But today, this authority was abruptly torn open by a newspaper with information from New York.
Acting President Thomas sat behind that famous oak desk, and spread out on the desk was none other than The Washington Post with its extensive coverage of the completion of the Argyle's Building.
This was an independent newspaper of the capital; although it was not controlled by Fowler, in the face of such sensational news, they still had to reprint it on the front page.
Besides Thomas, inside the office was also the vice chairperson of the charitable foundation who had just returned from New York, which was his daughter, Anna Clark.
As well as the currently serving Secretary of War, Edwin Stanton.
"Three hundred feet tall, a ten-story steel-structured fortress."
Secretary Stanton wore a crisp military uniform, with his hands behind his back, staring intently at the sketch on the newspaper.
As a hawkish minister who had experienced the blood and wind of the Civil War, Stanton's perspective on things always carried a military scrutiny.
"Mr. vice president."
Stanton turned his head to look at Thomas, his tone revealing intense apprehension.
"From an engineering perspective, the defensive power of this building exceeds any existing military fortress in the United States. Its underground vault is enough to withstand direct fire from medium-caliber artillery. If this building is besieged, as long as the people inside close the doors, relying on their internal independent generators and water storage systems, they can even hold out for months."
"What's even more terrifying is the industrial liaison office on the sixth floor. The newspaper writes it clearly: Vanguard Military Industry, Cygnus Mining, and Lex Steel all work together in one place there. What does this mean?"
"This means that if any turmoil occurs, Felix only needs to sit in his office on the tenth floor and ring the telephone. Within a few hours, he can mobilize the nation's steel to produce weapons, and mobilize coal to drive trains. The reaction speed is ten times faster than our War Department!"
"Secretary Stanton, you are overthinking it."
Hearing these words, Anna, who was sitting on the sofa, couldn't sit still anymore and spoke up.
Her temperament had shed the greenness of a young girl, replaced by the capability tempered through business and politics.
"Felix is a legitimate businessman of the United States, and Vanguard Military Industry is also the War Department's most reliable supplier. The building is built solidly just to protect those trade secrets and financial security. You surely cannot expect a bank controlling massive wealth to work in a dilapidated house where the wooden door can be kicked open with a single kick, right?"
Anna defended Felix's interests not only because she was carrying Felix's child, but also because her charitable foundation was about to move into the fifth floor of this building representing supreme power.
Stanton snorted coldly and did not retort to Anna.
He knew the special relationship between Anna and Felix, and he also knew that the acting president before him was Felix's cheap father-in-law.
In this room, he and the Argyle Family were allies deeply bound by interests. But this did not prevent him, as a soldier, from feeling fear toward this power that transcended state control.
Thomas closed the newspaper.
Looking at his daughter and then at the Secretary of War, his inner feelings were somewhat complicated.
As Felix's ally and cheap father-in-law, and as a politician who relied on Felix's funds and newspapers to secure the position of acting president and was preparing to officially claim the presidential throne in the general election a few months later, he should feel proud of Felix's strength.
But speaking as the current top leader of the United States...
When he saw that commercial giant tower in Manhattan that was even higher than the Capitol Hill dome, his political intuition told him that the scale of power had already tilted somewhat.
He seemed to gradually understand Grant's feelings, but...
"Anna, Secretary Stanton is right."
"This building is not just an office; it is even more a symbol."
Thomas's voice was somewhat low, revealing the vicissitudes of weathering political struggles. He stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the Washington Monument in the distance.
"In the past, although capitalists had money, they needed to come to Washington, using checks in those smoke-filled corridors to beg congressmen to pass bills, because the state controlled the law and the military."
Thomas turned around, smiled bitterly, shook his head, and continued.
"But what about now? Felix has kneaded everything together. He has money, his own mines, and a nationwide railway. Even more fatally, he established that science award in New York that even the British Prime Minister has to go get money from!"
"He even bought the smartest brains in this world!"
Walking back to the desk, Thomas pointed at the newspaper on it.
"When this building starts operating, as time passes, do you believe it? Perhaps in the future, it won't be businessmen coming to Washington to beg us, but rather those congressmen in Capitol Hill having to line up to go to Manhattan, stand under the steps of the Argyle's Building, and beg Felix on the tenth floor to bestow a little political donation upon them, begging the newspapers under his name to write a few good words for them!"
Silence filled the office.
Neither Stanton nor Anna spoke, because they knew what Thomas said was a very likely reality.
Because officials from New York were already appearing in the building now.
The center of national power was quietly shifting from The White House in Washington to that steel giant tower in Manhattan.
"Mr. President, we must do something," Stanton said, gritting his teeth.
"At least on a legislative level, there must be a certain degree of restriction on such massive monopoly enterprises. Otherwise, the United States will become the private farm of the Argyle Family."
"Restriction?"
Thomas let out a helpless sneer.
"How to restrict? Use antitrust bills? Don't be naive, Stanton. If I propose a bill to restrict the Argyle Family in Congress today, tomorrow the Mississippi and Eastern Railroad will suspend operations, and the grain of the Metropolitan Trading Company won't be shipped into East Coast cities. Perhaps the day after tomorrow, the ammunition of Vanguard Military Industry will stop delivery. Many workers in the United States will lose their jobs and take to the streets!"
Thomas sat in his chair.
"The crucial thing is we are already bound together with Felix and can no longer be separated. From the day he spent money to help me sit in this position, this outcome was already doomed."
"Besides, I cannot do this either."
He turned his head to look at Anna, his gaze carrying a father's exhaustion and a politician's compromise.
"Anna, head to New York tomorrow. Tell Felix that as long as I am still sitting in this chair here in Washington, no bill targeting him will be passed. The general election is approaching, and I need his full support."
"But tell him it's best not to have any more big movements; some people on the liberal side are already very dissatisfied."
"Alright, father, I will convey it to Felix," Anna agreed calmly.
When leaving The White House, Anna glanced back at the white building symbolizing supreme power.
Hoping her father would stop letting his imagination run wild.
Under the afterglow of the setting sun, The White House appeared somewhat lifeless and decrepit.
Early in the morning, the morning mist had not yet dispersed.
Inside the business hall of the Imperial Bank in the Argyle's Building, a dozen tellers in uniform were already standing behind the glass counters.
In front of them were brand-new banknote counters and heavy steel seals.
The floor of the hall was polished clean without a trace of dust, and even the air was permeated with the smell of floor wax and paper.
Eight o'clock sharp.
The heavy solid copper main doors of the building were pulled open on time by two security personnel.
The New York merchants who had long been waiting outside the door, clutching various drafts and passbooks, surged into the hall like a tide.
However, despite the large crowd, they did not make a loud noise; inside a building with such an oppressive and solemn atmosphere, everyone subconsciously lowered their voices.
Everyone was a respectable person after all~
"Go line up at Counter Number 3 and transfer all our funds from Citibank over. Remember, I want the banker's acceptances of the Imperial Bank." A fierce-looking trader lowered his voice and said to his partner beside him.
On the third floor at the Patriot Investment Company.
Tom Hayes held a cup of strong coffee and stood in front of a row of stock printers produced by the Standard Commercial Company.
"Tick... Tick tick..."
With the ringing of the opening bell of the New York Stock Exchange, more than a dozen machines started operating almost simultaneously.
Black ink printed a series of characters representing the stock codes and prices of various companies on the slender paper tape.
"Look at this machine. This is the trading ticker for the Erie Railroad."
Tom pointed to one of the continuously spitting paper tapes and gave instructions to several traders beside him.
"Jay Gould released the news of freight rate cuts over in Chicago. It will definitely drop at the opening. Keep a close eye on the tape. As soon as the price falls below 80 percent of the par value, immediately buy it up using our secret accounts. Buy as much as there is. We must catch all the chips thrown out by Gould before noon, and then drive up the price."
"Understood, President. The funds are ready. The vault downstairs can allocate them at any time." The trader stared intently at the tape, his fingers moving rapidly on the abacus.
This was an unprecedented speed of financial operation.
In the past, these traders had to run to the trading hall of the exchange, shout at the top of their lungs amidst the body odor of hundreds of people, and then run back to the company with the transaction slips to record the accounts.
Now, they only needed to sit in a quiet and comfortable office, look at the tape, and pick up the internal telephone on the desk.
And on the top floor of the building, in the highest conference room on the tenth floor.
The meeting of the Argyle Executive Committee was officially convened.
Felix sat at the head of the huge black walnut oval conference table. On his left was Secretary-General Edward Frost, and on his right was an empty seat left for Catherine, who was currently handling affairs on the fifth floor.
On both sides of the oval table sat the presidents and general managers of the major subsidiaries of the Argyle's Empire.
George Templeton of the Imperial Bank, Jones of the Food Company, Bill Carter of the Metropolitan Trading Company, Charles Reeves of the Mississippi and Eastern Railroad, and Frank Cole, President of Vanguard Military Industry, who rushed over from Connecticut.
In this top-floor space without window partitions and surrounded entirely by floor-to-ceiling glass, the sunlight spilled unceremoniously across the tabletop.
"The meeting begins."
Felix cut straight to the point without nonsense. He glanced at Bill sitting at the end.
"Bill, have the transportation routes to South America been cleared? Rambo has cleared the roads in Argentina, and I don't want to see the cargo ships of Metropolitan rusting in the port."
Bill stood up and opened the thick-skinned ledger in his hand.
"Boss, the South Atlantic routes are fully operational. The Pioneer and the Explorer left Buenos Aires last week. The holds are filled with raw cowhides and wool from the Pampas Grassland, as well as two thousand tons of Argentine chilled beef."
"Chilled beef?"
Jones, President of the Food Company, frowned and interrupted Bill.
"Bill, from Argentina to New York, cargo ships drift at sea for at least half a month. You put fresh beef into a stuffy hold, and by the time it reaches New York Harbor, that meat would have stunk so much even wild dogs wouldn't eat it. You are wasting the company's shipping capacity!"
Bill looked at Jones and grinned.
"Jones, you've made canned goods until your brain has become rigid. Do you think I don't know how hot the equator is?"
Bill turned over the ledger and explained.
"General Manager MacGregor of the Atlantic Steam Power Company modified the lower holds of those cargo ships. We laid half-foot-thick cork boards and sawdust in the lower holds as a thermal insulation layer. Then, when the ship docked in Boston, we shipped over a thousand tons of cut natural ice from the north, and alternately stacked beef and ice blocks in the cork hold."
Bill looked at Felix, his tone revealing a businessman's shrewdness.
"Boss, the cattle in Argentina are free-range on the grassland, and the cost is outrageously low. The local purchase price of an adult beef cattle is less than two dollars. We slaughter them and ship them back to New York refrigerated. Even if the ice melts on the way and twenty percent of the meat is lost, our wholesale price upon reaching the East Coast can still be set at three cents per pound."
Several people in the conference room lit up.
Three cents per pound!
This price was enough to drive those meat processing giants in Chicago to a dead end.
Charles Reeves of the Mississippi and Eastern Railroad spoke.
"If it can really be shipped back at this cost—Bill, you unload the meat at New York Harbor. My refrigerated rail cars can be directly attached to the trains of the Pennsylvania Railroad, paving this batch of Argentine beef all the way along the railway line to Philadelphia, Baltimore, or even directly sent to inland cities in the Midwest. We can use a price war to buy out all the local slaughterhouses."
"This is the synergy I want."
Felix tapped the table, stopping their discussion.
"Argentina's resources must be squeezed dry. Bill, increase the frequency of South American routes. Go to the shipyard of the Atlantic Steam Power Company to order more cargo ships. If you don't have money, go downstairs and find George to sign a loan form."
Felix turned his head to look at George Templeton, President of the Imperial Bank.
"George, how are you underwriting the war bonds promised by the Argentine government?"
George straightened his body.
"Boss, President Carlos is very cooperative. The Argentine government issued a special war bond totaling 10 million pesos. The Imperial Bank underwrote it in the markets of London and New York. Deducting the commission from our operations in the secondary market, the cash actually paid to the Argentine government is about 7 million pesos."
"They cannot be allowed to get cash for this money." Felix's voice was very cold.
"Of course not." George smiled.
"According to the agreement signed between us and the Argentine cabinet, these 7 million pesos in funds are not delivered in the form of cash. Instead, they are directly deposited into a special account at the Buenos Aires branch of the Imperial Bank in the form of a credit line. The Argentine government can only use this money to buy artillery and bullets from Vanguard Military Industry."
Felix cast his gaze at Frank Cole of Vanguard Military Industry.
"Frank, did you hear that? The funds are already in the account. How many things did the Argentines buy with this money?"
Frank opened his order form.
"They went all out, Boss. Thirty 12-pound breech-loading steel cannons, five thousand of the latest rifles, and two million matching bullets. The arsenal's production capacity is now scheduled until the end of next month. Three workshops in Connecticut are running continuously day and night."
"Not enough, production capacity must still be expanded." Felix ordered without hesitation.
"The Argentines are fighting natives in the south, and bullet consumption will be staggering. Once they taste the sweetness of repeating rifles and breech-loading cannons, they will never be able to go back to the era of broadswords and muzzle-loaders. In the future, every training session and every battle of their army will be sending money to Vanguard Military Industry."
Crossing his hands, Felix swept his gaze across everyone present.
"This is the closed loop. We control their national debt through financial means and lend money to them. Then we force them to use this money to buy our arms. The land they conquer must eventually be used to repay our debts. In this cycle, the country of Argentina is actually working for the Argyle Family."
People in the conference room nodded one after another.
Although this stripped-to-the-bone method of plunder was cruel, it showed staggering superprofits on the ledger of capital.
"The layout in South America comes to a temporary end; just have Rambo keep a close eye on the railway construction progress over there."
Felix concluded the topic regarding South America.
Turning his head, he looked at Heinrich White, the General Manager of the General Electric Company who had not spoken all along.
"Heinrich, how is the laboratory at Argyle University running? I heard that Tesla's electric motor has been successfully powered on?"
White's expression appeared somewhat complicated, and he sighed.
"Boss, the electric motor has indeed been powered on. Mr. Tesla's Alternating Current Rotating Magnetic Field theory has been proved to be completely feasible. That machine without brushes rotates very fast, and the torque is astonishing."
White paused, and his tone became very troubled.
"However... if we want to turn this monster in the laboratory into a commodity capable of driving lathes in factory workshops, we have encountered a bottleneck."
"Speak." Felix leaned back in his chair.
"Wires." White spat out two words.
"In order to carry the high-frequency current of Alternating Current during voltage transformation and transmission, we cannot use ordinary iron wire or inferior copper wire with many impurities. We must use extremely pure oxygen-free red copper. And the demand is shockingly huge. Whether it is the stator coil of the generator or the peripheral transmission lines, tons of pure copper are needed."
White took out a procurement quotation.
"Currently on the market, the price of high-quality copper is controlled in the hands of a few major mine owners. If we mass-produce Alternating Current equipment according to Tesla's design, just the cost of purchasing copper wire will eat up more than sixty percent of our profits. If we don't solve the supply problem of cheap pure copper, General Electric will still only be able to use Direct Current."