For seventy-two hours after the contract was signed, New York's financial world was eerily calm. RCA's public relations machine ran at full speed. Sanoff personally called several influential newspaper editors, using every favor and connection he had to keep the agreement between Pioneer Optics and RCA under wraps—at least until the Morgan Group made its official move.
But on Wall Street, where there were no real secrets and the name Morgan could stir panic or ambition with equal force, invisible undercurrents were already moving beneath the polished calm.
Shanestood in his office on the 27th floor of the Woolworth Building. Beyond the towering windows, Manhattan's lights sprawled across the night like a living constellation—each one pulsing with power, greed, and the promise of fortune.
His reflection shimmered faintly against the glass: a young man with sharp features, composed yet unreadable. He swirled the Saratoga mineral water in his glass absently, deep in thought.
The door opened quietly. WilliamCarterson, his assistant, entered holding a telegram, his expression unusually grave.
"Morgan's men are here," he said.
"Who?"
"Thomas Whitney," Carterson replied. "A personal representative sent by John Pierpont Morgan Jr. himself."
The sound of the city below faded. Shane's fingers stopped tapping the rim of his glass. The name carried weight—Thomas Whitney, the discreet confidant of the Morgan inner circle, a man trusted to handle the kind of matters no newspaper could ever print. His arrival meant one thing: this was no ordinary business investment. The Morgans were preparing for a move that would ripple through the very foundation of American industry.
The meeting was held in a private club in Upper Manhattan, where cigar smoke drifted lazily beneath brass chandeliers.
Whitney looked exactly as described in the financial pages—lean, silver-haired, and sharp-eyed, the kind of man who could spot a lie faster than most could blink. Without a word of greeting, he placed a slim folder in the center of the table.
"Mr. Morgan is very interested in your joint venture proposal," he began evenly. "But he wants to understand more clearly what you—and Pioneer Optics—truly intend to build."
Shane didn't reach for the folder. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, fingertips brushing the polished wood.
"RCA controls the North American projection network," he said calmly. "That's their strength. But the real future of cinema lies in content—the art itself."
He continued, his voice steady and deliberate.
"Warner Bros. has already ignited the market with The Jazz Singer. Our color sound film technology will take it even further. If the Morgan Group steps in now, they can control not just the machines and cables—but the entire ecosystem: the technology, the distribution, and the stories themselves."
Whitney's brow lifted almost imperceptibly.
"Are you suggesting that the Morgan consortium take over Hollywood?"
Shane smiled faintly, his expression unshaken.
"Not take over, Mr. Whitney. Become Hollywood."
For a moment, the room was silent except for the low hiss of cigar smoke curling toward the ceiling. Then Shane reached into his briefcase and laid a detailed report on the table, sliding it toward Whitney.
"Look here," he said, pointing to a chart. "DuPont's nitrocellulose ensures durability and safety. Kodak's acetate film base guarantees image clarity. RCA's vacuum tubes power sound amplification. And Pioneer's three-color ribbon process gives all of it life."
His tone deepened with conviction.
"When these separate components are united under one vision, it's no longer a chain of suppliers—it's a chain of command. And Morgan would hold that chain."
Whitney studied the report silently. In the lamplight, the charts and numbers seemed to shift and merge—DuPont, Kodak, RCA, and Pioneer forming the outline of a single, vast industrial machine. At its center sat one figure: Morgan.
After a long pause, Whitney closed the report with a crisp snap.
"Your plan is ingenious, Mr. Cassidy," he said. "But you seem to have forgotten three inconvenient American laws—the Sherman Antitrust Act, the Federal Trade Commission Act, and the Clayton Act."
He leaned back, his tone cooling.
"You've essentially described a monopoly—one that would invite federal prosecutors faster than you could draft a press release."
For the first time, Shane's calm façade wavered slightly. He had overlooked that point—too confident, perhaps, in the Morgan name and its reach. But the realization hit him now: the Morgans didn't challenge Washington; they worked around it.
Whitney produced a small memo bearing the faint watermark of the Morgan Group.
"When Standard Oil was broken up last year," Whitney said, tapping the paper lightly, "Rockefeller's lawyers filled an entire library with their defense. And in your report, the combined market share of DuPont, Kodak, RCA, and Pioneer could trigger half a dozen antitrust cases overnight."
He took out his pen and underlined one name—Kodak.
"They already control eighty-five percent of the North American film market. Any partnership with them would draw government fire immediately."
Shane's eyes lingered on the inked-out word. He thought of Kodak's sprawling complex up in Rochester, its countless glowing windows like watchful eyes in the night.
Whitney went on.
"Morgan has a smaller chemical plant in Delaware—barely five percent of Kodak's capacity, but enough to meet Pioneer's production for the next two years. DuPont will handle the nitrocellulose. As for manufacturing…"
He paused, a faint, calculated smile touching his lips.
"RCA has an idle factory in New Jersey. We'll repurpose it. Quietly."
A distant police siren wailed somewhere outside, then faded back into the city's hum. Shane suddenly understood: this wasn't improvisation. The Morgan Group had already built contingency upon contingency.
Whitney tore a sheet from his memo pad, sliding it across the table.
"We'll form a joint laboratory," he said. "Officially, it will develop military communication equipment. Unofficially, it will handle the integration work between RCA and Pioneer."
The note bore the raised seal of the U.S. Army Procurement Office—a perfect cover story.
Whitney's voice lowered, philosophical now.
"Antitrust law," he said, "is like Procrustes' iron bed—cut off what's too long, stretch what's too short. Our task is simple: build a bed that fits perfectly."
With a soft click, he capped his pen.
---
📚 Author's Note:
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