Inside the study of the Fifth Avenue mansion, the fire in the fireplace crackled softly. Outside, the streets of New York were whitened by a thin layer of snow.
Catherine handed a compiled file to Felix, "I had Flynn's intelligence department supplement his information as much as possible through the subscribed British journals."
Felix took the file and opened it. On the first page of the file was a sketch portrait of Rhys Griffiths, a young man with sharp eyes and a firm jawline.
"Rhys Griffiths, twenty-eight years old," Catherine slowly read the file's contents. "A first-class graduate in metallurgy from the Royal School of Mines. Six years ago, he joined Sheffield's largest steel mill, and within three years, he was promoted from an ordinary furnace technician to the head of the special steel research department. The crucible steelmaking method he spearheaded and improved won long-term orders from the Prussian Army for that factory's saber steel products."
"A true genius," Felix's fingertip gently traced Griffith's portrait.
"Yes, but also a trouble," Catherine turned to the next page. "His personality is as hard and brittle as the steel he studies. The file records at least five public conflicts he had with the factory's board of directors. He despises businessmen who only care about profit reports, considering them 'a bunch of idiots who don't appreciate the beauty of fire and steel.' This time, his funding was cut because his research on 'manganese steel alloy' was deemed too advanced by the board."
"Felix, this is a typical genius, and also a typical madman. He is excellent, but also extremely arrogant and difficult to manage. Do we really want to bet so much on him?"
A hint of a smile appeared on Felix's face, "What we need, my dear, is precisely his arrogance and his difficulty to manage."
"An engineer who is content with the status quo and follows the rules cannot forge weapons beyond his time for us. Only this kind of obsessive 'madman' dares to challenge the impossible."
He placed the file on the table.
"However, to deal with such a wild horse, we cannot use ordinary reins," Felix said. "A simple employment contract with high pay would only make him feel insulted. He would think we are no different from those other idiotic businessmen."
"Then what do you mean?"
"We don't offer a job," Felix's eyes glinted with cunning. "We offer a challenge he cannot refuse."
He walked to the desk and spread out a letterhead printed with "Argyle Central Laboratory."
"Sweetheart, draft a letter to Mr. Griffith personally in my name," Felix began to dictate the letter's content. His pace was unhurried, and every word was carefully considered.
"At the beginning of the letter, express our most sincere respect for his paper on 'manganese steel alloy.' Tell him that I personally believe it is the boldest and most important theoretical breakthrough in metallurgy in recent years."
"Then, we will ask him for a 'difficult problem.'"
Felix placed the sketch of the rifle spring that Frank had sent from Connecticut next to the letterhead.
"Attach a simplified version of this drawing to the letter. Tell him that my engineers in America are facing a materials science challenge that they believe is unsolvable. We believe he is one of the few people in the world who can offer us insightful perspectives on this issue."
"Finally," Felix concluded, "we won't mention work or salary. We will only, in the name of 'academic exchange,' cordially invite him as a special consultant to our Central Laboratory for a one-week visit to New York. We will cover all his travel expenses, including round-trip first-class boat tickets and accommodation in New York's best hotel. And for his valuable time that week, we will pay a consultant fee of five hundred dollars."
Five hundred dollars a week.
This price was enough to make even the dean of Yale University raise an eyebrow.
Catherine's pen flew across the paper, her eyes shining. She fully understood Felix's strategy.
This was not a job offer, but a challenge. A challenge that used respect, money, and an unsolvable technical problem as weapons, directly targeting the deepest pride of a genius.
"I understand," Catherine said softly. "You are using a riddle to catch the proudest fish."
"Go do it," Felix smiled. "Have Bank President Templeton send our bait to Sheffield on the fastest ocean liner."
The sending of this letter began a long wait. During the days of waiting for a reply, Felix's business machine continued to operate at high speed.
The first batch of officially mass-produced "Iodoglycerol" disinfectant from Umbrella Corporation's new factory in Brooklyn, after final inspection by Dr. Dalton, was loaded onto a military special train bearing the Red Cross symbol and transported directly to the Virginia front.
The food company's canned fruit production line had also fully started.
In clear glass jars, peaches and sweet apricots, as if freshly picked from the orchard, were displayed in the most prominent position at Tilford Trading Company after being canned, immediately becoming the new favorite eagerly sought after by New York's high society ladies.
At Militech, Frank and Silas, after receiving their Boss's reply to "continue experiments regardless of cost," completely unleashed their potential. The furnace fires in the forging workshop burned day and night; although still accompanied by repeated failures, they were gradually approaching their ultimate goal.
Three weeks later, in the early morning.
An urgent telegram from London finally arrived at the Fifth Avenue mansion.
Catherine personally translated the brief message, then hurried into the study, where Felix was standing by the window with a hot cup of tea, watching a newsboy on the street below loudly hawking the latest news about the war.
"Felix."
Felix turned around, and from Catherine's expression, he already knew the answer.
"He replied," Catherine's voice held joy. "The telegram was sent by Templeton's London agent. The content is very short."
She cleared her throat and read:
"Griffith has received the invitation and replied: 'Your problem is childish, but very sincere, so it is acceptable.'
He requested that the five-hundred-dollar consultant fee be deposited in advance into a designated Barclays Bank account. Once the funds arrive, he will immediately depart on next week's 'Persian' ocean liner for New York.
However, at the end of the telegram, the agent said the other party's tone... was very impolite."
Felix laughed after hearing it.
"Impolite is just right."
He walked to Catherine's side and gently embraced her, "Telegram Bank President Templeton back and tell him to pay immediately."
Looking out at the New York skyline, Felix's eyes held a deep glimmer.
"Get ready to welcome our guest, Catherine," he said softly. "Prometheus's journey to steal fire is about to begin."
Two weeks later, New York Harbor.
The massive single smokestack of the 'Persian' steamship belched thick black smoke, as it slowly docked, guided by tugboats. The pier was bustling with people, the air a mixture of salty seawater, bitter coal smoke, and the clamor of the crowd.
Felix stood at the exit reserved for first-class passengers, appearing remarkably composed compared to the anxious crowd around him.
Catherine stood beside him, straightening the collar of his overcoat, which had been ruffled by the sea breeze.
"Felix, why did you have to come and pick him up yourself?" Catherine asked softly. "Given your current status, it might be more appropriate to send Templeton's assistant."
"No, Catherine." Felix shook his head. "To deal with a proud wild horse, you must let him see the person who can tame him at first sight. This is very important."
The gangplank was lowered, and passengers streamed out. Soon, Felix saw his target.
Rhys Griffiths.
He was dressed in a well-tailored English tweed travel suit, looking out of place among the hurried Americans.
His physique was lean, and his face was somewhat pale from the long journey, but his light brown eyes were exceptionally sharp, seemingly scrutinizing this strange and noisy new continent. He carried only a simple leather suitcase, and his face was marked with a weariness unsuited to his age and an unconcealed arrogance.
"Mr. Griffiths?" Felix stepped forward proactively. "Welcome to New York, I am Felix Argyle."
Rhys Griffiths stopped, looking Felix up and down, seemingly a little surprised by the youthfulness of this 'patron'.
"Mr. Argyle." His English carried a pure Sheffield accent, clear and detached. "It seems you are the American who encountered a 'naive' problem."
This prickly opening remark made Catherine, standing nearby, feel a bit displeased, but Felix was completely unfazed.
"I'm glad that my 'naive' problem could bring a genius like you from three thousand miles away in the Old World," Felix said with a smile. "This is my business partner, Miss Catherine O'Brien. She will arrange everything for you in New York."
Catherine stepped forward, extending her hand elegantly. "Mr. Griffiths, it must have been a tiring journey. We have reserved a room for you at the Astor Mansion, and your luggage will be delivered by a dedicated person."
Griffiths merely touched Catherine's fingers lightly before withdrawing his hand.
"I don't need to rest, Mr. Argyle. I'd rather see your problem as soon as possible, then collect my consulting fee and buy the earliest possible return ticket to Liverpool. To be honest, I'm not very accustomed to the air in your city."
"I understand." Felix nodded, his patience astonishing. "However, before we discuss work, I think it's necessary for us to have dinner together. After all, no matter how complex the problem, it cannot be discussed on an empty stomach, can it?"
That evening, in Delmonico's Restaurant's quietest private room.
Felix did not rush to show Frank's blueprints, nor did he even mention words like "rifle" or "spring." His conversation with Griffiths began with a glass of Scotch whisky and a plate of escargots.
"I have carefully read your paper on manganese steel alloy published in the Journal of the Royal School of Mines," Felix's tone was like an equal academic discussion. "Your theory within it, that adding manganese to steel can greatly enhance its toughness and wear resistance, is very... enlightening."
For the first time, a glimmer of light flashed in Griffiths' eyes. It was his most proud, yet also most misunderstood, work.
"It seems, Mr. Argyle, you are not just a businessman."
"I am merely a student who holds reverence for technology that can make steel stronger," Felix continued. "In the paper, you mentioned a point that by controlling the temperature gradient during the cooling process, the internal crystal structure of the alloy can be altered. Those old gentlemen in London seem to have reservations about this, but I believe your logic is more convincing."
These words precisely hit Griffiths' most sensitive spot. His pride stemmed from his talent not being recognized. And Felix, in the most professional and sincere way, was giving him that recognition.
Griffiths' floodgates opened.
He began to speak voluminously about his daring metallurgical theories, from bainitic phase transformation to solid solution strengthening.
Catherine, listening beside them, was completely lost, but she could clearly feel that the cold shell of this British genius was slowly melting under Felix's subtle guidance.
The next morning, a special train car bearing the Argyle Company logo carried Felix, Catherine, and Griffiths towards Connecticut.
When Griffiths walked into the Militech's forging workshop, filled with the smell of machine oil and coal ash, the expression on his face reverted to its characteristic pickiness and circumspection.
Frank Cole and Silas Blackwood were already waiting there.
"Mr. Griffiths." Frank wasted no pleasantries. He pointed to a pile of items on the workbench, getting straight to the point. "This is our 'naive' problem."
On the workbench, thirty-odd broken springs were neatly arranged, and next to them was the only surviving sample after hundreds of tests.
Griffiths said nothing. He put on a pair of white gloves, picked up a broken spring, walked to the bright light of the workshop, and carefully examined the fracture. Then, he picked up the "surviving" sample, flicked it lightly with his fingernail, and listened intently to the crisp resonance.
The workshop was silent; everyone held their breath, awaiting the judgment of this genius from the Old World.
After a long time, Griffiths put down the sample.
"Your forging process is very crude," his first words were still impolite. "The temperature control for quenching is practically left to chance."
Silas's face instantly flushed, and he was about to retort but was stopped by a look from Frank.
"But," Griffiths' tone shifted, "you managed to make something like this with such an unstable process and such inferior steel." He picked up the surviving spring. "This indicates that you are not a group of brutes who only rely on brute force."
He turned and looked at Frank and Silas, and for the first time, his sharp eyes showed the recognition of one engineer for another.
"Take me to see your steel."
In the raw material warehouse, Griffiths picked up a steel ingot from Pennsylvania, took one look, and shook his head.
"The problem is not with your craftsmanship," he delivered his final diagnosis, his voice carrying a sense of pronouncement. "It's the iron itself that is problematic. Its sulfur and phosphorus content are too high, like an infant born with a bone disease. No matter how clever a technique you use to refine it, its bones will always be brittle."
He looked at Felix as if he were looking at a whimsical madman.
"You called me from three thousand miles away, Mr. Argyle," he said, picking up the broken spring, "just to solve a problem that was doomed to fail from the moment it began with a pile of inferior iron ore."
Felix looked at him, a calm smile on his face.
"I invited you, Mr. Griffiths, precisely because I know that with our existing materials, this problem is destined to fail."
He walked up to Griffiths, his gaze fixed on him.
"I asked you to come so you could see firsthand the determination of my craftsmen and the potential of my factory."
"Now, you've seen it." Felix's voice was not loud, but it echoed in the spacious workshop.
"What I need is not a consultant to judge our failure. What I need is a guide who can lead us to personally ignite our own furnace, one that can forge steel as precious as gold."
He extended his hand to Griffiths.
"Tell me, Mr. Griffiths. Are you willing to accept this challenge?"
Felix's outstretched hand hovered in the air.
Rhys Griffiths did not respond.
The brilliant metallurgist from Sheffield simply gave Felix a deep look, then turned and walked directly back to the display table showcasing thirty-odd failed samples.
He picked up the only surviving spring and meticulously rubbed it with his fingertips, as if it wasn't a bent piece of wire but a rare treasure.
A flicker of awkwardness crossed Frank Cole's face; he was about to break the silence but was stopped by a calm glance from Felix.
"Empty talk is cheap, Mr. Argyle," Griffiths said without turning his head, his voice as cold and hard as iron. "I won't make any commitments until I see your furnaces, your tools, and the limits of failure you can withstand."
He put down the spring in his hand and scanned the entire workshop.
"Show me around the factory," he said to Frank. "Every corner, every machine—I want to see it all."
The next half-day was an arduous test for Frank and Chief Artisan Silas.
Griffiths, like the most demanding inspector, scrutinized every corner of Militech.
"Hydraulic forging hammer? Oh heavens, are you still using such a medieval contraption?"
He pointed at the massive forging hammer, driven by river power, and criticized it mercilessly: "Its power output is completely unstable; there's a deviation in the force of every strike. Using it for precision parts is like having a drunkard perform surgery."
"The lathe's precision is too poor."
He walked to the machining workshop and ran his finger along the guide rail of a lathe: "The spindle's wobble exceeds five thousandths of an inch. With something like this, you'll never be able to produce the precisely meshing gear set shown in the blueprints."
"And your workers," he said, looking at the artisans working diligently. "They have strength and diligence, but their skills are still at the level of experience and intuition."
Every comment was like a sharp knife, precisely piercing Frank and Silas in their most sensitive spots.
But both of them endured without refuting, because they knew that every word Griffiths said was true.
It wasn't until evening, after Griffiths had inspected the last corner, that he spoke to Felix in the office: "My 'consultant' work ends here today. Tomorrow morning, I will give you a formal written report and my final conclusions."
With that, he sat in the carriage Felix had prepared for him, without another word.
"Boss..." Frank looked at Griffiths' receding figure, his face filled with worry. "He seems... very disappointed with us."
"No, Frank," Felix shook his head. "If he were truly disappointed, he wouldn't have said so much this afternoon. He's merely assessing the quality of our 'iron ore.'"
The next morning, in the hotel suite.
"Mr. Argyle, please take a look," Griffiths said, pushing over a report filled with text.
"The conclusion is simple. With your existing equipment and technical level, it is absolutely impossible to produce what is on the blueprints within three months."
"My consultant work is over."
He stood up, seemingly ready to end the conversation. "You can pay me the remaining consultant fee."
"Don't rush, I agree with your assessment."
Felix's voice was unhurried, and he made a gesture to invite him to stay. "Now we can begin discussing how to build the factory's future capabilities, Mr. Griffiths."
This sentence made Griffiths, who was about to stand up, pause.
He sat back down, looking at the young wealthy man who held the initiative, his brow slightly furrowed.
"Mr. Argyle, I have no interest in wasting time on your old equipment."
Felix lit the trimmed cigar, savored it in his mouth, and exhaled. "Of course, but I'm not asking you to use existing tools, but rather to personally build a whole new set of tools."
Felix leaned forward slightly, his gaze directly on the other man.
"I can authorize a special budget of fifty thousand dollars, for which you will be solely responsible, to establish a brand-new metallurgical research laboratory and precision machining workshop in Whitneyville. You can order the most advanced steam forging hammers and precision lathes from Hartford, and the most precise measuring instruments from Jena. Your only task is to create a new, proprietary special steel for Militech."
Griffiths was somewhat silent; clearly, this proposal went beyond the scope of a consultant's work.
"I'm not buying your technology, Mr. Griffiths."
Seeing that the other party remained silent, Felix continued: "I am investing in your vision. The very vision that your previous bosses criticized as 'impractical fantasy.'"
A flicker of wavering appeared in Griffiths' defiant eyes, but he still maintained his last shred of pride.
"If I accept, I will need authority," he stated his condition. "The new research laboratory must be under my sole management."
Felix raised his hand. "Of course, you will have complete operational authority over the laboratory. Daily research directions, equipment procurement, and personnel management will all be decided by you."
"However... the budget approval, strategic goals, and ownership of the final results of the research laboratory belong to Argyle Central Laboratory, and will ultimately report to me. Of course, your share of the profits will not be less than anyone else's. Mr. Griffiths, what I need is a departmental research director who can solve problems, not an unrestrained partner. This, I must make clear to you first."
"Understood," Griffiths nodded and made a second request. "Then I also need an academic assistant who understands theory."
"A reasonable request," Felix nodded in agreement. "Miss Catherine's recruitment team will find you the top graduate from Yale or Harvard."
After the terms were agreed upon, Griffiths hesitated for a moment, then finally spoke: "One more thing, Silas Blackwood. I need him. Although his craftsmanship is rough, he... his hands know how to converse with fire and steel. Some things cannot be learned from books."
"No problem, I will have Frank appoint Mr. Silas as your Chief Artisan. A good mind needs a pair of skilled hands to complement it."
Seeing that he had secured this talent, Felix stood up and extended his hand to Griffiths again.
"Now, are there any other questions?"
This time, Griffiths did not hesitate.
He stood up, took off the white glove symbolizing Old World reserve, and with his calloused engineer's hand, shook Felix's hand firmly.
"None, Mr. Argyle," he said, a challenging smile on his face.
That afternoon, an urgent telegram was dispatched from the small telegraph station in Whitneyville. The recipient was a renowned machine tool manufacturer in Hartford.
The content of the telegram was simple.
"Pratt & Whitney Company: Militech orders one latest model precision lathe and one milling machine from your factory, requiring the highest precision. Funds guaranteed by Argyle Empire Bank of New York. Reply promptly."
Meanwhile, in Militech's design office, Griffiths, Frank, and Silas were gathered around a brand-new blueprint.
It wasn't a rifle that was drawn on it, but an architectural sketch of a metallurgical laboratory building with its own forging hammer, heat treatment furnace, and chemical analysis room.
An unseen war had shifted from blueprints to land and steel.
And the furnace fires of the new world were about to be officially ignited in this quiet town in Connecticut.
The day after Rhys Griffiths finalized the blueprints with Felix, he submitted a list to Frank Cole, then secluded himself in the town's only hotel, refusing to see anyone.
The contents of the list astonished both Frank and Silas.
It didn't contain common items like hammers or bellows, but rather things they had never heard of.
High-precision thermometers and laboratory scales ordered from Jena, Germany; a dozen of the latest books on organic chemistry and mineralogy from a specialized bookstore in Boston; and even an expensive piano.
"A piano?" Silas asked Frank, his face full of confusion as he looked at the list, "Are we building a forge or a concert hall?"
"Do as he says," Frank replied decisively. "The Boss has given him the authority and the funds, so we are responsible for execution. Send a telegram to New York headquarters and have Catherine handle the procurement."
During the long wait for the instruments and equipment to arrive from across the ocean, Griffith was not idle.
He appeared at the factory every day but never stepped into the forge workshop.
Instead, he would sit on the hillside overlooking the entire factory area, holding a book, silently observing the workers' every move, like a lone eagle studying an ant colony.
This detached attitude made the craftsmen in the factory very uncomfortable, and whispers began to circulate privately.
"...That gentleman from England, what exactly is he here for? All he does every day is read and take walks."
"I heard he's an expert the Boss paid a fortune for. I think he's more like an aristocrat on vacation in the countryside."
Frank heard these discussions, but he didn't stop them. He knew that a genius like Griffith needed to familiarize himself with and integrate into this new environment in his own way. Forcing the issue would only make things worse.
It wasn't until a week later, when the first batch of brand-new Pratt & Whitney precision lathes, ordered from Hartford, arrived at the factory in a grand procession of a dozen carriages, that Griffith, for the first time, voluntarily walked into the machining workshop.
The arrival of the new machines was like a grand festival.
The craftsmen gathered around the gleaming metal behemoths, their eyes filled with awe and excitement. Silas gently stroked the cold, smooth guide rails of a lathe with his calloused hand, as if caressing a lover's skin.
"My God..." he murmured, "This... this is what you call a machine. Compared to this, what we used before was just a pile of scrap metal."
Griffith paid no attention to the exclamations of the crowd.
He walked directly to the largest lathe, carefully checking the concentricity of the spindle and the precision of the tool turret. Then he turned to Frank.
"Have everyone else leave," his tone remained indifferent.
Frank complied. When only they, Silas, and the young engineer James were left in the workshop, Griffith took off his English coat, rolled up the cuffs of his clean white shirt, revealing his strong forearms.
He personally started the machine.
With the steady hum of steam power transmitted through the belts, the lathe's spindle began to rotate. Griffith skillfully operated the handwheel, and the sharp cutting tool created smooth and precise lines on a piece of round steel.
He didn't speak, but his actions themselves were a language.
A language of precision, strength, and rhythm that only true craftsmen could understand. Silas watched his rock-steady hands and his almost intuitive judgment of cutting depth, and the disdain on his face gradually gave way to heartfelt admiration.
Half an hour later, Griffith shut down the machine. He handed a newly machined, complex gear sample to Frank.
"Have your best workers make this. The tolerance must not exceed one-thousandth of an inch, and I want to see ten identical finished products within three days. Anyone who can't do it can go stoke the boiler."
After saying that, he wiped his hands and put his coat back on, as if the oil-stained machinist from moments ago had been an illusion.
"Frank," he added, "I've found a suitable location for the metallurgical laboratory. It's in the abandoned quarry on the east side of the factory. I need you to send people to clear the foundation there first."
He had finally begun his work.
Meanwhile, in New York.
Catherine's "talent hunt" was also proceeding systematically.
Flynn's intelligence office was filled with dozens of subscribed European and American scientific journals. Timmy and his "little mice" burrowed into all the patent law firms and inventors' clubs in New York like real mice.
"Miss Catherine," Arthur Clark placed a report on her desk, "Regarding Project Hermes, we seem to have an interesting discovery."
The report was submitted by Timmy. It recorded a snippet of casual conversation he overheard from several tipsy retired engineers at the Engineers' Club.
"...That German fellow, Carl Becker, is such a stubborn fool. The shipyard asked him to design a bilge pump, and he insisted on some new 'centrifugal' gimmick. The result was something that pumped water with enough force to suck through the bottom planks of a ship! The board told him to change it, but he refused and was eventually kicked out."
"Carl Becker," Catherine read the name.
"Flynn, have the intelligence office immediately investigate all information about this man."
A day later, Carl Becker's detailed file was delivered.
"German immigrant, thirty-five years old," Catherine read from the file. "A top student from the Berlin Institute of Technology, came to America five years ago. Proficient in steam power and fluid mechanics. Personality... like Mr. Griffith, reclusive and stubborn. Currently unemployed due to disagreements with employers over technical concepts."
"Where is he now?"
"In the German immigrant quarter of Brooklyn. He's rented a street-front workshop and seems to be using his last savings to continue perfecting his 'centrifugal pump' design."
Catherine looked at the file, recalling Felix's strategy when recruiting Griffith. She knew that the best way to approach such an unappreciated genius was not with money, but with a challenging problem that would allow him to showcase his talents.
She didn't send a letter or an invitation.
The next afternoon, she personally took a carriage to the inconspicuous workshop in Brooklyn, carrying Dr. Thorne's hand-drawn conceptual sketch of the "continuous flow reaction" system.
A rhythmic hammering sound came from the workshop. Catherine pushed open the door and saw a tall man in oil-stained work clothes busily working around a strangely structured machine.
"Mr. Becker?"
Carl Becker looked up, his blue eyes filled with wariness towards the stranger.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Catherine O'Brien." Catherine spread Dr. Thorne's blueprint on the relatively clean workbench. "I'm here to ask you to look at something."
Becker's gaze fell on the blueprint, which was covered with complex pipelines and reaction towers.
At first, his face showed a hint of impatience. But soon, his expression became focused. He was a true engineer, and he instantly understood the ingenious concept behind this system, as well as the engineering challenges it contained.
"...Constant flow rate... multi-stage pressure control..." he murmured, "This... who designed this? Does he want to conduct a continuous chemical wedding in the pipes?"
"It's my colleague, Dr. Thorne," Catherine replied. "He has solved the chemical part. However, he needs a 'master of ceremonies' who can make this 'wedding' proceed smoothly. An engineer who can make liquids dance in the pipes according to the most precise instructions."
She looked at Becker, her clear eyes filled with sincerity.
"I heard you are the best pump designer in all of New York, so I brought you this challenge."
Carl Becker looked at the blueprint, then at Catherine.
"What... can you offer me?"
Brooklyn, a German immigrant settlement.
In Carl Becker's workshop, Catherine looked at the tall German engineer before her and answered his question.
"Mr. Becker, you need a place where your talent will no longer be buried by ignorance and shortsightedness."
She pushed Dr. Thorne's conceptual drawing forward again.
"And what we can offer you, first and foremost, is respect."
"Your previous employer fired you because they couldn't understand the potential of your 'centrifugal pump' design. We, however, have come specifically to seek your wisdom with a more challenging problem. This is the first thing we can offer you."
Becker's gaze moved back and forth between the drawing and Catherine, and the lines on his face, previously tense from being misunderstood, softened somewhat.
"Secondly, resources."
"My Boss, Mr. Felix Argyle, has authorized me to extend a formal invitation to you. We invite you to serve as the Chief Engineer for Project Hermes, under the Argyle Central Laboratory."
"You will have an independent, fully equipped engineering laboratory. A dedicated budget sufficient to complete all prototype testing. And Dr. Thorne, one of America's top chemists, as your partner."
"Finally, compensation," Catherine said, getting to the most practical part. She pulled out a pre-drafted contract framework. "We offer you an annual salary of two thousand dollars. Regarding the engineering achievements you make in the project, while all patent applications and ownership will belong to the Argyle Central Laboratory, you, as the sole inventor, will have undisputed attribution rights."
She paused, then added the most crucial point: "Furthermore, for any technology you lead and successfully bring to commercial production, you will permanently receive one percent of the net profit from that product line as your personal technical dividend. This is entirely consistent with the terms we offer Dr. Thorne."
Respect, resources, wealth, and the honor and long-term benefits that an inventor values most, firmly tied to his creation.
However, Becker was not immediately swayed by these generous terms. In his blue eyes, the prudence characteristic of an engineer flickered.
"It sounds very thorough, Miss O'Brien," he said slowly, his voice deep. "My previous employers also promised me freedom and support. But when my designs exceeded the imagination of their minds, accustomed to mere patching and mending, all they left me with was rejection."
He pointed to the corner of the workshop, where the centrifugal pump prototype lay disassembled, reduced to a mere frame.
"They wanted a pump that could routinely clear sewers, but what I gave them was a machine ten times more efficient. Yet, they were afraid that this new thing would cause problems, increase maintenance costs, so they preferred to stick with those fifty-year-old antiques."
He looked at Catherine, his gaze sharpening.
"Tell me, Miss. When my new design once again exceeds your understanding, will you provide me with a larger testing ground, or will you hand me a dismissal letter like they did?"
This was a question that could not be answered by contract. It tested the employer's true magnanimity and vision.
"I cannot answer that question, Mr. Becker," she said, meeting his gaze frankly, "because I am not the one who makes the final decision."
"However," she added, "I can arrange a meeting for you with Mr. Felix Argyle. You can present all your concerns to him directly. I believe he will give you a satisfactory answer."
...The next afternoon, Felix's private carriage stopped in front of the small workshop in Brooklyn. He did not invite Becker to his mansion on Fifth Avenue, nor did he arrange to meet at the Argyle Bank. Instead, he chose to come to Becker's territory, which in itself was a gesture.
When Felix entered the workshop, Becker was wiping the core component of his centrifugal pump, an intricately designed brass impeller, with an oily cloth.
"You are Mr. Argyle?" Becker did not stand up, merely nodded.
Felix didn't mind. He looked at the machine, which embodied Becker's hard work, with great interest.
"A very remarkable design," Felix's first words surprised Becker. "I can see that you are trying to solve the problem of fluid pressurization in a completely new way. This curved blade design is to minimize turbulence, isn't it?"
Becker suddenly looked up. He couldn't believe that this seemingly privileged young rich man could discern the core principle of his design with just a glance.
"Yes," he answered instinctively, "but it requires extremely high rotational speed to function, and the immense centrifugal force brought by high speed places very high demands on the bearings and sealing structures I designed. My previous employers considered this too risky."
"They didn't think it was too risky, they just didn't want to spend money," Felix said, hitting the nail on the head.
He looked at Becker, a smile of appreciation on his face.
"Mr. Becker, Catherine should have already conveyed my proposal to you. Now, you can ask me the question you care about most, face to face."
Becker stood up and met Felix's gaze.
"What if my next design doesn't require brass, but an entire part cast from silver? What if I need to hollow out half of your factory to lay my experimental pipelines? Will you still support me?"
Felix smiled.
"I wouldn't use silver, Mr. Becker, that would be foolish," he replied. "I would have another genius in the laboratory, Mr. Rhys Griffiths, specially develop a new type of bronze alloy for you, with higher strength and better corrosion resistance."
"As for hollowing out my factory," he spread his hands, "if your design can double the production efficiency of the Umbrella Corporation, then let alone half a factory, even if you dismantle and rebuild the entire factory, I wouldn't bat an eye."
He looked at Becker, his tone becoming serious.
"I am not hiring a worker, Mr. Becker. I am investing in a brain that can create the future. I have only one request for you, and that is not to let your imagination be constrained by so-called 'costs' and 'conventions.' Your task is to create. And my task is to pay the bills for your wild creativity."
These words completely broke Carl Becker's last line of defense.
A hint of moisture appeared in his blue eyes, characteristic of Germans.
"I..." He wanted to say something, but found his throat choked.
"Before you give me your formal reply," Felix seemed to read his mind, "I need you to complete this work of yours first. A great engineer should not leave any regrets."
He turned to Catherine, who had been waiting at the door.
"Catherine, telegraph Supervisor Jones. Have him immediately contact our best foundry supplier, pause all current work. According to Mr. Becker's drawings, cast that bronze impeller for him as quickly as possible. The cost will be charged to the Argyle Central Laboratory."
"Additionally," he added, "have Frank see if Militech's newly arrived batch of Pratt & Whitney lathes can machine the precision bearings he needs."
Five days later.
A carriage bearing the Argyle Company emblem stopped in front of Becker's workshop.
Two workers carried in a heavy wooden box.
The box was opened, and inside lay a flawless bronze impeller, gleaming with a dark golden light, and a set of steel bearings personally polished by Silas, Militech's chief craftsman.
Carl Becker stared blankly at the contents of the wooden box. He reached out and gently stroked the smooth curved surface of the impeller.
These were not just two parts.
This was the fulfillment of a promise, and even more, a display of an industrial system's strength.
He turned and looked at Catherine, who had come to deliver the parts. The proud German engineer bowed deeply to her.
"Miss O'Brien..." His voice was hoarse with emotion. "Please tell Mr. Argyle."
"Carl Becker will be his man from today onwards."