A month after Militech officially changed its name, a spacious warehouse within the factory complex of Felix's headquarters along the East River, originally used to store spare parts, was thoroughly emptied and freshly painted.
It didn't feature luxurious conference tables, only three large mobile blackboards, a few simple workbenches, and "exhibits" sent from Connecticut and Brooklyn respectively: a rifle spring broken due to metal fatigue, and a bottle of brown "Iodoglycerol" discarded due to unstable purity.
This was the first informal gathering place for the Argyle Central Laboratory. Felix's intention in choosing this location was clear: no pleasantries, only problems.
When the tall and serious Carl Becker entered, Dr. Aris Thorne had already been waiting for a long time.
The chemist was holding a magnifying glass, obsessively studying the fracture of the spring, trying to understand its fragility at a microscopic level.
Catherine gave a brief introduction for the two, who merely nodded politely, the air filled with the cautious aloofness characteristic of geniuses from different fields.
At exactly ten o'clock in the morning, Rhys Griffiths arrived last, accompanied by Frank. The British metallurgist still wore his innate arrogance. He glanced at the other two "experts" in the room, then walked straight to Felix.
"Mr. Argyle," he said directly, "Did you call me from Whitneyville to New York for something specific? Frank and I are designing blueprints for the new laboratory's furnace."
"Griffith, not so fast," Felix gestured for him to look at the other two. "Because the steel that will be forged in your furnace will ultimately need to be processed by machines designed by Mr. Becker. And everything you two create cannot do without Dr. Thorne's profound insights on the chemical level."
Felix did not deliver a lengthy speech. He simply picked up the broken spring and gently placed it on the workbench in the center of the room.
"Gentlemen," his voice was exceptionally clear in the empty room, "This is the first meeting of the Argyle Central Laboratory. Today's first agenda item—Frank, you start by explaining the situation."
Frank concisely explained the dozens of failed experimental processes and data from Militech over the past few weeks.
Griffith listened, then let out a disdainful snort. "I've said it before, the problem lies with your steel. With such inferior iron full of impurities, even if God himself were to wield the forging hammer, he couldn't produce a qualified spring."
"I disagree," Dr. Thorne suddenly spoke, adjusting his glasses and refuting with a scholar's rigorous tone, "The microstructure of the fracture shows that, in addition to the material's inherent defects, the oxidation reaction during the heat treatment process was also extremely severe. This is not merely a metallurgical problem, but a chemical one. What is your quenching medium? Water? Or oil? What is its purity?"
"We use the best whale oil."
"The best whale oil will still decompose complex organic compounds at high temperatures, contaminating the surface layer of the steel," Dr. Thorne responded.
Carl Becker had been listening silently, but now he also stepped forward and picked up the spring.
"Both of you have valid points. But I also see another problem."
He pointed to the fracture of the spring, "This position is where stress is most concentrated. Perhaps, before the material and chemical problems are solved, we can distribute the pressure more evenly by changing the geometric structure of the spring, such as adopting a progressive coil diameter design. This is a mechanical engineering problem."
Metallurgy, chemistry, mechanical engineering.
Three geniuses, from their respective most skilled fields, offered three completely different interpretations of the same problem.
They looked at each other, their eyes carrying a hint of stubborn determination. The atmosphere in the room began to grow tense and filled with sparks of intellectual collision.
This was exactly what Felix wanted to see.
"Gentlemen, you are all very correct," Felix's voice sounded at the opportune moment, breaking the deadlock, "And this is precisely why I have gathered you all here."
He walked to the workbench, looking at the three.
"What I need is not three experts fighting their own battles, but a team that can integrate your three 'languages'."
Felix looked at the proud genius.
"Griffith, I need you to define all the physical parameters of 'perfect steel' for Mr. Becker.
Mr. Becker will then transform Dr. Thorne's chemical concepts into functional mechanical objects. And Dr. Thorne will provide the most precise chemical formulas for your 'art of fire'."
After a pause, Felix looked at the three geniuses in their respective fields.
"Gentlemen, your work is interconnected and inseparable. The Argyle Central Laboratory has established two core project teams. 'Project Prometheus' is led by Griffith, with Frank as his deputy, and its goal is Militech's weapon research and development. 'Project Hermes' is jointly led by Dr. Thorne and Mr. Becker, with the goal of innovating Umbrella Corporation's production processes, but they can collaborate on research."
"I know this is difficult," Felix continued, "Collaboration between geniuses is sometimes more complex than war itself. So, I suggest we start with lunch."
Without giving them a chance to continue arguing, Felix gestured for Catherine to open a small door nearby.
Behind the door was a simply furnished dining room, where Felix's private chef had already prepared a steaming hot lunch.
The atmosphere at the dining table was much more relaxed than at the workbench.
Felix skillfully guided the conversation, from the latest opera playing in New York to the newest political situation in Europe. Griffith was surprised to find that his American Boss understood British politics even better than he did; and Becker discovered that Felix could discuss the design of Berlin's urban pipeline system with him.
Amidst good food and relaxed conversation, the wariness and estrangement between the three experts slowly dissolved.
They began to realize that although their professional fields differed, their thirst for knowledge and desire to explore the unknown were common.
After lunch, when they returned to the workbench, the atmosphere had completely changed.
Becker spoke first, saying to Dr. Thorne, "If your 'continuous flow reaction' system requires a pipe that can withstand strong acids, it doesn't necessarily need Mr. Griffith to develop a new alloy. I've heard that New York's glass artisans can already blow quite sturdy glass pipes."
Dr. Thorne's eyes lit up. "A very good idea! Glass is chemically inert and can completely avoid metal contamination!"
"But glass is brittle. How do we solve the sealing and pressure issues at the pipe connections?" Griffith immediately pointed out the engineering challenge.
"Perhaps we can design a flange structure with a flexible lining…" Becker picked up a charcoal pencil and immediately sketched a diagram on the blackboard.
Dr. Thorne and Griffith also gathered around, and the three discussed intensely in three different languages. The blackboard was quickly filled with various complex formulas, chemical equations, and mechanical structure diagrams.
Felix and Catherine quietly retreated to a corner of the room.
"I was very worried before, Felix," Catherine whispered, "They are all such proud people."
"Pride comes from loneliness, Catherine."
Felix looked at the three figures, who were now completely immersed in their own world. "When they realize they are no longer fighting alone, pride will turn into confidence."
He looked at the blackboard, covered with sparks of wisdom, and a satisfied smile appeared on his face.
"What's in this room is more valuable than all the gold in our bank vault combined."
He put his arm around Catherine's waist and walked out of the somewhat chilly warehouse, returning to the warm office.
On Felix's business empire, profit reports from food factories and banks flowed continuously into New York like warm ocean currents.
But on that research and development front, representing the future, the cold wind was just beginning.
Whitneyville, Connecticut.
The atmosphere in Militech's newly built "Prometheus" metallurgy laboratory was tense.
Rhys Griffiths, who had returned from New York, was using a long-handled iron tong to extract a palm-sized, glowing red steel ingot from a small experimental melting furnace. His light brown eyes, illuminated by the furnace fire, appeared focused and discerning.
"The temperature is three degrees too high, Silas!" His voice was exceptionally clear amidst the hum of the furnace. "Your bellows control is still not stable enough! We need a constant strong blast of wind, not the intermittent gasps of a village blacksmith's forge!"
Sweat streamed down Chief Craftsman Silas Blackwood's face. He glanced at the steam bellows next to him, personally modified by Griffith with complex pressure gauges, and responded gruffly, "I'm doing my best, Mr. Griffith! This thing is harder to manage than my wife!"
Beside them, Arthur Vince, a young assistant recently hired by Catherine with a hefty sum from Yale University, nervously recorded the experimental data.
"Mr. Griffith," he adjusted his spectacles, "Sample number seventeen, manganese addition ratio is 1.2 percent, carbon content is eight per thousand. Preliminary forging tests show its hardness is seven percent higher than the samples we shipped from Sheffield, but its toughness... has decreased by twelve percent. It's harder, but also more brittle."
Griffith secured the cooled ingot in a hydraulic press. Accompanied by a grating crunch, the ingot reached a certain limit, then broke in half with a sharp crack.
"Another failure."
Frank Cole's voice came from the doorway. He handed a hot coffee to Griffith. "Rhys, you've been here for three consecutive days. Perhaps you should take a break."
Griffith didn't take the coffee. He picked up the broken sample and carefully observed its crystalline fracture surface.
"A break?" he retorted without turning around. "Frank, do you know how far behind we are? Krupp started experimenting with similar alloy formulas in his cannon steel five years ago. And we are still struggling with a tiny spring. We don't have time to rest."
He looked at Frank, his eyes showing an unyielding stubbornness.
"How much budget do you have left from the Boss?"
"Plenty," Frank replied. "The Boss said money is not an issue."
"Good," Griffith tossed aside the discarded sample. "Then use money to solve the bellows problem. Telegraph the machine factory in Hartford. I need a brand new, differential gear-controlled blast system. I want the wind to be as precise as a clock. Until it arrives, all smelting experiments are suspended. We will switch to physical testing."
He turned to Silas, "First, cut the batch of steel that arrived early from Sheffield into one hundred standard-sized samples for me. I want to test their tensile, torsional, and fatigue limits at different temperatures, over and over again. The Boss didn't spend a fortune to buy the perfect answer, but a reference. Before we can surpass it, we must first thoroughly understand it."
This genius from the Old Continent was laying the first solid foundation for Militech's technological level, using a method that was almost masochistic, both rigorous and clumsy.
Meanwhile, at Umbrella Corporation in Brooklyn.
The atmosphere in Project Hermes's laboratory was equally tense.
"No! Absolutely not!"
Chemist Dr. Aris Thorne excitedly waved his arms, looking at a brass metering pump prototype Carl Becker had just completed.
"Carl, I'll say it again! What I need is a constant flow rate with an error of no more than one milliliter per minute! And this machine of yours, every piston stroke brings a 0.5-second pulse! This 0.5-second flow fluctuation is enough to ruin hundreds of dollars worth of catalyst in my entire reaction tower!"
"Dr. Thorne, please calm down," Mr. Becker, the proud German engineer, patiently explained. "You are asking for a smooth flow, like an hourglass, in a closed pipeline system. This, in terms of mechanical principles, is a paradox in itself. Any form of mechanical pump will inevitably produce pulses."
"I don't care!" Dr. Thorne was like a stubborn child. "That's your problem, not mine! My chemical reaction requires an absolutely stable environment!"
Factory supervisor Peter Jenkins stood by, watching the two bigwigs argue, feeling a headache coming on. He understood that this was not a personal feud, but a fundamental clash of two different scientific mindsets.
Just as the two were at an impasse, Catherine walked in.
"Gentlemen," Her voice was not loud, but it quieted the entire laboratory.
Catherine did not judge who was right or wrong. Instead, she walked to the running brass pump and watched it silently for a while.
"Mr. Becker," she began, "What if we add a buffer device between your pump and Dr. Thorne's reaction tower? For example, a storage tank with a flexible diaphragm. Let your pump first pump the liquid into this tank, and then the tank's own air pressure will steadily 'squeeze' the liquid into the reaction tower. Can this solve the pulse problem?"
Carl Becker's eyes instantly lit up.
"A... a pneumatic accumulator?" he murmured. "That's right! How could I not have thought of it! Absorbing the liquid's pulses through the compressibility of gas... My God, Miss O'Brien, you... you're a genius!"
"I'm not a genius, Mr. Becker," Catherine smiled. "I've just heard too many of the Boss's teachings about 'systematic problem-solving,' and I happen to remember that he also used something similar to a 'pressure stabilizing tank' when designing the factory's steam pipelines."
She then turned to Dr. Thorne, "Doctor, is this solution chemically feasible?"
Dr. Thorne pondered for a moment, then nodded.
"Theoretically feasible. But the material of that flexible diaphragm must be absolutely chemically inert and must not react with any of our solvents."
"Then go find it," Catherine decided. "Flynn's intelligence department will collect all patent information about 'vulcanized rubber' and new waterproof materials for you. Before that, I need both of you to jointly complete the design drawings for this 'pneumatic accumulator.'"
A brewing internal conflict, under Catherine's wise and artful coordination, transformed into a successful interdisciplinary collaboration.
That evening, at the Fifth Avenue mansion.
Catherine provided Felix with a detailed report on the progress from both Connecticut and Brooklyn.
"...So," she concluded, "'Prometheus' is exploring the path, while 'Hermes' has found its direction. Although our laboratories are burning money every day, they are indeed, little by little, turning your vision into reality."
Felix listened, a relieved smile appearing on his face. He walked over to Catherine and gently embraced her from behind.
"You've worked hard, my President," He rested his chin on her shoulder. "Managing such a large household for me, and having to reconcile the temperaments of those geniuses."
"It's my job," Catherine leaned into his arms, feeling that unique warmth and security.
"However, Felix," she changed the subject, "the central laboratory's expenses are even greater than our worst-case scenario. The European instruments Mr. Griffith ordered will arrive next week, and that's another tens of thousands of dollars in expenses."
Felix pulled her to sit on the sofa. "It's alright, sweetheart. These are all necessary expenditures. They will bring us greater returns. Besides, doesn't the food company still have nearly three hundred thousand dollars in profit every month?"
In the spring of 1863, the shadow of war still hung over the United States, but for Argyle , the bigger storm didn't come from the front lines' artillery fire, but from the seemingly endless demands of logistics.
In Argyle's office, the fireplace flames danced quietly.
He had just finished reading a gratifying report on the growth of Argyle Bank's savings business, but there wasn't much relief on his face.
Instead, he picked up another new letter on his desk, a private letter from Major Carter.
The letter didn't discuss new orders or Iodoglycerol; it was more like a friend's worried battlefield notes.
"...Argyle, my friend," Carter wrote in the letter, "your canned goods have saved countless soldiers' stomachs, allowing them to taste home even in muddy trenches. Everyone is very happy about this. However, the front lines are far more complex than I imagined."
"The latest conscription bill has passed, and I heard from my teacher that President Lincoln's goal is to expand the army to two million by next year. The logistics department will face a disaster. The existing supply system simply cannot provide for such a massive organism."
"Moreover, battles on the front lines often erupt within minutes, and soldiers don't have time to light fires to heat their canned goods. What they need is something they can immediately put in their mouths to replenish energy. The black bread and hardtack issued by the Union would go moldy within three days in damp Virginia. Soldiers privately call those things 'grinding stones' and 'green bricks.' Many times, they'd rather go hungry than gnaw on those things."
"The swamps and streams in the South are full of 'bugs' invisible to the naked eye; dysentery and typhoid are spreading like a plague. I really wish there was a simple way for soldiers to drink clean water."
"Currently, the entire logistics department is at its wits' end over this, it's a terrible situation. Well, I guess you'll definitely want to tackle this, and of course, that's why I'm writing, because I also believe you can do it, after all, you always create miracles, don't you, my friend?"
Argyle smiled knowingly at the last words; he knew he would do it once he found out, after all, it was a huge market worth tens of millions of dollars, and an opportunity to bind himself more deeply with the Union Army.
Without the slightest hesitation, Argyle immediately called Jones, the president of Argyle & Co. Foods, to his office.
The tough-minded former military man arrived at the office immediately after receiving the news.
"Boss, you called for me."
"Jones, sit down." Argyle pushed Carter's letter over. "Read this."
Jones read the letter carefully, a solemn expression gradually appearing on his face. He was also from a military background and understood better than anyone what the predicament described in Carter's letter meant.
"I understand, Boss." Jones put down the letter. "The brothers on the front lines need new rations and clean water."
"Not just new rations, Jones." Argyle corrected, "They need an entirely new field survival system. Carter's letter describes not a problem, but a market, and that will be our next phase's goal."
Argyle stood up and walked to the small blackboard.
"Our canned goods can be considered camp food, requiring heating in a relatively safe environment for better taste. But now, we need to provide soldiers with instant food."
He wrote two words on the blackboard: "Compressed Biscuits" and "Water Purification Tablets."
Argyle looked at the president he had personally promoted, "Jones, I authorize you to immediately establish a new 'Field Rations R&D Department' within Argyle & Co. Foods. You can choose the personnel yourself. I don't care what method you use; go hire the best bakers in the city, the most experienced dry goods merchants, and even those old masters who know how to make Native American jerky."
"I'm giving you these two clear goals."
He tapped the words "Compressed Biscuits" heavily with chalk.
"First, create a completely new type of biscuit. Mix beef powder, high fat, and grains together, and press them using a new steam press. Its energy must be three times that of ordinary bread, but only half the volume, and it must be able to last three months without spoiling in a soldier's damp backpack."
Then his chalk pointed to "Water Purification Tablets."
"Second, this is a cross-company project. Go communicate with Dr. Thorne at the Central Laboratory and have him develop a small pill that can kill pathogens in water. Soldiers just need to throw it into their canteens and shake it, and they can drink safe water. This is a chemical problem, and also a food safety problem, to be jointly tackled by Argyle & Co. Foods and the Central Laboratory."
Jones's eyes grew brighter and brighter.
"Boss, I understand. These Water Purification Tablets are a completely new direction."
"Yes, a completely new direction." Argyle nodded, "And this direction also requires the support of another one of our departments."
"You personally communicate with the manufacturing plant. Have them start researching how to build steam ovens that can bake thousands of pounds of biscuits, and smaller, lighter waterproof packaging for these new rations. And our civilian product line also needs new glass containers. The manufacturing plant cannot just focus on tin cans; its future is to manufacture all forms of containers."
Argyle sat back down, looking at Jones.
"Jones, this is a difficult task, but also an opportunity. Complete it, and Argyle & Co. Foods will no longer just be the military's canned goods supplier; we will become the 'field kitchen' for the entire Union Army. I'm giving you three months."
"Yes, Boss!" Jones stood up... Umbrella Corporation headquarters in Brooklyn.
The new president, Catherine, was holding her own production meeting. Human anatomy charts and complex chemical molecular structures hung on her office walls.
"...So," she looked at Dr. Thorne and factory supervisor Peter Jenkins in front of her, summarizing, "Project Hermes has the highest priority. Mr. Becker will officially move in with his team next week, and I need you to provide him with all necessary support. Peter, the factory side needs to clear out the entire West Wing workshop for his prototype machine."
"Understood, President." Jenkins responded.
"Dr. Thorne," she turned to Thorne, "we cannot stand still before Mr. Becker's machine is completed. Argyle & Co. Foods will likely submit a research and development request for 'Water Purification Tablets' to you in a couple of days. This is also a military requirement, and I need you to allocate some energy to research this project."
"Of course, Miss O'Brien." Dr. Thorne adjusted his glasses. "Using chemistry to purify water is a very interesting topic. I will start researching it immediately."
Catherine nodded; she was methodically driving the operation of this nascent pharmaceutical company in her own way... After Jones, filled with ideas, hurried out of Argyle's office, he didn't waste a moment, returning directly to Argyle & Co. Foods's factory area. He found Sullivan, the new supervisor, who was inspecting the fruit canning production line.
"Sullivan, come with me." Jones's voice was unyielding.
He led Sullivan to an empty workshop in the new factory wing.
Jones pointed to the empty space, "Starting tomorrow, this will be our Field Rations R&D Department. And you will concurrently be the first member of this department."
Sullivan was stunned.
"Go find the best bakers in the city," Jones gave his first instruction, "tell them that Argyle Company is paying a high price to hire them to help us 'bake biscuits.'"
"Then go to the docks, find those old freight merchants who have been running west for years, and ask them how Native Americans make jerky that can last over a year. Assemble a capable team for me within three days."
"Okay, you've found the right person."
Looking at his old superior's serious face, Sullivan readily agreed.
Three days later, in the spacious workshop of the food factory, temporarily converted into an 'R&D Department,' Jones met the team Sullivan had assembled for him.
The first member of the team was Mr. Schmidt.
A German baker, nearly fifty, who worked at a dessert shop in Brooklyn famous for its Black Forest cake. He wore a starched, spotless white apron, his chin held high, his eyes filled with caution and pickiness towards the oil-smelling factory environment.
"Mr. Sullivan," he complained to Sullivan in heavily accented English, "are you sure this is a place for making food? All I smell is rust and soot. And," he pointed at Jones, "this gentleman looks more like an officer than a connoisseur who appreciates the art of fermentation."
Jones just grinned, "Mr. Schmidt, the company isn't paying you triple salary to make cakes; it's to create a bread that can win a war."
The second member was a stark contrast to Schmidt.
His name was Jedediah, an old man in his sixties, gaunt and with skin like dried leather. He wore a worn deerskin jacket and carried the scent of campfire and tobacco.
He sat silently in a corner, slowly carving a piece of unknown dried meat with a small knife. Sullivan introduced Jedediah, saying that in his youth, he was a fur trader in the Rocky Mountains and lived with Native Americans for twenty years. No one knew better than him how to make jerky that could last a year in the wilderness.
The last member was a young chemist from the central laboratory, a young man named Henry Ward. He was Dr. Thorne's liaison, responsible for providing scientific support for the project. He wore thick glasses, held a notebook, and was curiously and nervously observing his two new colleagues.
An academic German master baker, a mysterious wilderness survival expert, a young chemist fresh out of school, plus an old foreman, Sullivan, who understood production line processes.
Jones looked at the combination before him and felt a sense of incongruity and a headache.
"Alright, gentlemen." He cleared his throat and explained Felix's instructions and Major Carter's letter to everyone, "The Boss's goal is clear: compressed biscuits and water purification tablets."
"Biscuits?"
The German baker, Schmidt, was the first to speak, his tone full of disdain, "Mr. Jones, biscuits are a very simple food. Their key lies in the emulsification of butter and the gluten strength of the flour. With good ingredients and an oven, I can make you five hundred pounds of the crispiest biscuits in a day."
"No, Mr. Schmidt." Jones shook his head, "We don't want crispiness. On the contrary, we want hardness. Something hard enough to withstand marching and falling in a soldier's backpack without easily breaking."
"At the same time," he added, "we also need to add beef powder and a lot of fat to it, so that it has high calories but isn't difficult to swallow."
Schmidt's brows furrowed tightly. Hard, high-calorie, but not unpalatable. This went against all his decades of rules about 'deliciousness.'
"As for water purification tablets," Jones turned to the young chemist, "Mr. Ward, does Dr. Thorne have any initial ideas?"
Henry Ward adjusted his glasses and replied somewhat nervously, "Supervisor Jones. The doctor believes that using the strong oxidizing properties of chlorine or iodine to kill tiny organisms in water is theoretically the most feasible direction. He has provided several preliminary compound formulas, which I can purify and test on a small scale here."
"Very good." Jones finally looked at Jedediah in the corner, "Old man, regarding concentrated jerky, I hope you can share your experience."
Jedediah finally stopped carving the jerky. He looked up, his cloudy eyes fixed on Jones.
"You city folk call that jerky," he said hoarsely, "where I come from, it has another name, 'pemmican.' It's made from buffalo meat mixed with melted fat and dried berries. A small piece can keep a hunter going all day in the freezing cold."
"Can that be made here?"
Jedediah shook his head.
"It can't be made."
"The soul of pemmican is sunshine and wind. The meat needs to hang on a wooden rack for several days, letting the wind of the Great Plains slowly dry it. But the air here only has coal ash and dampness."
Silence fell in the workshop; every objective seemed to face difficulties.
Jones, however, did not back down, as everything needed to be tried at least once.
"Mr. Schmidt," he turned to the German baker, "I will give you the best flour and the best beef powder. The steam engine in the adjacent workshop can provide you with any power you need. Within a week, produce the first batch of samples."
"Mr. Ward," he looked at the chemist, "water purification tablets also in a week. Never mind the taste for now; I just want to see it turn a cup of dirty water from the East River clear and transparent, without those little critters."
"Mr. Jedediah," he finally said to the old man, "there's no wind of the Great Plains here. But we have steam engines and blowers. Please work with the engineers to try and recreate a small drying area for us indoors."
In the following days, this strange kitchen began to operate.
Mr. Schmidt's first attempt ended in disaster. The biscuits he baked were indeed hard enough; Jones, despite his best efforts, could only leave a shallow tooth mark on them. But when he tried to throw the biscuit on the ground, it shattered into a dozen pieces like glass.
"The gluten structure is wrong!" the German baker exclaimed, pulling at his hair in frustration, "The fat ratio is too high, destroying the dough's elasticity!"
Chemist Ward, on the other hand, successfully produced the first batch of white tablets. He dropped a tablet into a beaker full of murky river water, and a few minutes later, the water indeed became clear.
But when Jones mustered the courage to take a sip, he immediately spat all the water out.
"My God..." he coughed, "This stuff tastes like an entire hospital's medicine cabinet was poured into my mouth!"
Jedediah's experiment was also unsuccessful.
He refused to use any modern equipment in the factory, insisting on his oldest methods, setting up a small air-drying rack in an open space on the factory grounds. As a result, New York's humid air caused his jerky to grow a layer of green mold by the third day.
Failure, failure, and still failure.
A week later, when Jones presented this report, filled with records of failure, along with a few biscuit samples that could be used as weapons, to Felix, a hint of defeat showed on his face.
"Boss, perhaps... I thought things were too simple."
Felix picked up a biscuit and tapped it on the hard office desk, producing a crisp sound. He showed no disappointment; instead, he smiled.
"No, no, no, my friend. You did very well."
"In one week, you found all the wrong directions for us. That in itself is a huge success."
He looked at Jones, "I ask you, what is Mr. Schmidt doing now?"
"He's locked himself in the kitchen, trying to steam the dough instead of baking it directly. He says that might allow the dough to maintain its hardness while having a more resilient internal structure."
"What about Jedediah?"
"He agreed to work with the manufacturing plant's engineers yesterday. They are designing a 'drying room' with hot air circulation and dehumidification functions."
"And Ward?"
"He's consulting with Dr. Thorne, researching how to use edible substances, such as citric acid, to neutralize the taste of chlorine."
Felix stood up and patted Jones's shoulder.
"You see, Jones." His eyes were filled with satisfaction, "They haven't given up. Everyone might be arguing, failing, but they are also thinking and cooperating. You have successfully lit their bonfire."
"I believe the stuff will definitely be made, so don't doubt yourself, understand?"
Listening to Felix's gentle comforting words, Jones's heart, which had been shaken by frustration, became firm.
What the Boss said must be right.