Inside the newly established Typewriter Research Lab at Argyle Central Laboratory.
Felix's words exploded like thunder in the ears of Christopher Latham Sholes and Carl Becker.
Sholes stood frozen in place, his brain violently impacted by this 'heretical' idea.
"Forget the alphabet."
He murmured to himself, then his gaze fell on the row of keys arranged in ABC order.
He had spent five years, exhausted all his efforts and savings, just to make this machine 'logically' bring the alphabet to people's fingertips.
But now, this young man in front of him was telling him.
He had been wrong from the start.
"But, Boss."
Sholes' voice still carried a struggle.
"Will people... will people accept it? A keyboard with a completely jumbled order? They might think we're crazy."
Felix shrugged slightly, "But they'll also think that a machine that can type sixty words a minute is witchcraft." He then retorted.
"Mr. Sholes, do you think those accountants who transcribe documents with quill pens until their wrists ache every day, and those telegraph operators eager to transcribe telegrams into official documents, care more about a logical alphabetical order, or more about a tool that allows them to leave work three hours early and get double pay?"
He paused, his voice becoming more impassioned.
"Remember! We are not creating a toy, but efficiency."
"When our machine is the only tool in the world that can provide this efficiency, then our keyboard layout will be the only 'standard' in the world. People won't complain that it's illogical; they'll just desperately learn it and adapt to it."
Carl Becker now fully understood Felix's intention.
His eyes sparkled with excitement; setting rules, this truly aligned with the peak aspirations of a researcher.
"I understand, Boss."
"You don't want a better transmission mechanism, but a smarter layout."
"Mechanical flaws can be compensated for mechanically. But that requires a more complex structure, higher costs, and longer development time."
Becker pointed to the prototype machine.
"But if we, from the source, avoid the most frequent mechanical conflicts by rearranging and combining. This... this is simply brilliant."
He turned to Sholes, who was still a bit bewildered.
"Mr. Sholes, we need data. We need to know which letters appear most frequently in standard English texts? And which letter combinations stick together most often?"
"Data?" Sholes was taken aback.
"I don't know. I only know that E and T are used the most..."
"Not enough." Felix shook his head, "That's not precise enough. We need an irrefutable statistical report."
He turned his gaze to Frost. "Edward."
"Yes, Boss."
"You'll go to The New York Times' typesetting workshop later."
"Use the Foundation's name, or simply use money. To 'borrow' all their lead typesetting boxes from the past month's layouts."
"Boss?" Frost was a bit puzzled.
"When compositors typeset, they place the most frequently used letters closest to their hands, in the most convenient position to grab," Felix explained.
"The wear and tear on each letter compartment in those typesetting boxes, and the frequency with which they are used, is the most original and most authentic big data."
"Organize people to count it."
"Count the actual usage frequency of every common letter combination, such as 'TH', 'ER', 'IN', 'AN'."
After speaking, Felix looked at Sholes and Becker again.
"Gentlemen. Your task is to design a brand new keyboard layout based on this data."
"Place the most frequently used letters in the positions where your fingers are strongest and most flexible."
"Distribute the letter combinations most prone to 'collision' as much as possible to different areas of the left and right hands."
"Remember! Use science, not habit, to design the soul of this machine."
Sholes and Becker exchanged glances.
They both saw the burning fire of ambition in each other's eyes. If Felix's words were to be fully realized, then what they were about to participate in would not just be an invention, but the establishment of a whole new standard.
"Understood, Boss."
Sholes nodded heavily, and the light in his bloodshot eyes, which were like that from long nights, rekindled.
"We will do it."
"I look forward to it." Felix smiled.
Given his physique, the typewriter project seemed to be on the right track... In the evening, Felix returned to his mansion on Fifth Avenue.
He then continued to process several documents from Lex Steel Company and Saineng Mineral Company.
And Catherine had also finished discussing the hospital details with Archbishop Hughes.
"How is that writing clavichord coming along?" Catherine poured tea, asking with a smile.
"It won't be a 'clavichord' for much longer." Felix took the teacup.
"It will become a 'typewriter'. And, it will have a keyboard that might make the whole world curse a few times, but they will have to learn it."
He briefly told Catherine about the illogical idea from the laboratory that afternoon.
After listening, Catherine's intelligent blue eyes also flashed with a hint of surprise.
"Felix... you are practically forcing the whole world to adapt to your invention."
"It's guidance, my dear." Felix corrected.
"When your product can bring a tenfold increase in efficiency, you have the right to guide your users to use it in the most efficient way."
"Just like our hospital."
"Alright, I think I understand."
"Have the invitations been sent out?" Felix asked.
"Of course." Catherine nodded, "I've already had the butler send out the invitations, and Archbishop Hughes has confirmed his attendance."
New York, Delmonico's Restaurant.
This is the pinnacle where America's wealth and power converge.
Crystal chandeliers emitted bright, warm gaslight, and silver cutlery reflected a soft glow on the pristine linen tablecloths.
Felix, with a smile on his face, played the role of host.
"Archbishop Hughes, Mr. Tweed," Felix raised his wine glass.
"Thank you both for taking the time out of your busy schedules to attend this small dinner. To the city we all love, cheers."
"To New York," Archbishop Hughes raised his water glass.
"Haha, to New York. And to Mr. Argyle's generosity."
Tweed heartily raised his glass and drained the Burgundy wine.
Exquisite dishes were served one after another.
The three conversed like old friends of many years, discussing the weather, the war in Washington, and even the new opera that had just premiered on Broadway.
It wasn't until the waiters cleared the main course and replaced it with coffee and cigars that Felix wiped his mouth with a napkin, as if casually bringing up the topic.
"Archbishop Hughes, thank you for your land donation to St. Vincent-Argyle United Hospital."
"It is God's will, my child."
Archbishop Hughes made the sign of the cross.
"The church's duty is to care for the lost lambs. You provide the funds and effort, and we, naturally, should show our sincerity."
"A remarkable act of charity."
Tweed interjected at the appropriate moment, lighting a thick cigar and exclaiming.
"A six-story modern hospital. Mr. Argyle, your endeavors always astound all of New York. This truly is a blessing for the citizens of New York City."
Felix smiled, "But this blessing now seems to have run into a small problem."
This fat guy is truly greedy. He used the church to pressure him a few months ago, and now he wants favors from him again.
Of course, it might not necessarily be about favors; Felix suspected he wanted to draw him onto his crooked ship.
Tweed paused his motion, just about to take a puff of his cigar.
"A problem? Surely not... Is there anything in New York City that could stump Mr. Argyle?"
"Mr. Tweed, you flatter me," Felix's tone was modest.
"As far as I know, Mr. Upjohn designed an independent sewage system for the hospital, requiring a dedicated pipeline to the East River. At the same time, to ensure constant lighting in the operating rooms and heating in winter, a special gas pipeline is also needed."
"These are all to ensure the hospital meets the highest medical standards."
Felix narrowed his eyes slightly, looking at Tweed.
"However, the New York City Building Permit Committee seems to have doubts about this design. The hospital's permit documents have been sitting on their desks for three weeks."
The air in the room grew quiet.
Archbishop Hughes quietly sipped his water, as if he hadn't heard the conversation.
Tweed's smile remained unchanged.
He slowly exhaled a thick plume of smoke, which somewhat blurred his face.
"The Building Permit Committee. Yes, Mr. Argyle, you know. As a responsible attitude towards taxpayers, the City Hall cannot just arbitrarily agree, as this involves many families and public areas.
Moreover, in urban construction, safety comes first. They must ensure that every pipeline meets New York City's highest standards and that there are no errors."
"Wow... Is that so? Then I completely understand and respect their meticulousness."
"But New York's sick people can't wait. The children who are dying due to lack of basic medical care also can't wait."
"However, regarding safety issues, as a relatively large taxpayer in New York City, I believe City Hall should focus more on public order. The current number of police officers is completely insufficient to cope.
I think even an additional thousand officers would be needed to address public order issues. Good public order allows for better business and life, don't you agree?"
As he spoke, Felix's tone became a little nuanced.
"I had thought that last time, you had expressed your full support for this community's welfare to all of New York City."
Hearing that Felix even wanted to interfere with police recruitment, Tweed was a little flustered.
"Oh no, no, no... Mr. Argyle, adding a thousand police officers would be too much for City Hall's finances. And Tammany Hall always stands with our taxpayers. There's no doubt about that."
"Then..."
"Mr. Argyle."
Tweed interrupted him, extinguishing his cigar and leaning slightly forward.
"Of course I will support the hospital's construction. But as you know, for City Hall's machinery to run, it always needs some lubricant."
He made a gesture of counting money.
"After all, they also have families to support. They also need to see the project's respect and sincerity for their hard work."
"I understand," Felix smiled. The other party finally laid out the price.
"However, Mr. Tweed. I'm afraid I cannot pay this 'lubricant.'"
Tweed's face darkened.
"Mr. Argyle, what do you mean?"
At the same time, Tweed was also quite annoyed.
Did this Argyle think that with the church, he could make him back down with impunity?
He backed down last time, but doing it again and again, did he really think Tammany Hall and City Hall were afraid of him?
Felix looked at him, equally unyielding.
"I must tell you, St. Vincent-Argyle United Hospital is a charitable institution. All of its income and expenditures will be subject to dual supervision by the church and the foundation, and will be open to the public."
Felix retorted, "What do you think the citizens of New York would think if they saw a substantial 'consulting fee' paid to the 'Building Permit Committee' in our public accounts?"
Tweed hadn't expected Felix to use the card of charity and public accounts to block his financial path.
"You..."
Archbishop Hughes, who had been silent, spoke, looking at the underground mayor whose face was somewhat grim.
"Mr. Tweed, Felix is right. This hospital is God's property. Its accounts must be as pure as the communion chalice."
"The church will send accountants to supervise every expenditure. And I will never allow any impure transactions to tarnish this act of charity."
Tweed's face grew even more displeased.
He could disregard Felix's threat, but he could not disregard Archbishop Hughes's will.
Losing the church's support, his seemingly stable Irish voting bloc would instantly collapse.
"Of course, of course, Archbishop Hughes."
Tweed's facial muscles twitched, then quickly formed a smile again.
"You misunderstood, I was just joking. How could I allow my subordinates to meddle with God's property?"
He immediately changed his tone, patting his chest and assuring, "Since it's a small problem, it will certainly be easy to solve."
"Mr. Argyle," he looked at Felix, his smile carrying a hint of helpless resignation at being outmaneuvered, "please rest assured. Tomorrow morning, I will personally go to the Building Permit Committee. To 'urge' them. I guarantee that before sunset on Tuesday, all the permit documents you need will be delivered to Miss Catherine's desk on time."
"Then I thank you very much, Mr. Tweed," Felix raised his teacup. "I knew you are always New York City's most efficient 'facilitator.'"
...The dinner ended in an atmosphere where "both host and guests enjoyed themselves."
As Felix and Catherine rode away in the carriage, Catherine finally couldn't help but burst out laughing.
"Felix, you are truly... too wicked," she leaned on his shoulder. "You almost treat the Archbishop as your exclusive weapon."
"It's just driven by self-interest, my dear," Felix responded with a smile.
"The Archbishop needs this hospital to demonstrate the church's benevolence. I need this hospital to promote my ideals and reputation. And Mr. Tweed..."
"Needs our votes," Catherine finished for him.
"Exactly, but unfortunately Tweed didn't achieve his own goals."
Essen, Prussia.
It was dusk when the train carrying William Coleman slowly pulled into the city's central station.
Unlike the grayness of London, steeped in fog and history, Essen's sky was stained deep brown by the thick smoke spewing from hundreds of thousands of chimneys.
The air was filled with the smell of sulfur and hot metal.
Even Sheffield seemed like a small blacksmith's workshop in front of this city.
This was Krupp's world, a disciplined fortress of steel.
Coleman pulled his coat collar tighter and stepped out of the station, his eyes scanning the hurried pedestrians on the street.
"Mr. Coleman."
A well-dressed, meticulous man in a black suit greeted him at the exit.
He was Heinrich Schmidt, a local employee of the Argyle Empire Bank's Berlin office.
"Mr. Schmidt," Coleman nodded and shook his hand, "The journey was quite smooth."
"I hope the air in Essen hasn't made you uncomfortable."
Schmidt took Coleman's simple briefcase and led him to a waiting carriage.
"This place lives only for steel. The person you asked me to contact has already been arranged."
"He's willing to see me?" Coleman was a little surprised.
"Yes," Schmidt smiled.
"Your actions in Sheffield were quite significant. Arthur Jennings, the chief furnace master of the Fisley factory, resigned, and the entire European steel industry knew about it the very next day. They're all curious about which American dared to poach someone from Sheffield with triple the salary."
The carriage passed through the coal-soot-stained streets, lined with the dormitory areas built by the Krupp family for their workers.
"Friedrich Haas."
Schmidt quietly introduced their target for the evening.
"Chief Engineer of Krupp Steel Foundry's forging workshop. A true genius. It is said that half of the credit for Mr. Alfred Krupp being able to produce those cannons that shocked Europe goes to Haas's breakthroughs in forging technology."
"But he doesn't seem very happy," Schmidt added.
"Why?"
"Because Mr. Haas's ambitions extend beyond cannons," Schmidt explained.
"His real interest lies in civilian steel, especially the rolling technology for railway tracks. Three years ago, he submitted a complete design for a 'high-speed reversible rolling mill.' He believed it could increase the production efficiency of steel rails fivefold and reduce costs by half."
"Mr. Krupp rejected it," Coleman guessed the outcome.
"Yes," Schmidt shrugged.
"His Majesty the King needs stronger cannon barrels, not cheaper rails. Mr. Haas's design drawings are still locked in his drawer."
"Tonight's meeting place is at the 'Engineers' Association's' weekly gathering. It's a club they organized themselves. Mr. Haas is a regular there."
...The Engineers' Association meeting was held on the second floor of a beer hall.
The room was filled with smoke, and dozens of stern-faced German engineers in heavy coats were gathered there, loudly discussing technical issues concerning blast furnace wind temperature and the pros and cons of the Bessemer converter method.
The air was thick with the smell of dark beer, grilled sausages, and strong cigars, but even in their tipsy state, their sitting posture retained a certain stiffness.
Guided by Schmidt, Coleman moved through the crowd towards the tall man sitting alone in a corner, contemplating a blueprint.
Friedrich Haas.
He appeared to be nearly fifty, with a robust build and large hands like bear paws.
His face was exceptionally focused due to his thoughts.
"Mr. Haas."
Schmidt respectfully greeted him in German.
"This is Mr. Coleman, from America's Lax Steel, whom I mentioned to you."
Haas slowly raised his head, his blue eyes, deeply set beneath thick brows, scrutinizing the slender American before him with a mix of assessment and suspicion.
"Mr. Coleman, I've heard of you. You poached Jennings from Sheffield. A very bold move."
"I merely offered a genius the price he deserved, Mr. Haas," Coleman calmly replied, gesturing for Schmidt to go to the bar, then unceremoniously sat opposite Haas.
"America."
Haas scoffed, picking up the liter-sized beer in front of him.
"I hear your factories there are a mess, chaotic and undisciplined. The workers are more like a bunch of farmers with hammers."
"You are right."
Coleman's answer surprised Haas.
"Before I met my Boss, most of our factories were indeed like that."
Coleman took out a few photographs from his briefcase—photos of the internal assembly lines of Militech and Umbrella Corporation, specially prepared for him by Frost.
"This is our arsenal."
Coleman pushed the photos across.
"Rhythm production. Workers' movements and machine operations are calculated in seconds."
"This is our pharmaceutical factory," he pushed another one across.
"Continuous flow reactors, where chemicals automatically react in pipelines."
Haas's gaze was fixed on those few photographs that showcased astonishing efficiency and order.
The heart of an engineer was shaken by the industrial beauty displayed in the photos, a perfect blend of machinery and processes.
"This... this is impossible. How did you achieve it?"
"Because of our Boss, Mr. Argyle," Coleman said.
"He believes efficiency and discipline are the soul of industry. And I am here, Mr. Haas, because he believes you are one of the most 'efficient' engineers in Europe."
Coleman brought the conversation back to the dormant blueprint.
"I studied your design for the 'high-speed reversible rolling mill' when I arrived. It is a genius concept capable of changing the entire railway era."
"Mr. Griffith is my colleague," Coleman explained, "He is not only a metallurgist but also a loyal reader of your articles in engineering journals."
A look of excitement, as if understood by a kindred spirit, appeared on Haas's face.
"Mr. Coleman," he lowered his voice.
"You should know that design requires more than just blueprints. It needs an entirely new factory. It needs a power core three times more powerful than Krupp's largest existing steam engine. This is an astronomical investment."
"I know," Coleman looked at him, unfazed.
"And my Boss, Mr. Felix Argyle, has already entrusted me with this 'astronomical sum.'"
"He has asked me to build an entirely new steel city on the coast of New Jersey, on a piece of land even vaster than Essen.
We have Arthur Jennings, Sheffield's best furnace master. We even have a secret alloy formula that can increase steel performance by thirty percent."
Coleman leaned slightly forward, his voice imbued with a seductive quality.
"Mr. Haas, we are now ready for everything."
"All we lack is a chief engineer who can design the most powerful 'heart' for this steel city."
"Someone," he looked at Haas's already burning eyes, "who can personally turn your impractical blueprint into reality."
"At Krupp, you forge cannons for His Majesty the King."
"But at Lax Steel, you will forge the rails to the future for all of America."
"Your salary will be four times what it is now. You will also have an independent research and development department, named by you personally. The budget will only be limited by the size of your dreams."
Haas felt his heart beating very fast; he was tempted.
Coleman said no more, for he knew from the other's expression that the fish had already taken the bait.
From his pocket, he took out a bank draft for five thousand dollars issued by the Argyle Bank's London office and a first-class ship ticket.
"This is your 'earnest money,' Mr. Haas."
He placed the check and ticket on the table.
"To cover any breach of contract fees you might incur with Krupp Factory."
"Next Monday, the 'Great Eastern' bound for New York will set sail from Hamburg Port."
Coleman stood up, put on his hat, and accompanied by Schmidt, disappeared into the noisy crowd of the pub.
After the subtly charged dinner at Delmonico's Restaurant, the weather seemed to grow even colder.
But for most people in the city, life continued to be that machine composed of carriages, factory whistles, and newsboy shouts...
New York City Hall, Office of the Building Permit Committee.
A low-level supervisor named Patterson Hall impatiently tapped his ink-stained fingers on his desk.
Before him lay a building blueprint from St. Vincent-Argyle United Hospital.
This blueprint had been locked in his drawer for three weeks.
"Six stories... steel frame... independent sewage pipes..."
Hall complained to his subordinate in a tone full of disdain.
"These Irish upstarts, do they think they're building the Tower of Babel? And 'disinfection preparation area.' I bet that's just a new excuse for them to hide their illicit liquor."
"Boss," the subordinate cautiously reminded him, "the applicant seems to have been personally looked after by Boss Tweed, and also Archbishop Hughes..."
"So what if they were looked after?"
Hall sneered, skillfully picking up a stamp, dipping it in red ink, but hesitating to press it down.
"Boss looks after many people. But he didn't say we had to work overtime for free on these 'ahead-of-their-time' designs. If Argyle wants to be king in Five Points, he has to pay 'toll fees' to the gatekeepers according to the rules. Doesn't he even understand that much?"
He was about to stuff the document back into the pending approval drawer, as usual, waiting for the other party's representative to show up.
Just then, the office door was suddenly pushed open.
Two stern-faced men walked in.
They ignored Hall's secretary's attempts to stop them and walked directly to his desk.
"Are you Patterson Hall?"
The voice of the leading man carried no emotion.
Those dead-fish-like eyes made Hall instinctively shiver.
"Who are you? Who let you barge in?" Hall tried to put on the air of a city official.
"Boss Tweed."
The man pulled out a small brass plaque, engraved with the Tammany tiger emblem, from his pocket and flashed it before Hall's eyes.
"Boss wants me to ask you a question."
"What... what question?"
Hall's attitude softened instantly, and cold sweat began to seep from his forehead.
"Boss said that St. Vincent-Argyle United Hospital is God's property. He heard that some ignorant passing rat was trying to steal from God's plate."
Hall's body trembled violently, and he felt his legs almost give out.
"No... no... I didn't... I was just following regulations..."
"Is that so?"
The man smiled, a smile colder than the freezing rain outside the window.
"Then are you willing to carry out Boss's orders?"
"I... I'll sign, I'll sign right away."
Hall's face, which had originally held a hint of arrogance, was now as white as paper.
He was well aware of Boss Tweed's methods, so he decisively caved.
He frantically pulled out the document he had held up for three weeks from the drawer, then grabbed the stamp representing "approval."
"Bang."
His hand trembled violently from excessive fear, and the stamp slammed heavily onto the document, the sound particularly jarring in the quiet office.
"Very good, Mr. Hall. It seems you are a smart man. Boss Tweed appreciates smart men."
He put on his hat and turned to walk towards the door.
"Oh, right."
He said, as if remembering something, turning back.
"Boss also asked me to tell you. The hospital's gas and sewage pipes need to be laid to the East River. The Municipal Engineering Department will fully cooperate with this project, and construction must begin tomorrow."
...Meanwhile, in the noisy typesetting workshop of The New York Times.
Edward Frost stood in an inconspicuous corner.
The workshop supervisor, an Irish old man named McGuigan, was all smiles, directing workers to move rows of wooden typesetting trays filled with lead type onto a carriage.
"Mr. Frost."
McGuigan rubbed his hands and walked up to Frost, a hint of flattery in his voice.
"You see, these are all the lead type trays used for last month's 'War and Peace' layout. They absolutely meet your 'academic research' requirements."
"Thank you, Mr. McGuigan."
Frost pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it over.
"This is a small 'research fund.' The Argyle Charitable Foundation thanks you for your strong support of 'linguistic statistics' work."
"Not at all, not at all."
McGuigan weighed the thickness of the envelope, his smile growing wider.
"It's our honor to serve Mr. Argyle. Don't worry, this matter will definitely not reach the editor-in-chief's ears."
Frost nodded slightly, saying no more.
He walked to a row of typesetting trays, and as if casually, ran his gloved finger over the lead type compartments.
He clearly saw that the lead types in the compartments for the letters E, T, A, O, I, N were far more worn than those for other letters. The compartments for Q, J, Z, on the other hand, were almost as new as when they left the factory.
The Boss's speculation was confirmed.
He instructed the Action Department members behind him, "Immediately transport these back to the Brooklyn Central Laboratory and hand them over to Mr. Sholes."
...Brooklyn, Argyle Central Laboratory.
Brightly lit.
Here, there was no distinction between day and night, only an eternal cycle of "problems" and "solutions."
Christopher Latham Sholes, along with Carl Becker, was hunched over a large drafting table.
The table was covered with sketches, featuring all sorts of strange keyboard layouts.
"No... it won't work."
Sholes used a red pencil to cross out a newly designed layout.
"You see, the hammer rods for these three letters, T, H, E, will still intersect here. Even though we've separated them, their paths of motion will still interfere."
"Then separate them more."
Becker took the pencil, "Move the H key from the right index finger area to the middle finger area. Keep the T key in the left index finger area, and put the E key on the left middle finger. Use different fingers at different times to actuate them."
"But that way..." Sholes hesitated a little.
"That way will be slower."
"Slow is only temporary," Becker retorted.
"Before you learn it, it's naturally slow. But once you learn this new 'muscle memory,' then ten fingers can dance on the keyboard like a well-coordinated army. That's the 'efficiency' the Boss wants."
Just as the two were arguing, the first batch of lead type trays sent by Frost's men were carried in.
"My God."
Sholes looked at the heavy wooden boxes, then at the instructions for the statistical task brought by Frost, and finally understood that the Boss was driving this invention in a way that was almost "God's perspective."
"Don't just stand there, Sholes."
Becker had already excitedly picked up a caliper and a balance scale.
"We have work to do."
"Statistical frequency, measuring wear, calculating probability..."
Great interest shone in the eyes of the German engineer.
"We will use the most rigorous science to formulate this damned new rule