Late at night, 11 PM on December 10th.
Delaware River Bridge.
This steel bridge spanning the Delaware River resembled the massive skeleton of a dinosaur, lying silently over the black river.
A cold wind howled through the steel beams, producing an eerie, wailing sound.
A train bearing no markings rumbled onto the bridge.
The train consisted of only three cars.
The locomotive, the tender, and one reinforced armored car.
Inside the car.
Allan Pinkerton sat on a wooden crate bolted to the floor.
That crate contained the coinage dies.
At both ends of the car, two kerosene lamps swayed, casting unstable shadows.
Twenty fully armed detectives stood in two rows. They held Vanguard 65 rifles, fingers on the triggers, vigilantly watching the tightly shut windows.
The air was cold.
The fire in the heater stove burned fiercely, yet it seemed powerless to dispel the chill of this winter night.
"How much longer to Philadelphia?"
Pinkerton asked, his voice echoing in the confined car.
"About two hours, sir."
His son William glanced at his pocket watch.
"Once we cross this bridge, we'll be in Pennsylvania territory."
Pinkerton nodded.
Then he pulled out a silver flask from his coat, unscrewed the cap.
"Alright men, stay sharp."
He took a swig of spirits to ward off the cold, then passed the flask to the man beside him.
"One sip each. Don't overdo it, just warm yourselves."
The flask circulated among the detectives.
"Sir, this stove seems a bit... smoky?"
One of the younger detectives sniffed.
"Is the chimney blocked?"
Pinkerton, hearing this, carefully smelled the air.
There was indeed a faint, sweet odor mixed with the coal smoke.
"Probably the coal got damp." Pinkerton didn't pay it much mind, "Open the draft a bit more."
William walked over and opened the stove's draft vent.
Whoosh.
The fire grew more intense.
But what they didn't know was that as the draft vent opened, the concealed layer in the roof ventilation pipe was completely melted by the high temperature.
It wasn't ordinary coal smoke inside. It was a 'high-concentration ether mixture' specially formulated by the Argyle Central Laboratory, atomized to vaporize rapidly upon heating.
The sweet smell began to thicken.
Ten minutes later.
"What's going on..." The young detective suddenly swayed, rubbing his eyes.
"The... the floor is spinning..."
"What's wrong? Stand firm!" Pinkerton snapped.
"Did someone drink too much on the sly?"
But as soon as he finished speaking, he himself felt the world spin.
The kerosene lamp before his eyes seemed to split into two, then four.
"Something's wrong..."
Pinkerton abruptly stood up, trying to grab his gun. But his hand felt as limp as noodles.
"Air... poison gas..." William covered his nose and mouth, trying to smash a window.
But his legs wouldn't obey.
With a thud, he fell to his knees, his fingers scratching lines on the glass, but he lacked the strength to break it.
The car filled with the sounds of heavy bodies collapsing.
Those elite detectives, those sharpshooters, now lay scattered across the floor like a group of drunken fools.
Pinkerton was the last to fall.
He leaned against the crate of dies, eyes wide and glaring, emitting hoarse gasps from his mouth.
He wanted to draw his gun, but that Colt revolver felt as heavy as a thousand pounds to him.
His consciousness was being devoured by that cloying darkness.
At the last moment, he seemed to see a pair of mocking eyes watching him from the ventilation duct in the car roof... After crossing the bridge, the train slowly decelerated and stopped on a stretch of wilderness roadbed.
People were already waiting here.
Rambo, the newly appointed Minister of the Action Department, wore a black bodysuit and a laboratory-made gas mask, looking like a monster from hell.
Behind him followed a dozen members of the Shadow Squad, similarly dressed.
"Move quickly."
Rambo's voice sounded muffled through the mask.
"Hold your breath. Even with the masks, this stuff is potent."
They skillfully pried open the car door.
An intense smell of ether rushed out.
Rambo waved his hand, and his men quickly charged into the car.
They even carefully stepped over the unconscious bodies.
"Open the die crate."
Rambo tossed over a key, a duplicate Flynn had obtained from the Treasury Department.
The crate opened, revealing dozens of heavy steel dies neatly stacked inside.
Those were the master plates for printing five-dollar and ten-dollar bills.
"Take them away." Rambo ordered, "Leave one piece, stuff it into that old man's arms."
He pointed at the unconscious Allan Pinkerton.
Next, his men began an eerie "staging."
They pulled out over a dozen bottles of cheap whiskey from their backpacks, opened the caps, and poured the alcohol on every detective's body and face.
"Pour more." Rambo kicked the flask on the ground.
"Make them smell like they threw a wild party in this car."
They threw the detectives' guns all over the floor.
They unbuttoned Pinkerton's clothes, revealing the red undergarment inside. They positioned two young detectives as if they were grappling with each other.
Finally, Rambo took out a bag filled with banknotes. They were old bills originally scheduled for destruction.
He grabbed a handful of notes and scattered them in the air like funeral paper money. Green slips of paper drifted down onto the slumbering men, covering their faces, stuffing into their boots.
"Perfect." Rambo surveyed the scene.
It didn't look like a robbery at all.
It looked more like a group of negligent drunkards, stealing while on guard duty, getting dead drunk, and even fighting over the spoils.
"Fall back."
Rambo called out, taking one last look at Pinkerton.
The old detective was still snoring, clutching that coinage die in his arms like a baby.
"Goodnight, Mr. Great Detective."
The Shadow Squad vanished into the night like ghosts, taking the crucial crate of dies with them.
The locomotive roared to life again.
Jack, the bribed train conductor, trembling, pulled the whistle.
The train continued towards Philadelphia.
It no longer carried guardians of the Union, but a load of jokes about to be utterly disgraced... The next morning, Philadelphia train station.
The platform was crowded with people.
Not only Treasury officials there to receive the shipment, but also dozens of reporters with cameras.
These reporters had rushed here last night after receiving an "anonymous tip." The tipster claimed that a shocking scandal had occurred on the train transporting gold.
"Why isn't it here yet?"
The reporter from the *Philadelphia Inquirer* anxiously checked his pocket watch.
"It's coming!"
A whistle sounded in the distance as the train slowly pulled into the station.
But it didn't stop at the designated freight platform. Instead, it slid directly into the passenger platform, stopping right in front of the crowd.
The doors remained shut, with no movement inside.
"Mr. Pinkerton?"
A Treasury official knocked on the door, "Open up!"
No response.
The official panicked and quickly signaled to the nearby police, "Break it open!"
Several police officers with axes smashed the lock.
As the door slid open, a strong smell of alcohol rushed out.
"My God..."
Everyone was stunned.
Magnesium flash powder ignited, producing bursts of blinding white light and smoke.
Reporters frantically pressed their shutters, recording this historic moment.
The famous Allan Pinkerton, the Union's guardian angel, now lay disheveled amidst a pile of empty bottles and scattered banknotes, cradling a national coinage die in his arms, drool at the corner of his mouth, sleeping like a dead pig.
His men lay scattered in all directions, some clutching guns, others clutching money, a disgraceful sight.
"This... this is dereliction of duty!"
The Treasury official trembled with rage.
"This is a crime!"
At that moment, a cold wind blew into the car.
Stimulated by the flash powder and the cold wind, Pinkerton finally groggily woke up.
He opened his eyes and saw the crowd and the dark lenses of the cameras.
He tried to stand up, but his head throbbed with pain.
"I... where is this..." he mumbled.
Click.
A photograph captured his expression.
It was a stupid expression, a mixture of confusion, fear, and a hangover.
This photograph would be on the front page of every newspaper in America tomorrow.
The headline had already been thought up for the editors by Felix:
"The Union's Disgrace: The Drunken Great Detective and the Missing Dies."
Washington.
The White House, Oval Office.
President Grant was in a furious rage.
He was waving a copy of The Daily Truth in his hand, its front page featuring the photo of Allan Pinkerton passed out drunk in the train car.
"Is this the man you wanted me to trust?"
Grant slammed the newspaper onto the table, his roar making the windowpanes rattle.
"This is the guy who's supposed to 'never sleep'? Looks to me like he never sobers up!"
Attorney General Hull, standing opposite him, was somewhat at a loss.
"Mr. President, Mr. Pinkerton explained... they were poisoned. He said someone put knockout drugs in the air..."
"Knockout drugs?" Grant sneered.
"And did those knockout drugs conjure up all those whiskey bottles in the car? And the banknotes scattered on the floor? The Treasury Department has finished counting. An entire case of molds is missing—coinage molds! If they get into circulation, there'll be millions in counterfeit bills tomorrow!"
"But..."
"Sh*t... no buts!" Grant cut him off.
"Do you know what the British ambassador asked me this morning? He asked if the United States government was so poor it had to hire a bunch of drunks to protect the national treasury!"
Just then, there was a knock at the door.
The presidential secretary peeked in.
"Mr. President, Mr. Argyle has arrived. He's here to discuss the 'Veterans' Pension Fund.'"
Grant took a deep breath, calming his emotions.
"Show him in."
Felix walked in, his expression normal.
"Mr. President, it seems my timing is poor..."
"No, your timing is perfect."
Grant rubbed his temples and gestured toward the sofa.
"Sit. Felix, I recall you have people handling intelligence. Take a look at this."
Grant pushed the newspaper over.
Felix picked up the newspaper, pretending to see it for the first time, his brow furrowed.
"How could this happen? What a shame," Felix sighed.
"Mr. Pinkerton never expected..."
He put down the newspaper and looked at Grant.
"Mr. President, I think perhaps this might not just be a problem of alcoholism. It's a systemic issue."
"Hmm? Felix, what do you mean by that?"
"The Pinkerton Detective Agency is, ultimately, a private company. They work for profit, not for the country," Felix's voice was full of sincerity.
"Without oversight, a private armed force becomes... well, like this."
"And," Felix lowered his voice.
"I heard that the missing molds have actually been found."
"What? Where?" Grant asked urgently.
"In Philadelphia, I believe," Felix said after a moment's thought.
"This morning, while assisting the Philadelphia police in searching a counterfeit money den, Vanguard Security accidentally found a clue. That clue pointed to an underground warehouse in Philadelphia belonging to the Pinkerton Detective Agency."
"You mean..." Grant's eyes widened, "Pinkerton stole from his own charge?"
"Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that,"
Felix answered cautiously.
"But it does explain why only the molds were stolen that night, not the gold. Because molds are more valuable than gold. With the molds, you can print endless gold."
"Bastard!" Grant slammed his fist on the table.
This was precisely the effect Felix wanted.
He didn't need conclusive proof, just to plant a seed of doubt in the president's mind.
Even if Grant grew suspicious of him, it didn't matter, because Grant could not and dared not turn against him.
Otherwise, for the midterm re-election campaign, Felix could easily push Thomas to take office early.
"Mr. President," having thought it through, Felix pressed his advantage.
"I believe the Federal Government needs a truly reliable, legally bound investigative agency. Not these... frontier ruffians."
"I know you're right,"
Grant slumped into his chair.
"But where do I find people now? The marshals at the Department of Justice struggle to catch a petty thief. I originally wanted to absorb Pinkerton's agency, but I never imagined their internal affairs were so..."
"If you trust me," Felix stood up.
"My 'Vanguard Security' is willing to temporarily take over the Federal Government's security work. Free of charge."
"Moreover, I can transfer my intelligence network—those experienced agents who fought the KKK in the South—to the Department of Justice. To serve as the backbone for that newly established 'Department of Justice Bureau of Investigation.'"
"Of course, command authority rests with you. I'll only be responsible for providing... training and equipment."
Only then did Grant look at Felix with deep meaning.
He knew Felix was ambitious, but he had no choice now.
Pinkerton was thoroughly rotten, at least on the surface.
And Felix, at least superficially, had never let him down.
"Alright," Grant nodded wearily.
"Attorney General Hull will discuss the details with you."
"Wait, Felix, one more thing."
Grant picked up a pen and signed the already-prepared executive order.
"This is an order revoking all federal contracts with the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. Simultaneously, the Department of Justice will prosecute Allan Pinkerton. The charges are 'gross negligence' and'suspicion of theft of state property.'"
"Felix, keep an eye on him for me. Don't let him run."
Felix took the document, a barely perceptible smile playing on his lips.
"Don't worry, Mr. President. His eye is already blind. He can't run."
"Good. Now, let's talk about the retired soldiers' pension issue. That's even more important. I think..."
...That same afternoon, Philadelphia.
The door of the Pinkerton Detective Agency was smashed open by police.
Leading the charge was the Philadelphia Police Chief, followed by dozens of fully armed "Vanguard Security" personnel (they had temporary law enforcement authority).
"Search!"
They ransacked the place.
Ten minutes later, in an air duct in the basement, the missing case of molds was "found."
Allan Pinkerton was dragged out of his office by two policemen.
He was still hungover, his head splitting, completely unaware of what was happening.
"This is a frame-up!" Pinkerton struggled and shouted.
"This is a conspiracy! I didn't put that case there!"
"Shut up, you drunk detective,"
The Police Chief, annoyed, struck him in the stomach with his club.
"We have both witnesses and physical evidence. Your men have confessed, saying you planned all this to pay off gambling debts."
The train conductor Jack, who had been bribed by Flynn, stood in the crowd, pointing at Pinkerton and testifying loudly.
"It was him! I saw him hide the case with my own eyes!"
Pinkerton looked at the surrounding crowd.
The citizens who once revered him were now spitting at him.
"Liar!"
"Thief!"
"Traitor!"
He saw a black carriage parked at the back of the crowd.
Its window was half-lowered.
Flynn sat inside, holding a glass of red wine, watching him with a smile on his face.
Their eyes met across the distance. Flynn raised his glass.
Pinkerton finally understood.
It really wasn't soot and an accident.
This was a premeditated frame-up, its purpose self-evident.
He wanted to charge over, but handcuffs snapped shut around his wrists.
The large sign symbolizing "Justice" and "Vigilance"—the great eye—was torn down from the lintel and thrown heavily to the ground, splitting in two.
A foot stepped on it. It was Rambo's boot.
"Take him away," Rambo waved his hand.
Thus, the legendary detective was dragged into the prison wagon like a dead dog.
What awaited him was likely an indictment from federal court.
Unless he could obtain absolute, irrefutable evidence to turn the tables.
New Jersey, Argyle Central Laboratory.
Six red-brick factory buildings stood in a line along the banks of the Hudson River, their massive chimneys spewing coal smoke into the grayish-white sky.
The air was thick with a strange scent—a mixture of ozone, lubricating oil, and copper rust.
Laboratory No. 4, Electrical Engineering Department.
The noise here was enough to drive an ordinary person mad.
The rhythmic pounding of steam hammers, the shrill screech of lathes cutting through metal, and the low-frequency hum of massive coils during testing composed an industrial symphony.
The laboratory head, Heinrich White, stood on the second-floor iron walkway, looking down at the main workshop below.
This engineer from Prussia had been poached from Siemens by Argyle at a high cost.
He sported a closely cropped beard, wore thick-lensed glasses, and was dressed in a gray jumpsuit stained with oil.
In his dictionary, the word "approximate" did not exist; there was only "precision."
"Stop!"
White suddenly roared toward the floor below, his voice overpowering the steam hammers.
"Shut it down! Now!"
The workers below frantically pulled the switches, and the massive flywheel slowly ground to a halt.
Grabbing the railing, White slid down the iron ladder and rushed toward a generator being assembled like an enraged chimpanzee.
The machine was as large as a horse-drawn carriage.
This was the laboratory's industrial-grade DC generator, codenamed "Titan I."
Holding a vernier caliper, White clamped it firmly onto the rotor's copper coils.
"Tolerances!"
White thrust the caliper in front of the engineer responsible for the winding.
"I specified 0.05 inches! Why is this 0.08 inches?"
"Mr. White..."
The engineer was a young American, his face drenched in sweat.
"It's only a tiny difference, and the insulation layer..."
"Holy shit, a tiny difference?"
White slammed the caliper onto the concrete floor.
"You idiot! Under the centrifugal force of a thousand revolutions per minute, that 'tiny difference' will cause the rotor to scrape against the stator. Then, boom! This five-thousand-dollar machine will turn into a bomb! It'll paint the walls with your brains!"
"Tear it down," White ordered, pointing.
"Rewind it all. No sleep tonight. If you don't want to do it, then get lost and go build railroads in Philadelphia."
The engineer didn't dare argue. He lowered his head and signaled the workers to begin dismantling the expensive copper wires.
Just then, the main doors opened.
A cold wind swirled in with snowflakes. Felix, wearing a heavy black fur coat and accompanied by his secretary, Frost, walked in.
White wiped the oil from his hands, showing no excessive deference. Technical personnel had the privilege of arrogance.
"Boss," White said, walking over. "You've come at just the right time. The design for the 'Titan' is finalized."
"I don't want blueprints, White," Felix said, looking at the busy workers.
"I want electricity. The foundations for the power plants in New York and Washington have already been dug. Every few days, President Grant asks me when he can hang that 'magical glass bulb' in his office."
"That's because the President doesn't understand physics."
White picked up a massive blueprint from the workbench.
"I want to move fast too, but we need to solve the heat dissipation problem. The heat generated by continuous operation will burn through the insulating varnish. We're testing a new mica insulation material."
Felix looked at the complex circuit diagram.
"Station No. 1 on Pearl Street must be completed before Christmas," Felix said in a tone that brooked no argument.
"That is an order."
"That's in ten days," White frowned.
"That's impossible. The boilers aren't installed yet. The new water-tube boilers from Babcock & Wilcox are still on the way."
"The boilers are already on their way; I've used a special train."
Felix pointed outside, his expression calm.
"I don't care what method you use. Even if you have to use a whip, make those workers connect the pipes."
"As for the generator..."
Felix stared at the prototype being dismantled.
"If you think this one won't work, use those two backup units in parallel for now. The efficiency might be lower, but it'll be enough to light up the White House and the Astor Estate."
White adjusted his glasses, calculating quickly in his head.
"If they're in parallel... we'll need a voltage regulator. Otherwise, the bulbs will flicker like ghost fire."
"Then build one," Felix said. "What do you need?"
"Silver," White said, looking Felix straight in the eye.
"A large amount of silver. Copper's conductivity suffers losses under high current. For the contact points of this regulator, I need pure silver."
"Frost."
"Approve it. Transfer two hundred pounds of silver bars from the Argyle Bank's vault. If that's not enough, go melt down that batch of silver intended for tableware."
The surrounding workers gasped. Two hundred pounds of silver just for a switch.
White broke into a satisfied smile.
This was why he had left Siemens and come to this barbaric country.
Under this Boss, science didn't have to bow to budgets.
"And people," White added, remembering something.
"I need a strike team, not these clumsy apprentices. I'm taking the twenty core experts from the Electrical Department. Ten to New York, ten to Washington."
"Granted."
Felix walked up to a small, already assembled generator.
"Heinrich, do you know what we're doing?"
"We are creating light, sir."
"Oh, no, no, no."
Felix reached out and stroked the cold cast-iron casing.
"We are creating dependency."
"Once those powerful figures get used to dispelling the darkness with the flick of a switch, they can never go back to the age of gas lamps. Gas can be stored, but electricity must be transmitted in real-time. This means the switch is in our hands."
"This is more dictatorial than selling oil."
White didn't care about politics; he only cared about machines.
"Perhaps. But that has nothing to do with me. As long as you provide the money, I'll provide the switch."
White picked up a piece of chalk and drew a complex wiring diagram on the blackboard.
"Listen up!"
White turned and shouted to everyone in the workshop.
"Everyone, stop what you're doing. We're splitting into groups. Group one, follow me to New York. Group two, go to Washington. Take all the tools and those damn boxes of carbon filament bulbs!"
"We're going to install lights for God!"
A massive clamor erupted in the workshop—the sound of gears beginning to mesh.
Felix watched it all, then turned and walked out the door.
Frost followed behind, opening an umbrella.
"Boss, Mrs. Astor sent a telegram. She's worried that drilling holes in the walls will ruin her wallpaper. It's silk wallpaper imported from France."
"Tell her," Felix said, walking toward the carriage through the snow.
"If she doesn't want to be mocked by the Vanderbilt family as a 'primitive living in a cave' at next month's ball, she'd better learn to tolerate a little dust."
"Also, notify The Daily Truth in New York. Get the front page ready. I've already thought of the headline."
"What is it?"
"Prometheus Conquers the Night."
New York, Fifth Avenue.
The Astor Family's mansion was a fortress built of brown sandstone.
It was a sanctuary for New York's high society, every brick exuding an air of arrogance.
But today, this fortress had been breached.
Not by an army, but by a group of electricians dressed in blue overalls, with pliers and coils of wire hanging from their waists.
Heinrich White stood in the center of the Astor mansion's hall. An expensive Persian rug lay beneath his feet, and though it was covered with a layer of canvas, the lime dust in the air still made the lady of the house's face turn ashen.
Mrs. Caroline Astor held a feather fan, tightly covering her nose.
"Mr. White!" her voice was shrill.
"Your workers just drilled a hole in my ceiling. Oh my god, that's a Michelangelo-style plaster relief; you people are truly barbaric."
White had no time to pay attention to her complaints.
He was directing two assistants to thread a thick copper cable, wrapped in gutta-percha insulation, through that hole.
White turned around and spoke in stiff English.
"Madam, if we don't drill holes, the wires will have to be surface-mounted. In that case, your ceiling would be crawling with black snakes. Which would you prefer?"
Mrs. Astor choked on her words.
"Does it have to be this thick?" She pointed at the cable.
"It looks like a ship's hawser."
"This is the main line," White explained.
"We aren't powering just one or two lamps, but a hundred bulbs for the entire ballroom. The current is very high. If the wire is too thin, your house will turn into a giant oven."
Just then, the butler approached with a look of terror.
"Madam... they are in the basement... they are digging holes!"
"Digging holes?" Mrs. Astor's eyes widened.
"We are installing transformer equipment and fuse boxes," White waved his hand impatiently.
"Mr. Argyle said safety first. If I don't bury those fire-prone devices in the fireproof layer of the basement, I won't turn on the power."
Just then, the door was pushed open.
Felix walked in.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Caroline." Felix smiled and took off his hat. "It seems progress is going smoothly."
"Smoothly?" Mrs. Astor pointed at the dust covering the floor.
"My home has turned into a mine pit! Felix, if your 'electric light' isn't like the one at the previous banquet, I won't be satisfied."
"Okay, then you will be satisfied."
Felix walked under the newly installed crystal chandelier.
Where candles used to be, glass bulbs had now taken their place. Inside the bulbs were carbonized bamboo filaments—the most stable material at present.
For aesthetics, each bulb was covered with a frosted glass shade.
"Caroline, imagine it." Felix spread his arms. "No need to trim wicks, no need to endure the smell of gas. You don't even have to worry about fires; just a simple press..."
He pointed to the brass switch decorated with mahogany on the wall.
"This place will be filled with midday sunlight."
Mrs. Astor looked at the chandelier; the anger in her eyes subsided slightly, replaced by curiosity and vanity.
"This thing... it really won't explode?"
"I guarantee it."
Felix told a small lie.
Early light bulbs actually burst frequently, but White had already installed double-layered protective covers.
"If it explodes, I will compensate you with ten times the renovation costs."
...At the same time, in Washington D.C., at the White House.
The work here had a more militaristic tone than in New York.
After all, the master here was General Ulysses S. Grant.
The East Room of the White House.
This was usually where state banquets were held.
But now, several floorboards had been pried up, revealing the joists underneath.
The deputy director of the Department of Electricity, a young engineer named Edward Weston, was lying on the floor wiring.
President Grant, with his hands behind his back and a cigar in his mouth, paced nearby as if inspecting a front line.
"This thing really doesn't need fire?"
Grant nudged the cable with the tip of his boot.
"Don't kick it, Mr. President!" Weston jumped up in a fright.
"There's two hundred volts in there! Even though it's not powered yet, it's a dangerous habit."
Grant snorted.
"I've seen things more dangerous than this. In Vicksburg, I even slept on gunpowder barrels, kid."
Grant walked to the window, looking at the temporary structure on the White House lawn.
It was a small red brick building with smoke rising from its chimney. That was the 'Presidential Generator Room' specifically for powering the White House.
"That machine is too noisy," Grant complained.
"Last night when I wanted to sleep, I could hear it wheezing like an old cow with asthma, even across the lawn."
"That's the steam engine warming up, sir," Weston explained. "It will be better once it's officially running; we've added a muffler."
Grant blew a smoke ring.
"Felix told me this thing would let me look at maps at night as clearly as during the day. Is it true?"
"Absolutely true."
Weston stood up and wiped the dust off his hands.
"And not just maps; every strand of your hair will be visible."
"That's not so good." Grant touched his sideburns.
"Julia will complain that I've grown old."
Just then, the White House butler walked in.
"Mr. President, the British Ambassador is here. He is waiting for you in the Blue Room."
"Let him wait."
Grant waved his hand, his eyes fixed on the lamp socket that hadn't been installed yet.
"Just tell him I am supervising a 'national defense project'."
"This is proof of America leading Britain." Grant looked at Weston.
"Queen Victoria in London is still using gas lamps, isn't she?"
"Yes, sir. The Houses of Parliament in London are still using gas."
"That's good." Grant broke into a boyish smile.
"Then we'll make them die of envy. It must be bright. Brighter than that old English lady's crown."
"Understand?"
"Understood, Mr. President."
Weston lay back down on the floor.
He knew this wasn't just installing lights; it was installing the nation's face.
And in the basement, massive copper wires spread like a spiderweb.
They threaded through walls and floors, tightly entwining this center of power.
The source of this web was connected to Argyle' power plant.
Every surge of current was an extension of Argyle' power... New York, Pearl Street. Station Number One.
White had just rushed back from the Astor estate.
The boiler had been lit. The needle on the pressure gauge was slowly rising.
"Grid-tie test," White ordered.
The massive knife switch was closed.
Current surged into the underground cables. Those were conduits cast from bitumen and cement, containing thick copper bars.
On the dashboard, the voltage needle jumped once and stabilized at 110 volts.
"Success!" the assistant cheered.
White didn't smile; he stared at the load indicator light representing the Astor estate.
"This is just the no-load voltage," White said coldly.
"The real test is on Christmas Eve. When all the bulbs are turned on at once, when that load hits the generator in an instant."
"If that needle drops then..." White made a throat-slitting gesture.
"We can go feed the fish in the Hudson River; Mr. Argyle won't accept failure."
"Add more coal!" White roared at the stoker.
"Burn the pressure up to the red line; I want this beast ready to roar at any moment!"