Friday evening. The River's Edge Café, just south of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Brass bells jingled in the cold wind as Shane pushed open the café's heavy wooden door. Warm, humid air rolled over him, carrying the rich scent of roasted coffee beans and worn leather.
In the innermost booth, Volker sat like a silent sentinel. The black coffee before him had cooled completely, the rim spotless.
Shane removed his overcoat and settled opposite him, eyes tracing the deepening twilight outside the window. "Did you find him?"
Volker didn't speak at first. Slowly, he produced a yellowed, frayed passport photo from his inner suit pocket.
The photograph depicted a gaunt man with round-rimmed glasses, eyes wide and watchful, his exhaustion and vigilance palpable.
Shane glanced at it briefly. "Where is he now?"
"Brooklyn." Volker replied. "He works as a photo retoucher in a rundown studio, hiding in the basement at night, experimenting quietly with his own ideas."
Tracing a faint smudge on the photo, Shane felt a strange empathy for the man's long struggle. "Is the address reliable?"
Volker nodded grimly. "Mikhail got it from a black-market supplier's ledger—a specific batch of silver nitrate delivered monthly, like clockwork. My team posed as Eastern European merchants and confirmed him there yesterday. He's the same man in the archive photo."
Leaning forward, Volker placed a crumpled calculation sheet on the table.
"At first, he thought we were here to harm him," Volker continued. "Until I mentioned 'Formula Three'."
Shane unfolded the sheet, complex color matrix formulas sprawled across it—his reverse-engineered core algorithm from a failed experiment years ago. His gaze sharpened.
"First, make sure he rests and takes a hot bath," Shane said, returning the photo and calculations to Volker. "I'll visit him Sunday morning."
Sunday morning. Warehouse Twelve.
Tungsten lamps hissed under the high ceiling, casting the space into alternating bands of light and shadow. The air smelled of wood shavings, machine oil, and a faint acidic tang.
Reinhardt Krause stood in the center, a brand-new suit draped over his thin frame, empty of confidence. On the oak workbench lay a contract from Pioneer Optics, Inc., the clause "annual salary of twenty thousand, unlimited expenses" shining like a promise of redemption.
His cracked lips moved with difficulty. In a hoarse, heavily East Prussian accent he whispered, "Professor… is he really dead?"
Shane did not answer directly. He extended a pure white handkerchief toward Krause, who grasped it with trembling fingers.
"Mr. Krause," Shane's voice was calm yet commanding, "from today, you need only to think about color. I promise, everything else is taken care of."
Krause's breathing quickened. He tore open the lining of his suit and revealed a worn leather notebook, the gilded letters ETH Zürich faded.
"The algorithm… it's all here… The day of the explosion, the Professor told me to escape through the ventilation ducts. 'Live,' he said, 'and protect it.'"
Shane took the notebook solemnly, opening it to the page marked Farbkorrektur 1922. The dense optical formulas and diagrams were intimidating, yet immediately recognizable—a key to solving decades of color distortion.
"Welcome to Pioneer Optics," Shane said, placing a heavy brass key on the notebook. "In this lab, you'll have Zeiss lenses from Berlin, Technicolor's second-generation color analyzer, and…"
"I…" Krause interrupted, faint yet resolute, "…may I have some Lindt chocolate first?"
The next morning. Warehouse laboratory.
Tungsten lights illuminated the central work area. Krause's gaunt fingers traced the coating on a precision lens, his eyes reflecting pure concentration.
"Coating thickness: 0.00012 inches," he murmured. "Three-thousandths thinner than standard."
Marcus Laird, adjusting the tri-color emulsion nearby, nearly dropped his test tube in shock. The measurements were exactly correct—matching Kodak's top-secret records.
Lena Voight, locking gears on a Bell & Howell projector, adjusted her copper hearing aid. "If you follow Technicolor's patent, the red channel will overflow. All optical paths need recalibration."
"No," Krause replied, producing a gold-plated pocket watch. Inside, etched in gleaming calculus, was:
Δλ = (d · sin θ) / n
Tracing it with his fingernail, he projected a perfect rainbow onto the lens guide rail. "The traditional formula is wrong. True color is interference of light waves."
Seeds of debate were sown. Two days later, Marcus grabbed Shane, his bloodshot eyes shining with excitement. "Boss! You won't believe it! His algorithm changes the whole process! Kodak's film stock isn't even built for this kind of coating—it's pure genius!"
Meanwhile, Lena examined a shard from a broken beaker. Krause's self-mixed solution refracted pure primary colors—a spectrum never before seen. Her doubt transformed into fascination.
Sean signed blueprints with Bausch & Lomb representatives. Within weeks, three sets of algorithm-optimized beam-splitting prisms would arrive. Engineers from Mitchell Camera Corporation prepared to modify the three-axis gear drums in Chicago. Precision was guaranteed: error ±0.0002 inches.
November 24, late night.
Shane stood alone among three proposals spread on a table:
• Marcus: stable, standard process, sacrifices 15% of the color gamut.
• Lena: partial interference method, requires fragile custom gears.
• Krause: fully reconstructed optical path, success rate under 35%.
Hermann's notebook lay open nearby: True color always burns at the edge of technology.
Shane's gaze shifted between them before decisively choosing Krause's plan, pressing the empty coffee cup down upon it.
November 25, 3:15 PM.
Outside the warehouse, tires crunched against thin ice. Old Henry's black Cadillac V8 arrived with a thrum like a slumbering beast. He stepped out, slipping gilded theater tickets into Shane's coat pocket.
"The Ziegfeld Theater. November 27, Show Boat premiere. Box 12. Remember to bring Mary."
He tapped the seating chart on the tickets. "Warner people, second row. Fairbanks, third. Let them see what true color is."
As the warmth of the engine dissipated into the frosty air, a metallic hum rose from deep within the warehouse.
Lena straightened, listening carefully. The brass resonator spun at exactly 28 frames per second, its hum steady, precise. The warehouse vibrated as if applauding.
The age of true color had begun.