The air in Warehouse Twelve seemed to thicken, charged with anticipation. Klausser keenly observed the subtle shifts in the expressions of United Artists' executives.
Mary Pickford's delicate eyebrows arched, and her famous blue eyes fluttered as she exchanged a knowing glance with her husband, Douglas Fairbanks. Words were unnecessary—their silent communication carried volumes.
Joseph Schenck, usually composed and calculating, now showed rare hesitation. Even the unruly Howard Hughes set aside his cynicism, light blue eyes fixed intently on Shane Cassidy, standing confidently by the projector. His slender fingers tapped an erratic rhythm against his trousers, betraying his inner turmoil.
Amid this charged silence, Klausser stepped forward. His knuckles gently tapped the metal casing of the color analyzer: a crisp "thump-thump."
"Mr. Chaplin," he said, his German accent sharper with technical precision, "this is not foresight—it is the law of science."
The projector's beam cut through curling cigar smoke, casting flickering halos across Klausser's round-rimmed glasses. The patterns divided his haggard face into geometric shapes, yet behind the lenses, a long-lost passion burned.
He lifted a test film, holding it to the light. The emulsion glowed translucent, like thin stained ice.
"Observe," Klausser's finger traced the encoded numbers along the film's edge. His fingernails, dark yellow from chemical exposure, paused at a precise point. "The flaw of traditional two-color technology lies in the spectral overlap of red and green. Our algorithm…" He clicked the film into the projector.
"By recalibrating the gamma values in the color matrix, we have achieved three-color spectral separation on existing technology."
The screen shifted. A biplane fighter broke free from the orange-green blur; red and blue stripes on its wings dazzled, as if ready to leap from the screen. Mary Pickford instinctively raised her hand, then lowered it—afraid to miss a single detail.
While the audience absorbed the visual marvel, Shane unlatched his briefcase. From within, he produced a stack of documents, exquisitely bound, edges faintly gilded. The flyleaf read "Patent Pending", beneath the winged emblem of Vanguard Investment.
"We've already applied for all technical patents," Shane said, calm but commanding. His words silenced the warehouse instantly.
He fanned the documents across the table, revealing dense technical drawings and legal clauses, strikingly identical to Klausser's notebook handwriting.
Shane's gaze swept the room like the projector's beam, noting every reaction.
Mary leaned slightly forward, pearl necklace glinting over a financial report.
Schenck's fingers tapped the tabletop, the unlit cigar crackling faintly.
Hughes froze mid-gesture, cufflinks catching the light.
Chaplin, wiping his monocle, observed Shane silently. A faint smile tugged at Shane's lips.
"Vanguard is willing to share this breakthrough with United Artists," Shane announced, pausing deliberately. His index finger tapped a paragraph circled in red. "Including…"
Another beat. "…the ultimate three-color band solution, nearing completion."
Schenck lit his cigar, smoke curling before his furrowed brow, while his knuckles tapped thoughtfully on the table.
"Technicolor…" he began, leaving the sentence hanging.
Shane retrieved another document. "Their patent wall expires in ten months. Our three-color band technology will be ready in six." He tapped the paper. "Our process avoids existing patents. Science should serve art—not be trapped in a lab by lawyers' letters."
Klausser coughed, recalling snowy nights in Zurich, when Professor Hermann had defended innovation under harsh scrutiny.
Mary Pickford chuckled softly. "Mr. Cassidy… you're rewriting Hollywood's rules." Her blue eyes, sharp and perceptive, lingered on Shane. "But… what about profit-sharing?"
Shane unfolded a faint ivory-colored roadmap. Finger tracing the timeline, he stopped at 1929. "Initial cooperation: 15% technical licensing fee for European box office. Once the technology matures, the ratio can be renegotiated."
Chaplin tapped his cane diagonally, pointing to June 1929. A faint smile appeared.
"Why June 1929?" he asked, playful yet sharp.
Shane's pupils constricted. That was the release of the first full-color sound film, On with the Show. Adjusting his tie, he replied, "Considering the iteration of technology and cinema equipment upgrades, it marks the dawn of a new era."
Klausser interjected, voice trembling with excitement, "When color is no longer a gimmick, but part of the story itself…" His gaze met Shane's; an unspoken understanding passed between them.
Shane smiled at Howard Hughes, extending a contract. "Mr. Hughes, care to be the first to ride the colored storm?"
The room erupted in discussion. Executives gathered around the technical drawings, debating animatedly. Chaplin, in contrast, remained in the corner, observing Shane's every subtle movement, the tip of his cane tracing a silent question mark in the air.