"What can I say except... You're welcome!
- Argyle responding to Tesla
_______________________
Austro-Hungarian Empire, Graz.
A cold wind swirled the fallen leaves on the street.
The sky was overcast with dark clouds, foretelling the arrival of the first snow.
In a lecture hall at the Graz University of Technology, students in various uniforms filled the seats.
Behind the podium, Professor Jakob Pöschl[1] stood before a bulky mechanical device.
He was a rigorous and stiff German physicist with thinning hair and thick, round glasses perched on his nose.
"Gentlemen, please observe closely."
Professor Pöschl turned the crank in his hand.
It was a teaching model of a Gramme dynamo imported from Paris.
As the rotor turned, the machine emitted a dull hum.
The gaslights in the classroom were dim, and everyone's eyes were fixed on one end of the generator.
"When a coil rotates in a magnetic field and cuts through magnetic field lines, the direction of the generated current is constantly changing."
Professor Pöschl explained loudly in German with a heavy Bavarian accent.
"But what we need for industry is Direct Current with a consistent direction. Therefore, we need this device."
The professor picked up a wooden stick and pointed to a cylinder made of multiple copper strips at the end of the rotor.
"A Commutator, and the brushes pressed against it. Through physical contact, it forces the current that changes direction to be output uniformly."
As the rotation speed increased, a series of dazzling blue electrical sparks erupted where the brushes and commutator rubbed together.
With a "crackling" sound, the air was instantly filled with a pungent smell of ozone.
"This is the price, gentlemen."
Professor Pöschl stopped cranking and pointed to the blackened copper strips.
"Friction generates heat, and electrical sparks burn the brushes. If the voltage continues to rise, this machine will burn itself out. This is a physical obstacle that current Direct Current motors cannot overcome."
The classroom was silent as students kept their heads down, taking notes.
Suddenly.
From a seat in the back row, a hand went up.
"Professor, if the brushes and commutator are obstacles, why don't we just eliminate them?"
The speaker was a tall, thin youth dressed in a gray suit.
He sat there, his deep eyes fixed on the generator on the podium.
It was the fourteen-year-old Nikola Tesla.
Professor Pöschl frowned, adjusted his glasses, and looked at this auditing student who was significantly younger than the others.
He knew the boy had been squeezed in by a wealthy Vienna merchant through connections.
"Eliminate the commutator?"
Professor Pöschl gave a stern sneer.
"Mr. Tesla, if you eliminate it, the generator will output Alternating Current, which changes direction dozens of times a second. If you feed this current into a motor, the rotor will only vibrate violently in place and will be unable to rotate continuously. This is clearly stated in the fundamental formulas of electromagnetism."
"That is because we are only using a single wire to transmit a single Alternating Current."
Tesla stood up. His voice was not loud, but it was exceptionally clear.
"Professor, if we place two sets of mutually perpendicular coils on the stator and then feed in two Alternating Currents with a ninety-degree phase difference..."
Tesla walked into the aisle, gesturing in the air with his hands.
"When the magnetic field of the first set of coils reaches its peak, the second magnetic field is zero. Then the first set decays while the second set strengthens. These two alternating magnetic fields superimpose in space, forming a constantly rotating magnetic field."
Tesla's eyes sparkled with intelligence.
"This rotating magnetic field will act like an invisible rope, pulling the metal rotor in the middle to rotate along with it. No physical contact needed. No brushes needed. No electrical sparks. This is an Alternating Current induction motor."
A suppressed ripple of snickering broke out in the classroom.
The university students looked at this whimsical child as if they were watching a clown.
Professor Pöschl slammed his pointer heavily onto the podium.
"Absurd!" the professor barked sternly.
"Mr. Tesla, do you think magnetic fields can be fabricated at will like flowing water? Your theory sounds wonderful, but it violates the common sense of mechanical energy conservation! You might as well just go and invent a Perpetual motion machine that rotates forever without needing energy!"
"Physics is a rigorous experimental science; the world isn't changed by drawing a few circles in your head. Sit down and stop wasting my class time."
Tesla pursed his lips tightly and did not argue back.
Because he knew that against these scholars imprisoned by old theories, words were the weakest weapons.
He silently sat back down and opened his thick kraft paper notebook, continuing to derive the trigonometric equations for Polyphase Alternating Current.
Two hours later, the class ended.
Tesla, carrying his schoolbag, walked out of the gates of the polytechnic institute.
The first snow had begun to fall, fine flakes landing on his shoulders.
He crossed several narrow streets and returned to the brick house with a laboratory that Klaus had rented.
Pushing open the door, he found the house very warm with a stove burning.
Klaus, the head of the Vienna branch, was sitting on a wooden crate in the first-floor lab, smoking a pipe.
Seeing Tesla return, Klaus stood up.
"Class over? Nikola. The things you wanted have arrived." Klaus pointed to several large wooden crates in the corner.
"High-purity Silicon steel sheets custom-ordered from the Siemens factory in Berlin, along with the Mica insulation paper and natural rubber resin you requested." Klaus tapped the crates.
"And a telegram came from New York. It said not to have any budget pressure. The Argyle Foundation will pay all the bills in full."
Tesla took off his snow-flecked coat and hung it on the coat rack.
He walked to the crates, pried open a board with his bare hands, took out a thin Silicon steel sheet, and weighed it in his hand.
"Mr. Klaus, please thank Mr. Argyle for me. This is exactly what I need."
Tesla walked to the workbench, where a crude Transformer model made from a solid block of iron sat.
It was a failed experiment from last week, showing clear signs of being scorched by high heat.
"Alternating Current is not as easy to create as imagined."
Tesla murmured softly to himself, as if explaining to Klaus, or perhaps just clarifying his own thoughts.
"Having insulating materials is only the most basic step. The Eddy currents generated by a high-frequency alternating magnetic field in a solid iron block will turn the core into a furnace instantly. That Edison in Pittsburgh—if he only knows how to wrap coils in asphalt, he'll surely have his eyebrows singed by the heat."
Tesla picked up the Silicon steel sheet.
"The iron core must be cut into sheets like this, coated with insulating varnish, and then laminated together. That's the only way to cut off Eddy currents. Only by solving the heat problem of the Transformer can high-voltage Alternating Current truly be transmitted over long distances. As for that rotating magnetic field motor..."
Tesla glanced at the stator coil drawing on the blackboard.
"That requires a more precise winding process; I can't do it alone right now."
Klaus walked over and handed Tesla a cup of hot tea.
"Take your time, child. The boss said as long as you're in the right direction, we have plenty of time. The most important thing for you now is to turn theoretical things into something tangible with these materials."
Tesla took the teacup and warmed his hands.
"I will, Mr. Klaus."
The youth's gaze fell firmly on the pile of materials shipped from Berlin.
"The professors laugh at me for trying to build a Perpetual motion machine. But I will show them. More importantly, I will make every light bulb in Graz run on the current I create."
The second floor of a teahouse on Du Ban Street in San Francisco.
Patrick O'Neill sat at a round mahogany table, holding a cup of freshly brewed Tieguanyin tea in his hand.
His grey suit jacket was draped over the back of the chair, revealing the grip of a Vanguard revolver at his waist.
Opposite the round table sat the Chinese labor contractor, Dum Gai.
On the tabletop between them lay a heavy canvas money bag.
"This is the porters' wages for this month, not a cent missing. Dum Gai."
O'Neill took a sip of hot tea and frowned.
To be honest, he still wasn't used to the bitter taste of these oriental leaves.
"Oh right, there's also a five-hundred-dollar bonus. Thank your men for helping me move the goods in the warehouse to higher ground before the rain last week."
Dum Gai took a puff from his tobacco pipe and slowly exhaled the smoke.
"Mister Foreigner, the money is fine. But I've run into some trouble." Dum Gai's expression was somewhat grave.
"Trouble? Did the police at the San Francisco docks ask you for protection money?" O'Neill set down his teacup.
"It's not the police. It's the 'Sydney Ducks'."
Dum Gai tapped his pipe bowl.
"They are the largest gang of white thugs in the San Francisco port area, and their boss is called'Scarface' McGee. Last night, he brought men to block my headquarters. They said we Chinese are stealing the jobs of white dockworkers and demanded that the Metropolitan Trading Company's warehouses must hire their men to unload cargo from now on. Otherwise, they'll burn your warehouse down."
O'Neill's eyes narrowed slightly.
He knew that public order in San Francisco was extremely poor, with various gangs and hooligan groups running rampant.
But he truly hadn't expected these local snakes to actually set their sights on the Argyle Family.
"They want to take over the unloading?"
O'Neill let out a cold laugh, full of disdain.
"They want two dollars a day in wages, and they'll only work for half a day. It's actually a disguised form of extorting protection money." Dum Gai looked at O'Neill.
"Mister Foreigner. We Chinese have no guns here and can't afford to provoke them. If you want to keep the warehouse, it's best to give them a little something."
O'Neill stood up, grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the chair and put it on, buttoned it up, and adjusted his tie.
"Dum Gai. You've stayed here too long; you've gotten used to bowing your head." O'Neill's tone became extremely icy, carrying the contempt of the easterners from the East Coast.
"Behind the Metropolitan Trading Company is the Argyle Family. In this country, it has always been us extorting others; no one dares to collect protection money from us."
O'Neill pointed at the money bag on the table.
"Put the money away. Tomorrow, take your men to the docks as usual to unload that new shipment of kerosene. As for those thugs called whatever ducks, I'll handle them."
Late that night, at the Embarcadero docks.
The sea breeze howled, and a thick fog rolled in.
In front of the Metropolitan Trading Company's Warehouse No. 3, two empty horse-drawn carriages were parked.
'Scarface' McGee, leading a dozen subordinates armed with iron bars and torches, walked over swaggeringly.
"Hey! You easterner inside, come out!"
McGee stood before the warehouse doors, shouting arrogantly.
"I heard you hired a bunch of pigs to work for you. Don't you know the rules? The San Francisco docks are our turf."
The warehouse's sliding doors made a dull grinding sound as they were slowly pulled open to both sides.
Inside, there were no mountains of goods, only an open space.
Patrick O'Neill stood in the center of the warehouse, holding a pocket watch in his hand.
Behind O'Neill,
stood exactly twenty men dressed in black overcoats.
They were the Vanguard Security members who had arrived in San Francisco with the second special freight train.
Each man held a loaded Vanguard repeating rifle, their dark muzzles exuding a cold killing intent in the fog.
The arrogance on McGee's face instantly froze.
He looked at the iron bar in his hand, then at the twenty lethal repeating firearms opposite him.
"You... what do you want to do?"
McGee stammered, taking a step back.
O'Neill tucked the pocket watch into his pocket, drew the revolver from his waist, and aimed it at McGee's stomach.
"Mr. McGee, the Metropolitan Trading Company doesn't want to cause trouble on the West Coast. But we aren't afraid of it either."
O'Neill's voice was clearly audible in the sea breeze.
"I'll count to three. If you and your men haven't vanished from my sight, there will be a dozen more corpses feeding the fish in San Francisco Bay tomorrow. I'll send someone to the police station tomorrow with several thousand dollars as a'security donation'. Guess how they'll write your cause of death?"
"One."
O'Neill cocked the hammer of the revolver, the crisp mechanical sound exceptionally piercing in the night.
McGee swallowed hard, cold sweat trickling down his scar.
He could feel that this man opposite him truly dared to fire.
This wasn't some honest merchant at all; these were thugs in suits.
"We're leaving, let's go!"
McGee threw down his torch and turned to run.
His subordinates also vanished into the thick fog like startled rats, abandoning their gear.
O'Neill put away his pistol.
"Dismissed. Leave four men on the roof for night watch. If anyone comes within fifty yards of the warehouse, shoot on sight."
O'Neill issued orders to the security captain behind him.
This brief confrontation in the thick fog established the Metropolitan Trading Company's absolute status in San Francisco.
The rules belonging to the Argyle Family had officially taken root along the Pacific coast.
...
Graz, Austria.
In the brick-walled laboratory late at night, the coal in the furnace emitted a dull red glow.
Nikola Tesla sat at his desk.
The oil lamp on the table illuminated a thick stack of parchment.
He held a dip pen and was writing a letter.
"Dear Mr. Argyle:"
"I am Nikola Tesla. Thank you for your generous funding. My studies in Graz are proceeding very smoothly. Professor Pöschl's experimental equipment has confirmed my previous suspicion: the brush problem in DC motors cannot be completely eliminated by mechanical means."
Tesla paused his pen and glanced at the prototype transformer made of stacked silicon steel sheets beside him.
"I have completed the mathematical proof of generating a rotating magnetic field with two-phase alternating current in theory. The relevant manuscripts are attached to this letter. But I must confess to you that the completion of the theory is still a long way from manufacturing a practical machine."
"Alternating Current is not so easily created. In Europe, we lack extremely high-purity insulating materials and high-quality silicon steel capable of withstanding high-frequency magnetic field transformations. The processing precision here also cannot meet the rotor tolerance requirements in my design; insulation and hysteresis loss are currently the most fatal bottlenecks."
Tesla took a deep breath and continued writing.
"I need to continue completing my foundation in advanced mathematics and electromagnetics in Graz. But I believe that on the day the theory is fully perfected, I will need America's industrial power and the machines in your laboratory."
"The theory is born here. But the machines can only be built in New York."
Tesla signed his name at the end of the letter.
He carefully folded the dozens of pages of manuscripts filled with complex formulas and coil drawings, and stuffed them along with the letter into a thick manila envelope.
He dripped sealing wax on the closure and pressed his seal onto it.
The next morning.
Tesla handed the letter to Klaus.
"Mr. Klaus. Please use the safest channel to send this to Mr. Argyle."
Klaus took the envelope and placed it solemnly in his inner pocket.
"Don't worry, Nikola. This letter will travel in the Metropolitan Trading Company's special mail bag. In half a month, it will be sitting on the boss's desk."
Morning dew dripped onto the Long Island lawn.
In the main dining room of the Argyle Estate, the fireplace was burning brightly.
Felix sat in the head seat wearing a tweed morning suit, a cup of black coffee in his hand. The middle-aged housekeeper, Elena, stood to the side, holding a silver coffee pot.
"Elena." Felix set down the porcelain cup.
"Is the expansion project on the west side finished?"
"It was completed yesterday afternoon, sir," Elena's voice was steady.
"The construction team has left the estate, and all the construction debris has been cleared away. Mr. Cobb moved the horses in last night."
Felix stood up and picked up his coat draped over the back of the chair.
"I'll go take a look. Have Finn come find me at the stables directly after his morning arithmetic lesson."
"Yes, sir." Elena bowed her head slightly.
Felix pushed open the side door and walked into the morning breeze. He followed the gravel path toward the west side of the estate.
The newly built stable was a massive red-brick building with a U-shaped structure. The roof was covered with rainproof black slate.
In the center of the building was a wide sandy training field.
The stable master, Mr. Cobb, was standing at the edge of the training field, a handful of hay in his hand, carefully checking the quality of the fodder. His old newsboy cap was pulled down low.
Hearing the sound of leather boots on the gravel, Mr. Cobb turned around.
"Boss."
Mr. Cobb tossed aside the hay and came forward to meet him.
Felix looked over the building in front of him.
"How is the ventilation?" Felix asked.
"Perfect."
Mr. Cobb pointed to a row of louvers below the roof.
"The angle of the grilles was specifically calculated. Cold winds can't get in, but the smell of manure and ammonia can be vented out smoothly. The floor drains are all paved with cement and connected to the estate's underground sewage pipes. Even if the doors are all closed in winter, it won't get damp inside."
The two walked into the interior of the stables.
On both sides of the aisle were spacious individual stalls, separated by thick oak and cast-iron railings. A brass nameplate with the horse's name hung on each stall door.
Felix stopped in front of one stall, which held a pitch-black thoroughbred.
"Did he sleep well last night?" Felix looked at the black horse.
"A bit restless. After all, it's a new environment; they need a few days to adjust."
Mr. Cobb reached out and stroked the black horse's nose.
"But the heating system here has been a big help. The boiler in the basement has hot water pipes buried under the aisle. The floor is warm, which will save a lot of money on bedding."
"I'm not short on money for bedding, Mr. Cobb. Just keep these horses in top condition at all times."
Felix turned to look deeper into the stables.
"Has the newly purchased pony arrived?"
"It's here, in the first stall at the very end."
Mr. Cobb led the way, and the two walked to the end of the stables.
A Welsh Pony was tied up in the stall.
It was a bit larger than the previous Shetland Pony, with a more symmetrical frame and a beautiful dark chestnut coat. Its limbs were sturdy, and its eyes held a spark of cleverness.
"A purebred Welsh horse," Mr. Cobb patted the wooden railing.
"Got it from an importer in Boston for five hundred dollars. It has a slightly fiercer temperament than the Shetland, but better endurance. Suitable for a boy over five years old to ride."
Footsteps came from the stable entrance.
Five-year-old Finn ran inside.
He was wearing a miniature version of an equestrian suit and a pair of custom leather riding boots. Behind him followed the mute instructor with a scar on his left eye, Jack Martin.
Finn's cheeks were flushed red from the cold, but his eyes were full of excitement.
"Papa!" Finn ran to Felix's side.
"Elena said you were waiting for me at the stables."
Felix looked down at his son.
"How was arithmetic? Did Mr. Schneider have any complaints?"
"Of course not. I solved the ten multiplication problems he gave me. He said I could leave class early."
Finn tilted his head up and answered proudly.
"Good boy."
Felix pointed to the chestnut pony in the wooden stall.
"Look at that."
Finn looked where his father was pointing, and his eyes instantly lit up. He ran to the wooden stall and stood on tiptoe, trying to touch the horse's mane.
The chestnut horse snorted and took two steps back, looking at the little boy warily.
"What's its name?" Finn turned back to ask Mr. Cobb.
"It doesn't have a name yet, Master Finn," Mr. Cobb replied with a smile.
"It belongs to you; you have to give it a name."
Finn thought for a moment.
"Then let's call it 'Bullet.' It looks like it can run very fast."
Felix walked behind his son and placed his hands on Finn's shoulders.
"Bullet. That's a good name." Felix's tone became serious.
"Finn , listen well. From today on, it is your exclusive mount. It's no longer a toy like 'peanut' used for practicing balance. It has a temper, it has teeth, and it can kick."
Finn turned around and looked at his father.
"I'm not afraid of it, Papa. Mr. Martin taught me how to avoid the hooves."
"Not being afraid is one thing; being responsible is another."
Felix pointed to the haystacks and buckets in the corner of the stable.
"From now on, you will be the one to fill this horse's fodder every day. You will be the one to brush it every day. If the manure in the stall isn't cleaned and it gets sick, I'll have Mr. Cobb make you skip a meal."
Mr. Cobb was momentarily stunned.
"Boss, Master Finn is only five years old. This kind of rough work..."
"Quiet, Mr. Cobb," Felix interrupted him.
"If he doesn't do the rough work, how will he know how much a horse needs to eat to run? If he doesn't pick up a brush, how will he know which muscle on the horse is exerting force?"
Felix knelt down and looked directly into his son's eyes.
"In America, no one runs for you for nothing. Machines need coal, people need wages, and horses need grass. If you want 'Bullet' to take you over fences, you have to serve it well first. Do you understand this deal?"
Finn didn't fully understand, but he nodded vigorously.
"I understand. I'll feed it well. It will listen to me."
"Go then. Have Mr. Cobb prepare the saddle. Lead it out to the sandy field. Martin, keep an eye on him. As long as he doesn't fall, let him climb back onto the horse's back himself." Felix stood up.
The mute instructor, Martin, nodded expressionlessly.
He stepped forward, opened the wooden stall, and skillfully put on the reins.
Finn followed Martin and Bullet toward the outdoor training field.
Felix stood in the shadow of the stables, watching his son clumsily stepping into the stirrups in the cold wind. He took out his pocket watch and glanced at it.
"Mr. Cobb, has the fodder supplier been changed?"
Felix asked without turning his head.
"It has. As you instructed, it's been changed to a farm under the Metropolitan Trading Company," Mr. Cobb replied.
"Keep a close eye on it. If any moldy oats get mixed in, go directly to Bill and have him deal with it."
Felix closed his pocket watch and tucked it into his pocket.
"I'm going to the study. If any telegrams come from New York, have Frost bring them to me immediately."
Felix turned and strode back toward the main building.
[1] Jakob Pöschl (25 February 1828 in Vienna – 6 January 1907 in Graz) was an Austrian physicist and university teacher.