Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania Railroad Union Station.
Evening.
A black special train consisting of only three carriages slowly pulled into Platform 2. There were no railroad company logos on the exterior; only the brass door handles and the emblem of a bald eagle clutching lightning and rice ears revealed the identity of its owner.
The carriage door opened.
Over a dozen Vanguard Security guards in long black coats were the first to step onto the platform, vigilantly cordoning off a ten-yard radius around the door.
Felix stepped onto the pedal and onto the soot-covered ground of Pittsburgh. He wore a deep black British-style high-collared trench coat and held a cane with a pure silver handle.
Frost followed behind, carrying a heavy black briefcase.
Timmy, the head of the Intelligence Department, walked quickly out of the shadows of the platform. He had arrived in Pittsburgh two days early to scope out the entire situation.
"Boss."
Timmy walked to Felix's side and lowered his voice.
"Everything is under control; all five miles of lines have been strung. They are holding a lighting ceremony tomorrow night at 8:00 PM at Market Square with a hundred carbon arc lamps. Carnegie used his connections to invite Mayor Jared Mellon and several state legislators to attend."
Felix did not stop, walking straight toward the carriage parked outside the train station.
"How did Edison solve the insulation layer for the transformers?" Felix asked as he walked.
"By boiling coal tar and bitumen and soaking cotton cloth wraps in it," Timmy replied.
"Our people have confirmed that the workmanship is very crude. Moreover, the temperature in Pittsburgh has plummeted over the last few days, and the bitumen has become brittle. When they were hanging the lines, the surface layer had already cracked in many places."
Felix sat in the spacious carriage, a mocking curl at the corner of his mouth.
"Two thousand volts of high voltage, combined with cracked bitumen insulation. If it were a sunny day, it might last half an hour. But in a Pittsburgh autumn, the air humidity is high enough to wring water out of it."
Felix leaned his cane against the seat.
"This is a fuse hanging on a wooden pole. Edison, that reckless gambler. To prove himself in front of Morgan, he has thrown the safety baseline to the back of his mind."
"Boss, do we need to send people to cut their wires? Or pour some iron filings into their generators?"
Timmy sat opposite him and made a suggestion.
"Stupid."
Felix leaned back against the velvet backrest and glanced at Timmy.
"If we commit sabotage, even if they fail, they can shift the blame onto the underhanded tactics of a competitor. Old Morgan in London will still believe in the technical feasibility of Alternating Current and continue to pour money into them."
Felix looked out at the gloomy gray streets with a deep gaze.
"What I want isn't a single act of sabotage. I want a catastrophic defeat in front of the public and politicians. I want everyone who sees that demonstration to equate Alternating Current with death and fire."
"Have the carriage go to the Duquesne Club. Frost, you come inside with me," Felix said.
The Duquesne Club was a private playground for Pittsburgh's top industrialists and politicians.
In a private box on the second floor.
Pittsburgh Mayor Jared Mellon was sitting on a leather sofa, holding a glass of bourbon. He was a pot-bellied politician with a balding head.
The box door was pushed open.
Felix walked in with Frost.
There was no appointment, and the security personnel outside didn't even dare to stop them. In the America of 1870, the surname of the Argyle Family was more effective than any pass.
At least in the East and South...
Mayor Jared was stunned for a moment, then hurriedly put down his glass and stood up.
He knew Felix.
A few years ago at a railroad hearing in Washington, he had seen this young man who used US dollars to smash through the doors of Congress.
"Mr. Argyle? You... why would you come to Pittsburgh?"
There was a hint of instinctive awe in Jared's tone, as well as a hint of guilt.
After all, he was going to attend the demonstration of Argyle' arch-rival tomorrow night.
"Sit, Mr. Mayor."
Felix skipped the pleasantries, walked to the sofa in the primary seat, sat down, and folded his hands over the silver handle of his cane.
Jared gave a dry laugh and sat down.
"I've come to talk business with you, Mr. Mayor," Felix said straightforwardly.
"Business? Is General Electric planning to invest in a factory in Pittsburgh?" Jared's eyes lit up.
Pittsburgh was currently extremely dependent on Carnegie's steel mills; if he could bring in General Electric, his political record would look very good.
"I have no interest in building generators in a city blackened by coal smoke," Felix interrupted coldly.
"The business I'm talking about concerns how much longer you can stay in your seat as mayor."
Frost stepped forward, opened the black briefcase in his hand, took out a stack of documents, and placed them on the coffee table.
"Mr. Mayor. These are municipal construction bonds totaling two million dollars issued by Pittsburgh City Hall over the past three years. They were mainly used for laying sewers and renovating streets," Frost said, flipping through the documents.
"As it happens, last month, Imperial Bank acquired the full rights to these bonds on the secondary market."
Mayor Jared instantly broke into a cold sweat.
"You... you bought Pittsburgh's municipal debt?"
Felix leaned forward, staring at the fat mayor.
"Half of Pittsburgh's annual fiscal tax revenue is used to pay the interest on these bonds. If I demand that Imperial Bank immediately exercise the early redemption clause tomorrow, your City Hall won't even be able to pay the police's salaries. The city will be paralyzed. The council will vote to remove you next month."
This was the dimensionality reduction strike of capital.
While Carnegie was still bribing politicians for a few thousand dollars, Felix had directly bought the city's debt.
Jared swallowed hard, took out a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and wiped his sweat.
"Mr. Argyle... what... what exactly do you want? Is it for the Westinghouse Electric demonstration tomorrow night? If you require it, I can find any excuse tomorrow to cancel my schedule and not attend their ceremony."
"Quite the opposite, Mr. Mayor," Felix leaned back against the chair.
"I want you to attend on time, and to stand in the most conspicuous position. Bring all your police chiefs and fire chiefs with you."
Jared was completely confused.
He didn't understand what trick this New York tycoon was playing.
Felix reached out and tapped the coffee table.
"I didn't buy your debt to stop them from lighting the lamps, but to buy your signature after the switch is flipped tomorrow night."
Felix looked at Jared.
"According to my intelligence, tomorrow night, when Carnegie and Edison feed two thousand volts of high-voltage electricity into those shoddy wires wrapped in bitumen, there is a high probability of a severe short circuit. Once the transformers catch fire, Market Square will fall into chaos."
Felix's tone didn't sound like a prediction, but a sentence.
"The moment the fire actually happens, Mr. Mayor, I need you to immediately, on the spot, and without hesitation, sign a municipal executive order. Declare that Westinghouse Electric's 'high-voltage Alternating Current' is an extremely dangerous lethal weapon. Order Pittsburgh to immediately dismantle all high-voltage utility poles and permanently ban any high-voltage Alternating Current transmission experiments in the city area without safety verification."
Felix pointed to the municipal bond documents on the table.
"As long as you sign, Imperial Bank will cut the interest rate on this two-million-dollar municipal debt in half and extend the redemption period by ten years. At the same time, I will personally donate fifty thousand dollars to your campaign fund account. Legitimate cash."
Fifty thousand dollars in cash, plus solving the crisis of municipal bankruptcy.
Mayor Jared's heart began to pound wildly.
In fact, he didn't care about Alternating Current or Direct Current at all.
The only things he cared about were votes and the dollars in his own pocket.
The two thousand dollars in benefits Carnegie gave him was simply a joke in the face of Argyle' chips.
If a fire really happened tomorrow night as Argyle said, signing the ban in his capacity as mayor would not only protect the citizens but also net him such a rich reward.
This was a deal where he couldn't lose.
But what if it doesn't catch fire? Jared muttered to himself.
If there was no fire and Argyle' plan fell through, wouldn't he offend both sides?
Felix seemed to see through his thoughts.
"Mr. Mayor, science does not lie. Poor-quality bitumen cannot withstand the heat of an alternating magnetic field. Of course, if it doesn't happen, then we'll act as if this never happened."
Felix stood up and straightened the hem of his trench coat.
"However, you should still stand in the square tomorrow night with your pen. If it really happens and you don't sign, the day after tomorrow morning, the doors of City Hall will be sealed shut by Imperial Bank's collection lawyers."
Felix didn't look at the sweating mayor again, walking straight out of the box with Frost.
7:40 PM.
Pittsburgh, Market Square.
The biting wind of early winter swirled across the cobblestones of the square. Freezing rain drifted through the sky.
Despite the inclement weather, the square was still packed with curious citizens, reporters, and small merchants.
In an era devoid of entertainment, any novel scientific demonstration could attract a massive crowd.
A massive wooden platform had been erected in the center of the square.
Ten tall wooden poles stood around the platform.
At the top of each pole hung a thick carbon arc lamp.
These lamps were not incandescent bulbs sealed in glass.
They produced light by bringing two carbon rods together in the air and then pulling them apart, creating an intense electric arc. The brightness was blinding, but they generated immense heat and emitted a grating 'hissing' sound.
A step-down transformer was hidden beneath the wooden platform, covered by a layer of iron mesh.
Two thick high-voltage lines, extending from the banks of the Allegheny River five miles away, followed the utility poles at the edge of the square and connected to the primary coil of the transformer.
Carnegie stood at the edge of the wooden platform, wearing a heavy coat. His face was flushed, and he appeared extremely excited.
After tonight, if Alternating Current could prove its capability for long-distance transmission, he would be able to completely rid himself of the energy exploitation by Argyle.
Mayor Jared Mellon stood in the front row, not far from the platform, accompanied by several sheriffs.
However, his face was slightly pale, and one hand was tightly gripping a fountain pen in his coat pocket. His eyes darted incessantly between the wires and the wooden platform, his heart pounding like a drum.
He didn't know if something would actually go wrong.
On the second floor of a three-story hotel three hundred yards from the square,
Felix sat in the shadows by the window.
Holding a glass of whiskey, he watched the bustling square below with an indifferent gaze through the glass window.
Frost and Timmy stood behind him.
"Five miles away, at the generator room," Felix said, glancing at his pocket watch, "five minutes left."
On the banks of the Allegheny River, at the Westinghouse Electric factory.
The steam engine emitted a deafening roar, and the belts drove that massive AC generator to spin at high speed.
Thomas Edison placed both hands on the huge brass switch with insulated handles. He gritted his teeth, veins bulging on his forehead.
George Westinghouse stared intently at the needle on the dashboard.
"The rotation speed has reached the rated value, output voltage is two thousand volts!" Westinghouse roared.
Clive Cavendish stood to the side, holding a pocket watch.
"Time is up, Mr. Edison. Mr. Morgan is waiting for our good news in London. Throw the switch."
Edison took a deep breath and exerted force, slamming the brass switch into the slot.
"Click!"
The current surged out instantly.
The immense electromagnetic force caused the generator to emit a dull, low roar.
The two-thousand-volt high-voltage electricity rushed toward the Market Square five miles away at the speed of light, traveling along the wire that had been manually coated with bitumen and wrapped in cotton cloth.
At Market Square.
Carnegie was counting down while holding his pocket watch.
Suddenly...
An extremely sharp, piercing 'hiss' cut through the cold wind.
The gap between the two carbon rods in the carbon arc lamps hanging on the ten wooden poles was instantly breached by the strong current.
"Whoosh!"
Beams of pale, blindingly intense light, impossible to look at directly, erupted over the square.
The light seemed ten times more intense than the midday sun.
The entire square was illuminated as if it were broad daylight, and even the texture of the cobblestones on the ground was clearly visible.
A deafening cheer erupted from the crowd.
"It's lit! My God, it's actually lit!"
"It's too bright! I can't even open my eyes!"
Carnegie waved his fists in excitement.
He turned and shouted at the mayor.
"Do you see that, Mr. Mayor! This is the power of Westinghouse Electric. Alternating Current can span five miles; we no longer need the handouts of those New Yorkers!"
Mayor Jared was forced to squint by the intense light.
He looked at those steadily burning carbon arc lamps, and a sudden panic surged in his heart.
Did Argyle predict wrong?
No short circuit? No fire?
If this succeeded, what should he do?
However, the laws of physics are cruel.
Beneath the wooden platform, inside that step-down transformer covered by iron mesh,
The two-thousand-volt high-voltage Alternating Current was raging wildly within the crude iron core.
Between the thin iron sheets manually cut by Edison, the insulating varnish had not been applied evenly.
Under extremely high magnetic flux density, eddy currents still formed lethal heat in localized areas.
The bitumen had already become brittle in the low temperature.
Now, the terrifying high temperature inside began to melt it rapidly.
Only three minutes had passed.
An extremely pungent odor, similar to burning old tires, began to permeate the air.
"What is that smell?"
Several citizens in the front row covered their noses.
"Look! There's smoke coming from under the platform!"
Someone pointed beneath the wooden platform and exclaimed.
The smile on Carnegie's face froze instantly, and he suddenly lowered his head to look through the gaps.
At the primary coil connection of the transformer,
The bitumen insulation, which had already developed fine cracks in the cold wind, completely collapsed under the dual action of high temperature and two thousand volts of electricity.
"Snap!"
A blinding blue arc broke through the cracks in the insulation and struck the damp wooden support frame beside it directly.
The powerful current instantly ignited the wood.
"It's a short circuit. Cut the power! Cut the power quickly!"
Carnegie roared in terror.
But he had no way to contact the generator room five miles away.
The current did not stop; it had found a new path for release.
The short circuit inside the transformer caused the current to surge dramatically.
The carbon arc lamps hanging in mid-air suddenly lost control of their previously stable arcs.
The carbon rods exploded under the impact of the ultra-high current.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Several carbon arc lamps exploded one after another.
Burning carbon fragments and molten metal fell into the dense crowd in the square like a meteor shower.
"Ah—! My face!"
A woman was struck by burning debris and let out a shrill scream.
The crowd instantly descended into chaos.
Panic, pushing, trampling.
The entire square transformed from a celebratory event into a living hell.
Under continuous short-circuiting, the volatile gases accumulated inside the transformer beneath the wooden platform were ignited by the arc.
"Boom!"
A dull explosion sounded.
The iron mesh was blown open, and a massive orange-red fireball shot into the sky.
The entire wooden platform was instantly engulfed in flames.
The coal tar used for insulation became the best accelerant, and thick black smoke billowed into the sky.
"Save people! Put out the fire quickly!"
Carnegie was knocked to the ground by the heat wave, scrambling and crawling as he fled the burning platform.
His coat was burned through with several holes, and only utter despair remained in his eyes.
Mayor Jared retreated to a safe street corner under the protection of his bodyguards.
He watched the sky-high flames and listened to the shrill screams and the sound of fleeing footsteps in the square. Cold sweat soaked his back.
Argyle was right; this was a disaster.
The mayor tremblingly took out his fountain pen from his pocket and roared at the municipal secretary beside him.
"Get paper, an executive order! Draft an emergency executive order immediately!"
"Westinghouse Electric's high-voltage Alternating Current is an extremely dangerous and lethal weapon! From this moment on, all transmission of Alternating Current within the city of Pittsburgh is permanently banned! Have all those wooden poles they erected cut down by tomorrow morning!"
On the second floor of the hotel,
Felix calmly watched the fire-engulfed square below, the flames reflecting on his profile.
There was no excitement or fury.
Edison was still too impatient...
He downed the whiskey in his hand and placed the empty glass on the windowsill.
"Frost," Felix turned around.
"Yes, boss."
"Go send a telegram to New York."
Felix's voice was steady, without a hint of fluctuation.
"Tell Pierce in the Legal Department and Fowler at the news company. Tomorrow morning, I want to see the front page of every mainstream newspaper on the East Coast featuring photos from the scene of this fire in Pittsburgh."
"I want the headline to read: 'Deadly Alternating Current — Westinghouse Electric's Game of Death'."
Felix picked up his cane and walked toward the door.
"Since Old Morgan wants to light a fire in my territory."
Felix's leather boots clicked heavily on the wooden floor.
"Then I will burn his ambitions to ashes along with it."
New York, headquarters of the News Media Company.
A dull roar emanated from the basement.
Thick cowhide drive belts passed through the floorboards, connecting to the massive iron wheels of the printing workshop on the first floor.
The air was thick with the heavy scent of machine oil, the smell of rosin, and the pungent odor of black ink.
The telegraph room on the third floor.
Barnes, the telegraph operator, wore an eye patch, his finger resting on the edge of the brass telegraph key. The receiver's gears turned steadily, spitting out a strip of white paper tape from the exit.
The punching needle left marks of varying depth on the paper tape.
Barnes tore off the paper tape, picked up a pencil, and quickly wrote lines of letters beneath the tape according to the codebook.
After finishing the last word, he stood up and pushed back his chair.
Holding the paper tape, Barnes hurried down the corridor and pushed open the door to the manager's office at the end.
Victor Fowler sat behind his desk, checking several newsprint procurement quotes sent from the lumber mill. He wore a dark gray vest, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
"Mr. Fowler, an urgent telegram from Pittsburgh." Barnes handed over the paper tape.
"It's a top-priority encrypted telegram sent personally by Mr. Frost."
Hearing this, Fowler set down his fountain pen.
He took the paper tape, his eyes scanning the translated text.
The content on the tape was very brief:
"Pittsburgh Market Square, a serious short-circuit fire occurred during the Westinghouse Electric Alternating Current demonstration. A transformer exploded, and a carbon arc lamp burst, causing civilian injuries. The mayor has signed an Alternating Current ban on the spot, initiating a media blackout and public opinion counter-offensive. Felix Argyle ."
Fowler's eyes instantly brightened.
He stood up and pulled his suit jacket off the coat rack.
"Go and call Horace, the editor-in-chief, to the typesetting room."
Fowler instructed Barnes while putting on his jacket.
"Tell him to stop whatever layout he's working on right now."
As Fowler strode out of the office.
The typesetting room on the second floor was brightly lit.
Dozens of typesetters stood before slanted type cases, holding composing sticks and quickly picking lead type from small wooden compartments, tucking them into the iron clamps in their hands.
Horace, the editor-in-chief, held a roll of corrected proofs and was shouting at the typesetters.
"Hurry up! Keep the news of Paris being besieged by the Prussians on the right side of the front page; that's the selling point for tomorrow's morning edition!"
Fowler pushed open the double wooden doors and entered the typesetting room.
"Take down the Paris news, Horace."
Fowler walked up to the editor-in-chief and gave the order directly.
Horace was stunned; he looked at Fowler.
"Take it down? Mr. Fowler, the lead type for the front page has already been proofed. It's going into the stereotype machine in half an hour. If we pull the layout now, our morning paper won't make the train delivery time!"
"If it doesn't make it, send it later. An hour late, two hours late, it doesn't matter. We've reported on that several times already anyway."
Fowler walked to the composing table and pointed at the heavy lead printing plate.
"Break down all this type and throw it back into the furnace."
Horace gritted his teeth and asked in confusion.
"Mr. Fowler, then what are we putting on the front page tomorrow?"
Fowler pulled the telegraph tape from his pocket and slapped it onto the composing table.
"Print this."
Fowler's voice was clearly audible in the noisy typesetting room.
"Front-page headline, use the largest bold black type." Fowler began dictating the headline.
"'Deadly Alternating Current—Westinghouse Electric's Game of Death.' The subheadline should read: 'Pittsburgh Square Engulfed in Flames, High-Voltage Current May Become an Invisible Weapon for Massacring Civilians.'"
Horace gasped; that was quite a heavy accusation.
He glanced at the telegraph tape.
"This is a targeted character assassination, Mr. Fowler. If Westinghouse Electric's lawyers sue us for libel..."
"They won't dare sue because it's all true. And the Mayor of Pittsburgh has already signed the ban."
Fowler cut off the editor's concerns.
"History is written by the survivors. Now, get to typesetting. Describe the fire as tragically as possible, emphasizing the current uncontrollability of two-thousand-volt high-voltage electricity."
Horace had no choice but to turn around and clap his hands at the typesetters.
"Everyone stop, break down the layout! Switch to the largest type, we're redoing the front page."
Fowler didn't stay in the typesetting room. He returned to his third-floor office and pressed the intercom on his desk.
"Have the three supervisors from the field department come in," Fowler shouted into the copper tube.
A few minutes later, three men carrying briefcases entered the office.
Fowler pulled open a drawer and took out three stacks of cash tied with kraft paper.
They were all fifty-dollar greenbacks.
He pushed the cash to the edge of the desk.
"The three of you take this money. Go now to the homes of the editors-in-chief of the New York Tribune, the New York Herald, and The Sun."
"Tell them the News Media Company is buying their front pages for tomorrow's morning edition. The press release for the Pittsburgh fire will be sent to their offices via telegraph in half an hour."
One field supervisor looked at the money on the desk.
"Mr. Fowler, what if they refuse our press release to maintain their editorial independence?"
Fowler sneered.
"Then remind them that sixty percent of the paper their newspapers use is supplied by our paper mills. The wagons pulling their paper rolls use freight routes controlled by the Metropolitan Trading Company. If they don't run this story, their presses will stop the day after tomorrow for lack of paper."
Fowler looked at his three subordinates.
"Give them the cash first. If the cash doesn't work, give them the threats. I want every newspaper sold on the streets tomorrow morning, from Boston to Philadelphia to Baltimore, to have a front-page condemnation of Alternating Current."
"Go get it done."
The three field supervisors picked up the cash from the desk, stuffed it into their briefcases, and hurried out of the office.
In the basement, the Hoe rotary press began to warm up.
The typesetting room sent down the newly cast semi-cylindrical stereotype plates. Workers fixed the plates onto the printing press's massive cylinders. Black ink was applied evenly to the lead type surfaces by the ink rollers.
Fowler walked to the iron grate door of the basement.
He listened to the sound of the printing press starting up. Belts slapped against iron wheels, and paper rolls were drawn into the machine, making contact with the ink rollers.
"Money-printing machines aren't just on Wall Street."
Fowler muttered to himself, watching the newspapers filled with black headlines fly out of the machine's exit like snowflakes.
"The black ink here can crush an opponent's bones just as well."