The morning chill in Connecticut had not yet fully dissipated. The Militech's factory, however, had already awakened to the low roar of steam and the clanging of metal.
Next to the secret firing range that had just witnessed a miracle, Miller was giving his final instructions to the six Operations Department members he had personally selected before their departure.
They were all dressed in inconspicuous travel clothes, but their upright posture and sharp eyes still revealed a soldier-like discipline.
"Our mission is to go to Indianapolis and visit an inventor," Miller's voice was steady and concise. "Remember, this time we are not soldiers; we are businessmen, envoys representing Mr. Argyle. Put away your battlefield tactics. Our weapons are politeness and US dollars. Unless absolutely necessary, I do not want to see anyone draw their Colt."
"Yes, Mr. President," the team members replied in unison.
Miller nodded. He glanced at two well-dressed gentlemen not far away who were conversing with Frank Cole. One was older, Mr. Hoffman, a senior lawyer from Argyle Bank's legal department; the other was his newly promoted assistant, skilled in patent law.
"The Boss's combination punch landed quickly."
Frank walked over to Miller and handed him a thick, oilcloth-wrapped document tube. "These are the technical comparison documents that Mr. Reese and James compiled overnight. They contain all the core innovations of our machine gun. Lawyer Hoffman says these are enough to fight a protracted lawsuit against Dr. Gatling in court."
"But the Boss doesn't want a lawsuit."
Miller took the document tube, feeling the heavy weight of the blueprints inside. "What the Boss wants is Dr. Gatling himself."
"That's the hardest part," Frank sighed. "I've looked into it. The doctor is a typical inventor—stubborn and extremely protective of his inventions. To make him sell his 'child'…"
"That's my mission, Frank," Miller interrupted him, his usually resolute face showing an unquestionable determination. "I failed to preemptively mitigate this patent risk for the Boss; that's my dereliction of duty. Therefore, I must uproot this trouble."
He patted Frank's shoulder. "I'm leaving the production line at home to you. Tell Reese and Silas that before I return, I hope to see the 'Vanguard Model 1863' rifle's daily output break through again."
"Rest assured."
...Two days later, as the train's massive steam engine, puffing white smoke, slowly pulled into the somewhat rudimentary Indianapolis station, Miller experienced the unique atmosphere of this frontier city for the first time.
Unlike the bustle of New York and the gravitas of Philadelphia, the air here was filled with the smell of earth, new wood, and the unpolished vitality of pioneers.
They checked into the city's best hotel, the Bates House. Miller did not rush into action. He first locked himself in his room and spent an entire afternoon meticulously reviewing the background investigation report on Dr. Richard Gatling from beginning to end.
"Arthur," he said to the young lawyer accompanying him, "Look at this."
The young lawyer, Arthur Hayes (no relation to Tom Hayes, just a coincidence of surname), respectfully walked over.
"You see," Miller pointed to a passage in the report, "Dr. Gatling's primary profession is a doctor. His original intention in inventing this gun was to reduce the total casualties of war by creating a sufficiently lethal weapon. He believed that if one soldier could be worth a hundred men, then a large army would be unnecessary."
"A… somewhat laughably naive idealist," Arthur commented, a hint of superiority from his law school elite background on his face.
"Sir, from a legal perspective, his motive is not important. What is important is the scope of the patent he holds. Based on my preliminary analysis, his patent indeed has strong legal validity regarding the core concept of 'using rotation to achieve continuous feeding and firing.' The best strategy is to emphasize the fundamental innovations of our design, such as…"
"No, Arthur."
Miller interrupted him. This president, who had learned to think on the battlefield, had a clearer mind at this moment than the lawyer.
"You've got one thing wrong. We're not here to go to court with him."
He pushed aside the analysis report, which was full of legal jargon.
"The Boss sent us here not to win a lawsuit, but to win over a person."
Miller looked out the window at the unfamiliar city streetscape.
"An idealist won't be easily swayed by money. But what if you could help him achieve that seemingly ridiculous ideal? What if you could give him an opportunity to truly send his invention to the battlefield to 'save lives'?"
Arthur was stunned. For the first time, he realized that his taciturn superior's way of thinking was far more profound than he had imagined.
"Then… what do I need to do?"
"You?" Miller glanced at him. "You just need to prepare the most generous inventor collaboration agreement in all of America. Write in every clause you can think of regarding patent licensing, technical royalties, and future R&D support."
"As for communicating with the doctor," Miller stood up, a confident smile on his face, "leave that to me."
That evening, the two Operations Department members Miller had dispatched returned with the latest intelligence.
"Mr. President," one of the team members reported, "We found out. Dr. Gatling's workshop is on the outskirts of the city, very small, with only three craftsmen helping him. He's currently looking for investment for his second-generation prototype, but local bankers seem uninterested in this money-burning 'war toy.' He was just denied a five-thousand-dollar loan application by the Indiana State Bank last week."
Miller nodded. "And his residence?"
"It's in a small house behind the workshop. He lives there with his wife, and their life seems… very tight."
Miller already had a complete plan in mind… The next morning, Miller did not take a carriage. He changed into the most ordinary businessman's coat and walked alone to Dr. Gatling's workshop, which was more like a large blacksmith's shop than a factory.
The clanging of hammers came from inside the workshop.
Miller pushed open the door and saw a tall, heavily bearded middle-aged man intensely discussing something with the craftsmen, gathered around a complex metal contraption.
He was Richard Gatling.
"Doctor?" Miller began.
Gatling turned around, his inventor's eyes, full of curiosity and scrutiny, falling on Miller. "I am. And you are?"
"My name is Miller," Miller smiled. "From New York, President of Militech. I heard that you have the most remarkable invention in all of America. So, I specifically came to visit."
"Militech?" Gatling repeated the unfamiliar name.
"Yes." Miller took something out of his satchel and placed it on the workbench in front of Gatling, which was covered with blueprints and parts.
It was a beautifully crafted .44 caliber rifle cartridge, gleaming with brass.
Gatling's gaze was instantly drawn to the small bullet. He picked it up, admiring it like a piece of jewelry.
"Perfect craftsmanship…" he murmured. "Waterproof, moisture-proof, and the primer is centered… With this, my feeding system…"
"Yes, Doctor," Miller looked at him. "With this, your great invention can truly transform from a clumsy prototype into a reliable weapon."
"And our company," Miller looked at him, delivering the prepared opening line, "can now produce three million such bullets every month."
In Indianapolis, inside Dr. Gatling's workshop, time seemed to stand still.
Richard Gatling, at this moment, was like a devout believer, cradling the brass cartridge from New York.
He ran his fingertips repeatedly over its smooth, cold surface, feeling its almost perfect industrial beauty.
He couldn't believe that ammunition could possess such aesthetic appeal.
"Three million rounds... a month?"
He looked up, his eyes, usually full of ingenious ideas, now held only an incredulous shock. "Mr. Miller, are you... are you not joking? You must be joking with me, right?"
"No, no, no, Doctor, I never joke." Miller's reply was calm. "Perhaps I need to briefly introduce you to my Boss, Mr. Felix Argyle. He previously partnered with the War Department to own what is possibly the most efficient and advanced ammunition factory in this country, located in Philadelphia. With enough orders, our production capacity can even double."
Gatling fell silent. The fact that the other party could partner with the Federal War Department to establish a company already indicated the strength he brought.
He looked at the bullet in his hand, then at the clumsy second-generation prototype behind him, which frequently jammed due to a lack of reliable ammunition.
For the first time, that proud inventor's heart felt the oppressive weight of a vast chasm called "industrial power."
"Please, have a seat, Mr. Miller."
His tone was much more polite than before. He invited Mr. Miller to the only relatively clean corner of the workshop, where there was a small desk and two chairs.
"You just said you are the president of Militech." Gatling asked, his brain starting to whir rapidly. "Do you also manufacture weapons?"
"Yes, that's correct, and I won't mislead you." Miller nodded, deciding to get straight to the point. "Our Militech previously manufactured a new rifle that received an order from the War Department and is now being gradually issued to the entire army.
Furthermore, we have already developed a more advanced revolving machine gun than the weapon you are currently researching. It also uses the same type of bullet you hold, with more stable firing rate and a more reliable structure."
These words struck Gatling's heart like a heavy hammer. Incredulity and panic appeared in his confident eyes.
"Impossible!" He instinctively retorted. "I have already patented the core concept of 'multi-barrel rotary firing'! You..."
"We are certainly aware of that, Doctor." Miller's tone remained steady, but it carried an undeniable sense of pressure.
"This is also why I am here today. My Boss, Mr. Argyle, is a man who respects the law and the intellectual achievements of others.
Although our weapon is more advanced and better, some patents indeed belong to you, and we have no intention of getting into a protracted legal dispute with you, as that would benefit neither of us."
Miller looked at him and stated the true purpose of his visit. "So, my Boss sent me here not to challenge your patent, but to buy it."
"Buy it?" Gatling's breathing became rapid.
"Yes, Doctor, buy everything." Miller's thoughts were crystal clear. "Militech proposes to fully acquire all your existing and future patents related to 'revolving weapons.' At the same time, if possible, we also hope to employ you personally as the Chief Consultant of our 'Automatic Weapons Research Department' under Militech."
"We will establish an independent laboratory for you in Whitneyville, Connecticut, ten times larger than your current one. You will have ample funding and the best team of engineers to realize all the ideas in your mind."
"And in return," Miller stated the core terms, "besides paying you a satisfactory patent transfer fee, for all weapon models you lead and ultimately bring to mass production, you will personally receive a permanent five percent share of the net profit."
Miller looked at the inventor before him, who was in a state of immense shock and struggle. He knew that for a talented genius, unappreciated and on the verge of bankruptcy, this was almost an irresistible offer.
However, Richard Gatling, after hearing all the conditions, fell into a long silence.
He stood up and walked to his prototype machine, which embodied half his life's work. He gently caressed the cold gun barrel with his hand, as if caressing his own child.
After a long while, he slowly spoke, his voice carrying the unique stubbornness of an inventor. "Mr. Miller, your terms are very generous. But I must tell you, this is not just a weapon. It is my hope... my hope to end wars."
"But I'm afraid," he looked at Mr. Miller, his eyes full of struggle, "I'm afraid that after I sell it to you merchants, it will become a killing machine that exists purely for profit. That... that goes against all my original intentions."
Miller looked at him, at this contradictory genius who sought the light of humanitarianism within cold steel.
Any persuasion about money and profit would be futile at this moment.
However, he remembered what his Boss had told him before he set off.
"Mr. Miller," Gatling continued, "I need time to consider your company's offer."
"Of course, Doctor." Miller nodded, not pressing the issue.
Then, from his briefcase, he took out a small wooden box and placed it on the workbench.
"Doctor, this is a small gift from my Boss, Mr. Felix Argyle, which he asked me to give to you."
Gatling opened the wooden box in confusion.
Inside, there was no money, no jewelry. Only a beautifully bound book and a letter.
The book was the "Preliminary Report on the Clinical Application of Modern Surgical Disinfection Techniques," recently published in New York, authored by Dr. Thorne and officially credited to Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons.
And the letter was Felix's personal handwriting.
Miller looked at Dr. Gatling, his voice becoming very soft, yet very clear. "Dr. Gatling, my Boss once said that before deciding whether to create a weapon that can take lives more efficiently, he hopes you will first see how he is saving lives in another way."
Miller sat on the creaking wooden chair, his posture relaxed, but his gaze never left the man across the table.
He did not urge, nor did he show any impatience. Like an experienced hunter, after setting a trap, he had enough patience to wait for the prey to make its own decision.
Dr. Richard Gatling, however, was completely immersed in another world.
He was engrossed in the preliminary report on the clinical application of modern surgical disinfection techniques, authored by Dr. Thorne. His eyes, accustomed to scrutinizing cold steel, were now filled with a thirst for new knowledge.
With his rough fingers, he lightly traced the paragraphs on the paper about "microbes" and "infection rates," his brows furrowed, and occasionally, he let out a few indistinct grunts, a mix of awe and confusion.
An hour, a full hour.
The only sounds in the workshop were the monotonous ticking of the wall clock and the crisp rustle of Gatling turning pages.
Finally, he closed the thin pamphlet, as if he had completed a long journey. He took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes vigorously with the back of his hand.
When he looked up again, his gaze towards Miller had completely changed.
"Mr. Miller," he began, his voice hoarse, with a hint of disbelief, "Is everything in this pamphlet true? That an invisible 'bug' is the real cause of wound rot?"
"Yes, Doctor." Miller nodded, taking out a bottle of Iodoglycerol and placing it on the table. "Our chemist, Dr. Thorne, has confirmed their existence through a microscope."
"And your Boss's Umbrella Corporation," Gatling picked up the small brown medicine bottle, "exists to kill these 'bugs'?"
"You could say that," Miller replied. "The Boss believes that on the battlefield, a soldier's life needs to be saved twice. The first time is when he is hit by a bullet, and the second time is when he lies on a surgeon's operating table."
Gatling fell silent.
He looked down at the letter on the table, personally written by Felix.
The letter's wording was very humble, without any mention of business or patents.
Felix simply shared his findings on another battlefield as a fellow explorer of "how to reduce war casualties."
Gatling's voice carried a tone mixed with self-mockery and confusion, "So, he's simultaneously building a machine that can deliver bullets into soldiers' bodies at an unprecedented speed, and developing a medicine that can pull soldiers on the brink of death from infection back from the gates of hell."
He let out a low laugh, impossible to discern whether it was joy or sorrow.
"Is he a devil, or a messenger sent by God? Mr. Miller, you tell me."
This question went beyond the scope of business negotiation.
Miller looked at the genius before him, who was plunged into a great philosophical dilemma. Any discussion of money and patents now seemed meaningless.
What he needed was an answer that could resolve his inner conflict.
"I don't know, Doctor." Miller's answer was honest, and a trace of a soldier's weariness appeared on his always resolute face.
"I was once a soldier, having served on the battlefields of Mexico. I've personally seen my comrades blown to pieces by artillery shells during a charge, and I've seen another brother, simply because he scratched his leg in a swamp, rot to death after three days of agonizing screams."
He looked at Gatling, without the slightest evasion in his eyes.
"I must tell you, Doctor. The latter way of dying is a hundred times more painful than the former."
"Your gun, your original intention in inventing it, was to make war more terrifying, thereby deterring people from easily starting wars. This is a very noble idea, Doctor. But please forgive my directness, as long as humanity exists, war will never disappear."
"However," his tone shifted, "your invention, and our Boss's rifle, can achieve something else."
"They can make a bloody slaughter, which should last ten hours, be decided within ten minutes."
"A shorter battle means fewer charges, less bloodshed, fewer wounds. It also means," his voice became very soft, "fewer young people needing to lie on the operating table, praying for God's mercy."
"My Boss, he saw the essence of these two things." Miller concluded, "A sharper sword and a stronger shield. They seem contradictory, but their purpose is actually the same."
"That is, to allow more people to return home alive."
Silence once again fell over the workshop.
Gatling slowly stood up and walked to his prototype machine, which embodied half of his life's work. He gently caressed the cold gun barrel, as if bidding farewell to an old friend.
Miller's words were like a key, unlocking the heaviest lock in his heart.
He had always tried to achieve his ideal of "saving lives" through more efficient "killing." This immense contradiction had tormented him. But now, the man from New York told him, with a more direct and brutal reality, that his path was not wrong.
After a long while, he turned around, and for the first time, a sense of relief appeared in his eyes, which had always been filled with struggle.
"Your Boss... isn't buying my patent, is he?" he asked hoarsely. "He's buying that rather ridiculous dream of mine."
"The Boss just wants to give your dream wings that can truly fly, Doctor," Miller responded.
"Perhaps, and sharper fangs." Gatling let out a long breath. "Alright, Mr. Miller. Go back and tell your lawyer that the documents can be prepared."
"However," he put forward his last and only condition, "I demand that the new R&D department established for me in Connecticut must be named after me. 'Militech Gatling Laboratory.' My name must appear on that door."
"Of course, Doctor." Miller stood up and extended his hand to the genius he had finally convinced. "This is the honor you deserve."
The two hands clasped tightly.