As the former capital, Philadelphia has a deeper historical heritage than New York, along with a group of more stubborn conservatives. Newspaper offices line both sides of Chestnut Street, making it the battlefield of public opinion in Philadelphia.
Vincent Fowler, the manager of the News Media Company, was currently sitting in the editor-in-chief's office of the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin.
This newspaper had just been wholly acquired by the News Media Company last month.
Fowler's fingers were stained yellow by cigar smoke as he held a newly published copy of a competitor's newspaper, The Philadelphia Inquirer.
The headline on the front page was glaring: "The Cheap Trap: Universal Department Store is Destroying Philadelphia's Handicrafts with Inferior Goods."
The article described in detail the complaint of a shoemaker named Smith.
Smith claimed that the machine-made shoes sold by Universal Department Store had soles made of cardboard that would rot after two days of wear. Furthermore, because of Universal Department Store's low-price dumping, hundreds of long-standing shoe stores in Philadelphia were on the verge of bankruptcy.
"Truly touching."
Fowler threw the newspaper onto the desk with a sharp "thwack."
Sitting across from him was the new editor-in-chief of the Evening Bulletin, a young man named Douglas. Douglas was nervously wiping his glasses.
"Mr. Fowler, this report has caused quite a stir. This morning, several people from the shoemakers' union went to protest in front of our new store on Market Street. They even smashed a window."
"Smashed a window?" Fowler sneered, exhaling a cloud of thick smoke. "Good. I was afraid they wouldn't."
Fowler stood up, walked to the dusty window, and looked at the gloomy sky outside.
"What's the name of the editor who wrote the article?"
"Harding. He's the star writer for The Inquirer, famous for attacking large corporations. It's said he's very close to several local guild chairmen."
"Harding," Fowler muttered the name. "Have you checked his background?"
"I have," Douglas said, opening his notebook.
"On the surface, he's a man of integrity who goes to church regularly. But... our informant discovered that he goes to an underground gambling den in the South Side every Friday night. Moreover, he has accumulated a significant amount of gambling debt."
"That's enough." Fowler turned around, his gaze cold.
"But that's not fatal yet. Gambling is just a matter of private morality. What we want to destroy is his public credibility and The Inquirer's information channels."
Fowler walked over to the telegraph machine behind the desk. This machine was directly connected to Western Union Telegraph Company's Philadelphia hub.
"Send an instruction to the Western Union supervisor," Fowler ordered.
"Starting this afternoon, delay the transmission of all international news telegrams sent to The Inquirer by two hours. As for the reason... just say it's line maintenance or signal interference."
Douglas was stunned for a moment. "Two hours? Then their news will be nothing but old news."
"Exactly. News is a perishable good; once it's past its prime, it's just waste paper." Fowler flashed a cruel smile.
"When readers find that the Evening Bulletin has already reported on a fire in London while The Inquirer is still reporting on yesterday's weather, who will they choose?"
"Also," Fowler pointed at the copy of The Inquirer.
"Since they say our shoe soles are made of paper, we'll show them what real 'paper' is."
"On tomorrow's front page, I want to see this headline: 'Who is Lying? Revealing the Late-Night Deal Between Editor Harding and the Shoemakers' Guild chairman.' The article should imply that the piece attacking Universal Department Store was the condition for the guild chairman to help Harding pay off his gambling debts."
"But... is there any evidence for this?" Douglas hesitated.
"Evidence?"
Fowler walked up to Douglas and patted his face.
"Douglas, remember. In a newspaper, as long as you add a question mark, any lie becomes a legitimate query."
"Besides, you can go find the owner of that underground gambling den. Give him a hundred dollars to come forward and testify that Harding indeed owes money. Then find a prostitute to say that Harding bragged to her in bed about this deal."
Douglas swallowed hard.
He used to think Fowler was just a formidable editor-in-chief, but now he saw he was nothing but a thug.
"Go take care of it."
Fowler sat back in his chair and relit his cigar.
"The Boss said Philadelphia is a key stop in Universal Department Store's expansion. Anyone who stands in the way, whether they're shoemakers or newspapers, must be cleared away."
Over the next three days, a metaphorical bloodbath erupted in the Philadelphia press.
Relying on the "priority" granted by the Western Union Telegraph Company, the Evening Bulletin was always the first to report on the latest situation in Europe and developments in Washington.
Meanwhile, news from The Inquirer was always a beat behind and even contained errors.
At the same time, the "gambling debt scandal" and "bribery rumors" surrounding the star writer Harding were everywhere. Fowler even hired several vagrants to read the "dirt" on Harding aloud in front of The Inquirer's office every day.
Public attention quickly shifted from "shoe sole quality" to "the editor's character."
December 28th.
The owner of The Inquirer finally couldn't hold out any longer.
Due to plummeting sales and advertisers (pressured by Argyle' Metropolitan Trading Company) withdrawing their funds one after another, the newspaper's capital chain was broken.
That afternoon, there was a knock on Fowler's office door.
A haggard-looking middle-aged man walked in; it was the owner of The Inquirer.
"Mr. Fowler."
The owner held his hat in his hands, bowing very low.
"Regarding that report about the shoes... we are willing to publish an apology."
"An apology?"
Fowler sat with his legs crossed, holding a glass of whiskey.
"It's too late. Readers today don't want an apology; they want new thrills."
"Then what do you want?"
"Acquisition."
Fowler set down his glass and pulled out a contract he had prepared long ago.
The News Media Company is willing to invest thirty thousand dollars to acquire a 51% stake in The Inquirer. Harding must be fired. Furthermore, the editorial section will be reviewed by people we appoint in the future."
"Thirty thousand? That... that's only half the market price!" the owner exclaimed.
"You can refuse," Fowler shrugged.
"But I'd like to remind you that your printing press loan is due next week. Also, I hear Editor Harding is preparing to sue you for 'defamation' because you failed to protect your employee?"
"Sign it." Fowler threw the pen onto the desk.
"Sign it, and you can still take thirty thousand dollars and retire. Don't sign it, and you can wait for bankruptcy liquidation."
The owner's hand trembled as he looked at the contract, which seemed like a deed of sale.
Outside the window, the cries of a newsboy could be heard:
"Latest from the Evening Bulletin! Grand shoe sale at Universal Department Store! Buy one, get one free! Plus the latest inside scoop on Editor Harding's gambling debts!"
The owner closed his eyes and signed his name.
Fowler picked up the contract and blew the ink dry.
"Pleasure doing business with you."
He walked to the window and looked out at the streets of Philadelphia.
Here, ink was deadlier than bullets. And he who controlled the ink controlled the mind of the city.
"Send a telegram to the Boss," Fowler said to his secretary.
"Philadelphia has been secured; there is only one voice here now."
New Jersey.
On an open stretch of land enclosed by high walls and barbed wire stood three four-story red brick buildings.
Armed security guards stood at the entrance, some even leading fierce Dobermans.
Anyone entering or exiting was required to show a metal ID badge with a photo.
This was the Argyle Central Laboratory. It brought together nearly two hundred mathematicians, chemists, and mechanical engineers whom Felix had recruited with high salaries from all over Europe and America.
They earned salaries three times higher than university professors and had signed the strictest confidentiality agreements, turning the concepts in Felix's mind into reality here.
Felix was walking down the hallway of Building No. 2.
The floor was polished to a shine, and the air was thick with the scent of machine oil and ozone.
"Boss, that new young man... is a bit difficult to manage."
The laboratory's administrative supervisor, a German-American engineer named White, was reporting to Felix with a look of distress.
"He's very talented, but he's also far too arrogant. He actually complained that our equipment isn't fast enough and is always dismantling other people's instruments without permission. Several old professors from the electrical group have come to my office to complain multiple times."
"Are you talking about Thomas Edison?"
Felix stopped walking and looked through the glass window at the busy scene inside.
"Yes. That brat who doesn't know his place," White sighed.
"If it weren't for you personally naming him, I would have kicked him out long ago."
"Take me to see him," Felix smiled.
"Geniuses are always a bit mad; the key is how you use them."
In a laboratory with a sign that read 'Mechanical Improvement Group,' Felix met the 21-year-old Thomas Edison.
The young man had disheveled hair and was covered in oil stains. He was leaning over a massive workbench, shouting at a brass machine.
"No, the gear engagement is too slow. What we need is synchronization! Synchronization!"
Because he was somewhat hard of hearing, Edison's voice was very loud, making the assistant next to him tremble.
"Ahem." Felix knocked on the doorframe.
Edison turned his head, and seeing it was Felix, he hurriedly wiped his hands, his eyes sparkling with excitement.
"Mr. Argyle, you've come at just the right time. Come and look at this!"
He pointed to the complex-looking machine on the table.
"This is my improved 'Stock Ticker.' I threw away all those clunky old escapement mechanisms and replaced them with this spiral synchronization device."
Edison skillfully connected the power, and the machine immediately made a brisk 'clack-clack' sound as a paper tape quickly spat out.
"It's twice as fast as the Gold Tickers currently on the market, and it doesn't jam."
Edison was like a child showing off a treasure, but his eyes betrayed a businessman's shrewdness.
"Sir, if we promote this on Wall Street, everyone will be scrambling to rent it. I've calculated that the cost of one machine is only fifty dollars, but we can charge them three hundred dollars a year in rent!"
Felix picked up the paper tape and glanced at it; it was indeed clear and smooth.
"Well done, Thomas," Felix nodded. "Hayes will go and apply for the patent. As for you, according to the contract, you will receive a handsome bonus."
"Just a bonus?"
Edison rubbed his hands together, somewhat unsatisfied.
"Boss, I heard the electrical group on the third floor is researching some kind of 'glowing glass bulb'? I'm very interested in that. I think their direction is wrong; direct current should..."
"Stop."
Felix raised his hand and interrupted him.
He looked into Edison's ambitious eyes.
He knew this man all too well.
Edison was a great inventor, but he was also a businessman with an extreme desire for control.
If he were allowed to intervene in the core R&D of the power system now, it would be hard to say whose name that system would bear later on.
Furthermore, a power system required rigorous systems engineering, not Edison's fanatical 'trial and error' method.
"Thomas, the electrical department has those old professors to worry about. Those are boring math problems."
Felix pulled a sketch from his pocket. It was a crude device he had drawn from memory—a cylinder with a needle on it.
"I have something more interesting for you to do."
"What is this?" Edison leaned in curiously.
Felix pointed to the sketch.
"I was thinking, since the telegraph can record text, is there something that can record sound?"
"Record sound?" Edison was stunned.
"Yes. Carve human speech or music onto tinfoil or a wax cylinder. Then play it back whenever you want to hear it."
Felix's voice was full of allure.
"Imagine, Thomas. If this thing is made, we can sell recordings of President Lincoln's speeches or the songs of opera sopranos to thousands of households."
"That's much more interesting than a ticker, isn't it?"
Edison's eyes lit up.
This was indeed a field no one had ever set foot in, and it sounded like it had massive commercial prospects.
"Sound... vibration... converted into mechanical indentations..."
Edison muttered to himself, his mind already starting to race.
"If a diaphragm is used to receive sound waves, driving a needle..."
"Exactly." Felix patted him on the shoulder.
"I will allocate a special fund of fifty thousand dollars for you to establish an 'Acoustics Laboratory.' The first floor of this building will be under your charge. Forget about those boring wires on the third floor; go and catch sound in a cage."
"No problem, Boss." Edison excitedly grabbed the sketch.
"I'm going to draw the blueprints right now, but I'll need the best lathe operators."
Watching Edison rush toward the workbench as if he'd been injected with adrenaline, a smile curled on Felix's lips.
As long as you give this wild horse a prairie, he won't think about tearing down your house... After settling Edison in, Felix took White to the core area on the third floor, the 'Electric Propulsion Department.'
The atmosphere here was completely different.
There was no noisy shouting, only dozens of engineers in White coats quietly calculating data or debugging massive coils.
The head of the department was a former assistant to Siemens, a rigorous German engineer named Stein.
"Boss."
Stein pushed up his thick glasses and pointed to the massive machine wrapped in copper wire in the center of the lab.
"This is the third-generation generator we've prototyped. But... there are still problems."
"Still overheating?" Felix asked.
"Yes. And the magnetic field is unstable." Stein pointed to the rotor.
"To generate enough current to light up an entire block, the rotation speed must be very high. But the existing coil structure can't withstand that heat. Also, we need a more efficient self-excited magnetic field design."
Felix looked at the behemoth.
He didn't understand the specific electromagnetic formulas, but he knew the direction.
"Try changing the way the coils are wound."
Felix recalled science popularization videos he had seen on Douyin in his previous life.
"Don't just wind them on the surface. Try embedding the coils into the slots of the rotor's iron core? Or... toroidal winding?"
He vaguely remembered this was the logic behind the later Gramme Ring or the Siemens Drum Rotor.
Stein froze for a moment, then immediately fell into deep thought.
"Embedding into the iron core... that could reduce magnetic reluctance and increase the heat dissipation area... this might be a solution!"
Felix pointed to several glass covers nearby, inside of which were carbon rods glowing red and then dimming.
"How is the light bulb coming along?"
"Still not working." Stein shook his head.
"Current arc lamps are too blinding and have a short lifespan. We've tried platinum wire, but it's too expensive. We've tried carbon rods, but they burn out very quickly."
"Vacuum." Felix uttered the word.
"The current vacuum level isn't high enough; the oxygen inside is murdering the filament."
"We need better vacuum pumps. Buy them, build them. No matter how much it costs."
Felix picked up a carbon rod and thought for a moment.
"As for the filament material... try carbonizing organic matter. Like cotton thread? Or bamboo fiber?"
"Bamboo fiber?" Stein was somewhat surprised. "That kind of plant fiber?"
"Yes. Burn it into charcoal, but maintain its structure. Perhaps that stuff is more heat-resistant than metal."
Felix didn't give the standard answer directly because he wasn't entirely sure of the specific process himself.
So he could only give a direction and let this group of the world's smartest brains use trial and error.
"Remember, Stein."
Felix looked at the still-smoking generator.
"The light bulb is just the terminal. This generator is the heart. What I want is not just to light up a single room; I want to sell electricity to everyone through pipes, just like water and gas."
"Whoever masters the generator masters the next century."
"Understood, Boss." Stein nodded solemnly. "We will work on this day and night."
Leaving the lab, Felix looked back at the three buildings.
"Let's go, Flynn." Felix got into the carriage.
"Go see Hayes. Since the ticker is ready, it's time we went to Wall Street to collect some interest."
"Also, tell the security team to raise the walls here by another meter. I don't want a single scrap of paper flying out of here."
The carriage left two deep ruts in the snow as it drove toward the prosperous and greedy Manhattan.
February 10, 1868, by the Passaic River, New Jersey.
Here sat a precise gem in the Argyle industrial empire: the manufacturing plant of the Standard Commercial Company.
Inside the massive red-brick factory, hundreds of belt-driven machine tools roared.
The air was thick with the scent of cutting fluid, lubricant, and metal shavings. To Christopher Latham Sholes, this aroma was more enchanting than any perfume.
As the general manager of the Standard Commercial Company, Sholes stood on the second-floor observation gallery, pocket watch in hand, his gaze sternly sweeping over the typewriter assembly line below.
"Assembly Station Three, you're falling behind!"
Sholes shouted, his voice piercing through the mechanical din.
"Remember, the tolerance for the typebar linkages must be kept within 0.01 inches. If I find any jammed keys during spot checks, the bonuses for this entire batch will be forfeited."
The workers lowered their heads and quickened their pace.
Here, Sholes was God.
He had transformed the typewriter, which once existed only in laboratories, into a mass-produced industrial product.
Now, every wooden crate shipped from here meant a precision typewriter was about to land on the desk of a lawyer or a writer.
"Sholes, your voice is as loud as ever."
A youthful voice rang out from behind him.
Sholes turned and saw Felix, dressed in a dark gray wool coat and holding a black cane, accompanied by Tom Hayes.
Behind them followed a young man with messy hair and a grease-stained face, cradling a strange machine covered in canvas.
"Boss, Mr. Hayes."
Sholes quickly put away his pocket watch and walked over.
"Welcome. Our typewriter production just surpassed five hundred units this month. The orders from Europe..."
"No rush, let's put the typewriter business aside for a moment, Sholes," Felix interrupted with a smile.
"I know you're doing a great job. But I'm here today to introduce you to a new colleague."
Felix stepped aside, revealing the unkempt young man.
"Thomas Edison. Head of the Acoustics Department at the Central Laboratory, and a tireless inventor."
Edison gave a somewhat awkward smile, extending a grease-covered hand before quickly pulling it back.
"Hello, Mr. Sholes. I... I've studied your typewriter keyboard layout. That QWERTY design is simply genius; it perfectly solves the problem of linkage collisions."
Sholes adjusted his glasses, a hint of skepticism flashing in his eyes as he looked at the young man, who was more than twenty years his junior.
"Thank you for the compliment. However, I assume the Boss didn't bring you here just to praise my machine?"
"Of course not."
Felix pointed to the object in Edison's arms.
"Thomas, put it on the table. Show it to our general manager."
Edison placed the machine on an inspection table by the gallery and pulled back the canvas.
It was a cylindrical device with a brass casing, a complex set of gears at the base, and a glass dome on top containing a roll of white paper tape.
"What is this?" Sholes leaned in closer. "It looks like a... flattened telegraph?"
"It's called a 'Stock Ticker,'" Edison introduced excitedly. "Or you could call it a 'Money Printer.'"
Edison skillfully connected the pre-arranged power cord and then pressed the transmitting keyboard connected to the other end.
"Click-clack, click-clack..."
A crisp, rapid clattering came from inside the machine. It was the engagement of metal on metal, full of mechanical rhythm.
The paper tape spat out, clearly printed with a line of numbers and letters.
Sholes was an expert.
Instead of looking at the tape, he pressed his ear directly against the machine's casing to listen to the sounds within.
"Ratchet mechanism..." Sholes muttered to himself.
"Screw-thread synchronous advancement... Hmm? This sound isn't right. Your return spring is too stiff; prolonged operation will cause metal fatigue."
Sholes straightened up and pointed at the ink wheel.
"And the lubrication system is too primitive. In an environment like Wall Street, with high heat and humidity, the ink will run and blur the text."
Edison froze, his face turning bright red.
"This... it's not fully perfected yet! But the principle is sound!"
"A sound principle doesn't mean it's marketable," Sholes said coldly.
"Industrial products require stability. If this thing jams during the busiest trading hours, those angry brokers will smash the machine over your head."
"Well said," Felix applauded.
"That's exactly why I brought him to you, Sholes."
Felix stepped between the two, looking at these two mechanical geniuses with such different personalities.
"Thomas is responsible for going from zero to one; he has the idea. And you, Sholes, you're responsible for going from one to ten thousand. You will use your experience in manufacturing typewriters to turn this prototype into an indestructible industrial beast."
"I want it to run continuously for 72 hours without overheating, for the gears to last three years without wear, and ideally, for the print to remain legible even after being soaked in water."
"That would require redesigning the drive shaft and switching to case-hardened steel," Sholes calculated, frowning. "The cost will increase significantly."
"Cost is not an issue," Hayes, who had been silent until now, spoke up.
He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, a glint of Wall Street greed in his eyes.
"Mr. Sholes, the business model for this machine is completely different from that of the typewriter. A typewriter is a one-time sale; once it's sold, it's no longer our concern. But this ticker..."
Hayes patted the brass casing.
"We lease it; we don't sell it."
"Lease only?" Sholes was stunned.
"Correct. We lease the machines to brokerage firms for an annual rent of three hundred dollars, plus a monthly data service fee of fifty dollars," Hayes gestured with his fingers.
"As long as the machine is spinning, money will flow in like water. Even if this machine were made of gold, it would pay for itself in three months."
"So the quality must be top-tier. Every minute it's broken is a minute of our reputation lost."
Sholes understood.
This was a far more formidable business than selling products: selling services, selling dependency.
"Fine."
Sholes took a deep breath; it was the fuel for his battle.
"Give me the blueprints," he said, reaching out to Edison.
"And take that prototype of yours apart. I want to see just how terrible the internal structure is."
Although Edison was somewhat indignant, he obediently handed over the blueprints under Sholes's aura as a veteran engineer.
"Here..."
Sholes pointed to a spindle on the blueprints.
"The tolerance is too high. It needs to be reduced to 0.005 inches. We have precision grinders imported from Germany that can do it."
"And this electromagnet—the coil is wound too loosely. It must be soaked in shellac to set it, preventing it from shaking loose."
Sholes issued instructions as he reviewed the plans.
He spoke rapidly, technical terms tumbling out one after another. Edison's initial defiance slowly turned to astonishment, and finally, he pulled out a small notebook and began recording everything frantically.
Watching this scene, Felix nodded in satisfaction.
"Tom, remember to follow up on this. Ideally, I want a hundred machines built within a month."
"Understood, Boss," Hayes noted. "And when do we start pitching to Wall Street?"
"Once the machines are ready," Felix turned around.
"When the time comes, you and Sholes will go together. One of you understands technology, the other understands money. I want you to turn that noisy 'Gold Room' into a concert hall for our machines."
"This isn't just a machine; it's a standard. In the future, all financial data must be transmitted according to our format."
March 20th, New York, Wall Street.
It was Friday, usually the most frantic day for trading.
The Gold Exchange, located at the intersection of Argyle Street and Exchange Place, commonly known as the "Gold Room," was currently like a boiling cauldron.
There were no windows here, and ventilation was extremely poor.
Hundreds of gas lamps emitted heat and a foul odor, which, mixed with the sweat, tobacco, and cologne of hundreds of men, created a suffocating atmosphere.
In the center of the trading floor was a circular area enclosed by iron railings.
That was the battlefield for licensed brokers.
They waved their arms, their faces flushed and necks strained as they roared out quotes.
"Buy! 142! Two thousand ounces!"
"Sell! Who wants it? 142.5!"
On the periphery of the trading floor, dozens of young men in worn-out vests darted through the crowd.
They were known as "Runners."
Once a deal was struck by the bosses inside, they would take small slips of paper with the prices written on them and dash out like rabbits, weaving through the crowded streets to deliver the trade slips to various brokerage offices.
Speed was money.
To deliver news even a minute earlier, these Runners often broke their legs on stairs or were knocked down by carriages in the street.
But today, a strange booth appeared in a corner of the trading hall.
A long table covered with a red velvet cloth stood there, looking completely out of place in the grimy surroundings.
On the table were five gleaming cylindrical machines, each topped with an exquisite glass dome and connected to black cables below.
Those were the first batch of Standard Stock Tickers that had just come off the production line of the Standard Commercial Company.
Sholes was dressed in a sharp deep-blue suit, his hair combed meticulously.
He was holding a white handkerchief, carefully wiping non-existent dust from the glass domes. As a perfectionist, he could not tolerate any flaws in his work.
Beside him, Tom Hayes was like a hunter waiting for prey, with an assistant holding a stack of exquisite flyers.
"Who is that? Hayes?"
Several passing veteran brokers recognized the head of the "Patriot Investment Company," which had risen to fame on Wall Street in recent years.
"What is he selling? A new type of coffee machine?" someone mocked.
"Or some kind of juicer? Is it meant to squeeze our wallets dry?"
A burst of laughter erupted around them.
Hayes was not angry. He clapped his hands, his voice loud and brimming with confidence.
"Gentlemen! Please allow me to take a minute of your time. I know every second of your time is worth hundreds of dollars. But I guarantee that this minute will allow you to earn much more in the future—or rather, lose much less."
"What is this?"
A trader with a fleshy face and a cigar in his mouth squeezed through.
"Stop being so mysterious, Hayes. Gold is rising; I don't have time for a show."
"This is the 'Standard Ticker'," Hayes said, pointing to the machine.
"Mr. Sholes, please give a demonstration."
Sholes nodded and pressed the transmitting keyboard connected to the other end. That keyboard was linked to the recording desk inside the exchange, an arrangement Felix had specifically made.
"Click-clack, click-clack..."
The five machines simultaneously emitted a crisp, rhythmic sound.
The sound was strikingly unique in the noisy hall. It wasn't as chaotic as human shouting, but rather possessed a mechanical coldness and precision.
Paper tape spat out like a tongue, with a line of text clearly printed on it:
"GLD 142.25 +0.50"
The fleshy-faced trader was stunned for a moment.
He grabbed the paper tape, looked at the price on it, and then looked up at the large blackboard that had just been updated in the center of the trading pool.
They were identical.
"This... this is the transaction price from just now?" He could hardly believe it.
"Exactly," Hayes said with a smile.
"This machine is directly connected to the exchange's recorders. As soon as a trade occurs here, the data is converted into an electrical signal and transmitted instantly through the wires to this machine."
"Instantly?" someone asked skeptically.
"Faster than my runner? My runner was a former sprinting champion."
"Can your runner outrun lightning?" Hayes countered, pointing to the row of machines, his tone becoming seductive.
"And whether your office is next door on Argyle Street, or two miles away on Broadway, or even in Brooklyn—as long as a wire is run, the price will appear simultaneously."
"You won't need to keep ten Runners anymore. You won't have to worry about them slacking off, drinking on the job, or losing the slips. You only need to sit in your office, sip your coffee, and watch this paper tape to know every heartbeat of the market."
The scene fell silent for a few seconds.
Everyone realized the value of this thing.
In this market of information asymmetry, whoever knows the price first is God.
"How much?"
A well-dressed old gentleman asked.
He was Mr. Van Dyke, one of New York's largest brokers.
"For lease only, not for sale." Hayes held up three fingers.
"The annual rent is three hundred dollars, including machine maintenance and data access fees."
"Three hundred? Are you crazy?" someone shouted.
"I can hire a runner for only twenty dollars a month; this is simply robbery!"
"Runners get tired, they get sick, and they might write 124 instead of 142," Hayes said coldly. "This machine will not."
At this point, Sholes spoke up, his voice carrying the authority of an engineer.
"Gentlemen, this machine uses special Carburized Steel Gears made by Standard Commercial Company, as well as our patented Synchronous Motor. We can guarantee that it can run continuously for 72 hours without overheating, with an error rate of less than one in a hundred thousand."
"If the machine breaks down, our maintenance team will arrive within half an hour. If it cannot be fixed, we will replace it with a new one. This is written in the contract."
Hayes then threw out his trump card.
"Furthermore, Argyle Bank and Patriot Investment Company have already installed them. If you don't have one..."
Hayes shrugged, showing a hint of sympathy.
"When a crash or a bull market arrives, and others have already placed their sell orders, your Runners might still be panting on the stairs. At that time, what you lose won't just be three hundred dollars; it could be thirty thousand, or even three hundred thousand."
These words were like a knife stabbing into everyone's heart.
"Give me one!"
Mr. Van Dyke was the first to pull out his checkbook.
"No, give me three. I want one on every partner's desk."
"I want one too, give me two!"
"Don't push! I want one too!"
The crowd that had been mocking moments ago instantly turned into a frenzy of buyers. They waved their checks as if they were waving life-saving straws.
Sholes was frantically registering names, his hands trembling, but this time it was from excitement.
"Mr. Hayes, we only have a hundred in stock for the first batch..." Sholes whispered a reminder, "There are too many people here."
"Then let them line up."
Hayes replied in a low voice, a professional smile on his face.
"Tell them it won't be in stock until next month. The more they can't get it, the more they'll want it."
In a VIP box on the second floor.
Felix stood in the shadows, watching the frantic crowd below.
"Do you hear that, Flynn?"
Felix said to the intelligence chief behind him.
"That click-clack sound is the heartbeat of Wall Street. From today on, I will control the frequency of this heartbeat."
"Boss, news from Western Union," Flynn reported.
"They have already prepared the engineering teams for laying the lines. As soon as the contract is signed, work can begin tomorrow."
"Good." Felix nodded.
"Tell Sholes the factory needs to run three shifts. Within half a year, I want these copper wires to crawl over every office building in Manhattan."
"Since New York has been secured..."
Felix turned around, his gaze falling on the world map on the wall.
"The next target is London."