Lower East Side, Manhattan, New York.
In the workshop of the Abernathy Garment Factory, the deafening panting of steam from days past had vanished.
The transmission belts crisscrossing overhead like giant black pythons had been cleared away. Only a few old indentations from the fixed pulleys remained on the ceiling.
In their place was a low, continuous, and steady hum.
Martha was an Irish female worker.
She sat at a long wooden table in front of a Singer industrial sewing machine.
Beneath the base of the sewing machine, a fist-sized black cylinder was bolted in place. It was a DC motor installed by the General Electric Company.
A thin rubber-wrapped wire extended from the cylinder, ran up the table leg, and plugged into a copper terminal block on the wall.
Martha stepped on the foot pedal.
There was no lag, no resistance from a slipping belt.
The motor instantly surged with power, driving the sewing machine's needle up and down. The needle tip left a row of fine, even stitches on the coarse denim.
The speed was twice as fast as before.
Jane, the female worker sitting next to her, stopped her work and looked up at the bare ceiling.
"Martha, I always feel a bit uneasy."
Jane rubbed her aching shoulders, a hint of awe for the unknown in her gaze.
"No coal burning, no steam. How can this iron lump turn by itself? It's like there's an invisible ghost hidden inside pushing it along."
Martha didn't look up, her eyes fixed on the sewing machine's stitches.
"Whatever is hidden inside, Jane. At least we don't have to be on edge anymore."
Martha pressed down harder, and the fabric slid forward quickly.
"Did you forget how Sophia lost half her scalp last month? When that damned main belt snapped, it was like a man-eating whip. Now the belts are gone. There's no choking coal smoke in the air either. I think this thing is great."
"It is good. But..." Jane sighed.
"Haven't you noticed? This machine is tireless. Before, when the steam engine boiler was being fueled or when a belt got stuck, we could stop to catch our breath and have some water. Now, as long as you step on the pedal, it keeps turning. The boss has increased the daily quota by thirty pieces."
By the iron railing on the second floor, the factory owner, Horace Abernathy, was looking down at everything in the workshop.
He wasn't holding an account book, but a cup of steaming black tea. His gaze swept over the fast-moving sewing machines and finally landed on the glass-covered electric meter on the wall outside.
Higgins, the foreman, walked up the iron stairs and stood beside Abernathy.
"Boss. The production statistics for the morning shift are out."
Higgins handed over a slip of paper.
"Five hundred garments, and the defect rate has dropped to single digits. Because the machine speed is stable, the frequency of broken stitches has significantly decreased."
Abernathy took the slip and glanced at the numbers.
"The meter outside on the wall, how much has the number moved?" Abernathy asked.
"It jumped ten units, which is ten kilowatt-hours."
Higgins replied.
Abernathy quickly calculated in his head.
Ten kilowatt-hours, one dollar.
The power cost for five hundred garments was only one dollar.
In the past, running that old Corliss steam engine for half a day would have consumed half a ton of coal, plus the stoker's wages, costing at least three dollars.
"Go tell the people below."
Abernathy stuffed the slip into his vest pocket.
"Shorten the lunch break by fifteen minutes and have them speed up. What flows through these wires is money. Every second the machines stop, I'm losing profit."
"And another thing."
Abernathy pointed to the light bulbs overhead that hadn't been lit yet.
"Starting today, add a night shift. Hire fifty more female workers. As long as there's light, this factory can print money twenty-four hours a day."
Higgins wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"Boss. If the workers work back-to-back shifts, they'll break down."
"Hmph, thousands of new immigrants get off the boats in New York every day." Abernathy's gaze was cold.
"If they break down, replace them. As long as the machines don't get tired, it's fine."
While Abernathy was calculating his profits, the Miller Printing Factory just a street away was a different scene.
The air here was thick and foul.
A massive steam engine roared dully in the factory's backyard. The ground trembled with the machine's operation.
The factory manager, Theodore Miller, sat in his office, clutching a newly delivered notice of breach of contract.
The veins on his forehead throbbed.
Opposite the desk stood Brody, the printing factory's foreman.
"Mr. Theodore."
Brody's hands were covered in ink, his tone anxious.
"The mail-order catalog order from Macy's fell through. They gave the contract to a new printing factory in Brooklyn."
"Why?"
Theodore slammed the breach of contract notice onto the desk.
"We've worked with Macy's for three years! Our quote was already at cost!"
Brody swallowed hard.
"The other side's quote was ten percent lower than ours, and their delivery cycle is half of ours."
Brody pointed out the window.
"Mr. Theodore. That factory is using General Electric motors and electric lights. They don't need to maintain massive transmission shafts; the power is directly connected to the printing rollers. The ink on the printed paper is even, with no coal ash contamination. Most importantly, they don't stop at night. Seeing the type clearly under those electric lights is much faster than typesetting under our dim gas lamps, and they don't make mistakes with the letters."
Theodore slumped in his chair.
"A ten percent lower quote? Are they not making money?"
"They're making more than we are." Brody lowered his head.
"Their overall costs have come down. Mr. Theodore, we can't hold on. If we don't change our equipment, we won't even be able to get small jobs like printing flyers. The Abernathy Garment Factory next door already started night shifts yesterday. The whole street is lit up at night, while we're the only ones in the dark."
Theodore turned to look out the window.
Through the dust-covered glass, he could see the glass box fixed to the outer wall of the opposite factory. The metal disc inside was spinning continuously.
That was the General Electric meter.
"I swore I wouldn't sign that kind of indentured contract." Theodore gritted his teeth.
"Ten years of exclusive power supply. Once signed, my factory becomes a puppet in Argyle' hands."
"If we don't sign, we'll have to close down and liquidate next month." Brody point-blank stated the harsh reality.
"The paper in the warehouse is piled as high as mountains, and the steam engine's coal supplier came to collect the debt again yesterday. We have no way out."
Theodore closed his eyes. The roar of the steam engine sounded like a death knell at that moment.
After a long time, he opened his eyes.
"Get your coat, Brody."
Theodore stood up, his tone filled with exhaustion and resignation.
"Accompany me to Fulton Street to find that sales manager named Thorne."
This old ship belching black smoke finally raised the white flag before the tide of the electric age.
Fulton Street, General Electric Downtown Branch.
This place was originally the business hall of a bankrupt bank.
Now, the counters had been removed and replaced by two long rows of desks.
Dozens of clerks were buried in work, processing mountains of contracts and engineering blueprints. A huge map of the Manhattan blocks hung on the wall, densely covered with red pushpins; each pin represented a factory already connected to the power grid.
Theodore Miller entered, followed by the foreman, Brodie.
The hall was bustling with noise.
Theodore was not the only one there.
Several peers—factory managers involved in hardware processing and canned packaging—were sitting on benches in the waiting area, holding number plates and waiting anxiously for an audience.
Theodore walked to the front desk and gave his name to a receptionist.
Ten minutes later.
Vincent Thorne walked out of a private office in the inner room. The smile on his face was like a programmed machine—standardized and devoid of warmth.
"Mr. Theodore." Vincent extended his hand. "I'm glad you've changed your mind. Please, come in."
The two entered the office, while Brodie remained outside to wait.
Vincent did not pour tea. He directly pulled a standard-format 'General Electric Commercial Power Supply and Equipment Leasing Contract' from a drawer and pushed it in front of Theodore.
"I've looked into the situation of your printing house," Vincent said, sitting back in his chair.
"Fifteen heavy roller printing presses and ten paper cutters. We need to provide you with twenty-five high-power DC motors. You are likely among our last batch to receive free installation and wiring."
Theodore understood; it seemed the era of free installation was coming to an end. But whatever, at least he was still within the free period.
He picked up the contract, his gaze skipping over the nonsense regarding equipment parameters and fixing on the breach of contract terms and pricing mechanism.
"Ten years, a fifty-thousand-dollar penalty for breach of contract." Theodore looked up.
"Mr. Thorne, ten years is too long. If another power company appears on the market in five years, or if there's a cheaper source of power, I wouldn't even have the option to switch."
"You won't have other options, Mr. Theodore."
Vincent crossed his hands, his tone confident to the point of arrogance.
"In America, only the Argyle Family possesses the technology and capital for large-scale grid power generation. As for the penalty, it's merely to prevent some people from backing out after we've laid down expensive power lines. As long as you pay your electricity bills on time, this fifty thousand dollars is just a string of numbers printed on paper."
Theodore pointed to an attachment in the contract.
"The electricity price is ten cents per kilowatt-hour. That's your current price. If you suddenly raise the price to twenty cents or even fifty cents during the contract period, having signed an exclusive agreement, wouldn't I be at your mercy?"
The smile at the corners of Vincent's mouth faded slightly.
"That's called market fluctuation, Mr. Theodore. The price of coal will rise, and the price of copper wire will rise. We cannot guarantee no price adjustments for ten years. But we have the reputation of the Argyle Family as a guarantee; the increase in electricity prices will always be lower than the increase in coal prices during the same period. The cost of burning coal will always be more expensive than using electricity."
Vincent leaned forward, looking Theodore straight in the eye.
"What are you still hesitating for? Because of so-called independence and freedom?" Vincent pointed out the window.
"Go look at those factories on the street marked with red pins. They are using electricity to print cheaper books and sew cheaper clothes. If you continue to stick to your steam engine, the person looking for you next month won't be me, but a bankruptcy liquidator from the court."
Theodore's heart settled.
He knew Vincent was telling the truth. In this commercial jungle where the strong prey on the weak, falling behind meant death.
Freedom and independence were built on the foundation of being able to survive.
Theodore picked up the fountain pen on the desk and signed his name on the signature line.
"Please send a construction crew tomorrow."
Theodore pushed the contract back and stood up, looking as if he had aged ten years in an instant.
"Thank you for your trust. Rest assured, General Electric will not let you down."
Vincent efficiently tucked the contract into a filing cabinet.
Walking out of the branch building, Theodore looked up at the sky.
Under the grey clouds, several General Electric linemen in thick canvas coveralls were climbing a newly erected wooden utility pole.
The lead lineman was named O'Connor.
He was a burly Irishman. A thick leather safety belt was fastened around his waist, and the climbing spikes on his feet dug deep into the cedar wood pole.
"Pull it tighter! Hang that main line on that white porcelain insulator!"
"Oh, you idiot, how did you even pass the assessment? I told you to hang the wire on the insulator, not loop it around, okay?"
O'Connor shouted at his assistant on the ground.
"I'm very sorry, Mr. O'Connor. I'll fix it right away, I promise."
The assistant spoke while pulling hard on the winch, slowly lifting a copper wire as thick as a thumb.
Meanwhile, O'Connor grabbed the copper wire with his insulated gloves and skillfully wrapped it around the insulator. The copper wire shimmered with a cold metallic luster under the sunlight.
With O'Connor's operation, the last blank area on this street was filled.
The lines extending from the transformer box at the intersection, like an inescapable noose, were accurately connected under the eaves of Miller's printing house.
A few days later.
The steam engine at Miller's printing house was dismantled and hauled away.
In its place were twenty-five humming electric motors and an array of incandescent lamps in the workshop that made it bright as day.
The electric meter was hung on the outside wall.
Theodore stood before the meter, watching the aluminum disk inside spinning rapidly. The needle jumped along the scale.
He won back the orders from Macy's because he had lowered his quote by another five percent.
The workers began working in two shifts.
The machines didn't stop for twenty-four hours, and profits returned to his ledgers.
But Theodore felt no joy at all.
Whenever he saw those jumping numbers, he had an illusion. It wasn't the meter turning; it was an invisible straw stuck in his vein, continuously pumping his blood toward that skyscraper in Manhattan.
He had survived, but it felt as if he had become a prisoner of the Argyle Empire.
And in this city, prisoners like him were increasing by the hundreds and thousands every day.
Mid-May, 1870.
Greenwich Village, New York.
This was a residential area for Manhattan's middle class.
Neatly arranged brownstone houses lined both sides of the street. Those living here were mostly lawyers, doctors, middle-level bank employees, and successful retailers.
They didn't possess the immense wealth of the Astor Family, who owned detached estates on Fifth Avenue, but they had plenty of spare cash and sought a decent, comfortable life.
At dusk, the sky gradually darkened.
The gas lamps on the street corners were lit one by one by the lamplighters, casting a dim yellow glow.
A team of General Electric linemen was working on a street at the edge of Greenwich Village.
Their task was to extend the main cables from the industrial area to provide power for a large public laundry on the corner.
OConnor stood at the top of the utility pole, securing the last branch line. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and prepared to unbuckle his safety belt and slide down to the ground.
"Hello... sir up there."
A bright voice called out from below.
OConnor looked down.
A man dressed in a sophisticated grey double-breasted suit, holding a silver-handled cane, was standing beneath the pole.
"Is there something you need, sir?"
OConnor slid down the wooden pole to the ground and brushed the wood shavings off his hands.
The man unhesitatingly handed over a business card.
"Hello, I am Archibald Vance. I practice maritime litigation on Wall Street. I live in the third house in the block ahead."
Vance pointed to the brownstone houses not far away.
OConnor took the card; though he couldn't understand the complex titles, he knew this man was a respectable gentleman.
"Mr. Vance. Construction is underway here, and it's a bit dangerous. If you have something to say, please go ahead."
Vance pointed to the copper wire OConnor had just secured.
"Right, it's like this. I saw you connecting that rubber-coated metal wire to the laundry room just now. I heard it's called an electric wire, and when connected to General Electric's light bulbs, it provides better light than gas. Families like the Astors have already made the switch."
Vance withdrew his hand, his tone carrying a hint of urgency.
"My wife is at the end of her tether with the gas lamps at home. The black soot from the gas combustion has stained the velvet curtains she ordered from France. And the smell gives one a headache. I've been to Mrs. Astor's banquets and seen the electric lights. They're perfect—no smoke, and as bright as day."
Vance looked at OConnor with a serious expression.
"So I wanted to ask. Could you also run a line like this to my house? I want ten of those glass bulbs. To be installed in my living room and study. Money is no object."
OConnor was stunned for a moment and scratched the back of his head.
"Well... Mr. Vance. The work orders we receive are only for wiring factories and shops. The company hasn't said anything about running lines into private residences. This stuff has high voltage; it could kill someone if they're not careful. Factories have specialized switchboards, but homes don't."
"Then you can install a switchboard! I can pay double for the labor!" Vance pulled out a wallet.
"If you run the line over, this fifty dollars is your tip."
OConnor looked at the stack of green bills and swallowed hard, but he didn't dare take them.
General Electric's rules were very strict; unauthorized wiring would result in the security team breaking one's legs.
"I can't do it, sir. I don't have the authority to decide this," OConnor waved his hand.
"But if you really want it installed, perhaps you could go to the business office on Fulton Street and try applying there."
Vance put away his wallet in disappointment.
"Fine, I'll go to the business office myself tomorrow. I don't think they'd turn away business that comes knocking on their door."
Vance turned and left.
The next morning, at the Downtown Branch of General Electric.
Vincent Thorne looked at Archibald Vance sitting before him, then at the "Electricity Application" Vance had submitted, which included the joint signatures of over a dozen neighboring households.
"Mr. Vance."
Vincent placed the application on the desk.
"You mean that all the residents of the third block of Greenwich Village are willing to bear the cost of the indoor wiring modification themselves and pay monthly electricity bills, just to use our electric lights?"
"Not just Incandescent Lamps," Vance added.
"I heard you also invented something called an Electric Fan? Summer is coming. New York's summers are unbearably sweltering. If that thing can really blow a cool breeze, every one of our families would be willing to buy two."
Vincent leaned back in his chair.
His keen business intuition told him that this was an unimagined, massive gold mine.
Previously, all their energy had been focused on factories because their electricity consumption was high and stable.
But they had overlooked this middle class that pursued quality of life.
The number of factories was limited.
But the number of households was in the thousands.
"Mr. Vance, I understand your request."
Vincent stood up and extended his hand.
"Please wait patiently for a few days. I need to submit a report to the company. Since residential and industrial electricity use differ in terms of voltage and equipment, we need to establish a new set of indoor standards."
After seeing Vance off, Vincent immediately called a carriage and headed straight for the Empire State Building.
Top-floor office.
Heinrich White was standing before Felix's desk, reporting on the operation of Electricity Meters in the industrial district.
Vincent was led in by the secretary after knocking.
"Boss, Manager White."
Vincent said respectfully, suppressing his excitement.
"There's a new situation; the civilian market has been tapped."
Saying so, he handed Vance's joint application to Felix.
Felix took the paper, his eyes scanning the signatures. He wasn't surprised at all, as all of this had been anticipated.
"They're tired of gas lamps staining their curtains; they want light and fans." Felix placed the application on the desk.
"Boss, this is indeed a massive market. If we run wires into every household, then..."
Vincent's voice trembled with excitement.
"It's not just massive, Vincent. It's also a monopoly."
"Factories use electricity to reduce costs; they're doing math. But households use electricity for enjoyment. Humanity's pursuit of enjoyment is a bottomless pit. Once they get used to reading under bright lights and having fans blowing in the summer, they'll never be able to leave this wire again."
Felix turned and looked at White.
"Heinrich, the factory Electricity Meters are too large. Order the R&D team to shrink the size of the meters. Make a civilian version suitable for hanging on residential porches. Lower the voltage and add fuse-melting devices. Ensure that some fools don't electrocute themselves at home."
"Additionally, the lifespan of the lamp's carbon filament needs to be extended. Expand the production line and drive the cost of a single bulb below thirty cents. Then sell them to them for two dollars."
White nodded repeatedly, looking in agreement.
"I understand, Boss. The laying of the civilian power grid can run parallel to the industrial mains. We just need to split off low-voltage lines at the street Transformers."
Felix walked to his desk and leaned on it with both hands.
"Tell the legal department to draft a 'Residential Power Supply Agreement.' It doesn't need to be as long as ten years. Sign it for five. But add a clause: all households connected to the General Electric grid must only purchase electrical equipment for indoor use that bears the General Electric certification mark to ensure electrical safety."
Vincent and White exchanged a glance.
This was equivalent to blocking the sales channels for all future competitors' electrical appliances.
"Go and get it done."
Felix waved his hand, dismissing the two to attend to their tasks.