The chilly early-winter wind swept withered leaves down Fifth Avenue, making the hems of pedestrians' heavy coats flap. Yet inside the brilliantly lit Warner Theatre, warmth and opulence defied the bleakness outside.
A colossal six-tiered crystal chandelier hung from the gilded dome, thousands of prismatic crystals refracting light into a dazzling, ethereal galaxy. The polished marble floor reflected the ceiling fresco, The Feast of the Gods, with stunning clarity.
Mary clutched Shane's suit sleeve, her pearl hair ornament gleaming under the chandelier. "It's about to start, Brother!" she whispered, her green eyes sparkling with childlike anticipation. "Hurry! Linda and Tom are already here!"
She practically dragged Shane through the deep-red-carpeted aisle, finally spotting Tom and Linda seated near the center. Mary waved excitedly, and just as she was about to greet them, her gaze swept the row behind. She covered her mouth and giggled.
The six mid-level executives of East Coast United Company, along with Volker, Mikhail, Vik, and the others, were all sitting stiffly behind them. These men, accustomed to hauling crates at the docks and handling business on the streets, were now awkwardly dressed in brand-new suits, clutching hot chestnuts, peanuts, and waffle cones, feeling utterly out of place.
Mikhail muttered under his breath, twisting his neck nervously, "Volker… I'd rather be in the pub than sitting here like a stuffed turkey."
Volker, in the center, fidgeted with his dark suit, glancing around at the gilded theater with a mix of awe and regret. Perhaps Shane's idea of "everyone attending together" had been… overly ambitious.
Mary's laughter, sharp and bright, broke the tension like a pebble dropped into calm water. Shane followed her gaze, understanding immediately.
He calmly patted her back to help her compose herself, then turned to the men behind, his eyes meeting Volker's for a brief moment. No mockery—only reassurance and understanding.
"You brought a lot of snacks," Shane said quietly, taking a bag of licorice from Vik. He tasted one piece, then casually handed the bag to Tom beside him. "It's for enjoyment, not standing guard. Relax and have fun."
The men exchanged glances. Slowly, shoulders eased, and the stiff atmosphere melted.
They began awkwardly sampling their snacks, mimicking the audience around them, while their gaze lingered on the heavy velvet curtain as it slowly rose.
The test clip from The Vikings flickered on the screen—a two-strip Technicolor print, one of the earliest experiments in color film.
The orchestra pianist slammed scales to awaken the audience.
Mary gasped. "Oh my God…"
The uneven red and green hues of the film refracted a fleeting rainbow in Shane's eyes. He remained composed, though his right hand gripped the armrest tightly.
"Brother, your palms are sweating," Mary whispered, leaning closer, the scent of peppermint from her gum mingling with the warm theater air.
Shane's mind drifted to a muggy summer in the university library. He had forced himself through three heavy books on film history to impress an art student. Professor Hermann's words echoed: "Film becomes true art when color deceives not the eyes, but the heart."
A popping salt crystal from a snack bag landed on his lapel, glowing under the distorted light. When the thirty-second two-strip projection ended with a mechanical whir, fragments of unburned celluloid drifted like microscopic meteors.
Then, The Jazz Singer began, black-and-white images followed by Al Jolson's voice filling the theater. Tom whistled, Linda covered her mouth, and Vik mimicked the singer comically, yet Shane remained rigid, analyzing every hue.
If sound can break the screen, why not color?
The flawed red-green spectrum of the two-strip process reminded him of his optical studies. Three primary colors—red, green, and blue—intersected in his mind, forming a perfect spectrum far more vibrant than the primitive two-color film.
As the theater lights came up, Shane closed his eyes instinctively. The lingering images—Mary's pearls, the silk flowers, Volker's plaid suit—merged into a perfect color continuum inside his mind.
"Three-strip…" he whispered. A term as heavy and magical as a spell.
The audience's chatter swelled, but Shane stood rooted, glimpsing a phantom of Professor Hermann behind a pillar. Only the usher remained.
"Brother?" Mary tugged at his sleeve, her pearl ornament glinting softly under the lights. Shane smiled, the first fully at ease since they entered.
Outside, the cold wind whipped around them as they walked to the Cadillac. Shane deliberately stepped on a thin sheet of ice, shattering it. The radiating cracks mirrored the triple-color projection he envisioned.
Though most of the city still watched black-and-white films, Shane already saw the future of color, perfectly rendered before his eyes.