A thick fog clung to the streets, and the stone lions guarding the New York Public Library were dusted with frost. Shane strode up the steps, his breath scattering in the frigid air.
The kaleidoscope of colors from the previous night's film screening still lingered in his mind.
Pushing open the heavy bronze doors, warm air carrying the scent of old leather and ink enveloped him. By the time he removed his hat, melted snow from his shoes had formed a small puddle on the marble floor.
The technology section was on the north wing of the third floor, and Shane quickly ascended the spiral staircase. His gloved fingers left a cold trail on the railing as he passed.
He let his hand glide between bookshelves in Section B, Row Three: Principles of Acoustics, Film Projection Technology, Optical Engineering Handbook…
Finally, his fingers rested on a thick, dust-covered volume: Advances in Optics: 1900–1925. A faint scent of camphor drifted up as he opened it.
On a yellowed page, a black-and-white photograph caught his eye: a disheveled man with round glasses stood in a cluttered laboratory, a blackboard behind him scrawled with complex formulas. The caption read:
"Professor Hermann Erich, Swiss Federal Institute of Technology, Zurich, 1922."
Shane's heart began to race. He turned immediately to the chapter on Color Imaging Technology. Hermann's abstract on three-color band technology leapt from the pages. Differential equations and optical functions danced before his eyes, and knowledge from Shane's previous life surged back like a tide.
"Color separation is the key…" he murmured.
"By recording red, green, and blue primary colors separately through filters and then recombining them, natural colors can be reproduced…"
Hermann's rigorous writing revealed the blueprint for true color film. Shane traced the slightly raised type with his fingertips; technical terms suddenly felt vividly alive.
From the distant reading area, the rustle of turning pages and the faint scratching of pens punctuated the quiet. Shane studied the diagrams and formulas, piecing together optical knowledge like a complex puzzle.
"Red… green… blue…" he whispered, almost as if chanting an incantation.
In his mind's eye, the brilliant colors of the future screen emerged—no longer the distorted hues of current two-color films, but a natural, breathtaking spectrum. His thoughts raced with ideas on translating theory into practice.
"Sir, do you need assistance?" A librarian's voice broke through his focus.
Shane looked up at a young woman with black-rimmed glasses. "Yes. I'd like to know more about Professor Hermann, especially what became of him after 1923."
Her expression shifted subtly. "You mean… the laboratory explosion?"
"Explosion?" Shane frowned.
"In November 1923, a serious accident occurred at the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology, Zurich. Professor Hermann was reported missing, and authorities eventually declared him dead. But…" She lowered her voice, glancing down the empty corridor. "His body was never found. Rumor has it…"
Shane shivered.
"Did he have any students or relatives?"
Her gaze flicked cautiously around. "Hermann had a favorite student, Reinhardt Krause. He also vanished after the accident. Some say he went to Asia, others that he came to America—but no one knows for certain. Likely just rumors."
Shane thanked the librarian and spent the day consulting documents until closing time. When he emerged into the cold evening, streetlights flickered through the fog. A bold plan had taken shape: find Reinhardt Krause, establish his own laboratory, and develop true three-color band technology before Technicolor—no matter the cost. In two years, he would hold the leverage he needed to face the coming storm.
Over the next two weeks, Shane threw himself into preparations. East Coast United's freight supervisor, a gaunt old man with a glass eye, handed him the key to Warehouse No. 12, its rusted teeth still bearing traces of salt.
The warehouse exceeded his expectations. High ceilings and steel framing allowed sunlight to stream through sawtooth skylights, cutting patterns of light and shadow across the concrete floor. Even the distant blare of freighters on the East River caused the space to resonate like a giant projector coming to life.
Shane personally supervised the workers sealing every crack with asphalt and oakum. Walls were coated with sound-insulating plaster, and glycerin was injected between the double-paned windows, following techniques from Hermann's notes to protect optical instruments from temperature fluctuations.
When completed, the laboratory resembled a surgical suite: filtered air, dust-free, precise—every element optimized for color experimentation.
Marcus Laird, a sidelined Kodak engineer, delivered two boxes labeled Photosensitive Material – Scrapped.
"These are three-color emulsions from the 1924 experimental batch," he explained, black stains on his fingernails. "They capture 90% of the visible spectrum, but the bureaucrats said it was too expensive."
Inside were twelve uncut rolls of three-color negatives stamped H. S. Prototype III, and a handwritten notebook in German:
"When colors achieve perfect balance, the screen will be more real than reality. D. v. B, 1924.8.25."
Former Technicolor engineers also arrived, including Lena Voight, a German woman wearing a copper hearing aid. Her modified Bell & Howell projectors synchronized with an error of only 1/24th of a frame.
"Color is time," she told Shane during a break, her copper aid gleaming. "A thousandth of a second off, and rose red turns blood red."
Meanwhile, the Volker brothers, following Shane's instructions, scoured customs records of European arrivals since 1923, seeking any trace of the missing Reinhardt Krause.
One goal drove them all: to uncover the vanished genius and bring the dream of true color film to life.