The Havana cigar between Nicholas Schenck's fingers had burned down half an inch, its ash hanging stubbornly, refusing to fall.
The soundproof glass of his Fifth Avenue office shut out the city's morning rush—the horns, the shouts, the distant rumble of the subway beneath Manhattan. Only the faint hiss of the radiator in the corner broke the silence.
Beyond the window, the skyline shimmered in pale winter light. The Empire State Building rose through a light veil of fog, a gray spire cutting the sky like a promise and a warning all at once.
On the mahogany desk, a telegram lay beside a half-empty crystal glass of Scotch whisky. The message—short and brutal—announced the breakdown of negotiations.
Joseph Schenck, Nicholas's brother and longtime business partner, stood by the desk, one hand resting on the telegram.
"What did Herbert promise Louis?" Nicholas asked without looking up. His tone was cool, detached—more like a man discussing the weather than corporate warfare. "Was it licensing rights? Or something deeper?"
"Worse," Joseph replied, his voice dry. "They're going after Pioneer Optics with a full-blown patent assault—over two hundred pages of filings. They even dug up old German blueprints from a Berlin optical firm. The ink's so old it still bears Weimar-era stamps."
Nicholas turned from the window, a faint, knowing smile ghosting across his lips.
"Let Louis Meyer take the first swing," he said quietly, walking to the liquor cabinet. The clink of ice in the glass sounded like punctuation to a sentence only he could read. "Once Technicolor draws blood, we'll show up as the heroes who 'save' the industry."
Joseph nodded. He remembered when they'd arrived in New York as boys—two hungry immigrants from Budapest. Nicholas had once said, "We won't just eat the American dream, Joe—we'll own it."
Technicolor was just another piece on that board.
By the next morning, The Hollywood Reporter screamed in bold type:
TECHNICOLOR DECLARES WAR.
On page three, a smaller article mentioned the failed MGM–Pioneer deal, printed like an obituary. The editor, sharp as ever, described Technicolor's "mountain of evidence" with almost theatrical precision—expired German patents, outdated film reels, and bureaucratic stamps from another century.
For those reading between the lines, another truth was visible: the federal judge on the case, William Hudson, had a nephew comfortably employed in Technicolor's legal department.
That afternoon, Nicholas was leafing through The Wall Street Journal when a line in the finance section caught his attention—Rockefeller Group evaluating film technology assets for long-term acquisition.
He was still reading when Joseph reentered the room, tense.
"The court just issued a temporary injunction," Joseph said. "They've frozen Pioneer's R&D accounts. This wasn't a lawsuit—it was a raid."
Nicholas gave a soft "tsk," tapping his cigar against the paper. "Rookies. A good hunter never fires before the prey's in the snare."
The phone rang. Joseph answered, listened, then looked at his brother. "It's Louis. Technicolor wants MGM to issue a public statement backing their case."
Nicholas turned his signet ring, the gold glinting in the dim office light. "Tell him MGM will gladly offer full legal support to Technicolor."
He paused, puffed his cigar, then added dryly,
"...including strategic advice on trade restraint, a few properly placed witnesses—and, of course, all champagne expenses for their press conferences."
Joseph's lips curled. "And the price?"
Nicholas smiled faintly. "Thirty-five percent of their European distribution rights, and..." He let the silence hang. "…priority access to all future technical patents. Just a gesture of goodwill."
Before Joseph could respond, the deep roar of engines cut through the air outside. A Hughes Aviation transport plane flew low over the city, silver wings glinting against the Manhattan skyline—a fleeting reminder of how small even giants looked from above.
Nicholas chuckled under his breath, then spun the dial of the hidden wall safe. From inside, he retrieved a thick envelope marked with the MGM lion crest.
A knock came. His secretary entered, holding a silver tray with a sealed letter.
"Sir," she said evenly, "Pioneer Optics' attorneys just submitted new evidence through a federal channel. It concerns a fire at a Zurich optical lab in 1923."
Nicholas froze. His hand stopped midair. His eyes met Joseph's across the room.
For a long moment, the only sound was the steady swing of the antique pendulum clock. The city outside went on—sirens, horns, life—unaware that the future of film itself was shifting in silence.
When Louis Mayer entered Technicolor's Boston headquarters that afternoon, the air inside the conference room was thick with cigar smoke and frustration. The blinds were drawn tight, thin rays of sunlight cutting through like interrogation beams.
At the end of the table sat Herbert Kalmus, Technicolor's notoriously short-tempered CEO, eyes narrowed behind his glasses.
Mayer placed his briefcase on the table. "I brought Nicholas's proposal," he said flatly. "MGM will back you—legal support, strategy, resources. Everything you need to win."
Kalmus's knuckles rapped sharply on the table. "In exchange for thirty-five percent of Europe? That's robbery!"
Mayer calmly clipped the end of his cigar. "Herbert, it's survival. Pioneer's color process makes yours look like yesterday's news. You've seen the lab tests—thirty-five percent better reproduction. That's not a rumor."
Technicolor's technical director, Daniel Comstock, said nothing. His pen drew a hard line across the flowchart pinned to the board—a visual confession of what everyone already knew.
The argument dragged through the day, through coffee refills and ashtray changes. By dusk, the deal was struck:
Technicolor ceded 21% of European rights, plus future access to the three-color process patents and 15% of their new technology stake.
Kalmus signed with such force the pen nearly tore the page.
As he looked at the ink drying, Comstock muttered by the window, eyes fixed on the harbor lights: "This isn't surrender. It's buying time."
Mayer closed his briefcase, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. In this city, in this business, there were no eternal friends—only eternal interests.
As he stepped into the cold Boston night, a thought crossed his mind, half amusement, half contempt:
"That bastard Schenck won again."