The discussion carried on well into the evening, but the tension that had hung over the conference room slowly began to ease.
When the footsteps of Volker, Catterson, and Marian finally faded down the corridor, Shane quietly turned the brass doorknob—its soft click cutting through the hush.
He turned toward Old Henry. "Now," he said evenly, "about something else."
His voice hardened, steady and deliberate. "You'll prepare to leave tomorrow. The day after, you're departing for the Bellevue Sanatorium in Switzerland."
Henry's brows drew together sharply. "What kind of nonsense is this?"
"Professor Büchel of the University Hospital Zurich," Shane continued without flinching, "and Dr. von Schletter from Schwabing, Munich, have both agreed to consultations. Your bronchitis and emphysema have gone untreated for far too long. Marcus has already arranged an appointment with Dr. Charles Fletcher at the Royal Brompton Hospital in London."
The old man's cane thudded against the Persian rug as he rose abruptly. "Damn it! Who told you—"
"Marian," Shane said simply, stepping closer. "Five months ago, wasn't it? Just before I left for Europe."
For a moment, Henry stood frozen. Then the strength seemed to drain from his shoulders, and he sank back into the armchair.
Outside, the lights of Manhattan began to bloom one by one, glittering like spilled jewels across the dusk.
"Listen, old man," Shane said softly—using a name he rarely allowed himself. He placed a firm hand on the elder's trembling shoulder. "I need you alive, and I need you beside me. We've still got that peak to reach, remember?"
His gaze fell upon a silver-framed photograph on the wall—taken the previous October—showing the two of them raising a toast in their exchange office.
Henry's eyes gleamed faintly red, his hand tightening around the eagle-headed cane. After a long silence, he let out a low chuckle.
"Damn it, you stubborn little bastard." His voice faltered. "Alright… have it your way."
Shane exhaled, tension slipping from his shoulders.
He crossed to the mahogany cabinet and poured two glasses of whiskey. The crystal chimed gently.
"To our beautiful future," he said.
The amber liquor caught the city's reflection—New York burning bright against the twilight.
The August morning mist drifted like silk over the Hudson River, and the rising sun pierced through in golden shards, glimmering across the damp boards of the pier.
Shane stood beside the gangway of the RMS Aquitania, the cuffs of his linen suit damp with sea air. He watched as Marian carefully helped Henry up the steps, the old man's frame frail against the brightness of morning.
"Don't forget the weekly telegrams!" Shane called out above the din of departure.
Henry didn't turn back—he simply raised his cane, tracing a graceful arc in the air. It was a small gesture, but Shane knew the meaning beneath it: the old man's reluctance, hidden as always behind stubborn dignity.
"Are the escorts settled?" Shane asked quietly, his eyes still fixed on the retreating figure.
"Two of our best men," Volker replied. "Marian personally checked their records. They'll pass any inspection."
Shane nodded. "The return ship from England—next week?"
"On schedule," Volker said with a confident half-smile. "Dr. Krause and the optical components will arrive on time. Everything is proceeding as planned."
Only after the ship's outline vanished into the mist did Shane turn away. He stepped into the waiting Cadillac, and as the door shut behind him, the warmth in his eyes drained away—replaced by something calm, distant, and cold.
"To the laboratory," he said quietly.
From the inner pocket of his suit, he drew out a gold-plated pocket watch. Inside the lid, a single line was engraved in fine script:
"Time and light—both are blades."
A gift from Henry, given on New Year's Eve.
His fingertips brushed the engraving, and for a moment, the memory returned—the laughter, the champagne, the crackle of fireworks over the Hudson. Then the sound faded, replaced by the steady ticking of the watch—a rhythm that now beat in time with his resolve.
As the Cadillac crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, the wind off the East River swept through the open window. Shane loosened his tie, eyes fixed on the retreating cables of steel and light. His thoughts drifted ahead—to the problem that had consumed the lab for weeks: synchronizing the Three-Color Band system with RCA's Photophone sound process.
The laboratory itself was hidden inside a five-story brick building in Midtown Manhattan—its brass plaque bearing a modest name:
Pioneer Optics Research.
Inside, the air buzzed faintly with electricity. Xenon lamps hummed in the corners, the glow bouncing off chrome and glass. Oscilloscopes flickered green across the dark walls, casting restless shadows.
The smell of ozone, rosin, and warm metal hung thick—each breath tinged with static.
At the far end stood the lab's heart: a massive RCA Photophone system, its towering black body dominating the space. Six amplifier tubes ran in parallel, cables snaking into a modified 35mm projector.
"Damn it! That's the twenty-third failure!" cried Lena Voigt, her hair a wild halo of frustration. She slammed a wrench onto the bench, and the young engineers around her flinched.
"Zero-point-three seconds off! That's all it takes to turn color into bloody chaos!"
The moment Shane entered, the noise died instantly. Every head turned toward him, tension rippling through the room.
He picked up a red glass filter, holding it to the light. "Where are we now?" he asked calmly.
"The synchronization's still off," Lena admitted, wiping her forehead with an oil-stained sleeve. "The Photophone was built for black-and-white. Our three-color band needs faster switching, but the circuitry just can't—"
"Replace the photocell with a tungsten filament type," Shane interrupted.
Lena blinked. "What? But tungsten is slower—"
"It's not about speed," Shane said, setting the filter down. "It's about foresight. Have it preheat half a second before the signal arrives."
The room went silent. Then a pen clattered to the floor.
Lena's eyes widened. "A delay circuit… God, of course!" She snatched a circuit board and began pulling it apart. "We don't need faster—we need smarter!"
Shane turned toward the door, his linen jacket brushing against the steel table. "When David Sarnoff arrives on Tuesday," he said over his shoulder, "I want him to hear the sound of an airplane engine."
The door shut behind him, and a second later the room erupted in motion—shouted instructions, clattering parts, laughter breaking through exhaustion.
Through the blinds, he saw Lena embrace one of the younger engineers, laughing, tears streaking her cheeks—the same joy he had seen the night they cracked the first three-color projection reel.
Shane picked up the telephone on his desk and dialed a familiar number.
"Howard," he said with a faint smile, "I'll bring you the improved design this weekend."
A muffled voice answered from the other end, paper rustling.
Shane's smile deepened. "Yes," he said quietly. "You'll understand when you see it."
Under the glow of the lamp, the glass shade spread a soft halo across the room.