The Kingston Labs in Boston was located in a repurposed textile mill on the outskirts of the city. It was established as an independent entity, legally and financially separate from the main Kingston family industries. This separation allowed the facility to focus entirely on research and development, unburdened by the daily operational demands.
Inside the main laboratory, the air smelled of soldering flux, hot copper, and stale coffee. Three men sat around a drafting table littered with schematics and half-assembled prototypes: John Ambrose Fleming, Lee de Forest, and Harold D. Arnold, the creators of the KTC Triode. Together, under Michael's patronage, they had refined the vacuum tube that was currently revolutionizing long-distance telephone communication.
But Michael hadn't called them here today to discuss telephones.
When Michael entered, the atmosphere shifted from academic debate to attentive silence. He wasted no time on pleasantries.
"Gentlemen," Michael began, leaning against the edge of a workbench. He looked at the three men with a calculating gaze. Thanks to the success of the KTC Triode patent, royalties were beginning to flow. They now had the financial independence to pursue their own separate interests, yet they remained at Kingston Labs. They stayed for the unique atmosphere Michael had cultivated, a rare space where collaboration trumped ego and credit was split evenly among the team.
Michael observed them, appreciating the dynamic but harboring no illusions. How long will it last? he wondered. Eventually, human nature asserts itself. Men want to be recognized as individuals, not just parts of a whole. But for now, their unity was a tool he desperately needed.
"What is it that you require of us, Mr. Kingston?" Fleming asked, sensing the shift in Michael's demeanor.
"I need your help on something new," Michael stated plainly.
The three men exchanged glances, nodding in unison. "You have provided us with the resources and the freedom to pursue our passions, Mr. Kingston," Fleming said, speaking for the group with a respectful nod. "We are more than happy to assist with whatever project you have in mind."
Michael walked around the table, his fingers trailing over the edge. "Tell me, have any of you visited a Nickelodeon recently? Seen a moving picture?"
"I have," De Forest piped up. "A few times. It is quite the spectacle. Crowds packed in the dark, watching shadows dance on a wall."
"It is a novelty," Arnold added dismissively. "Silent pantomimes accompanied by a piano player trying desperately to keep up with the action."
"And what is it that they lack?" Michael asked, stopping to look at them. "What is the fundamental piece missing from that experience?"
"Sound," Fleming answered simply. "They are silent."
"Yes," Michael said, turning to face them fully. "That is what I want to talk about. I want to integrate sound into moving pictures."
Lee de Forest frowned slightly. "That technology already exists, Mr. Kingston. There are systems like the Cameraphone and the Cinephone. They couple a phonograph to the projector."
"If it exists," Michael countered, "why is it not implemented? Why are the eight thousand Nickelodeon theaters and movie houses in this country still silent?"
"Because it is flawed," Arnold admitted. "The synchronization drifts constantly—lips move, but the voice lags. And the volume is insufficient. A phonograph horn cannot fill a large theater."
"Exactly," Michael said. "The mechanical marriage of film and disc is a dead end. We need a single medium."
He reached into his leather portfolio and slid a document across the drafting table. "Eugene Augustin Lauste," Michael said. "This is a patent he has filed."
Eugene Augustin Lauste was a brilliant inventor with an impressive history. Born in Paris, he had worked in Thomas Edison's labs before becoming the chief mechanic for Major Woodville Latham and his sons—competitors to Edison who helped pioneer early film projection. Now working from a small workshop in London, Lauste had spent the last four years obsessed with recording sound and image together. He was years ahead of his time, but like many inventors, his genius was stalled by a simple problem: he lacked the money to refine his prototypes.
The three scientists leaned in, observing the diagrams and technical descriptions with keen interest.
As they studied the papers, Michael explained the concept. "He has already laid the groundwork for this. He has patented a method to capture sound waves through a microphone, which controls a light valve—a set of vibrating shutters. This varying light exposes a narrow strip alongside the visual images on the film. When played back, a light shines through that strip onto a selenium cell, converting the light fluctuations back into electrical current."
"We know of Lauste's work," Fleming admitted, looking up from the patent and dismissing it with a wave of his hand. "It is a scientific curiosity, nothing more. It is not commercially viable."
"And why is that?" Michael pressed.
"The output," De Forest explained, his voice rising with frustration. "The electrical current produced by a selenium cell is microscopic. It is a ghost of a signal. You can hear it through sensitive telephone earpieces, perhaps, if the room is dead silent. But to fill a theater? Impossible. The signal is too weak to drive a loudspeaker, and mechanical amplification just distorts it into noise."
"Exactly," Arnold added. "Lauste has the method of storage, but not the method of delivery."
"He lacks the power," Michael said. He walked over to the schematic of the KTC Triode pinned to the wall. "But we have the power right here."
"The Triode," De Forest realized, sitting up straighter.
"It is an amplifier," Michael explained. "We feed the weak signal from the selenium cell into the grid of the triode. The tube amplifies it thousands of times without distortion. We solve the volume issue, and because the sound is printed physically on the film, the synchronization is perfect."
The room fell silent as the three men processed the implication. They looked from the diagram to Michael, the pieces clicking into place. The physics held up.
Michael paused, letting the concept land before adding another layer. "And it goes beyond just playback. Think of the recording process itself. Currently, performers have to shout into a horn to vibrate a diaphragm mechanically. It kills nuance. But with the triode, we can create a sensitive microphone. We can amplify that input signal electrically before it ever touches the recording medium. We can capture a whisper, a sigh, the true timbre of an instrument. We improve the source just as much as the delivery."
"Multi-stage vacuum tube amplification..." Arnold muttered. "Theoretically... yes. It would solve the signal-to-noise ratio problem."
"It is viable," Fleming conceded slowly, a gleam entering his eye. "But the precision required... the experiments with different light valves, the stability of the selenium cells... it will take months of trial and error. It will require significant investment in materials and fabrication."
"Do not worry about the money," Michael said, pushing off the workbench and straightening his suit. "I will handle the funding. You handle the physics. I want a prototype by the end of the year."
The scientists looked at him, gauging the seriousness of the timeline, but Michael wasn't finished.
"To ensure there are no legal impediments," Michael added, "I have already met with Mr. Lauste. I purchased the patent rights from him for one hundred thousand dollars, along with a contract guaranteeing him a percentage of royalties upon commercial application."
Fleming raised an eyebrow at the staggering sum, but Michael continued. "Furthermore, I didn't just buy his paper; I bought his expertise. I have invited Mr. Lauste to join Kingston Labs personally. He agreed immediately, eager to see how his invention could be perfected with the resources and amplification technology we have available. He will be arriving next week to assist you."
As the three brilliant minds immediately erupted into a chaotic, excited discussion about light valves and photoelectric cells, Michael stepped back, watching them work.
It reaffirmed his core belief: Genius was abundant, but often aimless. Men like Fleming, De Forest, and Arnold possessed intellects far superior to his own regarding physics and engineering. They could solve any equation, build any circuit. But they often lacked the flash of imagination, the ability to see the finished cathedral when looking at a pile of stones.
Michael didn't need to know how to solder the wires himself. He just needed to know exactly what the future looked like, and then point these brilliant men toward it. They supplied the intelligence; he supplied the destination.