The Last Days of Night(100)

And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving Paul alone on Fifth Avenue.





We are called to be the architects of the future, not its victims.

—BUCKMINSTER FULLER



PAUL FORCED HIMSELF to put Agnes’s condemnation out of his mind. He spent the evening with his associates, proofreading again and again the documents that would conclude the coming deal. The coup had been arranged, and the licensing arrangement had been negotiated. All that remained was the paperwork.

He was exhausted. He had barely slept since New Year’s. His associates had gotten even less sleep than he had. From their warren on Greenwich Street, they marked up the ever-changing contracts relentlessly. No one trusted Morgan, and no one had any confidence that what he’d verbally agreed to would be reflected in the contracts delivered by his attorneys. It took constant vigilance to see that nothing devious had been snuck into a stray subparagraph. To everyone’s surprise, nothing had. Either Morgan had been uncharacteristically honest, or else he’d simply decided the deal was beneficial enough as it was. Whether he’d been restrained by honesty or moderation, Paul would never know.

The afternoon of January 17, a weary Paul entered through the front door of 3 Broad Street. He had been fortified with three cups of coffee to defend against his two hours of sleep. There was a caffeinated twitch in his fingers as he marched to Morgan’s private office. There was no longer any need for subterfuge; if Edison found out, it was far too late for him to do anything about it.

Paul had come to Morgan’s office to preside over the final signing of the contracts. It was not a crowded room. Only Westinghouse, Morgan, and a few of Morgan’s attorneys were present for the end of the current war. Westinghouse and Morgan were both wealthy enough to assume a comfortable familiarity with each other, despite having only met on brief occasions over the years. Neither had ever been the object of the other’s animosity. Now they were partners.

The tall windows let in light from Wall Street, while on Morgan’s great maple desk lay a single unlit electric lamp. It was a generation behind the present technology. It had been the first indoor electric lamp commercially sold in America. Not just this model, but this exact lamp. When Thomas Edison had finally finished his first working device, all those years ago, he’d sold the thing to Morgan. At a price that he alone could afford. And now it rested here, an unused symbol of a well-known history.

Morgan’s office housed many other treasures, from Old Kingdom Egypt to ancient Mesopotamia. The world’s first light bulb was but the latest addition to a few millennia’s worth of riches.

Morgan signed his name. Charles Coffin’s signature had been affixed in Massachusetts at dawn. And the war was over.

“Congratulations,” said Morgan to the room. Westinghouse stepped back from the desk hesitantly, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. There was a dissociative discrepancy between the magnitude of the event and the smallness of the moment. Every man present knew its importance, knew that what they had done would reverberate for generations. And yet here they were, a few men of middle age—and one much younger—standing silently in a smoky office. Gabriel’s trumpet went unblown.

Westinghouse turned to Paul, his thumbs tucked into his vest pockets. He nodded solemnly. “You did it” was all that he said, but in his eyes a great deal more was communicated. Paul nodded back. There was so much that could be said, too much. And so nothing would be.

“We did it, sir.”

Paul felt a strange sensation: He wished that his father were there. Erastus would never understand what Paul had just done. But he hoped that somehow his father would still be proud.

With an unexpected creak, the office door opened.

The man who stood in Morgan’s doorway was tall. His gray hair was strewn haphazardly around his scalp. He wore a suit and vest but no tie. The top few buttons of his white cotton shirt were loose and his gray vest was askew. On his haggard chin was stubble. His face was ashen.

It was Thomas Edison.





I think if we ever reach the point where we think we thoroughly understand who we are and where we come from, we will have failed.

—CARL SAGAN



EDISON’S LIPS QUIVERED as he looked across the room at the men who had just taken his company out from underneath him.

“Thomas,” said Morgan, seizing authority, “I hope you’re not here to make a scene.” He came around from behind his desk as if to create a barricade between Edison and the newly signed contracts. But Edison paid no mind to the paperwork. He devoted the weight of his ruined stare to the men who’d done the deed.

“So it’s true,” he said.

“It’s business,” replied Morgan. “I’m sorry to be the one to remind you that it always was.”

Paul braced himself for Edison’s uncontainable ferocity. He looked instinctively behind Edison’s shoulder for the sight of Charles Batchelor with a firearm. But the office door revealed only a placid office outside.

To Paul’s great surprise, no well of rage burst forth from Edison. There was no anger in his face, no muscular tension in his posture. Instead, he appeared deflated. He looked as if he were held up only by some thin rod running through the center of his body. He’d been beaten, and he knew it.

“Please,” Edison said quietly, “just tell me the part about the name isn’t true.”