The Last Days of Night(19)

“So who cares? Direct, alternating—D/C, A/C—why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t. Unless of course you wanted to run your home on electrical current. Then it would matter very much indeed. Alternating current runs at considerably higher voltages than direct because it doesn’t have a commutator smoothing it out, compressing, so to speak, its power. It’s more efficient.”

“So why don’t we use it?”

“Because it doesn’t work. Think of one of my light bulbs. It’s powered with direct, continuous current. That’s what makes the light so smooth, so even. Now imagine if it were fed with alternating current. The light would flicker on and off, on and off, a hundred times per second. It would be horrible. Moreover, imagine trying to power a motor with the thing. On and off, on and off, on and off. Terrible, right?”

“Right.”

“The only thing is that an alternating current would be stronger. So if you could somehow make the thing work…well, your lights would last longer. Your motors would spin faster. Oh, and, by the by, the distance you could send this electricity would be far greater.”

Paul looked up from the diagram. “The distance problem? Alternating current is the solution.”

“Alternating current might be the solution. It’s hard to tell just yet, because I’m teaching you basic physics instead of listening to Tesla.”

An engineer from the row in front hushed them. Rather than take offense at the man’s rudeness, Westinghouse appeared too engrossed in Tesla’s demonstration to respond. Paul turned to the front of the room in silence as Tesla finished with his equations and, at last, activated his machines. He turned a wheel on one of the devices and a mechanical hum spread forth into the room. He then turned a wheel on an adjacent machine, releasing a hum of a lower pitch. They sounded to Paul like the groans of distant beasts.

The machines whirred steadily. Their smooth hums were almost pleasing to the ear. The wheels of the motor spun without pause. “Tesla’s figured out how to make this alternating current work, hasn’t he?”

Westinghouse did not respond. He didn’t need to.

Paul leapt to his feet. The war between Thomas Edison and George Westinghouse was about to take a decisive turn. A new weapon had just made an appearance on the battlefield. And Paul knew that Westinghouse must have him on his side.





I do not care so much for a great fortune as I do for getting ahead of the other fellows.

—THOMAS EDISON



BEFORE WESTINGHOUSE COULD ask him what he was doing, Paul had shuffled across the row of seats. Engineers scowled as his coat dragged against their scribbling pencils. Reaching the aisle, Paul climbed the steps toward the rear, where, he knew from his student days, a service entrance awaited. The service door led Paul to a back staircase, which he took in three-step strides.

Within minutes Tesla was going to be the most in-demand inventor in the country. Charles Batchelor would assuredly attempt to rehire him instantly. Paul hadn’t a clue whether Tesla’s machines could be made to help Westinghouse. But he knew that he could not let Edison have them. And he knew that he did not have much time.

Paul burst out of the building into the cool night. The evening breeze washed over his face as he ran to the other side of the engineering school. He stopped on the long stone steps. And he waited.

If he had things figured correctly, Tesla was not the type to relish the spotlight. Martin would shield him from the horde of eager engineers and lead him out of the school, by way of the very door where Paul was waiting. What could he say in only a few short seconds that would attract Tesla to his cause? He’d never before had to craft such a concise argument.

Half a minute later, out walked Tesla and Martin.

“Mr. Tesla!” Paul called out.

Seeing Paul, Martin grabbed at Tesla’s coat sleeve, pulling him along.

“Mr. Tesla,” continued Paul, approaching the pair. Up close, Tesla was inches taller than Paul, who was unaccustomed to being without a height advantage.

“Pardon…apologies…,” mumbled Tesla. Martin continued to lead him away.

“Mr. Tesla,” said Paul, “I work for George Westinghouse. And we’d like to offer you a very special partnership.” At the name “Westinghouse,” both Tesla and Martin turned their heads. Paul had his target before him.

“I’m told you’ve had some unpleasant experiences with Thomas Edison in the past,” continued Paul. “How would you feel about the opportunity for revenge?”

As Tesla’s lip began to curl into a curious smile, Paul knew he had him.





No rational argument will have a rational effect on a man who does not want to adopt a rational attitude.

—KARL POPPER



AN ARRAY OF silver knives glittered on the table. The gaslight threw shadows against the white tablecloth. Oil paintings hung from the walls: placid landscapes, quaint rural scenes. Every man in the smoky chamber beneath William Street was there for battle of one kind or another, taking their places behind the sharpened cutlery with which they would joust. Paul Cravath, stiffly shifting in his dinner jacket, peered down at his crustaceous second: the softest, most butter-soaked lobster upon which he’d ever laid eyes.

The lobster on Paul’s plate had been caught off the coast of Maine—possibly that very morning—before it had been shipped in a densely packed smack to the Fulton Street fish markets. Purchased personally by the chef, Charles Ranhofer, this lobster was then dropped alive into a pot of hot water and boiled for a full twenty-five minutes. The claws had been cracked, the tail sliced open, and all the wet meat had been removed from the shell and fried in a cast-iron pan of clarified butter. Fresh cream had been poured over the browning flesh, and then, after the liquid had been reduced by half, a cup of Madeira had been added to the mixture. The flame had been reinforced beneath the pan as the liquid had been brought to boil a second time, burning off the fortified wine. A tablespoon of cognac had been mixed in, along with four large egg yolks. Chef Ranhofer had sprinkled the faintest snow of cayenne pepper over the top before a retinue of servers delivered the tender meat to Paul’s plate. This was lobster à la Newburg, the spécialité de la maison.