Paul waited for over an hour in the quiet hall. He had papers to read in his briefcase, but he didn’t take them out. If Westinghouse was proving a point, then so would Paul. He would not appear bored or distracted when Westinghouse arrived.
When Paul finally heard his name, he turned to see Marguerite Westinghouse regarding him with concern. Her arms were crossed in front of her. The lady of the house’s white hair was done up stylishly. If Marguerite had ever committed an inelegant act in her life, Paul had seen no signs of it.
“Paul,” she said familiarly, “don’t tell me my husband has kept you waiting.”
“It’s been no trouble, ma’am.”
Marguerite smiled. Of course it had. “You are an exceedingly polite young man. Come with me.”
Paul followed Marguerite through the house all the way to the large white kitchen. Standing before the threshold, Marguerite paused.
“George likes to do this with all of the young men,” she said as she turned to Paul.
“Oh.” The words that echoed through Paul’s head were “all of the young men.” He was simply the latest in a line of protégés for the great George Westinghouse. Marguerite’s gesture of sympathy had the unintended effect of making Paul feel even less secure in his position.
“You’re doing well,” she said, seemingly predicting his thoughts. “But would you mind some advice? George spends most of his days in the factory. Not the laboratory. He loves to watch his things as they’re built.”
Paul was unsure of her point.
“The factory floor is quite loud, you see,” she continued, as Paul clearly failed to catch her meaning. “Speak up when you talk to him. Sometimes it may seem like he’s being rude, but actually he’s just having a hard time hearing you.”
Paul smiled. He thought back on the many unprompted and disorientating turns into which Westinghouse had pivoted their conversations. This went far toward explaining them.
He was impressed yet again by Marguerite. She hadn’t told him this to betray her husband’s confidences; rather, she’d done so because she knew that Paul’s help was the very thing her husband needed.
When she led Paul into the kitchen, they found George Westinghouse seated on a stool. He was hunched over a bowl of what Paul quickly determined was salad dressing.
“I found your attorney in the hallway, darling,” she said. “If you leave him there too long, we’ll have to invite him to dinner.”
Westinghouse looked up, registering the gentle rebuke from his wife. “Come in, come in,” he said simply.
Marguerite seemed to take that as her cue to leave them alone.
Paul spoke loudly as he updated Westinghouse on the 312 lawsuits against them. Continuances, delays, postponements—these were Paul’s best tools. His argument that Westinghouse’s light bulb was not in violation of Edison’s patent would come next, though as slowly as he could manage. Westinghouse gave a few grunts of acknowledgment. It was only when Paul got to the small matter of a former Edison employee that Westinghouse perked up.
“Tesla?”
“Yes, sir. He’s vanished into the breeze.”
“Nikola Tesla?”
“Yes, sir,” said Paul even louder. Marguerite’s advice was not proving as helpful as he’d hoped.
“Where have I heard that name before?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know.”
“Strange name.” Westinghouse seemed to be rolling it around on his tongue, as if its incantation would help him place its origin.
Suddenly he stood and led Paul to the mansion’s book-lined study. Paul realized that he hadn’t been back in this room since his first visit to this house, those long months before.
“Tesla…Tesla…,” said Westinghouse as he flipped through a large pile of letters on his desk. It looked like overdue correspondence awaiting replies; Paul found it hard to imagine that Westinghouse kept current in his letter writing.
“Here it is!” said Westinghouse with satisfaction. “A letter from Thomas Martin. He’s a scientist, sometime journalist. He edits a technical journal, name of Electrical World.”
“I can’t claim to be a subscriber.”
“Pity.” Westinghouse handed the letter to Paul, revealing beneath its cover note another sheet, on which was depicted a very detailed mechanical schematic. Paul could not make either heads or tails of the design, but he could attest to its complexity.
Paul looked the letter over. “Your friend Mr. Martin claims that he received these schematics from a stranger named Nikola Tesla, who requested that he publish them?”
“And Martin, his interest piqued by the daring nature of the designs, asked if I’d be so kind as to give them a look. To determine if they were at all manufacturable.”
“Manufacturable?”
“It’s one thing to design something, kid. Even Thomas Edison designs all manner of junk. It’s another thing entirely to design something that can be practically built. A thing that will work. That is what a real inventor does. He designs manufacturable devices.”
“Is Tesla’s design manufacturable?”
Westinghouse took the letter back before answering. “I had some of the boys look into it—it’s interesting, I’ll give your ghost that. But it’s decidedly half formed. Would take months of work to hone it into something that might be built.”
“Does the letter come with Tesla’s address? With a way for me to find him?”
“No,” answered Westinghouse. “But it comes with a way for me to do so.”
He gestured again to the schematics. “Mr. Martin has agreed to publish the schematics. He’s also asked that Tesla prove the efficacy of his design with a public demonstration. Martin has gotten Tesla to agree to present his work before the American Institute of Electrical Engineers. An organization of which I am, you may have reasoned, a member.”
The demonstration would be in New York in only a few weeks. If Paul wanted to interrogate Tesla about his work in Edison’s lab, he was welcome to be Westinghouse’s guest.
As they returned to the laboratory to discuss other matters, Paul was encouraged. He had no idea what he was to make of this mysterious Mr. Tesla. But any enemy of Edison’s was bound to be a friend of Westinghouse’s.
Science may be described as the art of systematic oversimplification—the art of discerning what we may with advantage omit.
—KARL POPPER
THREE WEEKS LATER Paul led George Westinghouse through the evening crowds along Forty-seventh Street. Westinghouse was clearly no admirer of New York. The commotion, the bustle, and most likely even the noise overwhelmed him. He told Paul with pride that he hadn’t been to Manhattan in over two years. This Mr. Tesla would need to put on quite a show to justify breaking such a successful streak.
The two men arrived at the corner of Madison Avenue, where before them rose the blocks-long campus of Columbia College. They entered onto the grassy lawns to the echoing St. Thomas Church. Paul had not been back to his alma mater in some time. The sensation, as he stepped between the gray slabs of Greek Revival buildings, was one of time travel. He walked past the former Institution for the Deaf and Dumb. The property had been bought by the savvy trustees of Columbia years earlier. New wings were being added to nearly every building as the college expanded. The law school lay closer to Forty-ninth Street, on the north end of the campus. As Paul gazed at the unkempt students on the lawn, he felt impossibly old. Was it only a few years before that he had been this young?