“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.
Three courses into dinner, and they were still only on the lobster. He had no idea how he was going to get all of this food into his already bloated belly. The buttons of his trousers, newly purchased at R. H. Macy’s, felt ready to rip. His never-worn white shirt was growing damp with sweat. His bow tie pressed his wing-tipped shirt collar into his neck as if to pop his head clean off, like a boiled shrimp. Business dinners such as this were pure blood sport: How much meat and wine could a man pour down his gullet while still managing to conduct himself in even a slightly professional manner?
At Delmonico’s, the most elegant and fashionable restaurant for New York’s ruling class, delicacy of cuisine was defined not as much by complexity as by volume. Too much? There was no such thing. Quails, cakes, cardamom, and coins—there would never be enough to go around. If Paul could be blamed for any of this, it was only that he was a man of his time. It was with a tinge of longing on his wet tongue that he had to admit, if only to himself, that he genuinely loved the taste of sauce béarnaise.
Paul took a sip from his port and gestured to the identical plate of lobster à la Newburg that lay before his dinner companion.
“Have you had this lobster before, Mr. Tesla?” said Paul. “It’s the best in New York.”
This was not a lie per se. It might very well be the best lobster in the city, even though Paul had never eaten it before. Carter and Hughes had taken clients here frequently, but Paul had never been invited along.
Paul’s goal this evening was to make an impression. The night before, after Tesla had quickly accepted his offer to dine, Paul had found Westinghouse at his hotel and they had hatched their plan: Westinghouse and his team would analyze Tesla’s newly acquired A/C patents. If they could modify the bulbs that the company was selling to work on alternating current, they would gain an undeniable technological advantage over Edison. Their lights would not only be powered more efficiently, but they could be powered over far greater distances as well. At the same time, Paul would let Nikola Tesla know on which side his bread might be buttered, rather literally speaking.
“I have not tasted this crustacean,” replied Tesla. “Fish is not welcomed by my palate.” Tracing his finger in a circle around the plate, Tesla continued with an odd question: “How many centimeters do you think? Thirty?”
“Excuse me?”
“The plate. Thirty-five centimeters? Yes, I think thirty-five. And four centimeters deep.”
“I suppose so…”
“Quite a bit, is it not? One hundred and forty cubic centimeters of this smelling-sweet broth, minus the broth dispositioned by the tail of lobster. So only…” Tesla paused as he measured the length of the lobster meat with his finger, counting the knuckles. “Yes, one hundred five cubic centimeters.”