by Terry, Mark
On this day, she had come to interview Thomas A. Edison. She wore a short pouter pigeon—a style reserved for younger women—with a high collar and white cotton inserts to offset the pale green silk. A cluster of red brick buildings housed the metallurgy, physics and chemistry labs and machine shops that comprised the backbone of Edison’s research complex. She travelled to the Invention Factory in search of a tale to tell.
Ida stood outside the south entrance when Edison and his entourage exited the building. She caught up with him in a few steps. “Mr. Edison, I’d like a few moments of your time.”
Al continued walking, the bookkeeper and secretary a few steps behind. They gave Miss Tarbell a quick glance and looked away.
“Mr. Edison, my name is Ida Tarbell, from McClure's Magazine.” Ida stopped and nearly ran into Edison as he came to an abrupt halt and turned.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
Ida looked perplexed at the bookkeeper standing slightly behind the master inventor. The man pointed his left hand to his ear. Ida looked Edison in the eye and spoke in a louder tone.
“Mr. Edison, my name is Ida Tarbell, from McClure's Magazine. I’d like to speak to you.”
Edison looked up and down, glanced at the bookkeeper and secretary, turned and began walking again. “I’m very busy, madam,” he said over his shoulder.
Ida took three quick steps to get slightly ahead of Edison. Looking past him, she could see a man with a horseshoe moustache and a straw hat coming down the steps towards them. She smiled and looked defiantly at Edison.
“Mr. Edison, is it true that you haven’t actually invented most of the patents that you hold?”
Edison stopped and his cheeks reddened. “Excuse me, madam?” he yelled.
Ida glanced for the briefest moment to confirm Dickson still approached. She spoke in a stern tone, “I said, Mr. Edison, isn’t it true that you have, in fact, NOT invented most of the creations for which you hold patents?”
Edison stopped at this and glared at Ida.
“Why, I understand W.K.L. Dickson here is responsible for inventing the motion picture camera. Your company holds several patents for that product alone.” She gestured at Dickson as he stopped, two paces away, holding up his hands.
Edison trembled with fury. “Young lady, now see here —”
Another man approached Edison from the main laboratory building. He stood just over five feet, was heavyset, and wore a grimy shirt and patched pants. He had a wide-eyed look and carried a large iron box with four spiraling metallic roots springing up out of it.
“Mr. Edison! Mr. Edison!” the man blurted excitedly, “I think I’ve solved the electrolyte problem with the battery, sir!” The man gasped for breath and spluttered for a moment before continuing. “Potassium hydroxide!” he announced heroically.
With a cocked eyebrow, Ida looked at patched-pants then back to Edison. “Another one of your inventions, Mr. Edison?”
Edison sneered.“Madam, I am a part of everything that goes on here. Let me show you.”
Edison walked quickly and spoke at the same time, scribbling on one notepad or another.
In a corner of the yard, four men in overalls worked over several wooden vats, using two by fours to stir its mixture. One of the men saw Edison with Ida Tarbell right in step and Dickson right behind them.
The workman took a rag out of his back pocket, wiped his forehead, and moved toward the inventor. “Mr. Edison, we are still having problems with the mixture. We just can’t get it to set right. The proportions of cement to water aren’t right, or we haven’t got enough heat.”
Edison walked over to one of the wooden vats and looked in. “I’ve been thinking about it. I think the kiln should rotate, so it distributes the material evenly from end to end.” He dipped his hand into the mixture and moved his fingers through it. Dickson gave him a rag to wipe his hands.
He glanced at Ida. “You see, Miss Tarbell, one day, the cities and towns of this country are going to be interconnected with paved roads. Roads paved with Portland cement are going to spread over every county and municipality, but it’s a costly process. I’m revolutionizing concrete. I’m going to build concrete houses. Every American is going to use Edison concrete.”
“Yes, well, I can see that you certainly have the vision, Mr. Edison. No one can fault you for that. You have the ambition as well, but the question still remains. Do you, in fact, not simply own the patents that men in your employ have invented, thereby stealing a lifetime of return for a simple wage? And, in fact, do you not often simply release men from your employ once they have made a major discovery, so they can have no further claim?”
Thomas Edison's face flushed and then changed abruptly, smoothing.
“Miss Tarbell, if your agenda is to imply that I am somehow indifferent in the creation, analysis, or construction of a single patent for which I have filed, and the hundreds which I have not, then I challenge you.”
Ida started to say something, but then waited for Edison to continue.
“See what is going on. Come with us to Chicago.” Edison pointed to Dickson and the bookkeeper. “We’re preparing for the Columbian Exposition. We will be lighting up for thousands of people who, for the first time, will experience electrical lighting everywhere they go. We are on the edge of transforming humanity. Bringing it into the light. It will be my light humanity follows.”
“Chicago?” Ida appeared unsure. “I don’t know, Mr. Edison. My paper won’t authorize such expenses.”
“Nonsense!” Edison exclaimed. “You’ll come as our guest. Give me three days until we get to Chicago. We have to prepare for the opening on May first.”
Ida looked at W.K.L. Dickson who smiled back. She pursed her lips and realized she had a trip ahead of her.
Interlude 11
Sunday, March 12, 1893, 9:55 a.m.
The Minnehana, Somewhere East of
New York City
Wedderburn, wrapped in a fleece shawl, lay in his stateroom. The oil lamp above swayed slightly to the lapping of waves as he wrote on a large tablet in his lap. A stack of books on the side table slid back and forth to the rocking of the boat. The travelling gentleman glanced up from the pad and watched them thump to the floor. He looked at the floor for a moment, pondering, then went back to drawing.
My companion and I put out to sea a scant few sunsets ago, after our various hurried preparations. He employed the services of several courier-maids to gather the necessary supplies and see to our general comfort. Truth be told, one of them did her job quite well and actually helped me relax the night before I left. Poor thing.
The howl of a rude nor’easter beyond the small porthole made him look up in irritation.
Another of them, a lively girl more serviceable in the first of her dual capacities, gave me a small iron box as a gift as we were boarding. I almost disposed of it, but then set it aside. For some reason, when the wind blew and the waves cast the ship from side to side, holding the little box helped.
The boat rocked and a barrel beside him sloshed frothy water. Named after the William Longfellow poem "The Song of Hiawatha," the Minnehaha launched in 1856 and sailed with speed and grace from northern Europe to the East Coast for almost forty years, delivering more than two thousand passengers to America’s shores. The beautiful three-deck clipper had been designed for speed, but the McCorkell shipping line had altered the Minnehaha in 1880 into a barque, removing one of its mainsails and reducing the size of its crew. Her owners maintained her primarily for carrying capacity and speed, rather than as a luxury passenger liner, although she did make accommodations from time to time.
I enjoyed life in France and watched much change in the daily lives of men and their women. Not all of it to the good. Men of Europe have spent the last couple of decades convincing themselves that their knowledge and notions are superior, marching off to most of the lands of Africa and claiming themselves masters in the process. Such a shame really. The Arab treats
the white man as a slave, the white man treats the black as a slave, the blacks treat each other as slaves. Meanwhile, they are all slaves to the one thing they cannot get rid of, their egos.
Does this new “Industrial Man” really believe he is more intelligent, more ingenious, more enlightened, than the three thousand years of civilized man that walked before him? Is he more motivated than the religious believers of the ancient Egyptians whose devotion to cause moved stones weighing fifteen tons? Show me the engineer who can build that today!
The so-called civilized of Europe were still dying at the rate of two or three out of every ten before their first birthday because so many of them refused to maintain even the most basic of public health standards. The Romans understood the health qualities of fresh water and bathing 2000 years ago, and these people called themselves “modern”!
Standing on the Minnehaha’s deck, Captain M’Grath checked his watch. The traveler occupying the entire aft section of staterooms acted unlike any he had ever had. The captain had received a telegram from the head office, telling him in vague terms that he had an occupant in the aft stateroom corridor already aboard. He had not yet met the man. Since the wealthy patron had not come out of the section, M’Grath informed his small crew of his presence.
The passenger had made no problems, no requests, no dinner in the captain’s quarters, no communication. There had been nothing but the crooked little man who had joined the tall stranger lurking about in early morning hours.
Strange. Very nice, but strange. A skeleton crew would be left behind, and M’Grath doubted anyone he made stay this evening would remain on the ship. He knew anyone who cared would be too busy on the town themselves, and that included this particular captain. Another couple of hours, and they would be docked. Four days, seventeen hours. An excellent time.
I have missed very little of the general creature comforts of a daily routine aboard. Very little would be of use. Nothing is more comfortable and comforting than remaining prone most of the day. I would go up on deck, but Milo impressed upon me a firm resolve for safety. As he constantly chided, he himself could not swim and so would not be able to save me if I washed overboard. Anyways, what is one missing but salt air and birds? I have my oranges and my apples, and the precious barrel of oysters. Every mealtime, Milo shucks a delicious plateful.
Milo came round to announce the first sight of land and his voice spoke with obvious enthusiasm and relief. It is the first time Milo accompanied me on an ocean going voyage and so I have declined to tell him that the worst dangers begin with the first sight of land.
Interlude 12
Sunday, March 12, 1893, 11:30 a.m.
327 Lexington Avenue, Manhattan,
New York City
Mr. Robert Underwood Johnson worked as editor of Century Magazine. In the nineties, his home had become a central gathering place for celebrities and intellectuals. Johnson was a thin, bespectacled man of average height, with a full beard who wore a striped, stiff front and an ascot tie.
As visitors entered his luxurious Lexington Avenue home, he greeted them standing next to his charming, statuesque wife Katharine, who stood a few inches shorter. Her jacket extended to a becoming depth over her hips.
Among the visitors, it could be said that the display of pretty women, fine clothes, diamonds and flowers had seldom been equaled. The main ballroom had been decorated with a variety of tropical plants. Servants kept the buffet stocked with eight courses of French cuisine, and moved among the guests with platters of chilled chaud-froid, chicken quenelles, and ladyfingers.
Mr. Johnson took his briar pipe from his mouth and gave a conspiratorial glance around the room. “Mr. Muir has been in contact again.”
Rudyard Kipling took a sip of wine and grinned broadly. “Do tell!” Kipling was a dapper man with a high brow, bright intelligent eyes, and a walrus mustache. His famous Jungle Book, which had just begun to appear in print, was the toast of New York parties.
With his wife beaming and nodding beside him, Mr. Johnson continued, “Yes, Mr. Muir apparently made it to the legendary California glaciers.”
“Glaciers, you say?”
The three of them turned to the voice of Samuel Clemens.
“Yes, Mr. Clemens. He reports to me that in the High Sierra’s are glaciers that make the Alps look like hills. They go from California, through Oregon and on up to Washington. They are calling it the Cascade range.”
Mr. Clemens smiled and took a drag on his cigarette. “I have found out there ain't no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them. I wonder how Mr. Muir’s companions are finding him.”
The four laughed softly, but then Mr. Johnson made a pointed motion with his pipe, a serious look on his face. “But he also tells me that the glaciers are shrinking.” He nodded seriously, looking at his guests. “The planet is warming.”
“What are we to do?” pleaded Mrs. Johnson.
“I might have a bright fellow who could give us an answer. Nikola,” said Clemens as he turned and motioned to a man far off in the crowd.
The four saw Nikola Tesla turn, smile at the voice of Samuel Clemens, and stride over.
Clemens turned back to Kipling. “Have you met Nikola Tesla?”
Kipling shook his head.
“He’s been in the country for eight months and already making quite a stir.”
Tesla’s tails, top hat, and white gloves were pressed and perfect as he walked up. “Mr. Clemens, good to see you again.”
Mr. Johnson nodded to Kipling. “Nikola Tesla, this is Rudyard Kipling. Rudy, meet Nikola Tesla.”
Mr. Kipling extended his hand to shake.
Tesla did not return the gesture, but only smiled uncomfortably. “Mr. Kipling, sir, I understand latest novel is sensation.”
“Well, it is getting attention, to be sure.”
Tesla’s eyes brightened. “That’s wonderful. Tell me, do you use typewriter?”
“Why, yes. For final drafts.”
The inventor stepped closer, voice almost under his breath now. “Tell me. How is it that no one thought to fix problem one cannot see what is typing until after carriage return?”
“Why, I don’t know.” Kipling looked around at the others.
Tesla cocked his head. “Tell me, sir, do you not think it more appealing if keys were to strike downward on ribbon? One would be able to see what one is typing. Would be efficient for carbon paper. What you think?”
“I hadn’t thought about it. I usually use a paper and pen myself.”
Tesla looked away thoughtfully for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, perhaps we will discuss again? I might have idea or two?”
Clemens broke in, chuckling, “Nikola, Mr. Johnson received a communication from Mr. John Muir out in California. He travelled to the deepest regions of the Sierras and found glaciers.”
Tesla looked amused. “Really? Fascinating!”
“Yes, and he reports the glaciers are melting. What do you think should be done?” asked Mrs. Johnson.
“Madam, I daresay I understand concerns of good minded people. Here in New York City you have only recently begun to address street cleaning needs of congested metropolis. Belching smoke stacks create killing fog that causes deaths of dozens or hundreds in London. These are excellent concerns. I, myself, believe in creating energy from wind and light. I have patent on sun motor. But single volcano, yes? Single volcano can spew more dust and damage into sky than man will in hundred years. Two hundred. Krakatoa still darkens skies in Asia. No, ma’am, we have nothing to fear from man. Nature is far more for feared.”
“So you don’t think there is anything to worry about with all these new-fangled machines running around? These auto-mobiles?” Clemens queried.
Tesla shook his head. “No. Have studied atmospheric principles for many years. My experiments show upper atmosphere contains remarkable properties. One is diffusion. Even if atmospheric temp
erature increase, all would happen is ocean would compensate. Carbon store of world’s seas is greater than atmosphere. Not to say you couldn’t get reaction from air particulates. Would have to come from massive amount, simultaneously. Great cataclysm. Would upset natural balance.”
“So we’re going to have the noisy, foul-smelling contraptions around for some time, then?” Clemens frowned.
Tesla shrugged. “A combustion engine is inefficient model. Steam power too heavy, too unwieldy, but excellent principle. Key is to bring engine down to small enough to provide inertia without dragging down. We could have automobiles make no noise and emit no pollution on every street by next century.”
Mr. Kipling looked astonished. Clemens winked at him with delight. Mr. And Mrs. Underwood gaped with their mouths open. Tesla went on without the slightest hint of ego. He spoke not at all to impress. He spoke in utter seriousness about a critical social matter.
“Consider charged particles. Field energies. Built massive power station, capable of electrifying atmosphere. Once done, aether stream would produce unlimited supply of reactive energy.” Tesla looked at his fellow conversationalists. “Is simply easy matter of tapping into stream. Harness enough energy to power households.” He looked at each of them in turn. “Or automobile in middle of desert.”
Interlude 13
Sunday, March 12, 1893, 1:32 p.m.
Nikola Tesla’s Laboratory,
New York City
Samuel Clemens stood in the center of a remarkable round room, two stories tall with nothing but bookshelves lined by leather-bound books of various colors and sizes, all the way to the ceiling. The centerpiece of the room—a giant, bronze, heliocentric model of the galaxy—hung suspended from the baroque ceiling. The room measured barely wider than the span of his arms.