February 2nd, 11:07 A.M., Rochester, Kodak Headquarters
In George Eastman's office, cigar smoke slowly swirled in the sunlight.
Outside the window, the chimneys of the Kodak complex spewed grayish-white smoke, and workers busily loaded crates of silver nitrate emulsion onto freight trains.
Shaneentered the office with Reinhardt Klausser, Pioneer Optics' technical director, and William Catterson, the company's chief legal counsel.
George Eastman, founder of Kodak and one of America's most formidable industrialists, sat behind a massive walnut desk. His fingers tapped once, twice, three times on the polished surface before he spoke.
"Mr. Cassidy," he said evenly, "your telegram mentioned an 'irresistible change.' But Kodak's patent pool has never been swayed by veiled threats."
Shane didn't respond. Instead, he gave a slight nod to Catterson.
The lawyer stepped forward, drawing from his briefcase a gold-embossed folder, which he laid neatly before Eastman.
"This is not a threat," Catterson said. "It's a gift—a cellulose acetate film base process that completely sidesteps your company's nitrocellulose patents."
Eastman's expression hardened. He adjusted his pince-nez and leaned forward, scanning the neatly typed formulas and the delicate hand-drawn molecular structures. Every line of data hit precisely where Kodak's patents left gaps.
For a long moment, only the grandfather clock in the corner broke the silence, ticking with solemn regularity.
Finally, Eastman looked up, voice tight. "What do you want?"
Shane stepped closer, his reflection faintly mirrored in the polished brass lamp beside the desk.
"DuPont sells silver nitrate to Kodak at 1.9 cents per ounce," he began. "We want the same rate—and a ten-year exclusive supply agreement, with pricing tied to commodity indexes. Also, compensation and termination certificates for every night-shift worker at Tower 34. And—"
He pointed to the railyard outside the window, where a line of tank cars gleamed faintly under the winter light. "Those twenty tons of emulsion 'detained for testing' will be released this afternoon and sent to Los Angeles."
Eastman's hand slammed against the desk. "DuPont and Kodak have had a thirty-year relationship," he snapped. "And last month, you were still importing Zeiss emulsions from Germany. Don't pretend your company is in a position to dictate terms."
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing to slits. "You poached my entire emulsion team—twenty-seven of my best chemists! You think I don't know who orchestrated that?"
He paused, letting the accusation hang, then added, icy and sharp: "What if I say no?"
Shane's calm never wavered. He opened the proof layout he had brought, revealing The Wall Street Journal. The headline screamed:
"Kodak Film Base Flammability Investigation: 1925 Cinema Fires Re-examined."
A black-and-white photograph of a burned Chicago cinema accompanied the story.
Klausser's voice was quiet but firm. "Ethyl substitution degree: 3.0. Flash point 82°F higher than the current standard. Congressional Fire Committee regulations pass next week. Kodak's nitrate inventory may not comply."
Catterson placed a layoff and compensation agreement before Eastman. "Kodak must sign no-fault termination agreements for Tower 34 night-shift employees within 24 hours. Pioneer Optics will provide an additional two months' salary per person."
A long silence fell, broken only by the faint crackle of burning logs in the fireplace.
At last, Eastman exhaled slowly. He lifted his coffee cup, its delicate porcelain rim catching the light like a thin blade.
"Five years," he said. "Exclusive supply for five years. And I want cross-licensing for your three-strip process. Pioneer Optics will pay Kodak half a cent per ten thousand feet of film produced."
Shane's lips curved faintly. The smile was almost polite—but his eyes were cold, distant.
"Deal," he said simply.
When the last document was signed in Kodak's legal office, the freight train outside had already begun to move. The Vanguard logo—two outstretched wings—gleamed proudly on the side of the lead car as it turned south toward New York.
The world was shifting. Quietly, irrevocably.
That evening, as dusk fell over Manhattan, Shane's black Cadillac pulled into a reserved space beneath the Woolworth Building. The car's polished hood reflected the city's early neon glow, shimmering like oil on water.
Inside, the 27th floor was alive with murmurs and electric anticipation.
In the conference room overlooking City Hall Park, Mary Pickford—America's sweetheart—stood near the window, dressed in a silver fox stole and evening gown. Beside her, United Artists' lead attorney arranged the final pages of a contract beneath a glowing desk lamp.
At the far end of the corridor, Henry James Hill, chairman of the Hollywood Technology Alliance, limped toward them, his cane tapping a sharp rhythm on the marble floor.
"Howard Hughes has lost his mind!" Henry hissed, gripping Shane's sleeve. "He's stacked ten barrels of aviation fuel in United Artists' basement screening room. Says if he doesn't see the three-strip sample by tomorrow, he'll torch the master negative of Hell's Angels."
Shane accepted a glass of champagne from Henry's secretary without a word. He swirled the drink once, watching the bubbles rise and burst—silent, fleeting, like flashbulbs.
"Tell Hughes," he said at last, "that Pioneer Optics will send a team to Van Nuys Airport. We'll retrofit his aerial cameras with this."
He drew a small prism from his pocket. When the room's light passed through it, a shimmering rainbow patch spread across the carpet.
"One hundred thousand dollars," he added softly, "and the new three-strip system. In return, I want more than fifteen percent of Hell's Angels' box office."
He tilted the prism again—its fractured light sliding across DouglasFairbanks's tie and settling on the unsigned contract.
"And the open seat on United Artists' board."
Klausser stepped forward with a telegram, eyes solemn. "Message from Geneva," he said quietly. "The equipment from Zeiss has been located—temporarily held by friends."
Shane read it once, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket. Then he looked back up, eyes gleaming faintly.
"On second thought," he said, his voice calm but cutting through the tension, "forget the board seat."
Mary Pickford gasped. Her champagne glass trembled, a few drops spilling over her manicured fingers.
Fairbanks straightened, speechless.
"I'll take the European distribution rights instead," Shane said.
Henry froze. Then, as realization dawned, his knuckles tightened around his cane. Distribution wasn't control—but it was reach.
Europe. London. Paris. Berlin. Every reel of United Artists' films would pass through Pioneer Optics' hands.
Hours later, as the city's lights painted the Hudson gold, Shane signed the final page.
On the phone from London, Charlie Chaplin's cheerful voice came through the static:
"Mr. Cassidy! My agent will meet you at the Savoy. Don't forget that gilded projector of yours."
The deal was done: The Circus would premiere across Europe on March 15th—simultaneously.
As Klausser packed up the documents, the red wax seal bearing Pioneer Optics' emblem caught the light one last time.
"Book passage for February 10th," Shane said, loosening his tie. Outside the window, a white ocean liner moved down the Hudson, her wake glowing faintly in the dark.
Klausser nodded. He didn't ask why that date mattered, or what was really hidden in the coded crates aboard that train.
Some answers, he knew, would only rise from the sea fog of the Atlantic.