The setting sun poured through the hangar's western windows, spilling molten gold across the concrete floor. Shadows of propellers and suspended beams stretched long and sharp in the late California light.
Shane knelt beside three cameras aligned in a row, his fingers turning a small brass knob to fine-tune the shutter's rotation speed. The back of his white shirt clung to his skin with sweat, while the dry, gasoline-scented wind rolled in through the open hangar doors.
"Let's run it again," called Lena Voigt from behind the console. Her quick, practiced hands flicked switches, adjusting the dials on the RCA Photophone control board. "The pickup's still lagging by three-tenths of a second—we'll need to offset the feed."
Shane nodded, stood up, and crossed to where Howard Hughes was leaning against the wing of a silver biplane, tapping the fuselage with a wrench in restless rhythm.
"Two more calibrations should kill the delay," Shane said, taking the iced cola that one of Hughes's mechanics handed him. Condensation dripped down his wrist, leaving faint circles on the floor.
Without warning, Hughes hurled the wrench into a toolbox. The metallic crash rang through the rafters, startling the sparrows perched above. From his flight jacket, he pulled a crumpled telegram and tossed it to Shane.
"Just got word from New York," Hughes said. "Sarnoff's sent a man to Technicolor's lab."
Shane smoothed out the telegram under the amber light. The Los Angeles sun filtered through the skylight, turning the paper nearly translucent. He traced the faint serrations at its edge—a habit left from another life—and noted the blot of extra ink at the tail of a capital E, a telltale flaw of the Fifth Avenue telegraph office.
"A diversion," he murmured, a faint smirk touching his lips. Folding the telegram neatly, he slipped it behind Hughes's aviator badge. His thumb lingered for a moment, confirming the clue he'd found.
"He knows we're testing the three-color synchronization system with RCA's Photophone."
Shane's gaze drifted past Hughes, toward Lena, who was crouched over her workbench, her sleeves rolled up, pencil behind her ear, hair falling loose as she annotated her blueprint.
A dangerous but promising contingency plan flickered in his mind.
Outside, the hangar shook with the thunder of engines—three modified SE.5 fighters screaming through their final test flight. The prop wash sent Lena's papers flying; she caught them just in time, scribbling an exclamation mark beside the words Shutter Synchronization Rate.
"So tomorrow's demonstration goes ahead," Hughes said, narrowing his pale eyes against the light.
"Of course," Shane replied, undoing his top button. "Technicolor's days are numbered. They can't match our color accuracy."
The twilight glow caught the grease streaks on Hughes's face, making them look almost golden. He grinned, showing a sharp canine.
"Want me to invite a few reporters from The Hollywood Reporter? My picture's almost finished shooting anyway."
"No need." Shane picked up a small nickel-plated parts box. Inside, the three colored filters—crimson, emerald, and cobalt—glimmered like jewels. "When Sarnoff realizes what we've built, he'll come to us. And the price will be ours to name."
The next day's internal test ran perfectly. Aside from replacing a few worn bearings, the synchronization between the three-strip camera and the Photophone was flawless. The playback showed color and sound locked together with uncanny precision.
Shane knew the timing was right. The balance of power had shifted.
That evening, he and Hughes finalized the agreement in the office adjoining the hangar. Technical reports and draft contracts lay scattered across the oak desk. Outside, the airfield had gone silent, save for the distant chirp of crickets. A single desk lamp threw a circle of warm light over the papers.
Hughes signed first, his pen scratching across the page. "Pioneer Optics will handle the technology," he said. "Hughes Tool covers funding and legal muscle. You'll have full post-production support for Hell's Angels."
Shane nodded, taking the pen. He signed with a smooth flourish, then gently blew on the ink so it wouldn't smear.
"Patent theft and talent poaching," he said. "That's our biggest threat. MGM won't watch quietly while we cut into their monopoly."
Hughes gave a short, dismissive laugh, drumming his fingers on the desk.
"I've already got lawyers drafting counter-suits. And we're reaching out—quietly—to United Artists, Mascot, and even Disney."
Shane's brow lifted slightly. "Disney? They're still animating mice and skeletons. Will they risk it?"
"Everyone in this town wants a piece of the future," Hughes said, turning to the window. Below, Los Angeles shimmered under the neon glow of the growing film empire. "If the gamble's big enough, they'll play."
Shane smiled faintly. "Then it's settled. Pioneer builds the science, Hughes sells the dream. Together, we'll change how Hollywood sees the world."
Hughes turned, extending his hand. "Pleasure doing business, Cassidy."
Their handshake sealed the pact, their shadows stretching long across the wall.
When Shane stepped back into the hangar, the engines were quiet, but laughter echoed softly near the far corner. Mary and Jean Harlow were crouched together, giggling over something scrawled on a notepad.
"Brother!" Mary called out when she saw him, waving with both hands. "Miss Harlow says she's taking me to the screen test tomorrow!"
Jean stood, brushing off her coveralls. Her platinum hair shimmered under the skylight, though the roots showed faint traces of pink from harsh bleaching. She offered a polite smile.
"If Mr. Cassidy doesn't mind."
Shane's eyes lingered on her hairline, recalling what he knew from history—that Jean Harlow would die in 1937 at just twenty-six, her body weakened by the poisons of constant dyeing. A future she didn't deserve.
"Miss Harlow," he said, reaching into his breast pocket, "try this."
He handed her a small aluminum bottle stamped with the Pioneer Optics emblem—a prism within an aperture.
"Our lab mixed this from leftover development compounds. It's a soothing tonic—witch hazel and mineral oils. Much gentler than the commercial bleaches."
Jean turned the bottle in her hand, studying the embossed logo. The sunlight played through her hair, turning it to spun silver.
"I was thinking," Shane continued, stepping just enough to let the light fall perfectly on her face, "you could endorse it. Two-year contract, fair pay. You'd be the face of Pioneer's new hair-care line."
Mary's eyes went wide. "Jean, that's amazing! My brother never asks anyone to endorse anything!"
Jean blinked, dazed. "You mean—me? For your company?" Her voice trembled slightly. MGM had just dropped her two weeks ago.
"Why not?" Shane said with an easy smile. "Your hair is Hollywood's most recognizable color. No one else could represent it better."
She pressed her lips together, fingers tightening around the small bottle until her knuckles went pale.
"I'd love to," she said quickly, afraid the offer might vanish. "But… I'll need to discuss it with my mother first."
Shane took out a small card case and handed her a cream-colored business card. "Here's my private number."
Jean accepted it carefully. The faint scent of cedar clung to the card. In embossed black letters:
Shane Cassidy
Pioneer Optical Instruments, Inc.
A modest phone number and address followed, with the prism logo stamped in silver foil at the corner.
"Call me when you've decided," he said, stepping back into the glow of the oscilloscope's green flicker. "Once you're ready, my secretary will arrange the paperwork."
Mary winked at Jean behind his back, mouthing, Don't miss this!
From across the hangar came Hughes's booming voice, shouting orders as workers wheeled away the test equipment. Metal clanged and echoed against the rafters.
Jean slipped the card and bottle into her purse, her hair catching the last light of the evening—bright, alive, and almost defiant.
That simple offer—half business, half instinct—might alter the course of her future, and perhaps, Hollywood's too.