On a damp Tuesday morning, a fine drizzle veiled New York in a gray mist.
From the tall windows of the Pioneer Optics building on West 46th Street, Shane stood watching raindrops slide in twisting paths down the glass, distorting the skyline beyond.
He checked his wristwatch — nine forty-five. Fifteen minutes until the meeting.
"Let's confirm the terms one last time," he said, loosening his tie and turning toward William Catterson, Pioneer's chief counsel.
Catterson adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles and leafed through the contract, marking key clauses with a fountain pen. "The duration of the patent cross-licensing agreement still isn't clearly defined. RCA's legal team will press hard on that point."
"Then we'll define it for them," Shane replied quietly.
The two walked briskly down the corridor toward the laboratory. The steady hum of machinery filled the air. Technicians in white coats were adjusting tripods and calibrating instruments.
"How are the samples coming along?" Shane asked.
Lena, the lead engineer, brushed a strand of blonde hair behind her ear without looking up. "The Three-Color Band synchronized demonstration film is ready in the screening room. Shutter speed's been calibrated to ninety-six frames per second." The oscilloscope on her desk pulsed rhythmically, the sine waves glowing green in the dim light.
Before Shane could reply, the indicator light on the front desk phone flashed red.
"Mr. Cassidy," the secretary's voice came through the speaker, "Mr. Sarnoff and Mr. von Klemens from the Swiss Bank have arrived."
Shane exchanged a quick look with Catterson. The technicians instinctively paused, and even the low hum of the ventilation fans seemed to fade.
The lights in the screening room dimmed. Instead of starting with their color film, Shane had the projectionist run a black-and-white test clip — an RCA Photophone reel from Warner's latest sensation, The Jazz Singer.
The sound came half a second late. The actors' lips moved out of sync with the music.
Across the darkened room, David Sarnoff, the powerful head of RCA, stiffened almost imperceptibly. Then, with practiced composure, he said blandly, "This is still the best synchronized system on the market. Warner's Tri-Ergon process performs even worse."
Shane said nothing. He simply nodded to the projectionist.
The lights flickered again — and the Three-Color Band demonstration began.
The effect was instantaneous.
The screen exploded into vivid hues: deep crimson, shimmering gold, cobalt skies. The image and sound fused seamlessly — not a frame out of rhythm.
The roar of fighter engines in a dive, the rat-tat-tat of machine guns, and the brilliant orange tracers of bullets — every detail was synchronized with impossible precision. Even the glint of sunlight flashing across a pilot's helmet matched the metallic hiss in the soundtrack.
Sarnoff leaned forward, gripping the armrest tightly.
When the camera cut to a spinning propeller, filmed at ninety-six frames per second, there was no flicker, no blur. The illusion of motion was pure and fluid — beyond anything yet achieved in cinema.
"This… is impossible," Sarnoff whispered before he caught himself. His hand twitched, thumb rubbing absently at the pale ring mark on his finger — a telltale sign of agitation.
Shane let the silence linger. Then, in a calm, even voice:
"A ninety-six-frame shutter," he said. "Three times faster than anything currently used. And—" he paused, letting the words sink in, "fully compatible with Warner's Tri-Ergon system."
At that, Mr. von Klemens, the Swiss banker, leaned forward, scribbling notes in his small leather notebook. The scratch of his pen echoed faintly in the dark.
"Warner contacted us this morning," Shane continued smoothly. "They'd like to demonstrate the integration of Three-Color Band with Tri-Ergon at their board meeting next weekend."
Sarnoff's jaw tightened. The flickering light carved sharp lines across his face. A faint vein pulsed at his temple.
When the lights came up, his expression was composed once more — but the faint tremor in his hand betrayed the effort it took.
"I need to speak with you alone," Sarnoff said tersely.
The others filed out.
Shane opened his silver cigar case, offering one politely. "Cigar?"
Sarnoff refused with a curt gesture. "RCA controls eighty percent of North American projection equipment," he said coldly. "Without our cooperation, your color system will go nowhere."
Shane struck a match. "And yet," he said quietly, watching the flame, "Mr. Morgan's Christmas Eve deadline seems to be weighing heavily on you."
Sarnoff's head snapped up, the blood draining from his face.
"You should know," Shane continued, blowing a slow trail of smoke toward the ceiling, "Warner's already remastering The Jazz Singer using Tri-Ergon. Add our Three-Color process to that…"
He let the thought hang.
Sarnoff's expression darkened. If Warner's sound films adopted true color before Christmas, RCA would lose J.P. Morgan's financial backing — a disaster that could cripple the company.
"Name your terms," Sarnoff muttered finally.
"Ten years of cross-licensing," Shane replied coolly. "RCA shares its film and broadcasting patents, and for every picture using the Three-Color process, we collect one percent of the box office. You also drop all pending patent suits against independent studios."
Sarnoff exploded. "Absurd!"
He stood so quickly that his chair scraped against the carpet.
Unruffled, Shane pulled another document from his folder. "This," he said, sliding it across the table, "is Warner's draft contract. They've offered fifteen percent — simply to secure a one-week head start over you."
Sarnoff stared, jaw tight. "They can't afford that."
"They can't," Shane admitted easily. "But MGM and Paramount can. If you decline, I'll license the technology to both simultaneously — and let their color talkies bury RCA's library."
Sarnoff's skin went ashen. If Mayer or Zukor got this technology first, RCA's dominance would crumble overnight.
At that moment, Shane pressed the desk bell — a small, deliberate chime that seemed to echo with finality.
The door opened. Mr. von Klemens entered with a polished smile, carrying a neat stack of gold-edged contracts. Behind him came Catterson.
"Gentlemen," von Klemens said cheerfully, laying the papers on the table, "perhaps we can meet halfway: five years of patent cross-licensing, and legal actions limited to the five major studios." He adjusted his cufflinks. "But Pioneer retains full autonomy in the European market."
Shane tapped his finger against his coffee cup, then nodded. "Agreed."
He took a slow sip, then added almost casually, "On one condition — that Mr. J. P. Morgan himself leads the establishment of a joint venture."
The sentence landed like a spark in a room full of fumes. Sarnoff froze.
It was a calculated trap. Shane was betting that Morgan's hunger for monopoly would outweigh Sarnoff's pride. Once Morgan stepped in, Pioneer Optics would be locked at the center of the new industrial alliance — with Shane holding the blueprint.
DuPont's nitrate film base, Kodak's acetate stock, RCA's vacuum tubes, and Pioneer's Three-Color Band — four keystones of the future motion picture empire.
And one day, they would all answer to him.
Sarnoff's pen scratched furiously across the page. When he finally signed, his hand trembled.