The reverberations of the KTC triode's success was carefully spread by Michael and technically corroborated by the undeniable clarity of the resulting long-distance calls, sent a tremor of existential dread through the boardroom of the American Telephone and Telegraph Company (AT&T).
For decades, AT&T had relied on the long distance lines to maintain its dominance. Now, the Kingston Telephone Company, had threatened that dominance.
Their engineers had been working on a similar problem for years, experimenting with mechanical devices—loaded coils and complex relay systems—but had never achieved the consistent, noise-free amplification of the KTC Triode. Losing the long-distance market meant losing the most lucrative part of the entire telephone business, effectively ceding the future of telephony to KTC.
In a state of panicked urgency, AT&T dramatically sped up their own research efforts, mobilizing their top scientific talent to reverse-engineer or independently develop a similar solution. They knew that a delay of even a few years would allow Michael to completely solidify his advantage.
Michael, however, remained unconcerned with their corporate anxiety.
It took the collective genius of three specific people—Fleming, De Forest, and Arnold—to develop the stable, high-vacuum three-element triode. This selection was no coincidence. Michael had meticulously looked through many candidates' profiles and only chose those three when his gift gave him the absolute signal that they were the correct persons for the job. The AT&T team didn't have Michael's unique gift to assemble a flawless, synergistic team like that. He was confident it would take AT&T a very long time, if they ever succeeded without outright stealing the patented design.
******
It was a brisk autumn afternoon, and Michael was seeking refuge from the persistent hum of his business interests in the intellectual quiet of the Harvard campus. He sat on a worn wooden bench near the Widener Library, deeply absorbed in a complex chemistry textbook concerning organic synthesis.
His focus was broken by a voice.
"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"
Michael slowly lowered his book, turning his head slightly. Standing beside the bench was a young woman, perhaps twenty years old. She possessed striking blonde hair and an hourglass figure emphasized by a tight, fashionable dress. She was undoubtedly good-looking, but it had no effect on Michael.
He glanced at the empty expanse of the long bench. "No," he replied, his tone neutral. He held the book vertically in his lap.
She smiled and settled down on the far end of the bench. She extended a hand with a practiced, graceful gesture.
"Hi. I'm Veronica."
Michael simply nodded once, his eyes briefly meeting hers before returning to the cover of his chemistry book. He did not offer his name or his hand.
Veronica waited for a beat, her smile faltering slightly. "It's customary for a gentleman to introduce himself when a lady offers her name."
Michael closed his book completely, the leather cover snapping shut, and placed it neatly beside him on the bench. He turned his full attention to her, his brow slightly furrowed in an expression of quiet intensity.
"Let's dispense with the theater, shall we?" Michael said, his voice low and smooth. "You're not a very good actress, and this isn't a chance meeting."
Veronica's composure cracked instantly. Her eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about? Are you insulting me?"
Michael leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "If you are a Harvard student, you would have known me. If you are here, you know exactly who I am. So, let's be honest about the objective, or kindly move along."
He was entirely correct. Michael Kingston was famous at Harvard, not just as the heir to immense wealth, but as an influential figure who had challenged the status quo. His significant donation to improve the quality of meals in the dorms—a common point of resentment among students—had made him a friend to the less privileged. Many women had attempted to initiate these 'chance encounters' before, all without success.
Veronica's face flushed with genuine anger, the act dropping completely. "How dare you! You are slandering me, calling me a—a gold digger!" she hissed, standing up abruptly.
It was precisely at that moment that four figures approached from behind her, walking with a deliberate, swaggering pace. Michael watched them arrive, his expression a mixture of calm observation and mild annoyance.
"What's going on here, Veronica?" demanded the tallest of the approaching men, a student Michael recognized from various elite social gatherings.
Michael recognized all four. They belonged to a group known informally as "The Elites"—a coterie of students from old, comfortable families who openly looked down upon those they deemed middle-class or poor.
The irony was that Michael, whose wealth dwarfed all of theirs combined, consistently looked down on their arrogance, making him their target of bitter resentment.
These men were often at the center of campus conflicts, and Michael, though consistently neutral in university politics, had a habit of providing quiet, practical support to students unfairly targeted by their snobbery, subtly balancing the power dynamic. This principled opposition had ensured the Elites' resentment toward him was a constant, smoldering fire.
Veronica pointed an accusatory finger at Michael, her voice now high and theatrical again for the benefit of her audience. "He called me a gold-digging whore! He slandered my character!"
The lead man, his face tightening with manufactured outrage, stepped forward. "Did you hear that? The Kingston bastard did something wrong to her, didn't he?" he spat, using the derogatory term for Michael.
More students were now stopping, drawn by the escalating confrontation. Michael sighed, placing his chemistry book on the bench. He stood up slowly, his frame unfolding to its full six-foot-four height. Years of rigorous conditioning had honed his muscular, lean physique, making him a solid, unyielding presence that easily towered over the four. They momentarily faltered, struck by the sheer physical presence and the oppressive quiet of his demeanor, but the arrival of more supporters on their side bolstered their collective courage.
Michael looked down at the group, then specifically at the lead man.
"You want me to apologize to her," Michael stated flatly. "What if I don't?"
It was not in Michael's nature to apologize when he had committed no wrong. For Michael, an apology was a valuable currency, a powerful gesture of humility and respect that should only be spent when justified.
To offer one now, under duress and in the face of a manufactured lie, would devalue every sincere apology he might ever give.
He would not surrender that moral ground.
The lead man—Christian—stepped fully into the confrontation space. "Then we'll have to teach you a lesson, Kingston," Christian sneered, puffing out his chest. "A lesson in how to treat a lady, and a lesson in humility."
From the small cluster of onlookers, a sudden, sharp snicker cut through the tense quiet. Christian, whose group was notorious on campus for their casual arrogance and poor treatment of service staff and women they deemed beneath them, snapped his head towards the sound, his face twisting with fury. The crowd knew this was just an orchestrated fight.
Michael remained perfectly still. He was fully aware that everyone present knew the history: Michael Kingston was a target, and the four Elites were here to pick a fight.
"When?" Michael asked, his voice calm, cutting through Christian's manufactured aggression.
Christian blinked, genuinely confused by the sudden shift in subject. "What?"
"When will you teach me this lesson?" Michael clarified, his eyes unwavering.
"Do you think I'm joking?" Christian shouted, trying to recapture the moment with volume.
Michael raised a single eyebrow. "Do you see me laughing?"
The silence that followed was heavy and exposed Christian, leaving him visibly flustered. Christian's family owned a profitable coal mine company and he was considered wealthy, and almost no one on campus dared to speak back to him—exceptions were limited to those of equal or greater social standing. Michael, though possessing a far superior status, had consistently clashed with the Elites over the past years, which was why this petty drama had been meticulously planned in the first place.
Christian, now totally thrown off-balance, didn't say anything, unable to formulate a response.
Michael glanced down at an elegant, thin wristwatch on his left wrist. "It's 3:30 PM now. Let's meet at the gymnasium at 4:30 PM. We will settle this in the ring."
Christian was stunned. He had expected to pressure Michael into a public apology and knock him from his high horse, but he never anticipated a direct challenge to physical combat. Yet, he couldn't back down now. To refuse would make him the laughing stock of the entire campus.
He swallowed hard, forcing a look of false confidence. "We will meet at 4:30 PM," Christian affirmed, then turned sharply and walked away, his companions and Veronica scrambling to follow his lead.
The small crowd that had gathered began to disperse, buzzing with the news of the impending fight. A moment later, a young man detached himself from the melting crowd and approached Michael, shifting his weight nervously.
"Mr. Kingston?" he began hesitantly.
Michael turned, picking up his chemistry book from the bench. "Yes?"
"I... I'm Owen Matthews. Junior year, BA," the student stammered, his eyes earnest. "I just wanted to ask if you needed any help at the gymnasium. You know, someone to be in your corner or just watch your back."
Michael looked at him steadily, a hint of appreciation in his eyes for the student's courage. "I appreciate the thought, Owen. But no need. I can take care of it."
Owen frowned, looking toward the retreating figures of the Elites. "They don't play fair, sir. They never do."
"And that is precisely why I need you to stay out of it," Michael stated. He watched Owen's worried expression. "Whatever happens between them and me shouldn't affect anyone else. If you come, you will be affected, Owen. After this incident, they will need a scapegoat. Instead of the Elites being disciplined, it will be one of you if you are present."
Michael gently placed a hand on the student's shoulder. "So, leave it. Go study, or grab a coffee." Michael smiled. "They are just kids anyway, kids who need to learn there is a bigger bully than them on this campus."