In the rear wing of the Argyle Empire Bank building was a crucially important hall: the Clearing Center.
The air inside was thick with the scent of aged paper, cheap tobacco, and heavy ink.
Fifty senior bookkeepers and copyists were hunched over slanted oak high desks, their quills or steel pens scratching against the paper as they transcribed thousands of daily transactions into thick ledgers.
Arthur Holloway, the Chief Clerk and an old-school gentleman who had worked on Wall Street for forty years, was wearing arm sleeves as he inspected a letter just completed by a young employee.
"Your penmanship is too sloppy, Tompkins."
Holloway frowned, tapping the expensive parchnt letterhead with a ruler.
"The tail of the 'G' isn't properly looped, and the curve of the 'S' lacks elegance. This represents the face of the Argyle Bank. Rewrite it."
Young Tompkins rubbed his aching wrist and quietly protested.
"But sir, there are still twenty confirmation letters destined for London to be written today, and the ship leaves tomorrow..."
"Then work overti." Holloway's voice was absolute. "On Wall Street, elegance and accuracy are more important than speed."
Just as he spoke, the heavy double doors of the hall were pushed open.
Edward Frost walked in, followed by five burly porters.
They were carrying ten wooden crates tightly wrapped in canvas, their heavy footsteps instantly shattering the monastery-like silence of the hall.
"Mr. Frost?"
Holloway walked up to him, a hint of annoyance at the interruption on his face.
"This is the Clearing Center. Without authorization..."
"This is the Boss's order, Mr. Holloway."
Frost interrupted him, signaling the porters to place the boxes on the row of empty long tables in the center of the hall.
"Starting today, these ten machines will be your new tools."
"Machines?"
Holloway looked suspiciously at the strange creations—interwoven black cast-iron bases and brass components—revealed after the canvas was lifted.
"What are these? So kind of new instrunt?"
Frost smiled, pressing a key. With a crisp 'clack,' a tal arm sprang up, leaving a black mark on the ribbon.
"This is the 'Standard Typewriter'."
Frost announced, "The Boss requires that starting next week, all external business correspondence, contract drafts, and internal financial summary reports must be completed using it."
"Words... hamred out by this thing?"
Holloway looked at the line of printed letters, which, though clear, appeared stiff and rigid, revealing unconcealed disgust.
"This is a blasphemy against the art of calligraphy! It is dead, soulless! And..."
He pointed at the machine. "It's too loud! This 'clack-clack' sound will drive the bookkeepers mad!"
Frost ignored his complaints, rely relaying the ssage impassively.
"This is the Boss's instruction. If you find it noisy, you can plug your ears. But he does not want to see another report where an amount is misread due to sloppy handwriting. Nor does he want to hear any more excuses about 'insufficient copying speed'."
"This is Mr. Christopher Sholes."
Frost stepped aside, revealing a middle-aged man with graying hair.
"He is the inventor of this machine. For the next three days, he will be responsible for teaching you how to use the typewriter."
"I wish you good luck."
... The next three days were a disaster and a baptism for the employees of the Argyle Bank Clearing Center.
The previously quiet hall turned into a blacksmith's shop filled with the sound of tal striking.
The continuous 'clacks,' the 'ding' of the carriage return, and Sholes's anxious instructional voice intertwined into a chaotic symphony.
"No! Don't poke it with your index finger!"
Sholes stood behind young Tompkins, correcting his fingering.
"Use your pinky to reach the 'A', suspend your palm, just like playing the piano!"
"But sir," Tompkins looked at the keyboard, which completely scrambled the alphabetical order, feeling like his fingers were tying themselves in knots, "why is 'A' in the pinky position? That makes no sense!"
"It's to prevent the type bars from clashing!" Sholes explained for the hundredth ti. "Get used to it, let your muscles morize it. Once you're accustod, you'll find your fingers flying!"
Holloway sat in his supervisor's chair, observing everything with a cold eye.
He watched the employees, who usually possessed excellent penmanship, now clumsily tapping the keys like ducklings learning to walk, his heart filled with nostalgia for the old days and disdain for this industrial monstrosity.
"This is a waste of ti," he muttered under his breath.
"I could have written half a page with a pen in the ti it takes those fools to type one line."
However, change quietly occurred on the fourth day.
Tompkins, the young man who had complained the most, seed to have suddenly found a rhythm.
His fingers no longer hesitated; instead, they began to dance across the keys.
"Clack-clack-clack..."
It was a continuous and rhythmic sound.
No longer intermittent noise, it sounded like a rapid drumbeat.
A white sheet of paper was rolled into the machine, and as the carriage moved, lines of neat, clear, black letters, free of any corrections, appeared on the page like flowing water.
"Finished!"
Tompkins yanked the carriage return lever, producing a crisp 'ding.'
He tore the paper from the platen and excitedly held it up.
"A five-hundred-word urgent confirmation letter destined for London. Ti taken... eight minutes."
He glanced at his pocket watch and shouted incredulously.
"Eight minutes?"
Holloway jumped to his feet.
By standard, this would usually require the most skilled copyist at least twenty minutes, and that's assuming no errors.
He quickly walked over and took the paper.
There were no ink sars, no connected letters; every character was as legible as a printed Bible.
Even the old Bank President with poor eyesight could clearly see every number and clause on it at a glance.
Holloway was stunned.
He looked at the paper, then at the cold machine. Though stubborn, he was an honest banker. He knew exactly what those eight minutes ant on efficiency-driven Wall Street.
That was triple the efficiency. That was money.
"Everyone..."
Holloway suddenly spun around and roared at the employees who were still watching from the side.
"Put down your pens and line up! Learn properly from Tompkins how to pound away at that damned thing. Including !"
"If anyone hasn't mastered it by next week," he pointed toward the door, "pack your bags and get out! The Argyle Bank does not keep people who cannot keep up with the tis."
... anwhile, at the Umbrella Corporation headquarters in Brooklyn.
The promotion here was going even smoother, one might even say it was enthusiastically welcod.
Catherine O'Brien was sitting in her office, testing an ivory-white typewriter custom-made for her.
"This is fantastic."
She looked at the pharmaceutical procurent list for St. Vincent-Argyle United Hospital that she had just typed out.
"This solves our biggest hidden danger."
"What danger?"
Dr. Thorne, standing nearby, asked, puzzled.
"A doctor's handwriting."
Catherine pointed to a pile of old handwritten prescriptions on the desk.
"Do you know how many dical accidents happen every year because pharmacists can't decipher the doctors' scribbles, which look like hieroglyphics, leading them to dispense the wrong dicine or mistake the dosage?"
"But now." She patted the typewriter.
"With this, every prescription, dical record, and even dicine label will be in standard printed type. 'Milligrams' and 'grams' will never be confused again. This... this is a life-saving machine."
"If that's the case, its use goes beyond this."
Dr. Thorne thought for a mont and added, "I have tried it too. It is incredibly convenient for recording experintal data. Before, we spent a lot of ti organizing lab journals; now we can spend more ti under the microscope."
Catherine nodded. She imdiately called for the administrative supervisor.
"Go and inform Mr. Sholes."
"Umbrella Corporation needs to order fifty units. I want every attending physician in the hospital to have one on his desk."
... One week later, in the study of the Fifth Avenue mansion.
Felix Argyle sat at his desk, holding two docunts.
In his left hand was a summary report on the bank's operations from the previous week, handwritten by Holloway in extrely ornate script.
The handwriting was beautiful, but reading it required considerable effort, especially the dense columns of numbers.
In his right hand was the identical report, printed by Tompkins using the "Standard Typewriter."
Although the paper occasionally showed variations in shade due to uneven typing force, the neat layout and clear data columns made it instantly comprehensible.
Felix tossed the docunt in his left hand into the wastebasket.
"This is the future, Edward."
He handed the printed report to Frost.
"Do you see it? This is the 'Standard' I spoke of."
"Yes, Boss."
Frost was also full of praise.
"The feedback from the bank is that although the initial adaptation was painful, the speed of docunt processing has now doubled. Furthermore, because the writing is so clear, the error rate for telegraph operators when forwarding ssages has dropped almost to zero."
"This is the aning of technology." Felix stood up and walked to the window.
"Since its value has been proven, perhaps it is ti to push it onto the market."
"Who will be our first major client?" Frost asked. "Other banks on Wall Street? Or newspapers?"
"No." Felix shook his head. "Those people are too shrewd and too conservative. They will observe."
"I want to find the largest, most chaotic, and most urgently efficiency-needy organization in this country."
His finger pointed south, toward Washington.
"The Federal Governnt, and... the military."
"Think about it, Edward." Felix turned around.
"How many material allocation forms does the War Departnt handle every day? How many casualty reports and battle summaries does the Potomac Corps generate daily? Those mountains of docunts are clogging the arteries of the Federal war machine like silt."
"If Secretary Stanton knew there was a machine that could triple the efficiency of his chaotic logistics departnt..."
Felix's lips curled into a smile.
"Then I imagine he would acquire it at any cost."
"Prepare the carriage."
"Take the latest calibrated prototype, and we will go to Washington."
"I am going to give Secretary Stanton a gift he cannot refuse."
"And while we're there, we'll check on the final batch of the five hundred cannons being modified."
Washington D.C.
Inside the War Departnt building, Secretary Edwin Stanton sat behind his massive desk, almost swallowed by a sea of white paper.
Material allocation forms, troop casualty reports, ammunition consumption statistics, conscription orders… These docunts flew in like snowflakes from every corner of the front lines, piling up on his desk, the floor, and even the windowsills.
"Damn it!"
Stanton slamd a broken-tipped pen into the pile of docunts, ink splattering onto the report about the urgent need for winter clothing for the Seventh Army Corps.
"There are twenty-four hours in a day, but I feel like forty-eight of them are spent looking at these chicken-scratch writings!"
"Mr. Secretary," his chief secretary carefully handed him a new docunt, "This is an urgent telegram from General Grant in Tennessee, regarding ammunition reserves for the spring offensive…"
"Read it to !" Stanton rubbed his throbbing temples. "My eyes are almost blind."
"The telegrapher's handwriting is a bit… ssy." The secretary struggled to decipher it. "Does this say 'fifty thousand' shells, or 'five hundred thousand'? This zero… it looks like it's dotted above."
"Verify it!" Stanton roared. "Don't bother until you figure out if it's one zero or two! That's a difference of thousands of tons of shipping capacity!"
Just as the office was about to be completely engulfed by temper and chaos, there was a knock at the door.
"Mr. Secretary," the doorman poked his head in, "Mr. Argyle has arrived. He said… he's here to deliver a gift."
"Let him in."
Stanton took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.
"I hope he brings good news, and not more trouble."
Felix Argyle walked in, still in his well-tailored black overcoat, looking composed, as if he had just co from a relaxed afternoon tea party.
Behind him followed Edward Frost, and two attendants laboriously carrying a heavy wooden crate wrapped in canvas.
"Good afternoon, Edwin."
Felix glanced at the office, which resembled a waste paper recycling center, and a playful smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
"It seems the Union's enemies are not only General Lee, but also these… pieces of paper."
"Stop with the sarcasm, Felix." Stanton pointed to the wooden crate. "What's that? Another new explosive that can blow people to the sky? Or a secret weapon that can scare away the rebels?"
"To so extent, yes."
Felix motioned for the attendants to place the box on the only relatively empty small round table opposite the desk.
Frost stepped forward, untied the canvas, and revealed the machine, gleaming with black lacquer and brass accents.
"What is this?"
Stanton frowned; he had never seen such a thing.
"This is a typewriter," Felix introduced. "A new invention from my Central Laboratory. It's also sothing that can solve your current little troubles."
"Typewriter?"
Stanton stood up, walked around the table, and looked at the machine with confusion.
"You an… use this iron lump to write words?"
"To be precise, 'print'," Felix corrected. "Edward, give our Mr. Secretary a demonstration."
Frost skillfully sat down and rolled a special blank official docunt into the machine.
"What should I write?" Felix asked.
"Just write… a reply to General Grant," Stanton said casually. "Tell him the War Departnt has received the request regarding ammunition reserves and has approved the allocation of one hundred thousand twenty-pound parrott gun shells, to be shipped imdiately."
"Understood."
As Frost's fingers danced across the strange "QWERTY" keyboard, a rhythmic "clack-clack" instantly burst forth in the room filled with the rustling of papers.
Stanton watched in surprise as the small tal hamrs, like tireless soldiers, precisely struck the ribbon.
Less than twenty seconds.
"Ding."
Frost pulled the carriage return lever, tore off the paper, and handed it to Stanton with both hands.
Stanton took the paper.
There were only two lines of text on it.
But every letter was clear, neat, and shiny black, as if it had just co out of a printing press. There were no connected letters, no corrections, and the number "100,000" was so clear that perhaps even a blind person could feel it.
Of course, that was definitely a joke.
"My God…"
Stanton murmured.
He looked at the paper, then at the ssy pile of handwritten docunts on his desk.
"How long did that take? Twenty seconds?" He looked up, his eyes gleaming with fervor. "My secretary would take at least a minute to write that sentence. And I'd have to pray I didn't misread his handwriting."
"This is the efficiency of technology, Edwin," Felix said with a smile.
"This machine can triple the speed at which your clerks process official docunts. More importantly, it eliminates 'ambiguity'. In war, a vague number can an the difference between winning and losing a battle."
"And it can also make carbon copies automatically. Just put a carbon paper underneath, and you can get two identical docunts at the sa ti. One for filing, one for sending. No more manual copying of duplicates."
Stanton's fingers gently caressed the clear printed text.
His brain, tornted by bureaucratic inefficiency, instantly realized the value of this thing.
This was not just a machine. It was order, it was a standard.
"How many do you have?"
Stanton suddenly turned his head, staring at Felix.
"I want them now. Replace everything in the Quartermaster Departnt, the telegraph office, and the front-line command posts with these things."
"Currently, there are only fifty in stock," Felix replied.
"The factory in Brooklyn is in full production. But I can assure you, the War Departnt's orders always have the highest priority."
"What about the price?" Stanton asked. "Such a precise thing probably isn't cheap, is it?"
"One hundred twenty-five dollars per unit," Felix quoted a number, "including one year of free maintenance and ribbon supply."
One hundred twenty-five dollars.
This price was not cheap at the ti, equivalent to the price of a good horse, or a common soldier's pay for more than half a year.
But Stanton didn't even blink.
"Cheap," he evaluated. "If it can make my orders transmit with one less error, it's worth twelve thousand five hundred dollars."
"I'll take all fifty in stock."
Stanton waved his hand. "Also, order five hundred more for . As standard office equipnt for the War Departnt. But I demand delivery next month."
"Deal." Felix nodded.
Five hundred fifty units, that was an order of sixty-eight thousand seven hundred fifty dollars.
This amount of money was just a drop in the bucket for him now.
But the real main event was yet to co.
Various governnt departnts, and the big players in the private sector.
After solving the paper problem, Stanton's mood was significantly better.
He motioned for his secretary to clear a clean sofa and invited Felix to sit down.
"All right, we've seen the goods." Stanton's expression beca serious. "Now, tell the real news. How are those cannons?"
"The modifications were very successful."
Felix put away his smile and pulled out a thick technical report and a photograph from his pocket.
The photo showed a row of twenty-pound parrott guns that had just been modified. At the muzzle, a circle of brand-new alloy steel lining reflected a cold light in the sun.
"The final batch of lining implantation for the five hundred artillery pieces has been completed."
"We still tested ten sample cannons, and the results were all qualified, with no barrel bursts."
"This batch of artillery was loaded onto a special train of the Pennsylvania Railroad Company yesterday."
"If all goes well, in two days, they will arrive at the Washington Armory. You can arrange for front-line troops to receive them at any ti."
Stanton let out a long breath, as if a heavy burden had been lifted.
"Thank you, Felix." His voice was a little hoarse.
"You know what this ans. Grant's spring offensive finally has a set of teeth that won't break at the critical mont."
"It is my pleasure," Felix replied.
"Not just that."
Stanton stood up and walked to the map, looking at the long battle line representing the North-South standoff.
"Since your factory can modify old cannons, does that an you can also build new ones?"
"Perhaps." Felix walked over to him.
"William Coleman brought back the best forging equipnt and engineers from Europe. Although Lex Steel Company's factory in New Jersey is still under construction, our heavy forging workshop is already operational."
"I can have them research all-steel breech-loading field guns."
Felix looked at Stanton. "As long as you give enough support, perhaps in a few months, the first 'Arica Steel Cannon' can be test-fired on Union soil."
Stanton looked at the proposal, and he realized that he was becoming more and more dependent on this man's support.
"Go ahead and do it, don't you know ?" Stanton said directly, without looking at the docunt.
"The War Departnt will provide you with five hundred thousand dollars in research and developnt funds."
"But I have a condition."
"Tell ."
"That typewriter," Stanton pointed to the machine on the desk, "can you leave this one with first? I still have fifty reports to write tonight, and I'm really fed up with those damned quill pens."
Felix and Frost exchanged glances and couldn't help but laugh.
"It's yours, Mr. Secretary."
...As they walked out of the War Departnt building, a light rain began to fall over Washington.
"Boss," Frost opened the umbrella, "One hundred twenty-five dollars per unit. The War Departnt bought five hundred at once. This isn't just a business deal; it's a huge advertisent."
"Yes."
Felix looked at the hazy do of Capitol Hill in the rain and fog.
"Once the governnt starts using the 'Standard Typewriter,' all comrcial companies, banks, and law firms will be forced to follow suit. Because no one wants to fall behind a bureaucracy in terms of efficiency."
"But the biggest gain today isn't the typewriter."
"It's trust."
"Stanton has placed the future of the Union Army's artillery in our hands," Felix said softly.
"This is more important than any order. Because it ans that no matter how the political situation changes in the future, as long as the army needs cannons, Militech will always be an indispensable part of this country."
He got into the carriage.
"Let's go back to New York, Edward."
"Spring is coming. Our steel mill should be fired up too."
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