Chương 9: The Tinkerer

An Irish dive in Cambridge, two blocks from MIT. A typical university-adjacent hole. People did not come here for the atmosphere. They came for cheap beer and the chance to get drunk in relative silence. Dim light, the smell of fried onions and spilled ale, muted voices, sluggish conversations. I sat in the corner in casual clothes: jeans, a dark blue sweater, a worn leather jacket. No suits, no briefcases. Just a guy who had stopped in for a drink after work.

A gray mouse, the kind this place had plenty of already. Exactly what I needed for the conversation ahead. At first, I had planned to stage the meeting with some pomp. Show off the full weight of my capitalist power, arrive dressed to kill, spread papers and contracts across the table. Demonstrate scale. Make an impression. Then I realized it would be the worst possible approach for a first meeting. The man in front of me had just been crushed by the system. Corporate gloss would not attract him.

More likely, it would scare him off or make him aggressive. So I would do it differently. Stern had found him in three days. He was renting a room in Cambridge, a half-hour walk from the campus he had been thrown out of. Drowning his sorrows in a bottle, almost never leaving home except to buy food and come here, to the bar. Classic depression after a career collapse. Quarter to seven in the evening. I sipped bourbon and watched the entrance.

At exactly seven, the door opened, letting in a gust of cold air and a thin young man of about twenty-six. Short. Around five foot seven, maybe a little less. A mop of dark curly hair stuck out in every direction, uncut and unwashed for too long. Thick black-framed glasses hid intelligent but tired eyes with dark circles beneath them. A worn army jacket over a wrinkled flannel shirt. Jeans marked with machine oil or something similar. Hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, eyes on the floor.

The classic posture of a man who wanted to become invisible. I knew it because I had walked like that myself at first. He went straight to the bar without looking around, sat on the far stool away from the other patrons, and muttered something to the bartender. The bartender silently placed a glass of whiskey in front of him. A regular, then. No need to order. I waited until he took the first sip, then the second. On the third, I stood and slowly moved closer, sitting two stools away from him.

Deliberately not right next to him. Close enough for conversation, far enough not to press or provoke. He did not even turn his head. He stared into his glass as if all the answers in the world were floating there. I gave him another minute of silence, then spoke. Casually, as if I simply had nothing better to do.

"You're Phineas Mason, aren't you? The genius from MIT who invented the breakthrough battery?" He flinched almost imperceptibly, but I noticed. Slowly, he turned his head and looked at me with a murky gaze that held everything at once: suspicion, exhaustion, and readiness to tell me to go to hell.

"Then you must have heard I'm not a genius," he said, voice hoarse and bitter.

"I'm a fraud and a data falsifier. That's what the official MIT committee report says, anyway." I shrugged and took a sip of bourbon.

"I think it's pretty obvious to almost everyone that it was a setup." He gave a short, angry snort.

"Everyone?" He turned fully toward me, and I saw his eyes flash behind the lenses.

"Nobody fucking understands anything. Greedy corporations destroyed years of my work, and everyone else just doesn't care. It's easier for them to believe I'm a con man than admit the system is rotten." His voice rose. A couple of patrons turned around. The bartender threw us a wary look. Phineas noticed, clenched his teeth, and stared back into his glass.

"Sorry," he muttered more quietly.

"Didn't mean to shout. It's just…" He waved a hand and did not finish.

"It's fine," I said, shaking my head.

"I understand. But here's what interests me. Even the papers wrote that several graduate students saw a working sample of your battery. That must mean something, right?" His lips twisted into something like a smile, but there was not a drop of humor in it.

"Maybe they saw it. But newspapers use this mess to sell copies, so they print whatever they want." He took another swallow, almost downing it.

"There are a couple outlets praising the university for 'doing the right thing' by destroying an upstart who threatened the institution's reputation. You seen those?" I shook my head. I had, of course, but I saw no reason to admit it.

"So you really didn't invent anything?" I allowed mild disappointment into my voice.

"I thought you actually were a genius." He jerked as if I had struck him.

"I did invent it," he snapped, almost shouting, then caught himself and lowered his voice.

"I invented it, damn it. And then it turned out Rand Corporation really didn't like a device that could upend energy markets and damage their energy monopoly. That's the whole story." I nodded, pretending to consider his words.

"So they slandered you… and you just gave up?" His hands clenched into fists. His knuckles went white.

"You don't understand a damn thing," he hissed through his teeth.

"I didn't give up." He turned sharply toward me, and something dangerous flared in his eyes.

"And who the hell are you to talk to me about it? Some ordinary nobody? An office clerk who decided to sound clever over someone else's pain?" The words came faster now, like machine-gun fire.

"You think you know better than me what it's like for an inventor to have everything taken away from him? Any organization even slightly serious is afraid to hire me now. Fucking Rand is making sure I don't land anywhere. And they, by the way"—he jabbed a finger hard into the bar—"came to me themselves with an offer to work for them. After everything they did." He grabbed his glass and knocked back the rest of the whiskey.

"But I spat in their faces. And now…" His voice cracked.

"Now I'm completely fucked." I let the pause stretch. Let him breathe, pull himself together. The bartender was already reaching toward the phone under the counter, apparently deciding it was time to call someone to throw out the troublesome customer. I shook my head, showing that everything was under control, and placed a universal argument on the bar: a twenty. The bartender nodded and went to polish glasses at the other end.

"Well, I'm not exactly an ordinary nobody," I said calmly, without challenge.

"You could even say I'm far from ordinary. I just like visiting places like this sometimes and looking at people. You can often find interesting individuals and talk to them." Phineas looked at me suspiciously.

"Then who are you?"

"David Miller. Beginner businessman. Nice to meet you." He looked me up and down. His gaze stopped on the worn jeans, simple sweater, ordinary jacket. He snorted.

"You don't look like it. You're as much a businessman as I am a successful inventor." I allowed myself a smile.

"I know how to be unnoticeable when I want to. Useful skill." I paused.

"Maybe you've heard something about Aegis?" He frowned, clearly searching his memory.

"Aegis? No, never heard of it." He gave a bitter smirk.

"Some little outfit scamming old ladies?"

"We may be relatively small, but that is not our line of work." He took another pull from the fresh whiskey the bartender had silently placed in front of him.

"We recently made decent money," I continued lightly.

"A lot of people liked our idea."

"Haven't heard any news about it," he muttered into the glass.

"Maybe it is not the kind of news that deserves your attention. We chose a field almost no one was interested in." I shrugged.

"Nothing huge or global. Just an ordinary thing ordinary people need." He turned toward me, impatience plain in his eyes. As if to say: get to the point or leave. I reached into the inner pocket of my jacket and pulled out a small yellow pad, one of our first samples and a personal souvenir I carried with me. I placed it on the bar between us.

"Here. This is the product that lifted my organization off its knees." Phineas looked at the pad distrustfully. Then he picked it up and turned it in his hands. Tore off one sheet. Tried sticking it to the bar. Peeled it away. Stuck it again. Examined the edge where the adhesive had been applied. I saw professional curiosity wake in his eyes. The engineer's mind started working automatically, analyzing the design.

"Acrylate adhesive?" he murmured, more to himself than to me.

"Low adhesion… interesting formula. Reusable without losing properties." He stuck the sheet again, peeled it off, and inspected the surface of the bar.

"Leaves no residue. Hm." He placed the pad back on the counter, but I noticed how he involuntarily ran a finger along the edge of the sheet, judging the thickness of the adhesive layer.

"The idea isn't bad," he said at last, his voice a little less hostile.

"But I think, pal, pretty soon you'll be stripped clean just like me by people who like taking whatever catches their eye." At that, I could not help smiling. Predatory, probably.

"I am quite the paranoid type, and I prepared for that. Patents, lawyers from top firms, a well-designed intellectual property defense." I tapped the pad with one finger.

"There have already been people eager to feast on my ideas. So far, we're handling it." Phineas seemed to deflate. His shoulders dropped lower, and his gaze went dull again.

"Good for you," he muttered without enthusiasm.

"Now go enjoy your success somewhere else." A pause. He stared into his glass again. I let him sit in silence, then asked:"You feel like shit, don't you?" He nodded without raising his head.

"Then don't keep it in. Tell me what's really eating you." He jerked one shoulder, as if to say: what's the point?

"I told you my story not to brag," I continued calmly, "but to show that success is possible. Even when it feels like everything is over. If you do it properly, of course." I paused.

"I'm not some super-businessman yet, but I have achieved something. And I do understand a few things." He remained silent. I could almost see the fight going on in his head: tell me to go fuck myself, or finally speak. At last, he exhaled tiredly.

"It's all shit," he began quietly.

"The whole system. The government with its antitrust laws, which giant corporations couldn't care less about." His voice grew louder, picking up momentum.

"I spent years carefully building technology that could help us overcome the energy crisis. Those damn Arabs and their oil prices… we could stop depending on them." He clenched his fists.

"But no. That was too unpleasant a thought for the big organizations. First they had to destroy everything I had built for so long. Smear me, trample my reputation, steal my work. And then…" He laughed bitterly.

"Then, as if it were some kind of joke, they tossed me an employment contract. Like I should be grateful they were willing to take me at all." His eyes gleamed ominously behind his glasses, and I understood: this was the moment. The exact point where the thoughts of a genius and the thoughts of an ordinary man began moving in the wrong direction, creating a supervillain. Bitterness, thirst for revenge, a sense of injustice. The perfect comic-book cocktail.

"Well, fine," Phineas hissed.

"I'll show them all." I let the words hang in the air. Then, calmly, without judgment, I said:"Phineas, what is the point of being angry at the system? That is the world. That is people. You should understand that yourself." He twitched as if about to snap back, but I continued before he could.

"You wanted to turn the world upside down. That is noble. That is right. But the world is not ready for that yet." I looked him in the eye.

"The problem is not your inventions. The problem is that you are bad at the part where you have to think through implementation. Strategy, protection, politics." He snorted, but with less aggression this time.

"Oh, and you understand it better?" His voice was sarcastic, but not as sharp as before.

"Yes," I said simply.

"My company has a net income of around a hundred thousand dollars a month." Phineas turned so sharply he spat a mouthful of whiskey back into his glass and started coughing.

"What?" he rasped.

"How much?"

"Around a hundred thousand. Per month." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at me as if seeing me for the first time.

"You said your company was small."

"It is a small company." I shrugged.

"By the standards of major corporations, we're plankton. But for a startup that is only a few months old? Not bad, wouldn't you agree?" He was silent, digesting the information. He looked at me with completely different eyes now. Assessing. Sharp.

"And with that kind of income, you're sitting in this dump of a bar?" Suspicion colored his voice.

"Why not in some rich man's club?" I smirked.

"It is my hobby. Look for yourself: I met an interesting man." I nodded at him.

"That is worth something. Much more than drinking in a gilded hall with pretentious idiots who only talk about money and connections." He looked at me for a long time. Then he turned away, staring into his glass again.

"Interesting," he muttered bitterly.

"I screwed everything up. Everything I had. All my work. You said it yourself. I don't know how to apply my own technologies."

"That is not what I said," I corrected gently.

"I said you cannot realize their potential. Those are different things." He raised his eyes.

"And how would you do it, smart guy?" There was challenge in his voice now, but not anger. More like exhaustion and desperation.

"This is technology that was supposed to change the world."

"Exactly, Phineas." I leaned slightly closer and lowered my voice.

"And the world, and the people living in it, do not like being overturned. Everyone likes it when things follow a familiar, well-worn road where they can rake in dollars and not think about anything." I held the pause.

"What you wanted was to start a mass brawl of everyone against everyone." He frowned.

"What brawl? It's a big technology, sure, but it's still just technology. I didn't invent a cure for cancer." I looked at him the way one looks at a small child saying something painfully naive.

"I see." He could not stand it. His whole body twitched.

"What do you see?"

"You are an excellent inventor, Phineas. Possibly one of the best I've ever met." I paused.

"But you do not see the consequences your inventions carry." He flared instantly.

"And what consequences?" he almost shouted.

"You think what they did to me was justified?"

"Hey, calm down." I raised my hands in a placating gesture.

"Of course it was not justified. Their logic is not even clear to me. Why destroy a man's career when they could simply buy the technology or hire you on decent terms?" He calmed slightly, though he was still tense.

"It is just that your technology," I continued evenly, "was ideally supposed to replace everything the oil companies are so proud of. Do you know how much money and how many people are tied up there?" I whistled softly.

"God help us. Trillions of dollars. Millions of jobs. Entire countries with economies built around oil." Phineas listened, frowning.

"Even if you found another giant willing to start that confrontation, it would not just be stock prices flying down." I looked him in the eye.

"Be sure of it, heads would roll. Literally. That is too much money, Phineas. Too many people with something to lose." He fell silent and thought. I could see the gears turning in his head as he began to view his situation from another angle.

"And how would you have done it?" he finally asked more quietly. No aggression now. Genuine interest.

"I would have started small, of course." I shrugged.

"That is always the right move. I would not have tried to replace the entire oil industry immediately. I would have found a niche application where your battery gives an advantage but does not directly threaten the giants."

"For example?"

"Medical equipment. Portable devices for remote areas. Military contracts for specialized gear." I counted on my fingers.

"The space industry, underwater research. Places where compact size and power are critically important, but production volumes are not high enough to frighten anyone." Phineas listened, and for the first time in the whole conversation, something besides bitterness and anger appeared in his eyes. Interest. And… hope?

"I would build a reputation, accumulate capital, acquire connections," I continued.

"Then, when I became strong enough to protect myself, when I had allies and political weight… then I would start thinking about broader applications." He was silent. Slowly, he nodded.

"That sounds… logical," he admitted reluctantly. Then he snorted and took another sip of whiskey.

"But all of that is theory. In practice, right now I am unemployed, with my reputation ruined, and Rand watching me."

"You know what?" I paused, gathering my thoughts. He turned toward me.

"I think this whole meeting is fateful." His defenses had finally collapsed. Alcohol, exhaustion, sudden hope. They had done their work. I could act now. He did not understand. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

"In what sense?"

"Let us put it this way." I turned fully toward him and met his eyes.

"I have a growing company. I need specialists. Good specialists. And I am willing to take you in." He blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"I… what?" He clearly had not expected that turn.

"A job, Phineas. Official. Contract, salary, medical insurance. Everything proper." He shook his head, as if trying to clear it.

"Rand is making sure I don't get into any significant company. This is a dumb idea." He pointed at my Stick-It pad on the bar.

"And besides, sorry, but digging around with paper scraps is not exactly my dream." I smiled.

"That is precisely why this is fateful." He raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"First," I raised one finger, "Rand will not consider me a major corporation. To them, we are invisible. Bugs. When they see where you went, they'll wave it off. Like, there you belong, digging around with your little notepads." Phineas frowned, clearly thinking.

"Second," I raised another finger, "we will not always be making only paper. I have many projects and big ambitions." He gave a skeptical snort.

"Sure. Projects that could burn down, and then we all go straight to hell together."

"Well, you are already at rock bottom." I shrugged.

"Will you notice the difference if someone knocks from below? I doubt it." That landed. He grimaced, but could not object.

"And I am confident in my ventures," I added.

"More than that, I am confident you will like them."

"For example?" he asked distrustfully.

"Well, I'm thinking about niche electronics products that the big fish will not bother with." I paused meaningfully.

"There are more serious projects too, which are, naturally, my commercial secret. But I will say one thing: you will have room to move." He fell into thought. I saw the battle in his head. On one side, despair and the desire to grab any straw. On the other, fear of being burned again and losing everything.

"But," I raised a hand, stopping him before he could speak, "if you do decide, I will tell you right away: I will not make you head of the lab. Not immediately." His face darkened.

"I already have an employee who trusted me and has worked with me from the very beginning. Her name is Anna-Maria Kozlowski." Phineas's eyes widened.

"Kozlowski? She works for you?" He clearly knew the name.

"I remember reading about her research. She worked at General Electric."

"There was a murky story, and she was fired," I nodded.

"More or less the same song as yours. A talented specialist the system spat out for asking inconvenient questions."

"You collect outcasts," Phineas stated.

"Possibly," I agreed.

"But I prefer to think I collect people whose potential was unfairly thrown in the trash." A pause. Phineas studied me.

"And one more thing," I added.

"We most likely will not start reproducing your technologies right away. Especially not batteries." He frowned, and I saw anger flare in his eyes again. I prepared for an angry tirade.

"Then why the hell would I—""Listen first," I said firmly, cutting him off.

"Not right now. We will start with something small and gradually grow. And who knows," I shrugged, "maybe one day we reach your batteries too. But not tomorrow and not in a month. This is a long game." He said nothing.

"You will have interesting work too," I continued.

"Not boring, not routine. New challenges, new projects. But all the planning, all the strategy, leave that to me and to competent people. You create. We think about how to sell it, protect it, and monetize it." Phineas sat quietly, digesting the information. He turned the empty glass in his hands. I did not rush him. I gave him time to think. Finally, he raised his head.

"And the salary?" he asked, cautious hope in his voice.

"Terms?"

"We start at three thousand a month," I said.

"Plus bonuses for successful projects. Medical insurance and relocation expenses if you need to move." His eyes widened.

"Three… three thousand?" he repeated, as if he did not believe it.

"A month?"

"That is the starting rate for a lead research engineer." I shrugged.

"When you prove your value, we discuss a raise." He was silent. He stared at me, trying to understand whether I was playing some cruel joke on him. I stood, took a business card from my pocket, and placed it on the bar beside his glass.

"Well, I have stayed too long," I said calmly.

"I would be very glad to see you at my company, Phineas. Think it over." He picked up the card. Looked at it, then at me.

"And that's it?" he asked.

"You just… leave? You won't pressure me or try to persuade me?"

"Pressuring people like you is the worst possible choice." I smiled.

"You're a smart man. You will make the right decision yourself. If you want to talk in more detail, call. If you decide it is not for you, do not call. Very simple." I headed for the exit. At the door, I turned back.

"And, Phineas?"

"Yes?" He was still holding the card.

"The world really is unfair. The system really is rotten. But that does not mean you should give up." I let the pause settle.

"Sometimes the best way to take revenge is not to destroy the system, but to build your own." I stepped out into the cold evening air, leaving him alone with his thoughts, my business card, and an empty glass.

Two days passed, and I had already started thinking I had missed the genius. Thought myself too clever and too cunning, and in doing so lost the chance to recruit a named character. I even began considering ways to replay the situation. But on the third day, at exactly ten in the morning, James Wesley knocked on my office door.

"Mr. Miller, there is a Mr. Phineas Mason waiting downstairs. He says you arranged a meeting." I raised my head from the financial reports and could not keep from smiling.

"Bring him up. Let him look around, meet the office. I'll come out in five minutes." James nodded and vanished behind the door. I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my face with both hands. So he had decided after all. Good. Very good. I stood, walked to the window, and looked down at the street. Right now, a man was coming up in the elevator who, in ten or fifteen years, could have become one of the most sought-after engineers in the criminal world. The Tinkerer. Weaponsmith to supervillains. But he would not.

Because I had intercepted him. I had saved many lives just by talking. I think that made me an excellent hero. Five minutes later, I left my office. I immediately heard voices from the reception area. Phineas Mason stood in the middle of the office, looking like a man who did not believe his eyes. He had clearly cleaned himself up since I last saw him in the bar. His hair was washed and more or less combed. Same army jacket, but under it a clean shirt. The jeans had been washed, the glasses wiped.

But the main thing was the eyes. The dead despair was gone. In its place were caution, curiosity, and hope. At first, Marcus had clearly stunned him. That mountain of muscle in tactical uniform with SECURITY written across his chest stood by the entrance and watched the visitor with professional calm. Phineas had evidently not expected to see that kind of security in a company that made sticky notepads. Then he was surprised by the people moving back and forth with folders, drawings, product samples.

The office hummed like a hive: phone calls, typewriters clacking, fragments of conversations about contracts, deliveries, patents. This was not a sleepy little office of three people and one desk. This was a living, breathing enterprise. The office itself had made an impression too. Oak panels, modern furniture, brass nameplates on department doors. Strict, professional, expensive, but without showy luxury. A working atmosphere, not an exhibition of achievements.

I watched his reaction through my slightly open office door. Watched him look around, squinting at the names on the plaques: Aegis Legal, Aegis Ventures, Aegis Labs. Watched him stop in front of the product display: yellow Stick-It pads, reflective SafeGlow patches. Well then. Time to appear. I stepped out of my office, straightened my shoulders, and put on a friendly smile.

"Phineas!" I extended a hand.

"I'm glad you decided to come." He turned and flinched slightly. Looked at me and did not recognize me. I saw it in his eyes. In the bar, a man in jeans and a sweater had sat in front of him: ordinary, unnoticeable. Now it was a businessman in a three-piece suit, standing in his own office among his employees. Recognition came a second later. His eyes widened.

"David?" Uncertain.

"Is that… really you?"

"That's me." I shook his hand firmly. He shook back, a little stunned and automatic, but quickly pulled himself together. He looked me up and down, then looked around the office again.

"I…" He stumbled, searching for words.

"I actually imagined this a little differently. People who had just climbed up and made it on some paper scraps for notes." He gave a soft snort and shook his head.

"Apparently, you were right. You really can start small." I smiled.

"Exactly. Stick-It is only the beginning. The foundation." I made a broad gesture, taking in the whole office.

"Let me show you our departments and introduce you to the key people. Then you can give me your final opinion. No rush, no pressure. Just look at how we work." He opened his mouth to say something, but I raised a hand to stop him.

"First, I show you. Then you say what you think. Deal?" Phineas hesitated, then slowly nodded.

"Deal." I took him through the entire floor methodically, without hurry, giving him time to look and process. The first stop was Legal. Jennings sat at his desk, sorting through some patent dispute. He raised his head when we entered.

"Ronald," I said, "this is Phineas Mason. Possibly our new lead engineer. Phineas, this is Ronald Jennings, head of Legal." They shook hands. Jennings gave Phineas an evaluating look, a lawyer's professional habit. Always searching for the catch.

"Mason…" he drawled thoughtfully.

"I read about you, I believe. Some story with MIT. Unpleasant situation." Phineas tensed, preparing for the inevitable questions or judgment.

"If Mr. Miller brought you here," Jennings continued calmly, "then the technology worked?"

"Yes," Phineas answered firmly.

"It worked and still works."

"Then everything else is politics and nonsense." Jennings shrugged.

"Every second person here has a story about being thrown out of a major corporation." He smirked.

"Welcome to the outcasts' club." Phineas blinked, clearly not expecting that reaction, and relaxed a little. We moved on to Finance. Margaret Chen sat among tables and charts, wiping her glasses. She looked at us over the frames.

"Mr. Miller. Who is this?"

"Possibly our new employee. Phineas Mason, research engineer." She nodded, not especially interested, and returned to her calculations. For her, numbers mattered, not people. Until a person began spending budget, he was a harmless bug in her eyes. Next came Sales. There we were met by James Corrigan with his permanent smile and Irish accent.

"Oh, new blood!" He jumped up from his desk and held out a hand to Phineas.

"James Corrigan, commercial representative. Or, in simple words, the fellow who sells what smart people invent."

"Phineas Mason," he introduced himself, shaking his hand.

"Mason? That MIT story?" Corrigan whistled.

"Heard about it, heard about it. Damn unfair, if you ask me." He winked.

"But you know what? The best revenge is to succeed in spite of everything. And here"—he swept a hand across the office—"success is exactly what we do." He tossed out a couple jokes about how he would "sell Mason's battery even to the Amish, and they don't even believe in electricity," and I noticed Phineas finally relax. Corrigan knew how to create an atmosphere. It was his talent.

"Nice guy," Phineas noted when we left into the corridor.

"The best salesman I know," I agreed.

"And a man of principles. Rare combination." We passed a few more departments. Patents, where Salazar was explaining something to his nephew, running a finger over drawings. Human Resources, where Prescott was interviewing a candidate. Administration, where Eleanor Grant was on the phone discussing some rent rates. Phineas absorbed everything like a sponge. Looked, listened, asked rare questions. I saw understanding grow in his eyes: this was not a joke. Not a tiny shop.

This was a real, functioning company with ambitions and resources. Finally, we went downstairs to the rented space on the first floor, converted into a laboratory. Here, Anna-Maria Kozlowski ruled without question. She stood at a workbench, bent over some device. Three chemists nearby were discussing something, checking notes in their notebooks. It smelled of reagents and ozone from the equipment.

"And here is our clever craftswoman," I announced loudly. Kozlowski raised her head and frowned.

"Mr. Miller, we are in the middle of an experiment."

"I know, I know. I will not interfere. I just want to introduce someone." I gestured.

"Anna-Maria Kozlowski, lead process engineer. Phineas Mason, possibly our new employee." She removed her safety goggles and looked carefully at Phineas. He looked back at her. A second of silence.

"Mason…" she said thoughtfully.

"I read your work on compact energy systems. The dissertation MIT rejected."

"And what do you think?" Phineas asked cautiously, clearly bracing for criticism.

"I think the committee was either blind or bought," she answered directly.

"The mathematics is flawless. The experimental section is solid as well. The conclusions are logical." She shrugged.

"Apparently, the only problem was that your work threatened someone's interests." Phineas exhaled, and I saw an enormous weight fall from his shoulders. Recognition from a colleague, from a person whose opinion he respected, meant more to him than any money.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"That… that means a lot."

"I only say what I believe." Kozlowski waved a hand.

"Everyone here is like that. Mr. Miller collects strange people." She smiled slightly.

"Welcome to the madhouse." And then they started talking. Cautiously at first, then faster and with growing enthusiasm. Polymers, adhesion, energy density, thermodynamics. Kozlowski showed him the adhesive formula for Stick-It, explained the problems they had encountered. Phineas asked questions, suggested alternatives. She nodded, wrote things down, objected, and he parried.

When I realized I no longer understood a single word of their conversation, too many specialized terms and too deep into technical details, I decided it was time to leave them alone.

"Continue," I said. They did not even turn around.

"Phineas, when you're done, come up to my office." Kozlowski nodded absently. Phineas did not react at all, completely immersed in a discussion of some molecular bonds. I chuckled and left, heading back up to my office. Almost two hours passed. I managed to go through Chen's cash flow reports. Discuss the schedule for next week's meetings with James. Sign a couple contracts Jennings brought in. Even mentally sketch out a budget for expanding my ventures. Finally, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in." The door opened, and Phineas entered. One look at his face was enough to understand: the decision had been made. His eyes were burning. Not with the angry fire I had seen in the bar when he spoke of revenge. Now they burned with excitement and enthusiasm. With readiness to create.

"Boss," he said, and I nearly laughed at how natural it sounded, "where do I sign to start working here?" I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest.

"Decided that quickly? You don't even want to discuss the conditions in more detail?"

"You've put together an excellent technology department," he said quickly, breathlessly, as if afraid I would change my mind if he hesitated.

"The people from General Electric know their work. Your chemists are competent, people one can work with. Kozlowski is a genius, though with a difficult personality. The equipment is not the best, but sufficient for a start." He paused to catch his breath.

"It is almost a shame they are currently busy with nothing more than paper notes. But seeing the atmosphere in the team, I can overlook that." He looked me in the eye.

"This is temporary, right? You really do plan to grow further?"

"Absolutely," I confirmed.

"Stick-It is just a way to earn starting capital quickly and safely. More serious projects come next." He nodded, clearly satisfied with the answer.

"Then…" He straightened.

"Yes. I'm sure. I want to work here." I stood, walked around the desk, and stopped in front of him.

"Phineas, let me be completely honest before you decide finally." He tensed, expecting a catch.

"We will agree on the following." I began counting on my fingers.

"Until we reach an acceptable level of financial stability and build enough protection, legal, political, and commercial, we will not rush into inventing anything too incredible. We will not dive into areas where we can be crushed, as Rand crushed you." His face darkened.

"But"—I raised a finger before he could interrupt—"there are exceptions. Certain secret topics, certain closed projects where we can work at full strength. But later, when we are ready."

"So you want me to sit around and fiddle with little things while…" he began, irritated.

"No," I cut him off firmly.

"I want you to make interesting things that bring profit and do not attract the attention of giants. There are thousands of niches where you can stretch out. Medical devices and specialized electronics. Components for other industries. Your brain will not sit idle, believe me." I placed a hand on his shoulder.

"But I promise you this: I will do everything possible to realize the potential of your mind. Everything. Even if it takes years, even if I have to build an entire empire around one of your inventions, I will do it. But we will do it properly and safely. So that you are never crushed again." Phineas looked at me for a long time. I saw the fight in his eyes. Desire for immediate results against the voice of reason saying: this man is right. Finally, he exhaled.

"Yes," he said quietly.

"I saw that your approach brings money and jobs to people. So I'm willing to trust you." A pause. His gaze hardened.

"But if you forget your promise… if you decide I am just another cog in your machine… I will leave. No arguments, no explanations. I will simply leave. Before you showed up, I had already started forming plans for where I could go." I extended my hand.

"Fair. Then we have an agreement." He shook my hand. Firmly and confidently.

"When do I start?"

"Officially, Monday. We'll prepare the contract by Friday, you come in and sign." I smiled.

"But if you want, you can go down to Kozlowski right now. I'm sure she'll find something for you to do." Phineas's eyes lit up.

"Seriously?"

"Absolutely. Welcome to Aegis, Phineas Mason." He nodded, turned, and almost ran to the door. At the threshold, he stopped and looked back.

"David?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For… for giving me a chance."

"No need. I just know how to see talent." I smirked.

"Now go. Kozlowski does not like to wait." He vanished through the door, and I heard him quickly descend the stairs.

A week after Phineas officially started work, I called a meeting. Not all the executives, only the people needed for a specific task. Kozlowski, Mason, Grant, and James Wesley for minutes and coordination. Jennings too, just in case legal nuances came up. They sat in the conference room waiting for me to begin. I stood by the board with chalk in hand, thinking through the best way to present the information. In that week, Phineas had fully integrated into the work.

Every morning he arrived earlier than everyone and left later. He went down to Kozlowski's lab and disappeared there for hours, discussing formulas, drawings, ideas. Several times I looked in and saw them standing by a board covered in equations, arguing about something with such passion that one might think their lives depended on it. They worked well together. Very well. Kozlowski was methodical, meticulous, with an engineer's mind.

Mason was creative, prone to unexpected solutions, seeing links where others saw a dead end. An ideal combination. And now it was time to give them room to maneuver. I took the chalk and wrote one word in large letters: LABORATORY. Everyone raised their heads. Their attention focused on the board.

"We need a research center," I began, turning to them.

"Not a little room with a couple tables and the most basic equipment, like now. A real, full-scale complex where we can work with chemistry, electronics, materials, prototyping. A place where technologies are born, not merely where other people's ideas are refined." Kozlowski immediately leaned forward. Her eyes lit up.

"Scale?" she asked shortly.

"What are we talking about? Area, number of rooms, specialization?"

"I'll explain the strategy first." I drew several squares on the board, connecting them with lines.

"We will work in several directions at once. Chemistry is our base. We already have a foundation thanks to Stick-It and our team of specialists. But I also want to move into electronics, materials science, energy, and mechanics." I looked at Mason. He sat tense, listening to every word.

"And a few other things we will discuss later. In a closed format." Mason nodded, understanding. But I noticed how anticipation and excitement flared in his eyes. He understood that serious things were being discussed.

"We are not putting all our eggs in one basket," I continued, returning to the diagram on the board.

"There will be one main building, large, with a serious reserve for expansion. That will be our flagship. Plus several plots in other places for especially sensitive tasks or highly specialized work. That is for the future, naturally. For now, we focus on the minimum plan." I turned to the board and began writing a list.

"First: find a plot. With the expectation that in ten years we may want to build a huge complex there, even if at first we only erect a small part. There must be enough land.

"Second: hire architects and builders who will design the plan so the building can be gradually upgraded and expanded without major reconstruction. Modularity is the key word. We add a new wing, and the old one continues working without shutdown.

"Third: connect all necessary utilities and obtain all approvals and licenses. Electricity with a power reserve, water, sewage, ventilation. Permissions for working with chemicals and specialized equipment.

"Fourth: purchase and install equipment for priority research. The things without which we cannot move forward." Grant was already writing, her pen flying over the notebook.

"What budget are we working with?" she asked without looking up.

"Right now, we have one hundred thousand dollars to launch the project," I answered.

"I know that is catastrophically little for a full research center. But money will keep coming in. The main task is to plan everything so that every next dollar invested falls onto a ready foundation, instead of forcing us to redo what has already been built." I looked over those present.

"We are not building for one year or two. We are building for decades. So it is better to spend more time planning now than later bite our elbows because we discover everything needs to be torn down and rebuilt." Kozlowski took off her glasses and wiped them. She always did that when thinking over something serious. She put them back on and looked directly at me.

"Mr. Miller, let us be honest," she said evenly.

"How good a laboratory do you want in the end? And for what exactly? Because 'chemistry, electronics, materials' is too broad. We need specifics, otherwise we cannot plan properly." I hesitated, choosing my words.

"In the end, the best on the East Coast," I said calmly, but firmly.

"Not now. Not in a year. But in five to seven years, yes. A place where the best minds will want to come. Where technologies that change industries are born." I let the words settle.

"And 'for what exactly'…" I smiled faintly.

"For everything. Chemistry, electronics, materials, energy, mechanics, possibly even biotechnology in the future. I want Aegis Labs to be capable of taking on any task I set before them. Any." Mason licked his lips. A strange reaction to a discussion of technology, but enthusiasm shows itself differently in different people.

"Any?" he asked, tension in his voice.

"Are you serious?"

"Absolutely serious." I turned to him fully.

"And this is where your role begins, Phineas. You know what equipment is needed for serious work. What space, what conditions, what approvals and certifications. What safety standards, what ventilation, what power supply." I took a step toward him.

"Tell me your wish list. All of it. Even the things that seem insanely expensive." He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Looked at Kozlowski, then back at me.

"You… you're serious?" There was disbelief in his voice, mixed with hope.

"I can request what I think is necessary? Without looking over my shoulder at 'too expensive' or 'we can't afford that'?"

"Within a reasonable budget, of course." I raised a hand to restrain any possible enthusiasm.

"Right now, funds are limited. But I want the plan drawn up as if there is enough money. We will implement it in stages, as profits come in. We start with the most necessary items, the minimum without which work is impossible. Then we build up: methodically, consistently, without rushing." Kozlowski nodded, clearly approving the approach.

"That is reasonable," she said.

"A modular approach to equipping the lab. Phineas and I will prepare a priority list. We will divide equipment into categories: critical, important, desirable, long-term. And we will move down the list as the budget appears."

"Exactly," I confirmed.

"You two are responsible for the technical side: equipment, room layouts, utility requirements. Eleanor handles real estate, construction, and connection of all life-support systems. James coordinates the whole process and makes sure no one forgets about licenses, approvals, permits, and all the other bureaucratic joy." James Wesley nodded, already writing in his ever-present notebook.

"One more point," Mason said, raising a hand and frowning.

"Some equipment cannot simply be obtained. Export restrictions on certain instruments, licenses for working with specific materials and chemicals, safety approvals for high-precision technology…"

"That is why we have Jennings." I nodded toward the lawyer.

"Ronald, once Phineas and Anna-Maria prepare the list of desired equipment, you check what legal obstacles may arise. Then start securing all necessary licenses, permits, certificates. In advance, before we begin purchasing." Jennings nodded.

"Understood. I'll prepare the ground."

"And one more thing," I added, looking at Mason and Kozlowski.

"Do not save on quality. If there is a choice between a cheap device and an expensive one, take the better one. Even if we have to wait until we have the money. Bad equipment gives bad results. We do not need that." Mason looked at me, and a smile bloomed across his face. Wide, sincere, almost childishly delighted. The kind of smile seen on people who have finally been allowed to do what they dreamed of for years.

"Mr. Miller…" He stood and extended his hand across the table.

"I will give you technologies that will blow up markets. I promise." I shook his hand.

"Do not promise, Phineas," I said calmly, looking him in the eye.

"Do. Promises are just words. I need results." He nodded shortly, businesslike, without offense. He understood correctly. Then he turned sharply to Kozlowski, his eyes blazing with enthusiasm.

"Anna-Maria, we need to think this through immediately," he began quickly, breathlessly.

"Allocate space for the main laboratory and auxiliary rooms. Decide what we move to separate buildings for safety and what can be kept under one roof. How to organize flows so chemists do not interfere with electronics people, and those do not get in the way of materials specialists…"

"Zoning by type of work," Kozlowski picked up, also catching fire.

"Clean rooms for microelectronics. Fume hoods and isolated boxes for chemistry. Mechanical workshop separate, so vibrations do not affect precision instruments…"

"Power supply," Mason interrupted.

"We need voltage stabilizers, backup generators. If electricity cuts out during a critical experiment…"

"Uninterruptible power systems for every key instrument," she nodded.

"And climate control. Some reagents require strict temperature conditions." They began speaking at the same time, interrupting each other, showering the room with technical terms and calculations. Grant wrote down the key points, the ones related to construction and utilities. James recorded coordination tasks. I looked at them and felt satisfied. There it was. That state when people did not simply work for a salary, but burned with their work.

When you did not need to explain every little thing, did not need to stand over them with a whip. They knew what to do themselves and did it with passion. Give people like that freedom, and they will move mountains. I left the conference room, leaving them to work. Argue, draw diagrams, make lists. Let them. This was their element. In the corridor, I caught James as he followed me out, apparently deciding his presence was no longer critical at this stage.

"James," I called. He stopped.

"Make a note for the future. Once we have enough resources and the current situation stabilizes, we will need to establish another subsidiary." He immediately pulled out his notebook.

"What profile, Mr. Miller?"

"Construction. Our own construction company." I folded my arms and leaned against the wall.

"Right now, we hire outside contractors, and that always means information leaks and dependence on other people. When we start building truly serious things—laboratories with secret projects, factories, closed facilities—I want our people doing it. People we can trust. People who have signed nondisclosure agreements and understand the price of loose tongues." James wrote quickly, nodding.

"Aegis Construction?" he suggested.

"Something like that. We'll come up with the name later." I waved a hand.

"The important thing is to record the idea. Remind me in a couple months, once we finish the first stage of the laboratory and have free money for a new project."

"Recorded, Mr. Miller." He closed the notebook and looked at me.

"Anything else?" I thought for a moment.

"Yes. Ask Eleanor to start looking not only for laboratory sites, but also for possible production sites. I am very interested in the so-called Rust Belt."

"Production of what?" James clarified.

"I do not know exactly yet." I shrugged.

"But when Phineas and Anna-Maria begin producing finished developments, we will need a place to manufacture them. We will not be able to license everything to outside factories the way we did with Stick-It. Some things we will have to make ourselves." James nodded and opened his notebook again, making a note.

"Understood. I'll tell Eleanor."

"Excellent." I straightened, pushing away from the wall.

"That is all for today. Let them work in the conference room as long as they need. If they stay late, tell security I approved it."

"Of course, Mr. Miller." He turned and strode down the corridor, back straight, step confident. In two months of work, James Wesley had transformed from a desperate young man on the edge of a nervous breakdown into an indispensable right hand. He kept everything under control, remembered everything, thought ahead about everything. I returned to my office, closed the door, and walked to the window. In ten years, if everything went according to plan, Aegis would not simply be a successful company.

It would be a giant unlike anything this world had seen. But everything came down to money. I needed money. A lot of it. A hundred thousand for a laboratory was a drop in the ocean. Stick-It and SafeGlow brought stable income, but that was not enough for serious expansion. I needed another breakthrough, though I also had to fully assimilate what we already had. Still, despite everything, some processes had already been launched. We would prepare the ground in advance.

And then the next product would raise me much higher.