January 3, 1909
By the first week of the new year, the headquarters of Kingston Electric in Boston had become the epicenter of a technological gold rush. Michael sat in his corner office, the winter skyline of the Back Bay visible through the frosted glass, as the switchboard downstairs struggled to keep pace with the deluge of calls. By now, The Crimson Glory had grossed nearly half a million dollars, a figure that had completely rewritten the rules of the American movie landscape.
The calls came from every corner of the industry: independent producers begging for camera access, exhibitors desperate to book the film, and even members of the Trust looking for a way to save their dying theaters. However, the success had created its own bottleneck. Producing new film prints was a slow, chemical process, and the vast majority of theaters lacked the hardware required to project the sound. It would take months, if not years, to fully equip the nation's theaters with Kingston technology.
"The demand is very high, Michael. We can't build the systems fast enough," Lee de Forest said, leaning against the doorframe of Michael's office. Despite the exhaustion of the last two weeks, de Forest was practically vibrating with excitement; as a movie enthusiast and the technical mind behind the amplification, he was seeing his life's work validated on a global scale.
Michael looked up from a ledger, his expression focused. He turned to his secretary. "Send a telegram to our legal team in California. I want them to officially register a new entity: Kingston Studios, based in Los Angeles."
De Forest blinked, surprised. "Los Angeles? Why there? New York is the heart of the industry. Every major exchange and production house is right here or in New Jersey."
"For now, yes," Michael replied, standing up. "But New York has its limits. The winter light is gray and inconsistent, which forces us to rely on expensive, artificial lighting. In Los Angeles, we have three hundred days of sunshine a year. More importantly, the geography is varied—mountains, desert, and ocean all within a day's travel. It's the perfect place for year-round production."
"And who is going to manage a studio three thousand miles away?" de Forest asked.
"After I finish my final year at Harvard, I'm going to move there for a while to oversee the initial setup," Michael said. "We need a permanent home for the sound-on-film era."
De Forest nodded, accepting the logic, before shifting to the other stack of papers in his hand. "While we're talking about geography, the Marconi Company has sent another inquiry. They are becoming quite aggressive regarding our Kingston Triodes."
Guglielmo Marconi's company was currently embroiled in fierce patent disputes with rivals like Nikola Tesla and Oliver Lodge over the foundations of wireless telegraphy. While Marconi held a near-monopoly on ship-to-shore communication, his infrastructure relied on spark-gap technology, which produced electrically 'noisy' damped waves that were far less efficient and harder to tune than triode-driven continuous-wave systems. He had realized that Kingston's triodes were the key to continuous-wave radio—the only way to transmit actual voices across the Atlantic rather than just Morse code.
"They want to license the triode for their long-range stations," de Forest explained. "But they are being cautious. They know we have the superior vacuum tube."
Michael's eyes sharpened. "Tell them this: we will grant them the license to use the triode for their telegraphy stations, but only if they grant Kingston Electric the reciprocal right to produce our own radio sets and provide the legal clearance for us to enter the broadcasting business. If they want our tubes, they give us the path to the airwaves."
"They are on the verge of a decision," de Forest noted. "They need the technology, but they hate giving up their gatekeeper status. They've asked for more time to review the terms."
Michael turned his attention back to the broader expansion of Kingston Electric. While the industry saw them primarily as a supplier of vacuum tubes, Michael was diversifying rapidly into the broader electrical landscape. He had directed his engineers to begin mass production of incandescent bulbs, high-efficiency arc lamps, electric fans, domestic irons, and sewing machine motors. By utilizing dozens of electrical patents for motors, filaments, and transformers that had expired by 1908, he was filling the production lines with essential hardware.
Looking over the manufacturing reports, Michael noted that most of these new supplies were already being stocked across the vast network of Kingston General Stores. This retail empire, managed by his mother Mary, had become his most formidable tactical advantage, serving as a direct-to-consumer testing ground for every new innovation. It was within these stores that Kingston Foods & Flavors and Kingston Quality Goods had first established their market, and now Kingston Electric was following the same proven trajectory.
Michael also saw a massive opportunity in the radio business. He knew about the first entertainment broadcast in 1906, when Reginald Fessenden played music and read from the Bible for ships at sea. It proved that radio could do more than send Morse code, but the early equipment was too big and the sound was too weak for homes. Michael knew his triode fixed these problems by making the signal clear and loud.
For this vision to become a reality, he needed the licensing for wireless patents held by the Marconi Company, and in turn, they desperately needed his triodes to modernize their failing spark-gap systems. By getting in early and leveraging this mutual dependency, he planned to turn radio into a household entertainment device that every family would eventually own.
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The reaction within the Marconi Wireless Telegraph Company was one of intense unease. In their New York boardrooms, senior executives gathered to discuss the ultimatum from the Kingston office. For years, they had held a near-monopoly on maritime wireless communication; the prospect of sharing manufacturing and broadcasting rights felt like a dangerous surrender of their market control.
"We shouldn't concede," one director argued, rapping his knuckles on the table for emphasis. "Our monopoly on ship-to-shore communication is the very heart of this company. If we allow Kingston Electric into the manufacturing sector, we risk losing our grip on the entire industry. We should hold our ground. It might be time to ask J.P. Morgan to intervene on our behalf."
The link between Guglielmo Marconi and J.P. Morgan was a vital pillar of the company's American operations. Morgan was a primary financier of the firm, viewing wireless as an essential utility for his shipping interests. Marconi himself had reached out to Morgan's office, hoping the banker would pressure Kingstons to force a more favorable settlement. However, the response from the House of Morgan was a pointed silence—nothing more than a brief, formal acknowledgment that the message had been received.
Marconi understood the reason behind the quiet. Rumors were circulating in Wall Street's inner circles about a secret, highly lucrative alliance between the Kingstons and J.P. Morgan. It was said that Kingstons were providing Morgan with timely insights into market shifts—information that Morgan had turned into significant gains.
For a pragmatist like Morgan, the choice was simple. By 1908, the Marconi Company was struggling to achieve consistent profitability. It was weighed down by high research costs, the expense of building transatlantic stations, and constant patent battles with rivals like United Wireless. While Marconi had the vision, the company lacked a stable cash flow. Morgan knew which side of the table promised a better return.
Furthermore, Morgan was well aware that the Kingstons were not a minor firm to be bullied or intimidated; their own banking interests and industrial reach made them a peer-level power that even the House of Morgan had to treat with strategic respect. The usual tactics of financial strangulation would not work against a family that sat on its own mountain of capital.
"What happens if our technology can't keep up?" another executive asked, sensing the changing mood. "If we refuse Kingston's triodes, Morgan won't bail us out. He's a banker, not a philanthropist; he won't support a technical failure when he knows the Kingstons can deliver real profits while we only ask for more capital."
A third director leaned in. "We have to think beyond the current patents. They will expire eventually. In five years, new inventions may make today's radio look like a relic. The priority is to be there first. If we take the triodes now, we can modernize and secure our lead before the competition can react."
Guglielmo Marconi sat at the head of the table, silent and reluctant. "The triode is the missing piece," Marconi said finally, his voice level but resigned. "If we don't adapt, we will be left behind. Not even J.P. Morgan will fight against the evolution of science once it has proven its value. Contact Kingston Electric. Tell them we accept the terms for reciprocal rights."
Recognizing the lack of support from their financier, the Marconi Company board finally moved to finalize the agreement. Kingston Electric successfully acquired a comprehensive licensing umbrella covering Marconi's entire wireless and broadcasting portfolio. This included the fundamental patents for aerial tuning, receiver design, and the vital legal "freedom to operate" rights. In exchange, the Marconi Company was granted the rights to incorporate Kingston Triodes into their industrial and maritime transmitters. This exchange effectively gave Michael the legal and technical foundation to build a consumer-facing radio business, while Marconi gained the vacuum tube technology he needed.