The storm surrounding President Tyler—the infamously obstinate "Iron President"—had not yet settled when London reached the last day of the world's first Industrial Exhibition. After one hundred days that had enthralled the globe, the Crystal Palace prepared for its grand closing ceremony.
Even the London sky seemed eager to celebrate. The endless drizzle that had plagued the city lifted at last, allowing sunlight to wash over Hyde Park like a benediction.
Inside the Crystal Palace, excitement swelled once more.
Envoys stationed in London, wandering princes from the courts of Europe, merchants drawn from distant continents—upon hearing rumours of a final, unannounced spectacle—all surged toward the Palace, unwilling to miss a last glimpse of Britain's industrial miracles.
For a hundred days, the Crystal Palace had become a sanctum of progress—a cathedral of steel and knowledge.
Here, thousands had witnessed for the first time looms that wove by steam alone, railways that devoured impossible distances, and the almost frightening sophistication of British engines. They felt awe—true, humbling awe—toward an Empire whose age of steel had only just begun.
More than any battlefield victory, this Exhibition had displayed Britain's supremacy with a quiet, irrefutable elegance.
It etched into every visitor's mind a single, unshakable truth:
Britain = the future.
On the dais at the front of the hall, Queen Victoria—dressed in immaculate white, luminous beneath the sunlit glass—delivered her closing speech.
She offered thanks to the foreign guests, reaffirming her grand vision:
"A world made peaceful and prosperous through free exchange and friendly commerce."
Thunderous applause followed.
Of course, some envoys muttered behind their gloves about British hypocrisy—but their applause rang louder than any criticism. For all their grumbling, they were intimidated. Genuinely intimidated.
When Victoria stepped back, most assumed the ceremony was complete.
But then he stepped forward.
Arthur Lionheart, the architect, mastermind, and quiet puppeteer behind the entire Exhibition, ascended the platform with an easy smile. Victoria passed him a peculiar amplification device—one of his prototypes—and he accepted it with a faintly playful bow that made her bite her lip to suppress a smile.
He turned to the vast crowd, eyes sharp with mischief.
"Ladies and gentlemen, my dear friends," he began, his voice carrying clearly across the Palace, "for one hundred days we have witnessed wonders belonging to all mankind. French wines. Prussian artillery. Eastern silk… the colours of a vivid world."
His tone shifted—playful, conspiratorial.
"But I regret to inform you… you have not yet seen the most extraordinary marvel of the British Empire."
A murmur rippled through the audience.
A finale?
A hidden masterpiece?
What could possibly surpass the mechanical colossus Queen's Vengeance or the Analytical Engine capable of computing by itself?
Arthur snapped his fingers.
Two engineers of the Royal Promotion Society wheeled in a peculiar contraption: brass coils, glass tubes, and a massive trumpet-like horn.
"What on earth is that?"
"Some new musical apparatus?"
"A distorted phonograph?"
Arthur did not answer. Instead, he pointed toward the far end of the Crystal Palace—five hundred meters away.
There stood an identical machine. Beside it, adjusting his spectacles with characteristic calm, was none other than Professor Faraday.
Arthur Lionheart's voice echoed across the hall:
"In the past, we built railways to conquer distance. We strung telegraph wires across nations to hasten thought."
"And today," he declared, passion rising, "I present to you a magic that shall one day allow voices to cross mountains, seas, and empires—without wires."
"I call it… Wireless Telegraphy."
A hush fell.
Arthur smiled apologetically, though his eyes gleamed with strategic sharpness.
"Please temper your expectations. This technology is infantile, unstable, erratic. It may not be truly practical for decades."
Some guests deflated. Others leaned closer, curiosity sharpened by the challenge.
"The reason I reveal this premature child," Arthur continued, "is to impress upon you—and upon every scientific mind here—a truth: the frontier of knowledge is endless. What is 'impossible' today may be tomorrow's commonplace."
He leaned toward the metallic microphone.
"Professor Faraday, can you hear my voice?"
Silence.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
The crowd began to shift, some lips twitching with cynical disappointment.
Then—
"Zzz… Z—hear… hearing… you…"
A broken, buzzing whisper crackled from the distant horn.
Barely audible. Distorted beyond recognition. But unmistakably a human voice.
The nearest dignitaries jolted upright.
"I heard it!"
"By God—there was sound!"
"So the voice truly travels… through the air itself?"
A restrained, explosive shock rippled across the hall. Though subtle compared to electric lamps, the revelation struck deeper. It fractured their Newtonian certainty, opening a narrow but irreparable crack in their understanding of nature.
Beyond that crack lay a new world—wild, boundless, and terrifying.
Arthur watched their faces with quiet satisfaction.
"As you see, wireless telegraphy remains crude. Unreliable. Decades—decades—remain before any practical implementation."
He lifted a hand toward another corner of the hall.
"And so, for the next ten or even twenty years, the most dependable method of instantaneous communication shall remain…"
A sleek wired telegraph clicked steadily in the distance, spitting out stock quotations.
"…this."
A simple machine.
Stable. Reliable.
And ready to be sold across the world.
Those in finance and commerce understood immediately.
The Prince had performed his trick: dazzling them with an impossible future so that the solid, profitable present looked irresistible by comparison.
Their eyes glittered with hunger as they stared at the telegraph.
Not a machine.
A mountain of gold.
The ceremony ended.
Returning to Buckingham Palace, Arthur stretched lazily, ready to resume his ruthless diplomatic duel with the Americans.
Victoria caught his sleeve, her eyes teasing.
"You enjoyed startling my guests far too much today," she murmured.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Only because you were watching, Your Majesty."
Her cheeks warmed—scandalously delightful for a queen.
But Arthur's gaze soon drifted to the great map spread across his study wall. He traced a slow, deliberate line southward.
Past the chaos of the Americas.
Past the disputed territories.
His finger stopped at the narrow land bridge joining two oceans.
The Isthmus of Panama.
Where the next move of the game would begin.