Wardenclyffe Page 3

  He stroked his mustache.

  “Do you have a woman?”

  The question took me aback. “Why…no.”

  “You are not involved with a woman, not engaged to be married or anything of that nature?”

  “No. Why do you ask?” Not that he had any right to.

  “If you are to be apprenticed to me, I must require that you remain celibate during that time. An inventor must not marry. Sir Isaac Newton did not marry, nor did Emmanuel Kant. I do not think you can name many great inventions that have been made by married men.”

  “I assure you, sir, I have no romantic involvements.”

  I spoke the truth. Attachment for me was nigh impossible. Though many times, in a fit of longing for companionship, I’d wished otherwise.

  “Good. For an artist, a musician, a writer…romance is almost a necessity. But for an inventor, no. Those three must gain inspiration from a woman’s influence and be led by their love to finer achievement. But an inventor has so intense a nature, with so much in it of wild, passionate quality, that in giving himself to a woman he might love, he would give everything, and so take everything from his chosen field. Be alone, that is the secret of invention; be alone, that is when ideas are born.”

  I’d heard Tesla was celibate, but had not expected him to broach the subject with me.

  “I repeat, sir, I am unattached.”

  “Good to hear, and more the pity. For sometimes we feel so lonely.”

  Oh, how well I knew that.

  “George rents a room in Port Jefferson,” he went on, “as do I when I visit. I think we might be able to arrange quarters here for you.”

  “Then I’m hired?”

  He laughed and thrust out his hand. “How can I say no to such optimism?”

  We shook.

  “To changing the world,” I cried.

  “Yes,” he said softly. “To changing the world.”

  I had no idea that by the time we were through with our work here, that phrase would have taken on a whole new and terrifying meaning.

  * * *

  My Wardenclyffe apprenticeship did not begin immediately. I had to inform GE that circumstances beyond my control—this sudden obsession with a wireless world certainly seemed beyond my control—would prevent me from accepting the position they offered. No, I would not be joining a competitor and I hoped if circumstances permitted I might return at a future date. I doubted very much that would happen, but I never believed in burning bridges.

  Then I had to move all my worldly possessions from Boston to Wardenclyffe. I lived in a furnished apartment so I owned very little. I arrived with suitcases of books and clothing and little else.

  The enormity of my decision struck me full force then. I had walked away from a steady-paying job to take an apprenticeship with room and board as my only compensation. I had sacrificed the privacy I so cherished—no, needed was a better word—to dwell on the upper level of what was essentially a factory. At least I hadn’t had to sacrifice family and friends; I had none of the former and virtually none of the latter. For various reasons I have avoided close relationships since coming to America. I am a solitary man.

  Be alone, that is the secret of invention; be alone, that is when ideas are born…

  If that proved true, I would evolve into a veritable dynamo of invention.

  I strung a wire and used extra sheets to partition the northeast corner of the largely unfinished loft. I slept on a cot under the sloping roof and lived out of my suitcases. We had a latrine outside and fresh water from a well, powered by an electric pump. The local farmers stopped by regularly to sell their eggs and vegetables and occasional cuts of pork or chicken or duck, which I cooked up in the kitchen. At MIT I’d developed a taste for lobsters; when a local fisherman would bring one around now and then, I’d boil it up, crack in open, drench it in local butter, and feast.

  Three bicycles had been moved from Tesla’s Manhattan lab to Wardenclyffe and I would use one to visit the general store in Shoreham Village for condiments and various sundries. Sunrise shining through the fanlight atop the window in my wall woke me every morning.

  Spartan living, to be sure, but I was learning so much at the feet of a genius. Whole new worlds of thought were opening to me.

  When Tesla saw my living conditions, he had the carpenters wall off that section of the loft. A door I could bar afforded me the privacy I needed. I settled in for the long haul.

  As chief of plant operations, George Scherff was suspicious of me and stand-offish at first, but I quickly won him over with my eagerness to tackle any task he set for me.

  As we worked together, he talked, and I learned that the Wardenclyffe finances were teetering on the precipice of ruin. J. P. Morgan had advanced only one third of the $150,000 in funding he’d promised and had refused to transfer the rest.

  “If only the maestro would concentrate on wireless communication,” Scherff told me, “Morgan might come around. But he insists on combining it with wireless energy which is so much more costly to develop.”

  “But that’s his dream—wireless energy for all.”

  “Yes, but that is why Morgan is backing off. I heard him tell Tesla, ‘If anyone can draw on the power, where do we put the meter?’”

  Well, yes, I could see Morgan’s point. He hadn’t become a captain of industry by giving money away. But didn’t he see? Didn’t he want a hand in changing the world?

  I said, “J. P. Morgan isn’t the only fish in the financial sea. There must be others he can interest.”

  Scherff shook his head. “He has tried. My God, how he has tried. Wined and dined them, sent them gifts, but they are interested only in Marconi.”

  Perfectly understandable why Marconi’s accomplishment, limited though it had been, had sent most investors running his way. Money would gravitate toward the Italian’s demonstrated success rather than Tesla’s extravagant promises.

  “We need a successful demonstration,” Scherff told me. “Something spectacular to hold up before the investing world.”

  Tesla must have felt the same. Before my arrival, he would appear only on weekends, traveling from his rooms at the Waldorf Astoria to arrive with his Serbian manservant and a huge basket of food. Now he was here every day, sans Serb.

  By mid-July we were ready for a test. Not an actual transmission—we were nowhere near ready for that yet—but a test of the components, their connections, and the generator to see if we could get them all working together. We had a Tesla coil installed in the bottom of the shaft and another in the cupola of the tower.

  We waited until well after sundown when it was full dark. All the workers had been sent home, leaving just the three of us to man the equipment. By that time, we had little left to do. I shoveled extra coal into the generator to keep it at maximum—hot work in July, though my only concession to the heat was to roll up my sleeves. Its output could reach 200 watts but the Tesla coils could multiply that to one million or more.

  At about 10 P.M., when all was ready, George Scherff and I stood by the back door and waited for Tesla—he deserved the honor—to throw the switch inside.

  Fog often rolled off the Sound after dark, but not tonight. The Milky Way smeared across a cloudless sky. In my solitary life I assuaged my loneliness at night by identifying the planets and constellations. At another time of year I might have looked for Orion but I knew it rose at dawn during the summer. So I contented myself with finding the Big Dipper; I followed a line from the leading edge of its cup to Polaris, the North Star, twinkling above the tower’s cupola.

  We heard a deep hum and knew he’d thrown the switch. By the time Tesla joined us, the sparks had begun to fly, growing larger and longer and brighter as the coils above and below multiplied and magnified the voltage. I stood mesmerized by the magnificent electrical display. No July Fourth fireworks could compete with this. And lest you think I exaggerate, here was what the misspelling-prone New York Sun had to say the following day:

  TESLA�
�S FLASHES STARTLING

  But He Won’t Tell Us What He Is Trying For At Wardencliffe

  Wardencliffe, L. I., July 16—Natives hereabouts are intensely interested in the electrical display shown from the tall tower and poles in the grounds where Nicola Tesla is conducting his experiments in wireless telegraphy and telephony. All sorts of lightning were flashed from the tall tower and poles last night. For a time the air was filled with blinding streaks of electricity which seemed to shoot off into the darkness on some mysterious errand. The display continued until after midnight.

  Perhaps he was correct about it lasting past midnight, perhaps not. I was not watching the clock. We were too busy taking readings, measuring voltages, and checking connections.

  I do recall a strange feeling in my chest. I didn’t know how to explain it other than a sense of something wrong. I tried to pin it down but could not. Everything in my life at the moment was as right as could be, so why should I feel this sudden unease?

  And another thing: I remember looking up at the stars at one point and seeing no trace of the Milky Way. Nor did I recognize any of the constellations. I didn’t pay this any mind at the time, blaming it on interference from the high-voltage flashes. But this would take on dreadful significance in the time to come.

  * * *

  We were all in high spirits the next morning, laborers included. Almost all were local and they’d witnessed the display from their homes; it had convinced them they were involved in a project of major significance.

  A man named James Warden, however, wore a concerned expression when he showed up midmorning. I had not seen him before but Tesla and Scherff seemed to know him well.

  “Quite a display you put on last night,” he said after greetings and handshakes.

  “Just an equipment test,” Tesla said.

  “What were you transmitting?”

  “Nothing. As I said, just testing connections and such.”

  He stared at Tesla a moment, then said, “Come down to the waterline with me. I want to show you something.”

  “Is there a problem?” Tesla said.

  “Yes, I believe there is.”

  “Are you going to tell us what?” Scherff said.

  “I think it best you see for yourselves.”

  “We were nowhere near the water.”

  Warden nodded. “Perhaps, but I do think you should see this.”

  We walked out the back into the thick fog bank that had rolled off the Sound; the tower appeared oddly truncated as its cupola had been swallowed by the mist. Warden led the way with Tesla beside him. I followed with Scherff.

  “Do I assume he’s the ‘Warden’ in Wardenclyffe?” I said.

  “He’s a land developer who owns most of Shoreham.” He waved an arm around. “From the train station down to the Sound. He made the maestro a good deal on these two hundred acres, but not from the goodness of his heart. He has plans to build houses and sell them to all the employees once we’re up and running.”

  Once we’re up and running…

  That might take a while. Last night’s run had proved that all the components were functioning, but we had sent no messages.

  Tesla had purchased the acreage closest to the rail line, so the walk to the Sound was nearly a mile through the remnants of a huge potato farm. An eerie walk in a misty limbo. The two ahead appeared to be in deep conversation.

  “What are they discussing so seriously?” I said.

  Scherff hesitated, then, “Money, of course.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I pay all the bills—or do not pay them.”

  I got the impression from his tone that unpaid bills outnumbered those he paid.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It is not your concern.”

  I took the hint and changed the subject.

  “This Warden chap is being rather mysterious. I wonder what he wants us to see.”

  Scherff only shrugged.

  As the end of our walk neared, the keening cries and squawks of sea birds filled the air. Soon the fog-streaked Long Island Sound came into view. Flapping seagulls and terns crowded the shore. They rose in a cloud at our approach. Warden stopped about a dozen feet short of the waterline and pointed.

  “There. Are you responsible for that?”

  At first I didn’t know what he meant, and then I realized the sandy shore was littered with hundreds and hundreds of dead fish. That explained the birds. We’d interrupted their breakfast buffet.

  “Bloody hell,” I said, moving closer. “What could have done this?”

  “I’ve lived along the North Shore most of my life,” Warden said, “and I’ve never seen a fish kill like this. It has to be related to your fireworks display last night.”

  “I cannot imagine the connection,” Tesla said.

  Scherff came up beside me. “Wait a minute. Something is wrong here.”

  “I’m very well aware of that,” Warden said. “Something killed these fish.”

  “No,” Scherff said. “These fish killed themselves.”

  We all turned to stare at him. Finally Warden said, “That’s preposterous!”

  “Wait-wait.” Scherff gave a soft laugh. “Don’t look at me like I’m crazy. I’m not saying they were suicidal. I’m simply saying they jumped out of the water.”

  Warden harrumphed—yes, a genuine harrumph. “How can you possibly know that?”

  I wanted an answer myself.

  Scherff stepped over the dead fish and moved closer to the water where he pointed to a wavering line of seaweed.

  “All right, look here. This is obviously the high-water mark.”

  No question. The sand on the Sound side was flat and smooth. The sand on the land side was anything but. The dead fish lay a number of feet beyond the high-tide line.

  Scherff pointed back and forth between the tide line and the fish. “How did they get from here to there? Obviously they jumped.” He frowned. “And that bothers me. That bothers me very much.”

  “Why?” Tesla said. “Fish jump. I have seen them.”

  “Not all fish jump. And look at the variety of these fish. It’s not as if some school lost its way. I see shad, weakfish, scup, and puffers along with sea robins and fluke.”

  “I fail to see the significance,” Warden said.

  Scherff sent him a penetrating look. “You say you’ve lived out here all your life. I haven’t, but I love to fish the Sound. I go on group boats out of Oyster Bay whenever I can.”

  “I know Oyster Bay well,” Warden said.

  Didn’t everyone? President Roosevelt had a home there.

  “The point is,” Scherff said, “I know my fish. What do you know of sea robins and fluke?”

  Warden shrugged. “Not much except the first is inedible and the second is delicious.”

  “But do you know where they live?”

  “Of course. They’re bottom fish.”

  “Exactly! They live on the bottom.” He nudged a particularly ugly fish with the toe of his shoe. “They call this a sea robin but it can’t fly. It’s a slow, clumsy fish and, as you say, not for eating, so not worth catching. How did it go from the bottom of the water to end here on the sand? Likewise with the fluke. A much faster fish but still, not a leaping fish.”

  “Maybe they were attracted to all your flashing lights last night,” Warden said.

  I saw Tesla’s face darken. “Then you would see this after every violent thunderstorm. No, something else is at work here.”

  Warden stubbornly shook his head. “You put on your show and the fish die. The connection is obvious.”

  He was offering a perfect example of a common logical fallacy. Post hoc, ergo propter hoc: If B follows A, then A must have caused B. But I did not feel it my place to speak up.

  Many of the bigger fish appeared wounded, seemed to have suffered deep, linear, finger-width cuts along their flanks. If I didn’t think it impossible, I might have characterized them as burns. I was about
to mention this when we were interrupted.

  A barefooted elderly woman had appeared out of the fog from the east, an aging golden retriever ambling at her side. She wore a patterned blouse and a mismatched ankle-length skirt; she’d wrapped her gray hair in a plaid scarf. She had swarthy skin and a hook nose. Gold hoops swung from her earlobes. What was a Gypsy woman doing out here?

  She stopped within a few feet of us and pointed to the dead fish.

  “This should not be,” she said in a thick accent I couldn’t quite identify. “Is not a good thing.”

  “Yes,” Warden said testily. “We are quite well aware of that. Do you have anything else to contribute?”

  “I have much to contribute, especially to this man.”

  She stepped up to Tesla and jabbed a finger toward his startled face as she spoke in a foreign tongue.

  “Who are you?” Warden said when she’d finished. “And where did you come from?”

  “Everywhere,” she said and walked on, her dog beside her. “From everywhere I come.”

  Tesla, his expression troubled, watched her go.

  “What did she say?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  I very much doubted that.

  “What language was that?”

  “Serbian.”

  As she walked off into the fog, she called back without turning her head.

  “You are thinking fish leaping toward something? Look again. See how far they jump—even bottom dwellers. No, were running from something.” As she disappeared her final disembodied words echoed from the mist. “Something scare fish—scare so much are leaping onto dry land to escape.”

  * * *

  Leaving James Warden by the Sound, we headed back to the plant, discussing the mysterious fish kill along the way. However that was forgotten when we reached the plant and Tesla saw the latest edition of the Sun. The story about the tower’s electrical display prompted a decision.

  “We must confine all further testing to the daylight hours. I don’t want everything that goes wrong along the North Shore blamed on our experiments.”

  “The flashes will still be visible,” Scherff said.

  “But much less noticeable, and not at such a great distance. We will take advantage of the fogs whenever we can.”