Edison's Gold

T
he man in the stained suit stared up at the driveway that ended at Thomas Edison's Victorian mansion. He'd sworn to himself that this day would never come—when he'd have to grovel like a dog at the feet of his old enemy. But news of the famous scientist's declining health had reached Manhattan, and the man had one final score to settle with his old rival
.

Trudging toward the door, he winced as tiny pebbles pierced his worn-out soles. He desperately needed new shoes, but every cent he earned went toward rent. Twelve dollars a month for one shabby room and hot plate—criminal! A sorry end for the man who helped invent the X-ray and radio, who had once been offered $150,000 by J.P. Morgan himself to redesign the entire Niagara Falls Power Plant
.

The maid answered on the first ring
.

“I'm here to see Thomas Edison.” Even in front of this servant, he was self-conscious about his patched jacket and uncombed hair
.

“I'm afraid Mr. Edison isn't seeing any more visitors.”

“Tell him it's his old colleague, Nikola Tesla.” As the words left his mouth, the maid seemed to catch her breath
.

“This way,” she murmured, smoothing her apron, then leading him through the foyer and up the creaky stairs
.

Entering the bedroom, Tesla immediately sensed the contempt of the others who were already gathered to pay their respects. He had not expected to see them, and his stomach churned with each recognizable face: Babe Ruth, Harvey Firestone, Henry Ford—even the silvery-haired New York Governor Franklin Roosevelt had taken a break from his presidential campaign to make the trip to New Jersey. They were Edison's inner circle, and once upon a time, Tesla had considered a few of them his dear friends and colleagues. Now mistrust and betrayal had distanced them
.

Propped up by pillows, his old rival regarded him with those same electric blue eyes. Tesla could feel the edges of his heart
soften. If he'd had a hat, he'd have removed it. Respect trumped dislike, even now
.

“How many years has it been, Nikola?” Edison finally spoke. His voice was weak and raspy
.

“Ten, twelve?” Tesla was shocked at how frail the inventor had become. As young scientists, the two of them had been tireless, working straight through the night, fueled by nothing more than the excitement of discovery
.

He cleared his throat. “Thomas, could I have a moment in private?”

Edison gave a knowing nod, then signaled for the others to take their reluctant leave
.

“They hate me,” said Tesla as soon as the group had vacated the room
.

“They fear you.”

Ha! This, from the man who ruined my career.
“I assume you know why I've come,” said Tesla
.

Edison closed his eyes and nodded. His expression was one of resigned irritation
.

Even now, at death's doorstep, the old man is still so condescending,
Tesla thought
.

He could feel the angry blood rushing to his head like hot lava
.

“Give me the formula!” he shouted into the silence. He hadn't meant to blurt it out like that, but old wounds had been torn open
.

“You are much too angry to be trusted—”

“Your opinion is not my concern. You stole my research, then destroyed my life's work.”

Edison began to cough. Tesla automatically reached for the pitcher of water by his bed and poured a glass, then handed it to him
.

“You still wear that stupid ring,” Tesla noted when he saw the aged scientist's hand. A single emerald set within filigree gold adorned his pinkie. “Just to rub it in my face.”

“Whatever actions I've taken in my life were done for a reason,” said Edison. “And whatever emotional burdens I carry are mine alone.”

“You had no right to do what you did! So let's just finish this business, and I'll be on my way.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Edison glanced toward the open window, unable to look his old colleague in the
eyes. Lying had never been one of the inventor's strong suits
.

“You know I have as much right to it as anyone else!” Tesla added, “Even more.”

“There are rumors that you roam the Bowery,” said Edison after a moment, with slow care to his words, “addled with drink, cursing my name. And now that I see you, I know the worst.”

It was Tesla's turn to be silent. He shifted his weight, embarrassed
.

“You have lost your mind, my friend,” said Edison, his tone softening now. “To give you any power at all would be unconscionable.”

“You are not God!” And before he could make full sense of his actions, Tesla had lifted the water pitcher and, in a burst of fury, sent it crashing to the floor, a smash of icy water and splintering shards
.

“Get out! You foolish man!” Henry Ford's voice was like a knife to the back. Tesla spun to see Ford and Firestone barreling through the door toward him, and before Tesla could protest, Harvey had him by the lapels and was pushing him into the hallway
.

“This isn't over!” Tesla heard himself yell, like a spurned villain from one of those new Buck Rogers comic strips, as he was shoved down the stairs and out the front door so quickly it left him gasping for breath
.

He was alone now; his trousers were soaked from the smashed water pitcher. Bits of glass clung to them, reflecting a kaleidoscope prism of light. He blinked, a moment's pause at the unexpected beauty. He'd spent his life working in spectrums of light, sound, and energy. So brilliant, so marvelous, so many years ago
.

And now only one thought filled his head, a truth as unforgiving and absolute as the cold winter sun. If he wanted to claim his formula—the formula for turning base metal into pure gold—he would have to fight for it
.