September, 1903

"Bradshaw, it's Thomas Edison! He's here!"

Of all the interruptions, this one was so unexpected that Professor Benjamin Bradshaw wondered if he'd not yet fully recovered from his concussion.

It was a warm summer afternoon on the campus of the University of Washington. A box kite danced below billowy white clouds drifting in the blue sky, and a touch of color in the elm saplings hinted at the approach of fall.

Bradshaw stood on the lawn between Lewis and Clark Halls, arms outstretched to Missouri Fremont as she abandoned Colin Ingersoll and his kite. She approached Bradshaw with a smile that took his breath away. This was a moment he'd resisted for two years. A moment he wasn't sure was wise. The differences between him and Missouri might be insurmountable, and yet, here he was. His heart thundered. He doubted he'd ever been happier—or more frightened—in his entire life.

Little more than a week had passed since he'd been left for dead in a rotting cellar during an investigation of gruesome murders. He'd thought himself fully recovered, other than a dull ache in his shoulder where the weight of a cast iron frying pan had struck, until the shout about Thomas Edison pierced his overwhelmed emotions. For a terrifying second, he thought he might still be back in that cellar, hallucinating.

Certainly, such romantic moments were rare for him. As Missouri approached, he knew he would never forget this moment, the way her dark amber eyes gleamed with joy and affection, the way the golden highlights shimmered in her short mahogany hair. She moved in her summery gown with the grace of a queen and the bounce of a child.

Their fingertips had not yet touched when the shout carried to him again, its urgency penetrating his cocoon of fearful happiness.

"Bradshaw! It's Edison!"

As he continued to gaze into Missouri's eyes, he was aware that Colin Ingersoll had turned toward the shout. Colin, a lanky and likable engineering student, was Missouri's would-be suitor, and he was no doubt confused by Missouri's abandoning his side to welcome Bradshaw so warmly.

"Hurry!" Assistant Professor Hill came running toward them from the direction of the Administration Building, shouting, "It's Thomas Edison! Here to see you!"

Missouri's eyes flickered with delight. She asked, "Is it the Thomas Edison, do you suppose? The Wizard of Menlo Park?"

Bradshaw smiled. "He has been known to attempt to steal the great moments of other men's lives."

"Are you and I in the midst of a great moment?"

"Only if you consider me confiding my feelings for you a great moment."

She gave a little gasp.

And then Hill was upon them, panting and grinning and tipping his hat to Missouri. He grabbed Bradshaw's arm and pulled. "Come on!"

* * *

It's disconcerting to enter a deeply familiar place and find a celebrity there, a man one had previously seen only in published photographs or artistic renderings. But here he was, Thomas Edison in the flesh, in Bradshaw's own office on the second floor of the Administration Building. In his mid-fifties, his hair thin and white, his complexion pale, he yet exuded strength. He wore an expensively tailored, crumpled suit, and his sagging posture revealed a lifetime at the workbench.

Bradshaw had grown up knowing the great inventor's name. He'd been twelve when Edison, eighteen years his senior, invented the phonograph, and fourteen when the first practical light bulb secured Edison a place in history. As Bradshaw's own curiosity and exploration into electrical matters became an obsession, he'd read everything he could get his hands on about the man. He knew that Edison had only three months of formal schooling before being labeled "addled" by his teacher, and so he'd been homeschooled by his mother, who had encouraged his curiosity. Edison had been flat broke and sleeping in office basements in New York when, by chance, he'd impressed a stock broker by fixing a stock ticker, winning the man's admiration and a high-paying job. Soon after, he invented an improved stock ticker, which he sold for a small fortune. He'd used those funds to build an electrical empire. Yes, there was much Bradshaw admired about Thomas Edison.

And much he disliked. There were far too many stories of greed for them all to be the mere fuming of jealous rivals. It was well known he'd cheated Nikola Tesla out of promised wages. And the War of the Currents a decade ago, pitting alternating current against direct current, had gotten downright ugly. It was still ugly. Rather than accept the scientific fact that each current had applications for which it was best suited, Edison continued to slander alternating current and those he considered his rivals. To protect the income from his many patented direct-current devices, he performed public stunts, such as electrocuting stray animals, in attempts to put fear of alternating current into the hearts of the general public. Just this past January, Edison had electrocuted an elephant in a bizarre display, which he captured on moving film.

Still, childhood impressions are deep-seated, and Bradshaw felt his palms dampen at the sight of Thomas Edison standing by his office window, looking at a copy of American Electrician. Edison didn't turn when he entered, even though Bradshaw had spoken to Hill at the door, telling him to wait in the hall and make sure they weren't disturbed by eager students who were already lining up to meet the famous inventor.

"They will have their chance once I've spoken to him."

Hill whispered eagerly, "But why is he here?"

"I have no idea," said Bradshaw, closing the door with an audible click, wondering if Edison had heard. It was said that the famous inventor of Menlo Park was nearly deaf.

Bradshaw began to move toward Edison's peripheral vision to announce his presence without startling him, but Edison's senses must have been heightened by his hearing loss because he spoke as if fully aware that Bradshaw had shut the door on adoring fans. "When they stop being eager to see me, that's when I'll worry."

Edison's voice was pitched higher than Bradshaw expected. It contrasted with his fierce reputation. "They are our future, Professor Bradshaw, and their excitement both inspires and depresses me. Think of all they will invent, and all we will miss, because of our mortality." He closed the magazine and returned it to the shelf, then he at last turned to Bradshaw, his wide mouth spread in a grin, his blue-green eyes warm with intelligence and humor.

Bradshaw quickly wiped his hand on his jacket before offering it. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Edison." He didn't shout, but he did enunciate carefully. He'd read that Edison could hear well enough in a quiet room to converse easily.

"Likewise, Professor Bradshaw."

They shook hands, and Bradshaw knew he was beaming. It wasn't every day that one met a childhood hero.

"Have a seat. Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? I can send to the dorms for some lemonade."

Edison took the offered seat near the bookcase but refused refreshment. Bradshaw sat opposite him.

"I haven't got much time, so I'll get right to the point, Professor. I've been hearing for some time now about a former student of yours, the one who tried to assassinate President McKinley."

Bradshaw's enthusiasm dissolved into disappointment, then anger. He hadn't...