The Technologists

by Matthew Pearl

  His clothing wasn’t quite as neat as he’d like, even after brushing off the pine needles and shaking loose the dirt on his vest and coat. But not every Harvard boy was a dandy, and he could see at a glance suits nearly as crumpled and wrinkled as his own at this hour. He found a place behind a group of four or five such fellows sluggishly flowing toward the chapel.

  As they neared their destination, the path clogged up with students, slowing Edwin’s advance toward the gates, where he would be clear to exit. Two college watchmen appeared at the edge of the crowd. Were they looking for Edwin, or just ensuring that students fulfilled the college rules by finding their way to the chapel before the second bell?

  “You,” said one of the watchmen.

  Edwin, swallowing hard, slowly turned around to face him. “Yes, sir?”

  “Where is your Bible?”

  He looked around dumbly.

  “We’ve had too many fellows sleeping in chapel,” continued the official, “instead of reading their Bible.”

  “Forgot,” he managed to say in response. “I’ll retrieve it. Thank you.”

  “Quickly, boy!”

  Edwin steered his steps away from the chapel toward the gates. Keeping his head down so he would not appear too eager, he nearly walked headlong into a man rushing along an intersecting path.

  “Fool! Watch yourself!”

  “Pardon,” he said, then stopped in a fit of surprise. “Professor!”

  Standing before him, clutching his long, narrow case, was the slender figure of the Institute’s chemistry instructor, Charles Eliot. It would have been difficult to say which Technology man, professor or student, showed more discomfort at the encounter.

  Eliot composed himself and gazed down disapprovingly over his wire-rim eyeglasses. “What are you doing here, Mr. Hoyt?”

  Edwin had the same question about Professor Eliot being on the Harvard campus on a Sunday morning, though of course he said nothing about that. In fact, he said nothing at all, and lowered his eyes again. “I should be on my way back into Boston,” he offered finally, although clearly waiting for the professor’s permission.

  Eliot’s expression softened and he offered a tight-lipped smile. “Actually, I believe I know very well why you’re here, Mr. Hoyt.”

  “You do?”

  “I know there are some who believe the Institute is deficient in not having a chapel where our students would be required to pray. As a student at your age, I cherished going to the chapel here. Did you know I was stroke oar of the top Harvard boat in my day?”

  As Edwin considered how to respond, the second bell rang and Eliot lurched forward as a freshman crashed into him from behind. “Sorry, sir,” came the hurried excuse, as the wayward fresh propelled himself on toward the chapel, leaving Eliot’s case thrown open on the ground. Inside were not glass tubes, as Edwin had assumed, but papers, which were now scattered.

  Edwin sprang to retrieve them, happy for a chance to be useful.

  “No,” Eliot said forcefully. “Not necessary, Mr. Hoyt.”

  But Edwin already had a dozen pages in hand, peeled from the dewy grass. One was headed “Report on the Projected Annexation by Harvard University of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.”

  Edwin read the heading twice, and quickly took in as much as he could of the rest of the contents. “This cannot be true,” he murmured. “Professor Eliot, thank heavens you came here. You managed to persuade them to stop this—please say you did!” But when he met Eliot’s gaze, he knew he had misunderstood.

  “Mr. Hoyt, this is administrative business and none of your concern.”

  “Professor, if Harvard is trying to annex Tech—”

  “I am proposing they do just that, Mr. Hoyt,” Eliot said, tucking the papers under his arm. “Perhaps you cannot understand from the vantage point of a student. President Rogers remains in a grave state of health and the dear man will not long serve as our president, I’m afraid. I intend to offer myself for that position, and in doing so do what is right for the future of the Institute.”

  “To lose our independence?”

  “To survive. The Institute was an extraordinary experiment, but it cannot go on without financial strength and the support of Boston’s finest families. By uniting with Harvard, we will achieve that, and be able to carry on the important path that President Rogers has only begun.”

  “That can’t be the only way.”

  Eliot gave him a hard stare but then smiled again. “I cannot expect you to understand, as I say, but you will. One day. How old are you, Mr. Hoyt?” The professor reasserted his commanding tone.

  “Twenty-two, sir,” came the automatic answer.

  Eliot nodded. He was the sort of man who enunciated every syllable as though for the edification of his listener. “When I was your age, Mr. Hoyt, we had no place like the Institute. Nothing. Harvard did not give me my knowledge of science, but it did grant me the mental and moral strength I needed to teach myself the practical skills of science. President Rogers is a brave, even a remarkable man of our epoch. But far better than devotion to an idealized person is devotion to a personified ideal.”

  “I suppose,” said Edwin, trying his best to make sense of it.

  “There are reasons nobody at the Institute knows about my communications with the Harvard Corporation, Mr. Hoyt. I suggest to you it is preferable if they do not.”

  He wondered how Marcus or Bob would answer that icy suggestion. Before he could think what he was doing, Edwin exclaimed, “Shame on you, Professor!” To his own surprise, he did not want to take the words back even when he realized what he had just done.

  “Pardon me, Hoyt?” Eliot snapped.

  “Shame on you, for trying to sacrifice all that the Institute means,” Edwin went on without hesitation. “The Institute gives a home to all those who can find nowhere else that supports their passions. To take its independence away, you take all that away, too.”

  Eliot’s expression hardened into a threatening gaze. “It seems you have missed chapel. I wonder now, by the looks of your suit, if something more has transpired, that you, too, would prefer not to have to explain to the faculty committee. I heard something about a commotion last night in this very yard. Perhaps everything that has happened here this morning should remain private. I’d hate to think any students from Tech were involved, particularly one who is vying for rank of First Scholar. Really, I always thought better of you, Mr. Hoyt.”

  “Say, fellow! You are late to chapel.” It was the watchman who had ordered him to retrieve his Bible. He strode over and took Edwin by the arm.

  “If you please,” Eliot said, “this young gentleman is assisting me with some private college business. Isn’t that correct, Mr. Hoyt?”

  Edwin nodded mechanically and the watchman withdrew. With a pointed look at his pupil, Professor Eliot, too, walked away.

  After a last look around to make sure he was free, Edwin ran through the gates and mapped in his mind the fastest route to South Boston.

  XXXVIII

  Tempest in a Teapot!

  IT FELT AS THOUGH he had been driving around in circles for hours before Bob’s coach returned to his room at Mrs. Page’s. There, he found Marcus waiting. He embraced his friend for a long moment before saying, “I was certain the college watchman nabbed you, Mansfield!”

  “It was close.”

  “I was riding through Cambridge looking everywhere for you. You’re not hurt, are you? Is Eddy with you?”

  “No,” answered Marcus. “We just made it into Norton’s Woods by the skin of our teeth and divided up. He might have been afraid to come out if he thought the watchmen still were on the hunt.”

  “I still have the driver outside. While you were with those scoundrels, I’ve found something out at the experimenter’s laboratory. We must get back there immediately.”

  “What about Edwin? And Miss Swallow?” Marcus asked.

  “Eddy knows where to find us. We were about to go last night when we came h
ere first and realized you had been taken. I already sent a message to Mrs. Blodgett’s; our better half—better fourth, I should say—should be on her way to South Boston. We haven’t a minute to lose.”

  Marcus appeared preoccupied. “Bob, the Med Fac destroyed the papers we composed for the press. We have little to use to convince them.”

  Bob pushed Marcus out the door. “It’s far more dire than you know. I’ll explain on our way!”

  He described it all as they rode through the quiet streets of Boston that Sunday morning, relaying in detail how after he blasted off the lock at the private laboratory he found evidence of experiments related to the compass manipulation, including a battery designed almost exactly as Ellen predicted, and the compounds they had theorized were behind the chemical assault.

  “Everything we’ve searched for!”

  “But that was only the beginning. There was a demonstration table near the center of the room, enclosed by a kind of protective glass. On it, a supply of chloride of lime, some that had clearly been heated and dissolved in water in a wooden vessel. Next to that, a glass ball that contained a solid I could not identify.”

  “None of those items would have been involved in preparing the disasters,” Marcus said after considering the inventory.

  “Exactly, Mansfield.”

  “Then the experimenter is planning something new.”

  “Something to happen soon, I fear,” answered Bob, “an event even more destructive, and something bald old Agassiz couldn’t recognize if he sat in it! If we go to the police now, under his influence they won’t permit us to do what we must to stop what might be coming. I daresay we might clear our consciences but we’ll leave a bull’s-eye over Boston.”

  “Then what do we do, if we can’t go to the police or the press?” Marcus asked, though Bob suspected Marcus could guess the answer.

  “We must return to the villain’s laboratory and find out what those new experiments are pointing toward. And fast. We cannot stop until we know.”

  Bob knew the task as he had stated it might be impossible. It reminded him of an assignment they had been given as sophomores. Professor Storer would pass out boxes of “unknowns,” unlabeled glass tubes, and they had to gather clues to identify which chemicals were in each tube. The Technologists had succeeded in determining the causes of two disasters, yet now their challenge was about to be inverted. They were staring at the cause, and needed to predict the intended effect—and failure could mean another disaster and lives lost.

  “What if the experimenter returns while we’re inside?” Marcus asked.

  “Then we’ll have him, Mansfield!”

  “Or he us.”

  Bob ignored this. “Did you find any trace of the scarred man before you were taken, Mansfield?”

  “In a way,” Marcus said. “I found in one of the newspaper cuttings a brief description of a man burned in the State Street disaster, one Joseph Cheshire, who was spoken about by that lad Theo as having been killed. But I was in a stupor of sleep when I made the connection, and wonder now what it amounts to. Bob, we are getting close, aren’t we?”

  “Follow my lead,” Bob said as the carriage closed in on the chemists’ building. “The superintendent is a jolly fellow, and I have a certain understanding with him.”

  Ellen, her face covered in a veil, was waiting in front and seemed relieved by their arrival. Bob rang the bell for the superintendent, but even after he’d tried three times, no one came.

  “Come on! Answer!” Bob said, pulling and pushing on the door in frustration before feeling it give way. “Look! It’s open.”

  “Take heed, Mr. Richards,” Ellen cautioned him.

  This was their chance, and, more to the point, Bob’s. He had been bold enough to enter the laboratory in the first place, without help. Now he could finish what he started and prove Phillip wrong about him. Bob led them inside the front chambers, the usual station of the superintendent.

  “Well, he appears to have enjoyed my gifts,” Bob said, noticing empty wine bottles on a windowsill. “Greetings! Friend, are you on duty?” he called out, but there was no response. “Anyone home?” He checked the inner door that led from the vestibule into the rest of the building, then turned to the others. “What luck,” he said, stifling a laugh. “This one is unlocked, too. He must have gone looking for more drink, and have been too cup-shot to remember to lock up.”

  “What are you doing, Bob?” Marcus asked, grasping his arm, much to Bob’s irritation.

  “I’m going back up to the laboratory, of course! Come on, Mansfield, let go of me. We don’t have time for a discussion.”

  “I don’t like this,” Marcus said quietly. “The doors that are usually locked are unlatched. There may be someone else in the building.”

  “On a Sunday morning!” Bob argued. “Who could be here?”

  “You know who, Bob,” Marcus said grimly. “We must remain cautious.”

  Someone called from outside the superintendent’s window.

  “It’s Edwin,” said Marcus.

  Bob changed tactic, laying an encouraging hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “You’re right, of course, Mansfield. Bring Edwin up and we’ll all discuss this.”

  Marcus ushered Edwin inside, after peering outside the door for any sign of their being watched or followed.

  “Did you see anyone out there?”

  “No, Marcus, the street was deserted,” replied Edwin.

  “Quickly, close the door.”

  “I have much to tell everyone,” Edwin said excitedly when he entered. “Professor Eliot was …” he began. Then, surveying the empty chambers, he stopped and asked, “How did you manage to get in here? Where’s the superintendent?”

  “Bob found the door unlocked,” explained Marcus. “But we must take care in going any farther until we know why.”

  “Where is Bob?” Edwin asked.

  Marcus and Ellen both looked around as the inner door at the other end of the vestibule was swinging closed. They heard footsteps hammering up the stairs.

  “Blast it, Bob!” Marcus cried, then over his shoulder to Ellen and Edwin, “Stay here—keep watch for anyone trying to enter the building.” He rushed away, leaving Ellen and Edwin standing together in the vestibule.

  * * *

  “WELL, MISS SWALLOW,” Edwin began again, as the footsteps faded above, “you simply won’t believe your ears when I tell you. It’s about Professor Eliot …” But when he turned around, anticipating the inevitable surprise on her face, he found that Ellen was already on the far side of the room, examining the vestibule and the superintendent’s chamber.

  “There are still traces of a woman’s housekeeping in these quarters,” she said, passing a finger along the perimeter of the wall. “These rooms were once neater, though, I grant, probably not for some time. Poor man must have been abandoned by a wife, or sister, leading him into the vice of drink.” She continued her investigation, pushing against another door.

  “What are you doing?” In the absence of Bob and Marcus, he felt vaguely that he should order, or at least request strongly, that she stop and heed Marcus’s command.

  “I’m going to look in the basement.”

  “Marcus said to stay right here.”

  “Please remind me, Mr. Hoyt, who elected Mr. Mansfield general of our little squadron?”

  Edwin scratched at his neck, no longer so keen to direct her. “Well, why go downstairs?”

  “The superintendent may well know more about what has been happening in that laboratory than he has told Mr. Richards. From Mr. Richards’s description, the gentleman may be too intoxicated to even remember what he knows, but he may have kept some sort of records for the building somewhere down there. Coming?”

  Marcus had told them to stay in the vestibule and watch for anyone possibly trying to enter the building. On the other hand, as a responsible gentleman Edwin should be at Ellen’s side and ensure her safety. Maybe if he counted to three Marcus and Bob would return.
<
br />   One … two …

  “Good-bye, Mr. Hoyt,” she said as she started downstairs.

  Her swift exit put his own feet into motion. “I’ll escort you, Miss Swallow,” he said. He followed her down a winding narrow wooden staircase into the dark, poorly ventilated basement. There was a layer of dirty straw on the rocky ground and buckets filled with water at various points. The dismal, rustic compartment seemed like a cave, with its dark-red walls and a single, dimly burning lamp. It was an oozy mass of shadows, to which their own were added.

  “I see the superintendent continues his habits down here, too, perhaps when he feels too many disapproving eyes on him up above,” Ellen said with a frown, picking up one of the bottles littering the ground and releasing a few last drops from it.

  There was a noise, like an inhale. The damp air made Edwin wheeze, and he had to force his words out. “Did you hear something? Breathing?”