But, after a few moments of silence, Gordon Chan raised his hand, shaking his head in mock bewilderment. Chan's field was chemical engineering, and his main concern was the work of the Research and Development group in planning for the future of this specialty. However, his friendly rivalry with Nagasaka, plus his wide-ranging curiosity, inspired a keen interest in plans for the evolving iron and steel enterprise.
"Ichiro, my esteemed colleague," Chan said, "I recall that just before the recent five-day recess for public review comments, you maneuvered our subcommittee into setting aside a workforce of one thousand for your grandly conceived—and unquestionably important—venture. By my calculation, however, you have not accounted for nearly that large a number. Ten blacksmith shops with fifteen workers each makes one hundred and fifty. Add four smelting furnaces with fifty people, plus ten machine tool teams of twenty—I believe your total is only five hundred and fifty."
"Thank you, good friend, for your kind and close attention," Nagasaka responded. "Let me tell you what I plan to do with the other four hundred and fifty. First of all, I want to have fifty people working on the next stage of ironmaking—better and larger furnaces—and then large-scale conversion of iron into steel, either through a long-established process like the Bessemer or through some other means reflecting more contemporary technologies. We cannot be satisfied with two-hundred-year-old methods. Fifty people are certainly not too many to be working on improvements and change.
"As for the other four hundred, I want to assign two hundred to supplementing the work of the miners, and two hundred to helping make and distribute charcoal and coke. I don't doubt that the miners will get us materials out of the ground. But we'll need crews to work with the ore, to break it up, sort it, sift it, to separate out as much useless rock as possible before bringing it to our furnaces. And then we have to get all the raw materials to exactly where we want them exactly when we need them. We cannot rely upon the miners for that.
"The same applies to charcoal and coke. The lumber people have been assigned the responsibility of making charcoal, but they are not likely to be overly concerned about our schedules. As for converting coal to coke, it doesn't appear as if anybody has been assigned that responsibility. That is probably my own fault. I didn't raise the question. In a modern steel plant, the process is designed to accommodate raw coal. But for the furnaces that we'll be using, coke will be needed as soon as we run short of charcoal, which will probably be sooner than we like to think. So, believe me, good friend, all of the people assigned to the metals operation will be put to good use."
"Oh, I believe you, Ichiro-san," Gordon Chan said. "And I believe that you will build an efficient, productive empire and come back to this subcommittee sooner rather than later for greater allocations of resources, human and material. I can't say I disagree with you in the least; but I'm sure you won't be offended if I keep a close eye on you and yours."
Nagasaka bowed deeply to Chan. He did not reply directly to the barb that had been thrown his way. Instead, he addressed the committee as a whole. "One final point," he said, waiting until he knew he had everyone's full attention.
"We have the latest technical information at our fingertips. We have brilliant engineers, talented technicians, and willing workers. We even have craftspeople who have worked as blacksmiths in museums and as hobbyists—and thank goodness that we do. But what we do not have, most emphatically, is anyone who lived in the eighteenth century, making iron, charcoal, coke, or anything else.
"Young Wilson Hardy here has studied a bit about those times, and he will tell you that craftsmanship—the talent that resides in the experienced artisan's mind and hands—counted for much. The particular smell of the smoke; the look and color of the glowing metal; the feel of the furnace, that sort of thing. So, whatever took those folks one hour to do is liable to take us five—or ten—or who knows how many. It is better that we have a few extra people on hand to help cope with the unexpected. Let the supplementary personnel be an expression of our humility."
Ichiro Nagasaka's eloquence and perseverance carried the day. The Joint Planning Subcommittee concluded unanimously that he should keep his thousand-person workforce.
"Don't make us regret this," Alf Richards said, as he raised the gavel to adjourn the meeting. But Nagasaka had already spun on his heels and was out of earshot, on his way to mobilize and motivate his army of workers.
—————
The night turned cool and a giant golden moon was visible in the clear sky, clearer than it had been for many days. Wil Hardy, Jr., tried to convey to Sarah his excitement about the day's events, especially the launching of the machine-tool enterprise.
"This is where it really began," he said, gripping her elbows for emphasis. "Don't you see? This is where human beings took the definitive leap beyond their own nature, beyond craftsmanship, into the realm of the precisely formed machine. And the thing that made it all possible was the simple screw. The screw enabled clumsy human beings to measure with an accuracy that was intuitively inconceivable. Just think of the difference between a simple ruler and a finely calibrated micrometer! Also, the screw enabled the machinist to convert rotary motion into rectilinear motion, and so to regulate moving parts with precision. The cutting tool on a lathe, for example, could be controlled by the geometrically configured parts of a machine instead of by the hand of the operator. Through the screw, the inventors of machine tools applied the perfection of ideal shapes to the forming of physical objects. I'm not saying it wasn't a big deal to tame fire, to invent the wheel, to discover the pulley—all that earlier stuff. But this was such a defining moment, a thrilling moment for those who lived it. And we are being given the opportunity to live through it again."
"Wouldn't you rather that we had been spared this particular opportunity?" Sarah asked, with only a hint of sad irony.
"Of course. But just think of those pioneering days when a handful of toolmakers were creating the machine age. A new civilization was in the making, and they were at the heart of the drama. You know, Arnold Toynbee once said that if he'd been given his choice of societies in which to live, as a citizen and family man, he would have chosen the Dutch Republic at the height of its glory in the seventeenth century. As a historian, on the other hand, he would have elected to travel with Alexander the Great."
Sarah indulged Wil in his enthusiasm. "I suppose you're going to share with me your choice?" Her eyes met his, unblinking.
"Yeah. As a historian of technology, I am living right now in the equivalent of such a momentous epoch. I know that's being terribly self-centered, but it's how I feel. It helps me forget about all those people who are not here to feel anything. That's the silver lining in this terrible, terrible cloud. We're creating a new world, my darling."
"Will it be a new world of soot and noise and disfigured landscapes?" Sarah asked wistfully. "I worry about that."
"No. That's partly my point." Wil held her arm as they stood there in the surreally bright moonlight. "We have a fresh opportunity and the benefit of so much hindsight. We can create a machine age without the ugly side effects of the Industrial Revolution. I know we can! It will be a world your poets will appreciate." He became more and more animated.
"Is there room in your world for poets, Wil?"
"There's room for you—and you're a poet."
" 'Ah, my fierce-throated beauty,' " Sarah said.
"Your what?"
" 'Fierce-throated beauty! Roll through my chant with all thy lawless music, thy swinging lamps at night, thy madly whistled laughter, echoing, rumbling like an earthquake, rousing all, law of thyself complete, thine own track firmly holding ...' "
He looked at her, bewildered.
"That's Walt Whitman writing about a locomotive," Sarah said, smiling. "He was an optimistic yea-sayer who lived at a hopeful time in American history. He saw the possibilities of beauty in machines and the possibilities of a beautiful life in an age of machines. I guess if he were with us today, he would
say, 'Give them another chance. They'll do better.' "
"I know we will, Sarah."
Wilson Hardy, Jr., lay awake that night thinking about lathes, milling machines, and drill presses. There, on the coast of what used to be called the Dark Continent, not far from the places where wild beasts still roamed, he envisioned gleaming cylinders machined to accuracies verging on perfection. Amazing. The universe confronts us with chaos and destruction, he mused, but we puny humans, using geometry and ingenuity, demonstrate our defiance.
When he finally fell asleep, however, he dreamed of a pirate queen steering a red-sailed ship across raging seas. In this wild and frightening scene, thoughts of technology provided small comfort.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF WILSON HARDY, JR.
The first day of February dawned dark and rainy. The farmers said that the moisture was welcome, but I found my mood as dreary as the gray skies. With Ichiro's presentation, the preliminary work of the Joint Planning Subcommittee was now complete. The elation that had accompanied this achievement led to the inevitable morning-after letdown. The creative strategizing was behind us. One could predict that, from this point on, the subcommittee's work would consist mainly of modifying the decisions that had been reached, constantly reallocating resources, and responding to endless complaints and second-guessing.
As if to underscore my sense of foreboding, Donald Ruffin barged into the subcommittee's afternoon session, accompanied by members of the Electric Light Brigade, and resumed his assertion of grievances. "We've been thinking things over," Ruffin said. "It just won't do to lump electricity and electronics into the category of research and development. We can't sit around designing and designing and designing." He began to sputter in anger and frustration. "We need some material to work with, dammit—and you know exactly what it is that we need. Copper. C-o-p-p-e-r!"
"We've been over this a dozen times, Donald," Alf Richards answered. "You know what the problem is. The closest sizable copper deposit is at Phalaborwa, three hundred miles to the north. Eventually we'll establish a mining operation there and cope with the transport problems, which are daunting. But it will take awhile. We just can't do everything at once."
"Let me ask a naive question," said Millie Fox. "It may even be a stupid question. But I'm not one of you brilliant engineers, so I'll risk it. Aren't there other metals you can use?"
I personally thought that was a very sensible question. In fact, Ruffin treated it with respect.
"You know, Millie," he said, "gold and silver happen to be good conductors of electricity. But they're really too soft to stand up to use in motors and transmission lines. More important, sources are extremely limited, which is one of the reason these materials have always been so expensive. The same is true of the other so-called rare metals. We need something that's sturdy and plentiful.
"Of course," he continued, encouraged by Millie's interest, "iron fits that bill, and it will, in fact, conduct electricity. Folks used to use steel wire for the telegraph system that transmitted Morse Code dits and dahs. But it isn't suitable for transmitting large quantities of electric power. For that we need copper, or as an alternative, aluminum, which has electrical conductivity about two thirds that of copper. The catch is that the best way to obtain aluminum from its ore is by electrolysis, and this requires lots of electric power, which is what we don't have in the first place. So—cutting to the chase—copper is the only practical way to go."
After a few moments of grim silence, Ruffin spoke again: "Guys, we're not here just to grouse and sulk. We have a suggestion. You may remember that when Pieter Klemm first gave us a report on the area's mineral resources, he told us about a small copper deposit at Nkanda, just forty miles inland. Well, I've taken the liberty of having a few of our mining engineers check it out, and they tell me that there is, in fact, some decent ore there. Not a large amount. Certainly not enough to provide the many miles of wire needed for an electrical distribution system. But something that we can start with. Enough to let us build some experimental equipment, not just dream about it." Ruffin made boxlike gestures with his hands as if he were assembling a piece of machinery in the air in front of him.
"Maybe we can manufacture a few small generators driven by coal-burning steam turbines and use them to recharge some of the batteries we salvaged from the ship. That would put us back in business with the radio equipment that was saved. And just think how great it would be if we could bring some of our computers back to life. Also, we could plan to install generators in key locations such as hospital emergency rooms. Even without a distribution system, a lot can be accomplished. And without taking a large number of people away from the activities of your master plan."
Alf Richards pursed his lips, dubious but thoughtful. Ruffin sensed an opportunity and pursued it.
"Just spare a few people to mine and smelt a small amount of copper," he said. "And a few more to set up a wire-drawing operation. And, finally, tell your Scavengers to bring in some scrap copper wire. You won't regret it, I guarantee."
Then, after a pause: "Come on, Alf. You can't make your way back to the modern world without putting electrical engineers in the front ranks. When you think of it, electricity is humankind's most godlike exploit. In fact, maybe it's the main reason the deities decided to send that comet our way. They looked down, saw us lighting up the night and bouncing radio signals off of artificial satellites; they must have thought to themselves, 'Hey, enough is enough. Let's cut these upstarts down to size.' "
—————
For the third time in as many days I found myself drifting into that fanciful world in which tales of past engineering achievements emerged as a key element of our own odyssey. First it had been iron and steel; then machine tools; and now, most marvelous of all, electricity. Damn it, Ruffin is right, I thought. You can't help but agree with the guy, unpleasant as he may be: the mastery of electricity is indeed humankind's most godlike exploit. And it is the means by which we can most decisively leap over centuries into the modern world. While Richards grudgingly negotiated the terms of a deal with the Electric Light Brigade, I started to jot down my personal thoughts in the margins of my minutes.
Later in the day, after the meeting was over, I went off by myself, intent on recording the ideas that had suddenly flooded into my mind. I skipped dinner, telling Sarah that I had some important work to catch up on. Seated with my back against a board I had half buried in the sand, looking out over Lake Mzingai, I scribbled away, carried off into a world of my own fancy. As night descended, I lit the candle that I carried with me whenever on secretarial duty, and the flickering light was an persistent reminder of how electricity had become central to our lives.
People have been fooling around with "static electricity" for a long time, at least since the ancient Greeks rubbed amber with fur and found that it attracted light objects such as feathers and lint. In fact, the Greek word for amber is elektron. But static, sparks, even lightning—these phenomena were the stuff of wonder and speculation, not dreamed of as a force for human well-being. Until...
For me, the story begins in 1800, when Count Alessandro Volta made his electric pile, or what we today would call a battery. As the story goes, when Volta put a coin on top of his tongue, and a coin of a different metal under his tongue, his sense of taste led him to believe that something was "flowing" from one coin to the other. So he experimented with stacks of alternating discs of two different metals—zinc and copper, or silver and lead—with moist cardboard in between each slice. Then he ran a brass wire from one end of such a stack to the other and discovered that "something"—a current of electricity—ran through the wire.
Today, we know that electricity consists of the flow of electrons, and that metals, which characteristically have free-floating electrons in their outer shells, are good conductors of such flow. We also know that if we place zinc, with its thirty electrons, next to copper, with its twenty-nine electrons, then the electrons in the zinc "want" to move toward the copper, to equalize
the situation, and thus they establish a flow of current. Such chemical generation of electricity is the basis of our batteries. But batteries are necessarily small. The large-scale generation of power depends upon other natural phenomena.
The next chapter in this remarkable saga features Hans Christian Oersted, a Danish physicist, who in 1820 gave a lecture that will live forever in the annals of science and technology. The topic was electricity, and for purposes of demonstration the professor had set up a circuit powered by a Voltaic battery. On his laboratory table, close to the electric wire, there happened to be a compass, an ordinary compass like those long used on ships to indicate the direction of the North-South magnetic field. Oersted noticed that each time he flipped a switch to start the flow of electric current, the compass needle quivered. Strange. Electricity in a wire was affecting magnetism in the surrounding air. Amazing. It seems that a flowing electric current creates around itself a magnetic force.
Well, then, if electricity can make magnetism, can magnetism make electricity? For awhile this question proved mystifying. People tried putting magnets over wires, under wires, surrounding wires, but nothing seemed to happen. The great Michael Faraday solved the problem in 1831. He demonstrated that by moving a magnet near a wire, or moving a wire near a magnet, an electric current can be created.
So, by spinning a wire cage (called a rotor) inside of a magnetized casing (called a stator), we manufacture electricity. All we need is the power for twirling. This can come from a hand-operated crank, or more usefully, from turbines turned by falling water or by jets of steam. The steam, of course, can be obtained by burning coal or oil, or whatever.
We can then run the manufactured electricity—the magical flow of electrons—through wires and use it for lighting, or, among other things, to run motors. A motor is practically the same thing as a generator, except instead of spinning the rotor to make electricity, electricity is used to spin the rotor. It's all so simple, in concept, anyhow.
The Aftermath Page 23
