The Technologists: A Novel

by Matthew Pearl

  The stockbroker followed the hysterical gestures and wide-eyed stares and almost screamed himself. Up and down the street, the windows were misting, turning strange colors, and melting. The air thickened with mysterious, transparent fumes.

  At the corner, the glass face of the clock swallowed up the numbers.

  “God help me!” Mr. Cheshire pleaded, dropping his cane and scampering into the heart of the pandemonium toward the bank. “My assets! Out of my way!” People ran over one another, shouted for help, tripped over their own overshoes and coats.

  * * *

  CHRISTINE’S HEAD SANK GENTLY into the glass window as it softened and transformed into … what? Part of the glass seemed to be escaping into the air as gas. The remainder was turning fluid and almost waterlike, wrapping itself around the frizzy head. Her eyes popped open and she opened her mouth but her voice was already muffled.

  * * *

  HE HAD TO DO IT. He just had to. He was always on guard to act like a man, as ol’ Goodnow forever instructed him. But Theophilus was an adventurous lad by nature, and he had to. He thrust his hand right through the liquefying window as it hissed.

  When it caught his wrist, embedding itself into his flesh, he screamed in pain.

  Behind him the bank erupted into chaos, customers shrieking wildly as they fled. Goodnow, as he looked to see which way to run, felt his eyes sting and bellowed. The glass lenses in his eyeglasses sank into his eye sockets and left him flailing. The tumbler on his table similarly fizzled and lost its form, pooling into a puddle of liquid glass and sending boiling whiskey pouring over the side onto the floor.

  * * *

  JOSEPH CHESHIRE, connoisseur of control, master of all he encountered, was knocked to the ground before he reached the bank. At around the same time, what was once a piece of a window poured down through the air in discrete drops—perhaps from the very bank that held part of his fortune.

  Inside the bank, a young porter’s arm was still protruding from a crush of glass folded around it.

  Across the street a large projectile tumbled hard from the sky and crashed through the wooden planks of a wagon. It was a girl, in a garish pink theater costume, entombed entirely—from top to bottom—in glass.

  VIII

  Entombed

  “THIRTY DAYS. Yes, thirty. That is the time from the start of construction to the delivery of a locomotive as of—what is today? Thank you—the tenth of April, 1868. When I built the ‘Nahant,’ my first, it took nearly three months to complete. Back when all of you were hardly babes, there were so few locomotives they could have names; now they need numbers. Now, this next building we will pass through is our new copper-and-sheet-iron shop, completed two years ago. The blast is furnished from the main engine of the machine shop. Watch where you put your hands as you walk, gentlemen! Danger abounds on a shop floor!”

  The speech from Chauncy Hammond, Sr., was overflowing with pride. He was leading the visiting classes from the Institute of Technology through the Hammond Locomotive Works. As they took turns examining the cooling cylinders, Marcus was one of two members of the inspecting party doing his best to hide his self-conscious discomfort. The other one was Chauncy Hammond, Jr., whose given name alone made him conspicuous.

  “What a bore, isn’t it!” Hammie muttered one of his usual refrains, sidling next to him.

  Marcus glanced warily at his unwelcome companion. Hammie had his hands buried deep in his pants pockets. Marcus withdrew his hands from his own pockets.

  Then Albert Hall squeezed Marcus aside. “Hammie, I want to say what a true honor it is that your, shall we say, paterfamilias would invite us here.”

  Hammie made a short guttural noise that Albert interpreted as a question.

  “Well, of course it’s an honor,” Albert answered, glancing at Marcus for support but not finding any. He tilted his chin into the palm of his hand, a frequent habit that tended to muffle his already drowsy voice. “Mr. Hammond has done so much as a patron for our college and for the development of technology.”

  “Technology! Is that what you think when you see this factory?”

  “Of course. What else?”

  “This is science—mere science, Hall,” answered Hammie.

  “Mere?” Marcus asked in spite of his determination to stay out of the exchange.

  “Science is a railroad car, Mansfield. But technology is what you must do when you are in a railroad car about to collide with another.”

  “That’s not really how I see what we do, Hammie,” Marcus said.

  “What do you think we do?”

  He considered it. “I thought something about it after listening to Rapler at the demonstration.”

  “That rascal doesn’t deserve to be listened to!” Hammie barked.

  “Technology,” Marcus continued, ignoring him, “is the dignity that man can achieve by bettering himself and his society.”

  “When a monk invented the first clock, it was believed Satan had given it to him. That day technology began and so did the hatred for it.”

  “Mr. Hammond!” Albert called out across the floor, leaving behind his classmates. “Mr. Hammond, if I may express our collective gratitude for this opportunity on behalf of the Class of 1868 …” His words were chopped up by the chugging of a machine.

  Marcus found a chance to split from Hammie as they crossed through the sheet-iron shop to the three-story machine shop, where workers were assembling the locomotive engines. The dusty stone steps they climbed vibrated in time with the machinery. Marcus’s hand, which had been throbbing all morning, now felt stiff, and he knew the fingers would soon begin to swell. In Bryant Tilden’s face, he had also seen Will Blaikie’s grin, belittling Tech and all of Marcus’s friends, and all the people before him who smiled while telling him what he was not good enough to do. He doubted whether he should have done what he had out in the fields; it was only asking for trouble to be called down on his head. But the blockhead had deserved it.

  This was the part of the day he had dreaded since hearing of the plan to visit from one of the professors months earlier. While students such as Bob and Edwin spent their college vacations exploring mines and visiting machine plants in Paris and London, he had spent the three summers since freshman year at the locomotive works to fulfill his financial obligations to Hammond, who helped pay his expenses at the college. But he had been in the engineering office, in a different building, and the position had rarely brought him back to the machine shop floor, where the workmen endured poor ventilation and longer hours.

  The men with the most extreme tasks were stripped down to the waist, revealing bulging arms and chests. Continuous eruptions in the furnaces, fueled by the unseen boilers, provided the giant machines and those rushing around them with a demonic glow. Under the gas lamps and in the reflections of the light and flames in cold steel, the machine press, with a thousand moving iron organisms spread across its length, came down mercilessly on its way to flatten the molten iron. If one watched the press long enough, as he had, it assumed a mindless but also human appearance. One could not help but imagine how the slightest skewed movement would crush the machines’ master in a flash.

  Yet it was difficult for the visitors to resist, angling for a better look at the riveting operation, and the foreman had to shout, “Stand back!” as flakes of fire shot forty feet into the air, then fell like raindrops that sizzled at the students’ feet.

  Some of the students fidgeted with excitement or worry as they neared each machine, though not Ellen Swallow, covered by a veil and in a long black dress. She remained steady and upright. With her feet obscured by her dress, she seemed to be floating through the grime and dust of the works. It reminded Marcus of the first time he saw her, early in the session. Their janitor, Darwin Fogg, had just been sickened from breathing in a mixture inside the chemistry laboratory and that area, not cleaned, was in no condition for safe use for the next class. As the seniors milled about at a loss, Ellen burst through, swept and organized the labor
atory, and in the space of five minutes had it ready for class. Marcus had been amazed that she knew just how to treat the chemical spill even before reaching it, presumably from detecting the distinct odor.

  The iron sheets were forged by massive steam hammers, thirty-five tons each, with sixty-five horsepower, controlled by an engine fed by an upright boiler and a master engineer. The hammers came down as though propelled by an ancient god to straighten his bolt of lightning. The steam hammer could complete the task of forging an iron sheet in four minutes with one man rather than twelve hours with a whole team. The operator demonstrated to the students the finely calibrated control he had over the degree of the machine’s force by placing a handful of hickory nuts under a hammer and adjusting the engine so that twelve shells were cracked simultaneously while the nuts remained intact. Invited to do so, the students consumed the machine-opened nuts, with Albert shouting for each to take only one.

  Now tireless drills were twisting down again. When the tour next paused, Frank Brewer, sleeves rolled up carefully over his long sooty arms, motioned Marcus over to their old workbench at one of the drills.

  Frank held on to Marcus’s right hand for a moment after they greeted each other, examining it. “How is it?” he asked with concern.

  Marcus pulled his hand away. Before it was even back in his pocket, he was ashamed of his reaction. What right had he, of all people, to shrink from Frank’s concern? He clapped his free hand on Frank’s shoulder. “I’m well, thank you, my friend. I only wonder if it is my imagination that everyone is staring at me.”

  “Why should they?”

  “Because my classmates know I used to work on this floor. And the machine men know I don’t anymore.”

  Frank craned his head around to see for himself, raising an eyebrow as he scanned the faces of the collegians. He shrugged and looked back at his old friend. “Well, you’d do better not even thinking of it, Marcus. Don’t you see? You’ve accomplished it!”

  “I have?”

  “Look,” he said, extending his long neck toward Hammie. “Just like ol’ Hammie over there, you made it to the end of four years at college.” He couldn’t keep the note of distaste out of his voice or his sparkling black eyes, as he looked upon his employer’s son.

  “He’s an intelligent customer, Frank,” Marcus said. “He is at the top of the class.”

  “So? He may have much, but only because it was shoveled into him by silver spoons. A machine more than a man, told what to do and how to do it from alpha to omega. Why, Hammond financed your institute before it even had a cornerstone laid down, didn’t he? Hammie will never forgive the old man for that. All the while, you’ve done your part through your dreadful good brains and plain industry, finem facere.” This, Marcus knew, was one of the law terms that so impressed Frank when overheard during breakfasts from the law apprentices who shared his boardinghouse. “I know what hardships you’ve been through, and even if none of your other friends ever understand, we are bound together. Marcus, how I wish we’d seen each other oftener since the summer.”

  “I’m afraid we’re tossed in every direction with graduation so near.”

  “Hallo, aren’t the two fellows over there those friends of yours? Bob! Edward!” Bob turned and saluted, but remained with the rest of the student group. He was passing his pen through a stream of melted iron flowing from a furnace. Edwin, who would never think to respond to the name Edward, did not notice.

  “Remember,” Marcus explained, with a lighthearted laugh intended to brush off their unintended disregard, “seeing these machines in action is a fantastic experience to them, even the engineers.”

  Frank’s expression turned more serious. “You know that I thought it was a mistake for you to leave here—I never hid that. I realize now I lacked the courage you showed when you left. It’s put me in kind of a brown study of late, thinking of you finishing college so soon and me breaking my back over the same workbench. I just always assumed I would make a poor fist of being anything other than what I’ve been. But I cannot submit to belonging to Hammond forever. I believe, yes, I know I am ready, Marcus.”

  “Ready?”

  Frank lifted his chin upward and rolled his grease-lined sleeves down over his arms, before continuing. “For a better life.”

  All of Marcus’s anxiety vanished in a flash, and he couldn’t stop smiling as he grabbed his friend’s hand again. “That just takes the shine off of everything else, Frank! If I could have but one accomplishment at the Institute, it would be to prove that other men like me deserve a place there. I know you would excel at Tech. Haven’t I always told you? Why, I haven’t a doubt.”

  Frank seemed to shrink inward a bit at the bold prediction. “I hope it’s true!”

  “Not a word about not being able to do it. You must come to Inspection Day this time, and I’ll speak to President Rogers himself after our examinations are finished. You know, they aren’t bad at all, really, Frank.”

  “Who?”

  “The aristocrat dandies and dolts—collegies.” Marcus grinned.

  Frank abruptly turned his back to Marcus and moved off a bit, whispering into his shoulder, “Just keep walking.”

  Hammond was approaching, and Marcus understood. Frank would not want the owner of the works to see him taking too long away from the machine. The businessman was short but not slim, his expressions seemingly fixed by the deep creases around his eyes and mouth. He walked past the rest of the group, who were intently watching the manufacture of the pistons.

  “Mr. Mansfield.”

  Marcus tried to hide his surprise at Hammond personally addressing him.

  “Have you yet to come upon an invention that will make your first fortune?” Hammond asked brightly. He must have thought he was smiling, but it was a Boston business smile, which to anyone else looked like a sneer.

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Well, when you do, you just bring it to us and we’ll manufacture it.” Hammond nodded distractedly in the direction of Frank. “A loyal and determined young man, that Brewer, a man born to be part of a grand shop like this. And what an honor for me to have you and my own Junior return here in this fashion, soon to be graduated from the Institute. From what I hear at the meetings of the financial committee of the Institute, your President Rogers has been highly pleased with the progress of your studies.”

  “I am glad of it, and thank you for your assistance.”

  “Perhaps your natural pluck and humility can inspire Junior a little.” The magnate made no effort to speak discreetly. Hammie, close enough to hear, glowered and turned his back on his father. “I understand you managed to remove the trade-union scum from the Institute’s demonstration last night. You know what I think of those fools.”

  When Marcus was working in the machine shop, reformers infiltrated several departments and persuaded the foremen to demand a higher wage or stop working. Hammond was overwhelmed with orders and could not afford a minute of slowed work. Despite the shop supervisor’s furious protests, Hammond called the agitators into his office, asked them to write out their demands, and granted everything without argument. “Today is their day,” Hammond was heard saying after the agitators exited. “Tomorrow will be ours.” As soon as the contracted orders had been met, Hammond discharged all the foremen.

  “Actually, it was Hammie who confronted them at the demonstration,” Marcus said to his former employer. “I merely assisted.”

  “Is that so?” Hammond appeared to enjoy the image of Hammie’s bravery, but only for a moment. “Junior seems to find the world a very shallow place, and I fear wants to do nothing but beat the devil’s tattoo on it. He must come to accept that one can no longer pass success down to the next generation with a few signatures on a piece of paper. Why, property that used to remain under the same family name for generations is no more fixed than an ocean wave, now that the fortunes of a magnate and a pauper can exchange overnight. Do you know what you will do after June?”

  “Not yet.�
��

  “My advice? … Remember, no smoking around the machine, gentlemen!” Hammond called out. “Treat machines like they are your children, and they will obey. Returning to my advice, Mr. Mansfield, which I humor myself is good for something, it is to worry not what the other fellows do. When I built the first Hammond engine by modifying the usual design, I was called reckless. It took two months to find a railroad to purchase it, but after it was in place I could not meet the number of orders that flooded in. Last year we built five hundred locomotives! These machines on the floor, every year they grow more and more powerful. A race of giants, each one with the ability of a hundred men—a thousand—yet they ask for neither food nor shelter from us. And we all may profit from it, down to the lowest apprentice, if the almighty trade unions will not prevent it. Why, look at those poor souls who were hurt in Boston Harbor last week. I have been able to donate something toward their expenses from the profits allowed by these modern machines.”

  “That’s generous, sir.”

  “Money is good, but it is not all about a man. You will have many successes and reversals, my boy, but remember it is your reaction to each of them that counts for your character.”

  “Mansfield!” Bob charged over to his side. “There you are. Apologies for interrupting, Mr. Hammond. Mansfield, you must come outside at once! Something has happened!”

  * * *

  LEADING MARCUS BY THE ARM down the steps of the locomotive works, Bob, in his usual fashion, began a long story that started somewhere in his childhood, when he first was taken to visit the business quarter of the city.

  As Bob’s meandering tale unspooled, Marcus overheard Albert Hall holding court with two of the sophomore architecture students with a more direct account. “People trampled. Quite terrible—quite unprecedented.”