The Technologists: A Novel

by Matthew Pearl

  “Blaikie.”

  “You said stamped from the Institute of Technology?” Agassiz began to examine the papers, revealing a sense of awe. “Could it be? Could the nefarious uses of science be mustered with such strength? Sergeant Carlton, you must call for the chief of police at once. Why, the details contained in this are too accurate, too intimate to be known by any but … Danner! Bring me my magnifying glass and a pencil. I shall examine these at once. A pencil is one of the best weapons in the arsenal of scientific inquiry.”

  Blaikie did his best not to smile.

  XLVI

  Torn

  PROFESSOR ELIOT HAD A STRANGE SENSATION the next morning as he entered his private study, which was located on the half story between the third and fourth floors of the Institute. When news of the latest catastrophe spread, and word reached the faculty that the explosions were being attributed to citywide boiler explosions, Darwin Fogg had been instructed to shut down all the machinery in the boiler room and classes were canceled for the next day. The building was empty, but Eliot did not feel alone.

  The turmoil the city and the Institute found themselves joined in was paired with opportunity. Folded inside his oblong chemical case, he carried the latest confidential financial papers drawn up by the Harvard Corporation.

  Eliot hated that he had to sneak around to do this. But there could be no question, especially now, that the Institute needed vision and new foundations to survive. There was so much blind loyalty to Rogers, Eliot sometimes felt himself to be the only man of the dozen faculty members there with his eyes open, with a few scattered and silent sympathizers, such as his fellow chemistry instructor Francis Storer, Eliot’s co-author on a manual for chemistry classes that could revolutionize the field, who sadly lacked the will to act. Eliot, unlike some of the others, saw the Institute not merely as an educational manifestation of Rogers. Nor was the Institute about the fifteen members of the Class of 1868, or, for that matter, the thirty-five or so boys (and, misguidedly, one young woman) in the other three classes. It was about all their future students, for generations to come.

  “Daughter of Eve!” Eliot cried, jumping out of his chair almost as soon as he lit the lamps and sat down behind the desk. In a dark corner of the study, there stood William Barton Rogers, leaning heavily on his cane and balanced against a chair behind him. His strong features looked softer, his skin pale and dry.

  “Why, my dear President, is it really you?” he asked, a little stupidly. “Are you well?”

  “I am not,” Rogers said, shaking his head sadly and pressing a finger against his bottom lip. Rogers’s gestures always seemed methodical, the movements of a man accustomed to being in the public eye. “I asked Mrs. Rogers to bring me here as soon as we arrived back from Philadelphia. The doctors told me I should not go anywhere, certainly not to Boston at this time of turmoil. So, yes, I am here and I am unwell. Do you know, my dear Eliot, that it took me more than forty minutes to be carried out of my brother’s house? Not to mention negotiating the latest exodus of carriages and riders leaving Boston in a panic. I have been here for over an hour.”

  “You mustn’t strain yourself on a day like today, after what happened in the city yesterday. And then to be carried all the way up so many flights of stairs!”

  “Something had to be done, though,” Rogers said, frowning.

  “I suppose all the faculty will meet in your office for the occasion,” Eliot said as a sort of suggestion.

  “No,” Rogers said. “Not until you and I speak first in private on the subject of Harvard.”

  Eliot paused, looked away, but then with a deliberate, steady expression met the president’s gaze. “You’ve spoken to young Mr. Hoyt, I see.”

  Rogers raised a single silver eyebrow. “Edwin Hoyt? Nothing of the kind. Remember, many of the Institute’s loyal financial sympathizers maintain relations with Harvard, as well. For some months before my late collapse, I’ve heard vague details of the proposal you were developing, though I have not had the distinct pleasure of reading it myself. I must assume in my illness you have only increased your resolve.”

  “President Rogers, I understand well if you dissent, and disapprove of what I do. Please understand it is for the sake of the Institute that I pursue this union. Imagine, a grand university, not a college that must struggle every day to pay its faculty and beg its students to pay fees on time to receive this kind of education. We needn’t be the refuge of these students, shirks and stragglers from the better colleges, any longer, the safe harbor for young men who lack the wit and vigor to be elsewhere, and whose laziness and stupidity poison our classrooms. Think of it this way. With all that is going on out there, with the dark clouds that grew darker even yesterday, we can yet save our college.”

  “Save it?”

  “Certainly you must grasp the dire position we find ourselves in, my dear President. Our college is a dead carcass, and I regret to say you and other members of the faculty have turned a deaf ear to my earnest warnings for too long. Technical education is the most costly kind, what with all the apparatus that is required. I think if you consider it, you will see my side.”

  “I will frankly say, Professor, that I am convinced that any such a connection with Harvard would be a decided disadvantage to the Institute, which owes its life in great measure to the fact that it has stood entirely unconnected with other institutions, both as to its scheme of education and to its government. No contribution of funds or support would justify consenting to a change. I wonder if you truly wish to bring the Institute to Harvard, or desire more to bring yourself back to Harvard, with the Institute as your leverage.”

  Rogers adjusted the position of his cane and moved away from the chair as he made the allegation. At least the awkward meeting would end. Eliot took a step in to assist the older man, but stopped short.

  “President Rogers!” Behind where Rogers had stood, five cartridges rested on the chair, tied into a bundle. “What is that?”

  “Seventy-five percent nitroglycerin, twenty-five percent porous silica,” he said, a dry smile lighting up his face. “Better than the mythic Greek fire. Ever since reading the paper Mr. Nobel presented at the last meeting of the British Association, I have wanted to prepare it myself. Even a block of granite can be split with a single cartridge. Remarkable, don’t you believe so?”

  Eliot crossed his arms over his chest and stared angrily. “President Rogers, I demand to know why you have brought dynamite into my study.”

  “Because, Charles, I want you to understand, with no doubt in your mind, that I would rather blow this building to shreds than release even a single brick of the Institute of Technology or my brood of adopted sons into the control of the Harvard Corporation. If I am to die, at least I shall die with my harness on.”

  “This constitutes a physical threat!” Eliot’s voice was shrill and shaky. “I shall have you know, President Rogers—” The chemistry professor gasped as Rogers laid a hand carelessly on the chair that held the dynamite.

  “Hush up your blubbering, Charles.”

  “If you continue on your current course, this entire college shall be a blot in the pages of history! Do you really think anything you can do can save it now?”

  “Perhaps not. But I have not lost hope that I have had some small part in inspiring the courage of another who might be doing so as we speak.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Rogers waved the topic into the air with his hand. “You are a fine teacher of chemistry and I welcome you here as long as you’d like. But should you wish to teach for Harvard instead, you may leave whenever you wish. I believe you know your way over the river. But know that Harvard is Harvard, Cambridge is Cambridge, Boston is Boston, and the Institute is the Institute, and shall remain so. I’ll leave you to your study.”

  Eliot could only stare, slack-jawed, as Rogers made his way slowly out of the room.

  “Wait! You cannot leave this,” he called out.

  “I think you’ll find dism
antling it fine mental work, Professor.”

  * * *

  AS HE PROCEEDED SLOWLY to the top of the stairs from Eliot’s office, President Rogers reflected on the conversation he had had with Runkle earlier that morning. Before coming to the Institute, he had stopped at Runkle’s house to ensure he and his family had not been hurt in the latest incident. He found them undisturbed, and Runkle recovering well from his earlier injuries. The doctor said he now believed Runkle would recover fully, but it would no doubt take a few months.

  When they had a moment of privacy while Runkle’s wife fetched some water, Runkle drew Rogers closer and whispered, “The police are not the only ones investigating what happened in the city. Mansfield—perhaps aided by one or more friends—strive.”

  That was all he could say before Mrs. Runkle returned, but Rogers understood at once. Marcus Mansfield, as he had hoped, had taken his papers on the day of his last attack of paralysis, when he had called the college senior to his home to ask whether he would be willing to help him investigate what was happening in Boston. Mansfield and his friends, if they succeeded, could prove everything the Institute stood for in making humankind safer, and Rogers was determined to help them as a partner and belated leader.

  Rogers reached the stairs and struck his cane three times on the floor, the signal for his wife, Emma, Darwin, and his driver to come with a chair to carry him back downstairs. He was exhausted from being out of the house, but now, with the thrill of confronting Eliot over, he was confident he was getting better. During the last few weeks at his brother’s house in Philadelphia, as his recovery steadily impressed his doctors and even Emma, he had begun to pick up a pen, swirling the tip in ink, tempted to draw a circle, as he used to do on the blackboards of the Institute. But he did not try. What if his medley of ailments, his faintness, his seizures, left his grip permanently shaky? He could not bear to gaze upon an imperfect circle. He really was, it seemed, sixty-four years of age. Ashamed of his vanity, he would tuck the pen and ink away before the temptation to try could take over. Let him but have patience and give his brain rest for a little longer, and all would go right.

  Clack—clack—clack—clack—clack. Too many footsteps on the stairs, too strong a march. Rogers remained impassive as chief of police John Kurtz, several additional police officers, and Louis Agassiz, with his toothy grin, rounded the landing and climbed the last flight to join him.

  “Another visit of inspection?” Rogers asked.

  “Not this time. The Massachusetts Institute of Technology is now officially under investigation, I’m afraid, sir,” Chief Kurtz growled.

  “It cannot be. Why?” Rogers replied.

  “Because you have finally gone too far in seeking the knowledge you covet, and someone here has turned it to deadly use,” Agassiz replied, as Kurtz was snapping instructions to his officers to search the offices. Sergeant Carlton stood stock-still for an instant, almost in awe, before he followed. There were soon noises of cabinets being forced open and drawers ransacked.

  Rogers knew in that heartbreaking moment there would be no way to assist Marcus and his friends in their endeavor without endangering them. But if there could just be enough time for them, there was hope.

  “Agassiz, if this is about unfinished business and prejudices between us, I urge you to change course.”

  “Nothing of the kind, Professor—President, wasn’t it?—Rogers. This is about the truth.”

  “Where are they going?” Rogers demanded, seeing the police scatter to all ends of the building.

  “Worry not about that,” Agassiz answered. “The Institute is ours now, President Rogers.”

  * * *

  BY EIGHT O’CLOCK Wednesday morning, the Institute of Technology was under siege. The final edition of the Telegraph the night before had revealed the latest facts: Esteemed Harvard professor of zoology and natural history Louis Agassiz, consulting with the Boston Police, had come upon strong evidence that the Institute may have in some manner, directly or indirectly, purposefully or accidentally, been responsible for the recent series of catastrophes in Boston. The Institute deserved further blame, the newspaper opined, “for educating a young woman in the technical arts and employing a man manifestly so ignorant as the Negro Darwin C. Fogg in a position of superintendence, in all likelihood only because his name seemed sympathetic with the personal beliefs of the college government.” Even their popular inventions were now targets of criticism; the automatic street lamps had been reported as flickering or being completely dead over the last few days, though some speculated that was the result of sabotage by the rougher elements of the trade unions. The newspapers further reported that the state legislature was now debating withdrawing the college’s charter altogether, which would have the effect of permanently shutting it down.

  When the students arrived, the building was surrounded by policemen as well as Roland Rapler’s labor reformers, who were shouting and singing belligerent songs. They were joined by other workmen, who had been in the factories and mills when the boilers across the city exploded, Sloucher George among them, and weeping survivors and family members of the victims of the disasters. “I told you all, machines will overtake man!” Rapler called out. “Now watch as the creature devours its creator!” An effigy labeled WILLIAM B. ROGERS that had been stuffed with straw and set aflame was brandished like a weapon. As a group of Tech sophomores scurried through the front doors, a window was hit by a hurled boot and glass came down on them from above.

  Bob, who had just slipped inside minutes before, helped pull the sophomores in to safety, cursing himself for all the times he’d teased sophs or freshes or stuffed one upside-down into a storage closet; they were all one now. Two masked men, one carrying a miniature of the Institute building under his arm, then brushed past him and ran out the doors before Bob could try to stop them. Bob climbed to the Architecture Department and found the Boston Junior display smashed and smoldering, with one of the architecture freshes on the floor in the corner of the room weeping, babbling that their city had been burned. Darwin Fogg was extinguishing the flames on the model.

  “Has he been hurt very badly?” Bob asked after failing to shake the freshman back to his senses.

  “Not physically. He got pushed when he tried to stop them,” said Darwin, shaking his head. “These boys worked almost two years on building this, you know.”

  Bob worried it would look like he was also crying, since the smoldering plaster was making his eyes water—and the very worry and the pang of sadness it brought him made him feel as though he would indeed burst out in sobs alongside the fresh.

  He descended the stairs rapidly, but his reliable energy was utterly taken away. When he reached the dim corridors of the basement, he saw from a distance a cloaked figure painting on the door to Ellen’s laboratory. The first line read:

  Witch of Boston!

  At least this time the invader was caught red-handed. Bob threw himself forward and grabbed the man by the collar, spinning him around. Albert Hall’s flabby face was as white as a sheet.

  Bob couldn’t believe his eyes. “Hall … You! What are you doing?”

  “Richards!” Albert gasped, having equal trouble finding words. “I—you don’t know how it is! You can’t!”

  “You,” Bob repeated with disgust. “Of all people. Albert Hall, the great master of the rules, the overseer of order!”

  “I have followed the rules!” Albert insisted. “Every one of them, from the first day I entered the Institute! No, from the day I was born! I had to, Richards, or I would never have been taken by any college at all. I followed the rules to get here, and now my future is still being taken away from me. It’s charity scholars like me and Mansfield, whether the blasted fool realizes it or not, who will be hurt most by the Institute going under. If Swallow can be blamed, at least—why, someone must be blamed for all that has happened, so why not her! She never should have been here in the first place, and cannot benefit from an education meant for men!”

>   “You’ve been the one doing these tricks on her the last few months,” Bob said with astonishment. “A senior, taunting a helpless fresh.”

  “No, you’re wrong. Everyone has been doing it, Richards, at one time or another. All of us. Why do you think they can never find who it is, however hard they try? The college was cursed the moment they permitted her to step inside. She would have never succeeded out there if she had been allowed to go forward, so what does it matter? She has no business here, and you’ve made it worse by being seen with her.”

  “Not all of us, Hall,” Bob said. “Not all of us.”

  “You’re going to hit me, aren’t you?” Albert’s hands were trembling and he was starting to cry. Sweat poured down his brow. Humbled, he was coming apart. “I saved your lives the other day!”

  Bob took a step closer and Albert gasped for breath. He realized how much Albert hated himself for this, and though this made Bob no less angry he felt a twinge of forgiveness. He placed his hand firmly on his upper arm. “You’ll be all right, Hall. We all will. Just clean that up, before she sees it.”

  “What difference could it make to you, Richards?” he whined as he began scraping off the paint. “What difference does it make to anyone? The whole place is doomed now!”

  “It makes a difference, Hall, even if this building crumbles around our ears,” Bob said. “She deserves better.”

  * * *

  BOB FOUND THAT THE REST of the Technologists, all except Hammie, had made it through the obstacles scattered in and around the Institute and had gathered at their basement laboratory, though hardly a word of greeting passed among them.

  “What was all that commotion down the hall?” Ellen asked.

  “Nothing,” Bob said with an uneasy shrug as he took off his coat. “Some rowdies destroyed the architecture students’ model of Boston upstairs. They doused it with kerosene and lit it on fire. I have it, Eddy: The next scoundrels who come in”—a gleam returned to his eyes—“yes, the very next ones, we’ll sprinkle iodide of nitrogen on the floor. When they walk over it—pop, pop pop! They’ll think the soles of their boots are on fire! Do you remember, Eddy? What a grand dodge it was sophomore year when we did it during the military drill march, after General Moore dismissed you from the squad.”