The Technologists by Matthew Pearl Page A

conversation he heard, Marcus was convinced the topics prevalent among the faculty were the same as those that had consumed the students. Since the hour their classmates heard about their visit to the business district, he had been bombarded with questions from them about it. He simply shook his head, not knowing whether he had the words to describe what they had seen. Bob, usually so garrulous, paled at the questioning. Strangely enough, it was Edwin, who had not wanted to go at all, who seemed almost compelled to repeat the details over and over again to anyone who inquired. Marcus still saw the images of the frightened mob when he closed his eyes, and tried to banish them from joining the mobs already inhabiting his nightmares, the suffering multitude crammed into a basement.
    The professors were chattering and gesticulating to one another with grave excitement as they filled the room. Then there was silence as William Rogers entered. In addition to the monthly public demonstrations, Rogers still conducted most of the faculty meetings at the Institute, despite his weakened health. The rest of the sundry college business he conducted out of his home: students sent to him for admonishment; papers awaiting signatures that could be delivered to and picked upfrom his house; benefactors calling on him to receive his personal pleas for urgent donations to the Institute. Faculty representatives, usually Runkle, the professor of mathematics, would visit every few days and deliver the latest intelligence about the college.
    As he entered, he supported himself on the arm of the janitor, Darwin, who lowered the frail man slowly into the chair at the head of the table. Only once the president was seated did the shuffling of papers and chatter resume.
    “Let us call our meeting to order, gentlemen,” Rogers said after getting his breath back.
    Marcus, hanging the last of the coats in the closet, withdrew to a hard, low stool. Albert’s stool was in the corner opposite. Every few minutes at meetings, a professor would hold up a worn-down pencil point, or an empty inkstand, or a drained glass of water or brandy, and the closer of the two charity scholars would jump.
    “Everyone is surely aware of the startling events that are a source of unprecedented terror for the city,” the college president began. “Neither common sense nor ordinary experience has been able to suggest any answers to the general public. The question has naturally been raised by some present whether our Institute should not provide some service in the attempt to understand this mysterious chain of events.”
    “Inquiries must be done, indeed!” exclaimed Watson, professor of civil engineering, slapping the table with his palm.
    “Absolutely so,” said Professor Eliot, “but by the Boston Police, Professor Watson.”
    “We are an institution devoted to science and technology, the only one of its kind so fitted up in the nation,” Watson retorted. “If these disasters are the results of a sort of scientific manipulation or perversion, Eliot, as they appear to be, we cannot fail to extend our services to aid in their analysis.”
    “It does seem rather shameful to sit on our hands, if there is something we might be able to accomplish,” said Rogers.
    “My dear Rogers, you know, more than any of us, that the Institute has from the very beginning been the subject of distrust and suspicion in the public,” Eliot said. “Look what is apt to happen. Whenever there is an accident with a new machine in a factory, we are inundated withletters calling on us to cease our innovations and instruction, whether or not the machine had anything to do with us. The Luddite trade unions accuse us of trying to use technology to eliminate the laborers and starve their wives and children. Simply put, our college is the most conspicuous symbol of the new sciences in Boston, and thus we become the scapegoat for any panic about science.”
    “What course of action would you