The Technologists by Matthew Pearl Page B

suggest, Professor Eliot?” asked Runkle with sincere curiosity.
    “Simple. That we do nothing, Professor Runkle, in this or any circumstance, that could draw unwanted attention or criticism to our institution. In the meantime, let us have confidence that the police will resolve it.”
    Edward Tobey, a member of the Institute’s finance committee, broke in. Tobey’s gentle gray eyes were worried. “President Rogers, I must state my agreement with Professor Eliot on one point. Each time there is something unsavory or dangerous associated with science, and, even worse, associated in any degree with the Institute, it becomes more difficult to find sympathetic men to give money to replenish our funds. Truly, the throwing overboard of all rusty, old, worn-out college machinery—that is what has kept me going despite all this! I have asked one of our most generous donors, Mr. Hammond of the locomotive works, to join us today to advise us on our challenges. Here he is now.”
    “Gentlemen,” Hammond said, entering and greeting everyone with a single nod in the brisk manner of a Boston businessman. Marcus sat up straight but the newcomer did not notice his former machine man in the corner. He took his seat and began. “My Junior was one of the first students here, but others without such strong ties might not be as immune to unpleasant criticism. I’ll donate to the Institute as long as I have a penny in my pocketbook, President Rogers, you know that, but I shan’t be able to fund the entire place by myself. I am not a member of the college government, but I should think you must find some way to bolster your treasury to prepare during this difficult time. Sell some of these clever inventions brewed up here. Why, I’d purchase one of your confounded engines right now—say the word.”
    “We might also consider naming our building after a benefactor who gives, well, a certain specified amount of money,” Professor Storeradded. “Or we can name the various classrooms in the same way. Harvard does it.”
    “The financial status of the Institute is a deep and troubling matter,” Eliot added. “Indeed, it may be in the best interests of everyone to strictly limit the number of young men from charitable institutions and machine shops who are welcomed in next year. We depend on the student fees for our equipment, for our very livelihoods, and the charity scholars take away from that.”
    Marcus and Albert traded quick glances. Neither showed any outward emotion. After all, they were present only to offer assistance, not to listen to what was said, and certainly not to have opinions.
    The faculty and committeemen talked and argued over one another.
    “But pray remember, we are doing them no favors!” Eliot was responding to some statement of disagreement from across the table. “Conferring degrees on factory hands will not erase who they are—they will find out soon enough when they go out into the world to present themselves as gentlemen.”
    “If you are on the topic, Charles,” someone said in a half whisper to Eliot, “we might well talk about the young woman, too. What place will a lady scientist find for herself in life?”
    “Come, come,” Rogers said, taking up his gavel for silence. He passed an apologetic glance over at Marcus and Albert, then looked over the rest of the group. “Please. Gentlemen. I thank you for the suggestions. First, this is the students’ building—they come to learn, we come to teach, and that shall never be a thing to profit from by renaming it, or selling the work done here. As for the charity scholars, wealth, position, and birth must no longer monopolize college education. Certainly not at my institute. This first group of boys may be something of a picked-up lot. Each a Robinson Crusoe on his own island. But they will do credit to the degrees to which they aspire—you will see. As for Miss Swallow, she may appear too frail to take such difficult courses, but not once you