Shortest Day by Jane Langton

extension cord connected to a labyrinth of other extension cords already supplying power to twenty-two electric heaters, ten television sets, twenty-five lamps, four hot pots, and Palmer Nifto’s computer and fax machine, the effect was catastrophic.
    The Director of Buildings and Grounds insisted that it couldn’t happen, but it did. Harvard University went black.
    There were howls of anguish from men and women all over the university when the terminals of their computers were suddenly extinguished. Classrooms went dark. A slide projector in the Fogg Museum paused in its progress through the history of classical architecture with a flashing glimpse of the ruins of Baalbek. Scholars in the depths of Widener Library had to grope their way out of pitch-black stacks, then find the stairs and ascend flight after flight, to stumble into the dimness of the catalogue room at last with pitiful cries. The babel of language instruction in the earphones of students in the basement of Boylston Hall was cut off in mid-syllable. The power tools of workmen rehabbing the Lowell Lecture Hall went dead. The electron microscopes in the Gordon McKay Physics Lab fizzled out. The centrifuges splicing one gene to another stopped working, and a billion genes milled around in confusion. Heat leaked out of all the buildings as the oil feed to a hundred furnaces lost power. The new clocks on the tower of Memorial Hall stopped cold at four-forty-eight. A couple of security guards from the Harvard Police Department rushed off to dormitories in the Radcliffe Yard with batteries for the newfangled locks on the doors, to keep the electronic card keys working.
    Only in Harvard Divinity School’s Andover Hall did work go on as before. Bundles of candles from the second-floor chapel were passed from hand to hand, and people began moving through the halls like medieval monks.
    When the lights went out in Sanders Theatre, Arlo Field was rehearsing the part of Saint George, lying on the floor of the stage playing dead. As the cry went up, “Power’s out,” he leaped to his feet.
    â€œIt’s out all over,” reported Kevin Barnes.
    â€œJesus,” said Arlo to Tom Cobb, “my camera, the timing will be thrown off.” He looked at his watch, couldn’t see it, and held it up to the light from the windows above the mezzanine, which were glimmering with the flicker of headlights moving along Quincy Street. The watch said four-forty-eight. Arlo tore off his Red Cross tunic and jumped off the stage.
    â€œHey,” said Homer, who was curious about Arlo’s camera, “can I come?” He looked at Sarah. “Is it okay? Are we through for the day?”
    â€œOh, well, hell,” said Tom Cobb, “we might as well quit.”
    â€œGreat,” said Jeffery Peck, one of the other Morris dancers. “Let’s get out of here.”
    Arlo looked at Sarah in the dim light and said boldly, “Would you like to come too? There’s a great view up there.”
    â€œOh, yes,” said Sarah, “yes, I would.” She seemed pleased. But then, to Arlo’s chagrin, Kevin, Tom, and Jeff volunteered to come along.
    They poured out of the north door of Memorial Hall and headed across the street. The stepped pyramid of the Science Center, normally so brilliant with lighted classrooms and laboratories, was completely dark. Beyond it, blacked-out buildings stretched along Oxford Street as far as the eye could see.
    â€œOh, God, I forgot,” said Arlo, “we’ll have to climb the stairs to the eighth floor. The elevators won’t be working.” He glanced at Sarah. “Do you mind climbing all that way?”
    â€œOf course not.” Sarah linked arms with Homer on one side and Tom on the other. Come on, baby, this will shake you up .
    â€œWait, Sarah!” Someone was running after them, shouting.
    â€œWhy, Morgan,” said Sarah, “what are you doing here?”
    â€œI