first session, Edwin nearly decided he had made a mistake leaving the comfortable Cambridge confines of Harvard. The dusty marching, made worse by the sandy wasteland surrounding the college, severely irritated his throat, nor could he keep pace with his faster classmates. Marcus Mansfield, whom Edwin had encountered briefly in the laboratory, had been exempt—having already been a volunteer for the army during the war—but he went outsideand helped Edwin with the formations, earning the younger man’s eternal gratitude.
“You know Greek and Latin,” Marcus said casually one day as he coached him.
“How did you know?”
“Oh, Bob Richards. He said you two were in the same preparatory academy together before college.”
“Yes, though I never thought he noticed me. Not that he was a snob, mind you! Only, I wasn’t the most popular boy at our academy.”
Though his countenance resisted reading, Edwin suspected Marcus was timid about what he really wanted to say.
“
Technology
. I’ve wondered about it—about the word,” Marcus finally murmured.
Edwin didn’t make Marcus say more. “
Techne
means ‘art,’
logos
can be interpreted as ‘sciences.’ The science of the practical arts, you might say.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hoyt.”
“Edwin. Please call me Edwin. May I ask you something? They say you were on the machines.”
“Who did?”
“Well, I think his name is Tilden. I gather he’s a friend of yours.”
Marcus smirked. “Only for a few minutes as freshmen.”
“Will you tell me what it feels like to have the machine in your power?”
“Monotonous. Every year the machines improve, and there is less and less to think about in their operation. At first, it becomes a part of you, then you become a part of it.”
Now, as Edwin grappled with his ideas on heat, something new was in the air at Tech. In the long corridors, talk turned to the future with the slightest prompting. So much would be finished. There would be no more convening at the start of a new year teasing friends about new styles of neckties and mustaches. No more summers volunteering for mining companies or in a naval yard, surveying caves and mountains, inspecting the construction of ironworks or paper mills. No more sitting on these hard steps. Soon—in two months—they would leave the Institute and begin life after college, what they had worked toward these last four years. A college term had never passed so swiftly. The members of Tech’69, ’70, and ’71 looked on with special interest, envious of their positions but also thankful Edwin and the fourteen other ’68 boys—
men
, perhaps, maybe
gentlemen
, daresay—would be the pioneers. The most daring experiments produced from the Institute so far: graduates.
Marcus carried out his tin of food. He sat down with a nod as Edwin made room next to him. He looked almost as distracted as Edwin was as they both stared out into the fields. Their company alone put each a little at ease without having to say a word—about the reluctant rivalry with Hammie, on Edwin’s mind, or about whatever it was that made Marcus appear as if he had just seen a ghost.
“I suppose we should go secure our seats in Watson’s class,” Edwin said after a while, checking the time.
“It’s begun,” Marcus whispered.
Edwin was about to object, looking at his watch again, but then heard the footsteps approaching and looked up, nearly dropping the heirloom in his hand. A dozen, maybe fifteen, blue-garbed policemen were heading right toward their building in a double-quick march.
XI
Plymouth
W ILLIAM R OGERS HAD CHANGED HIS LIFE , had shown himself the most original man Marcus had ever known, had built an institute that could be the pathway to the future for the whole country. Still, he was wrong this time, wrong to yield to Eliot and the others.
Rogers was wrong
. The words finally confronted Marcus as he rode back to Newburyport that evening. They were not easy words to come by, even
“You know Greek and Latin,” Marcus said casually one day as he coached him.
“How did you know?”
“Oh, Bob Richards. He said you two were in the same preparatory academy together before college.”
“Yes, though I never thought he noticed me. Not that he was a snob, mind you! Only, I wasn’t the most popular boy at our academy.”
Though his countenance resisted reading, Edwin suspected Marcus was timid about what he really wanted to say.
“
Technology
. I’ve wondered about it—about the word,” Marcus finally murmured.
Edwin didn’t make Marcus say more. “
Techne
means ‘art,’
logos
can be interpreted as ‘sciences.’ The science of the practical arts, you might say.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hoyt.”
“Edwin. Please call me Edwin. May I ask you something? They say you were on the machines.”
“Who did?”
“Well, I think his name is Tilden. I gather he’s a friend of yours.”
Marcus smirked. “Only for a few minutes as freshmen.”
“Will you tell me what it feels like to have the machine in your power?”
“Monotonous. Every year the machines improve, and there is less and less to think about in their operation. At first, it becomes a part of you, then you become a part of it.”
Now, as Edwin grappled with his ideas on heat, something new was in the air at Tech. In the long corridors, talk turned to the future with the slightest prompting. So much would be finished. There would be no more convening at the start of a new year teasing friends about new styles of neckties and mustaches. No more summers volunteering for mining companies or in a naval yard, surveying caves and mountains, inspecting the construction of ironworks or paper mills. No more sitting on these hard steps. Soon—in two months—they would leave the Institute and begin life after college, what they had worked toward these last four years. A college term had never passed so swiftly. The members of Tech’69, ’70, and ’71 looked on with special interest, envious of their positions but also thankful Edwin and the fourteen other ’68 boys—
men
, perhaps, maybe
gentlemen
, daresay—would be the pioneers. The most daring experiments produced from the Institute so far: graduates.
Marcus carried out his tin of food. He sat down with a nod as Edwin made room next to him. He looked almost as distracted as Edwin was as they both stared out into the fields. Their company alone put each a little at ease without having to say a word—about the reluctant rivalry with Hammie, on Edwin’s mind, or about whatever it was that made Marcus appear as if he had just seen a ghost.
“I suppose we should go secure our seats in Watson’s class,” Edwin said after a while, checking the time.
“It’s begun,” Marcus whispered.
Edwin was about to object, looking at his watch again, but then heard the footsteps approaching and looked up, nearly dropping the heirloom in his hand. A dozen, maybe fifteen, blue-garbed policemen were heading right toward their building in a double-quick march.
XI
Plymouth
W ILLIAM R OGERS HAD CHANGED HIS LIFE , had shown himself the most original man Marcus had ever known, had built an institute that could be the pathway to the future for the whole country. Still, he was wrong this time, wrong to yield to Eliot and the others.
Rogers was wrong
. The words finally confronted Marcus as he rode back to Newburyport that evening. They were not easy words to come by, even
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