Reach for the Skies, part three
Dartmouth College
Those who didn’t see the cloud did hear the rumbling some 5 minutes later; now the town was fully alerted. The few that didn’t hear it were soon aroused by their neighbors—a scene being repeated throughout Northern New England and Southern Canada.
Within a half-hour, rumors were flying through the sleepy college town. Church bells were ringing, calling all who wished to prayer, and the fire brigades to their posts, lest there be a need for them. At the telegraph office, people clustered outside, anxiously awaiting word of what might have happened. All normal activity had, not so much been cancelled, as trailed off as the sheer magnitude of the blast sunk in.
Inside their yellow frame house, Professor Houston and his daughter had finished refining some numbers. “OK, Dad, it was at least three minutes, perhaps more, after we saw the cloud, that we heard the explosion, right?”
Robert nodded, saying, “That’s a minimum, so means that the blast was at least 36 miles away, and we could hear it clearly—despite the intervening mountains. That says a lot about the force of the blast—bigger than the Battle of the Crater by far.”
Working her slide rule, and examining the readings from their neighbor’s transit, she said, “I figure the cloud was, at a minimum, 12 miles high, and most likely a lot taller. I’ve checked the numbers three times, and got the same answer each time…”
“OK, we’ve learned everything we can from here; let’s get ourselves to my office on campus.”
In 1876, Dartmouth was a small college, and Hanover was a small town; it was a short walk over to the science building—especially at the speeds the pair were known to walk; they never wasted any time. With summer vacation started, many professors, like many of the students, were out of town—though most of the staff would soon be back for the summer session. While there were plenty of agricultural scientists present, the small, poor college lacked a large physical science department…and the department head was out of town.
Other faculty had gathered at the science building, hoping that some of the science faculty could explain what had happened—sure as heck, agriculture or literature couldn’t!
As they saw Robert and Lynn hastening up to the science building, faculty and students turned towards them. Both were known to be brilliant, and their purposeful stride, and sheaves of paper clutched in their hands, suggested that, unlike anyone else, they knew something—or at least had an idea based on reason. No one had panicked—at least not overtly—but by now, everyone believed that the column of smoke, the hideous mushroom cloud, was an enormous explosion, beyond the mountains, in the direction of the center of the state. Everyone had heard the explosion, and many had seen the streak of light in the daytime sky. Some even claimed to have seen a bright flash in that direction, right at the end of the trail of light.
People started crowding around the two, some shouting questions, others simply looking worried. “Dad, you’re going to have to tell them something—they need to know what might have happened—and we need more data—perhaps we can get some of the students hunting down some directions and times.”
He glanced about the crowd—students, professors, and townspeople mingled, families clumped together, and nodded to his daughter, saying, “Follow me.”
With that, he started edging his way through the crowd towards the steps. Progress became a bit faster when Lynn took the lead; unlike her father, she wasn’t averse to the occasional shove—or if someone was trying to push in close to ask something, an “accidental” elbow. Not many people did push her, for all her courtesy and brains, people knew not to push her patience.
When a couple of students joined in the effort, progress became almost easy, and with fewer elbows needed. Once everyone could see him, individuals continued shouting questions, until he gave them the same look he’d give unruly students. Even so, it took a few minutes for quiet—or something resembling it—to spread—and even then, it was mainly because of his reputation for expertise on a variety of subjects.
“I keep hearing the same question, ‘What happened this morning,” along with many others. Lynn and I have been working on that question ever since she called my attention to the smoke—I can be a little hard to distract when I’m working numbers, as I’m sure a few of you know…”
A nervous laughter came from a few in the crowd, and then trickled off. He adjusted the spectacles on his nose, and continued, “I have some facts, some educated guesses, and a need for more facts. With those facts, I can get a much better idea of what happened, and where.
Here’s what I can tell you for certain right now: This morning’s explosion—and it was an explosion-- was more than 35 miles away, very likely a lot further away. I can say with certainty that it was more powerful than any man-made blast, by several orders of magnitude. I would guess—and this is only a guess—that it was the equivalent of at least a thousand tons of gunpowder.”
The crowd went silent as the implications sunk in—not pounds, but tons. Was there even that much gunpowder on earth? It was certainly a number that got people’s attention.
Into the stunned silence, he continued, “The mushroom shaped cloud is characteristic of large explosions, but mathematical analysis shows that this cloud reached at least 12 miles into the sky. These numbers are minimum figures; they may be much larger.
He paused, trying to decide what else to say, and watched the crowd. Already pale faces were paler yet; people shifted uneasily on their feet, hoping that the scientist could offer them some idea of what had happened, and what might be coming next. A crow screeching was the loudest sound to be heard, until a voice broke the silence, “What happened—what blew up?”
That cry unlocked a floodgate of questions, from “Is this the End Times,” to “How do you know what you’ve told us.”
He held up his hand, looking around, and saw that several top college officials were arriving, as well as one of the selectmen. (Selectmen are the elected officials that run the town between town meetings.) Apparently, they saw that someone might have some answers, and wanted to hear them.
The selectman’s officious cry of “Let me through!” was ignored—except for the snarls of a few students, saying, “Let him talk; he has answers!”
Ignoring the selectman, and his mountainous ego, Robert continued, “Since I can answer clearly and accurately “’How do we know this,’ I’ll answer that one first. The distance is easy. It was at least three minutes after the column of smoke was seen that we heard the rumble, and we know the speed of sound—hence, we can tell how far away it is. I’ll spare you the mathematics for now, though…”
Once again a nervous laugh spread through the crowd—glad to be spared math few would understand, confident that he had it right. As the laughter subsided, he added, “Simple trigonometry and a few measurements allow deduction of the height of the cloud—that is, however, dependent on the distance to the explosion. I need more information, and I’ll be able to determine just where it happened. As for what happened, I can only offer theories—and tentative ones. My first guess is that it was a meteorite—a rock falling from the sky.”
Expressions ranged from total disbelief to stunned acceptance to skepticism—meteorites were, first of all, something that was debated—and if they existed at all, small chunks of rock, not something that could devastate mankind. Many of the townsfolk had never even heard of such things. Seeing a lack of comprehension and belief, he added, “Think of it as a chunk of the moon that broke off, perhaps, or a piece of a minor planet.”
Continuing, before anyone could get too focused on what was just a working theory, he added, “Right now, though, we need more data—more information about what we can prove. I don’t think we’re in any danger; meteorites are very rare—but we need to know more. Are any of my students up for a fast ride?”
Two men and a woman stepped from the crowd, all saying, “Professor, what you want, we’ll get.”
“Come up here, Lynn has some papers, and can explain what we need…”
As Lynn started explaining to the three students what she needed, the professor resumed speaking, “The other thing I need is simple: If anyone timed the interval between the flash and hearing the explosion, that would help immensely. If anyone has timed it, I’ll be able to tell almost exactly where it hit. That will help us assess how bad it might be there. There will be people needing shelter, food—you name it.”
A harsh, scornful voice broke through as he paused, “And who do you think YOU are? Anything to be done about this goes through ME; I’ll be sure that nothing WE need here gets wasted, or sent on a wild goose chase—there might be more coming.”
As the selectman ranted, a few people turned to look at him, and Lynn looked up from the bunch of students she was speaking with.
She took a long look at him, and when he paused for breath, she glared at him, pitching her voice to carry, “You sorry specimen of humanity! You can’t just barge in here, trying to take charge of something you know nothing about—something you can’t even begin to wrap your small, piggy mind about, wondering how YOU can profit from it. Well, rich banker or not, we have more important things to deal with than your petty schemes—right folks?
He gaped at her, open-mouthed; that tomboy had no right to talk to HIM like that—he owned the biggest bank in the area, and she was just some no-account professor’s daughter, no mater what might have happened before.
A few cries of “Here, here!” from the crowd—mostly students—rose in support, while none tried to shout her down…then her father added, “And why did you stay home when our country was in danger? Bought an exemption, did you? Sent someone else off to fight and bleed for you?”
From somewhere in the crowd, a voice—a local farmer, from the accent, yelled, “’Course he stayed home—treats people like slaves, he’d rather be a plantation lord down south…I hear he owned a blockade runner or two!”
Spinning in the direction the comment came from, as more people voiced agreement, he snarled, “When I find out who said that, you’ll pay for it, mark my words…”
“Oh, really?” interjected Lynn with a sneer, “I remember what happened LAST time you threatened to make someone ‘pay for something.’ I doubt you’ll do any better this time.”
As he paled, remembering some past event, Lynn glared daggers at him, almost driving him back with eyes of blue fire. When she actually stepped forwards one step, his uneasiness turned into a retreat, as he backed up two steps—and only two, unaware of a foot placed in his path, sending him onto his rear.
As laughter swept through the immediate area—and spread rapidly, as word spread. He climbed to his feet, nervousness turning to rage at the laughter, mixed with a few enthusiastic cries of joy—the tension broken for a moment as the humiliation of a man who, rightly or wrongly, was widely despised, yet mysteriously won reelection to the board of selectmen regularly—along with having the influence to get his own way in almost anything that mattered. Shoving his way forwards, face red, eyes blazing, he managed to find another foot in his way. This time, he merely stumbled, then pushed forwards to the foot of the steps, snarling, “I have had enough of you—too good for an honest businessman, that hoity-toity attitude—now you and your daddy trying to tell me how to run this town…”
She said something quiet to her father, and he nodded—the fury plain on his face, but keeping quiet—for the moment, then stepped forwards, saying, “Don’t cross swords with me again—or it will come out worse than last time—much worse…”
Other than the two of them, there wasn’t a sound, though those close to them edged back, mostly without even realizing they were doing so, as the hate flowed between them. It was the selectman, the rich banker, that stepped back yet again, the ill hidden fear on his face visible to those close by.
From somewhere close by, a feminine voice called out, “You don’t hold a mortgage on her family’s place, now, do you?”
Another voice cried out, “Can’t force yerself on a lass without a hold on the family farm, now—how’s that feel?”
As he stood there, a deep voice, full of hatred, said, “So it’s not just my daughter you tried for—too bad someone hasn’t shot you yet…”
“Run him out of town!” called another.
Fear can bring out the best—and the worst —in people, and this was no exception. His behavior—his public discourtesy to, and contempt for a women who all knew to be both smart, and gracious at all times, his years of gouging farmers, pressing his attention where it was far from welcome, and more—combined with the raw fear pervading the town—had gone too far. Harsher suggestions on ways to deal with him echoed back and forth through the crowd, cries of any other sort drowned out as years of hate strained at the leash of civilization.
Lynn looked out over the crowd—fast becoming a mob—and paled. A year ago, she’d used a well placed knee—followed by a couple of possibly unnecessary elbow strikes—to disuade his amorous attentions when he’d refused to take “no” for an answer. Humiliating him again felt good—as well as removed an obstacle to doing hat needed to be done—but having him torn to pieces in front of her wasn’t what she had in mind. There was only one way she could see to get their attention, divert them from a western style lynching, and she used it…