The Technologists Read Free

then to Marcus, as if noticing him only now. When their eyes met, Blaikie’s shoulders tightened and he subtly recoiled. Marcus had that effect. His muscular frame was well built and solid. His thick brown hair and old-fashioned crescent mustache made his intense green eyes stand out. Most of all, the poise of an engineer clung to him, made him seem in control of any circumstance. “Who is this?” Blaikie asked.
    “My name is Marcus Mansfield.”
    “Marcus … Mansfield …” Blaikie repeated speculatively, shrugging. He looked back at his men, who returned his shrug. “Sorry to disappoint. Never heard the name. Well, my men have much actual rowing to do, Plymouth. Some of the other sixes are too afraid to take their shells out because of the turn of events overnight at the harbor. They say there was a flash of fire, then ten, fifteen ships were crashing, and burning, sinking. Can you imagine what in the deuce those superstitious fools think of it? Black magic, perhaps.”
    “The city is in a panic about the whole thing, the industries scrambling to prevent losses. I’ve never heard of so many ships wrecking at once—the number of arrivals must have been too great in the fog,” speculated Edwin.
    “Too great!” Bob said. “There are more than two hundred wharves and docks in our harbor that would add up to more than five miles if placed end to end, Eddy. Even in much worse fog than that, our capacity for commerce—”
    “Oh, who cares a fig!” broke in the Harvard captain. “It is not my business. But whatever it was, I’m not about to let it stop us from our practice, if we are to whip Oxford like we did Yale. Give me your hand, Plymouth. Godspeed to you Technology fellows.”
    “Godspeed, Harvard.” Bob reached out to shake.
    On Blaikie’s nod, his team rammed their shell into the side of theTech boat. As Marcus grabbed their shell’s sides to steady it, Bob went headfirst into the ice-cold water with a splash. Edwin, flailing to stop Bob’s fall, followed him overboard.
    “Cold day for bathing, Plymouth!” Blaikie shouted, as he and the Crimson pirates exploded with laughter.
    Marcus grabbed his oar like a bat, ready to defend their boat from further indignity. Blaikie glared at Marcus, daring him to strike.
    After another moment Marcus loosened his grip and let his instincts go quiet.
    “Wise fellow,” Blaikie said with an approving nod. “Being a gentleman isn’t what it’s cracked up to be, is it, old salt?” Then, to his men: “Three cheers and a tiger for Harvard Class of 1868! Sixty-eight forever!” A trio of “rahs” were followed by a guttural whoop before their oars swept through the water again. Marcus watched the perfect unison of the other team as the shell took the curve of the river ahead.
    “Bob’s right—those scrubs will see; we’ll be the true pathfinders!” Edwin yelled, knocking water out from his ear.
    “Oh, damn what I say, Eddy,” Bob said. He shook out his hair as he floated back to their boat. “Come on, Mansfield, stop your gaping and fish us out!”

III

The Boston Police
    A T WHAT REMAINED of one of the damaged wharves on Saturday, Sergeant Lemuel Carlton of the Boston Police paced along the cracked piers and the splintered docks. The fog had lifted by now, but it was still cloudy and colder than it should have been at this time of year. The best that could be said was it was a respite from the rain that had plagued the last wretched week in March.
    “You!” he said to a patrolman who caught him by surprise. “About time you’re back, man. What did the captain of the
Gladiator
say?”
    “I’ve spoken to him, sir.”
    “I chose the past tense ‘did’ on the presumption of that very thing,” Carlton noted in disgust.
    “He testified that … well, the very same thing as the others, sir! The very same!”
    “That so? He hadn’t been on a spree—a bit cup-shot? He mustn’t be ashamed to admit being a sot to the police,” Carlton added,