One supporter, who introduced himself as a technician at the Lab, pointed out that “this project is not, as many of the opposition would have you believe, ‘welfare for the overeducated’ or ‘a toy for scientists.’ It is a project deserving of our intellectual curiosity and attention.”
At the other end of the spectrum, Meena noted, were the speakers whose words caused one side of the audience or the other to erupt:
“According to these maps they’re showing us, this thing is going to run right underneath my daughter’s school,” one man said. “Now, what about electromagnetic fields? One study I read about found that children living near power lines have more than their fair share of leukemia. And this is going to be located under a school? No one in their right mind could approve such a thing!”
Another speaker, her voice full of anger, insisted, “You people can put as many charts and pages of information as you want in front of us, but it will never take away our fear of living above this experiment. We will not be turned into the next Three Mile Island or Chernobyl. You officials tell us this is safe, but so were the others, until they blew up!”
And then, following these, Meena noticed, were the frustrated, exasperated responses:
“There have been absolutely no incidents in which a collider has blown up,” one of the Lab scientists responded, his voice loud and angry. “This is simply fear-mongering at its worst. What a picture we must present to our government officials here today — a bunch of uninformed yokels who, they will probably decide, don’t deserve the honor and distinction of such a facility.”
One speaker, temper already flaring, began, “I’m tired of hearing from you people at the Lab, who tell us we ought to sacrifice ourselves and our homes for the good of science. You think we ought to listen to you just because you have a bunch of fancy degrees. Well, I might not be a college professor, but I know horseshit when I see it, and as far as I’m concerned, you scientists can all go to hell.” As he spoke, there was a growing crescendo of applause from the opposition side of the auditorium.
Randolph’s and the villagers’ running was no match for the wall of water that rushed in on them.
One moment he was running, heart pounding against his chest. The next he was lifted off his feet — buoyed up, swept past trees, houses, buildings, faster than his own feet could have carried him, and all around, the bobbing heads and limbs and panicked cries of others who had been swept up along with him. He looked frantically for something to grab hold of as the water rushed through the village, carrying him along with it.
Back and forth, one after another, supporters and opponents of the collider took their places at the podium. As Sarala listened, she could sense the disconnect between the careful scientific communication the supporters — especially those from the Lab — felt they needed to use, and the desire on the part of the opponents for guarantees, for absolute assurances about the safety of operating such a facility. The scientists had been trained not to think in such terms. For them, a probability of 99.9 percent was a good answer, she knew, a reasonable indication of safety, but the opponents were tortured over what that 0.1 percent chance might mean for themselves and their families. Beyond their fundamental disagreement on the issue, Sarala thought, the two groups just didn’t know how to talk to one another.
The next woman paused before speaking, allowing herself a moment to smooth her cardigan over her waist in a slow and deliberate way that suggested she wasn’t a person to be rushed. “You scientists tell us that this collider is going to help you understand the Big Bang and the creation of the universe, but I think many of us prefer the version of that we can read about in Genesis. You experts should remember,” she continued, “that not all of us care to know what happens when protons collide with one another.”
Rushing through the center of the village, carried along by the wild, churning water, now full of detritus, Randolph caught site of a large tree approaching. Could he reach it? Would it stand against the water? The ocean rushed on, sweeping him with it. He reached up, caught hold of a branch, and wrapped his arms and legs around the trunk, clinging to it as he pulled himself up slowly. He climbed, wet and shaking, into the highest branches of the tree that would bear his weight and watched, below him, the dark, feral ocean rising.
As the parade of state officials continued, Rose, from her seat on the opponents’ side of the auditorium, was paying careful attention to each of their performances.
The director of the state Department of Agriculture had, she noted, been persuasive, arguing that construction of the collider could result in positive developments. “We see the collider as a mechanism to protect farmland from residential, commercial, and industrial encroachment,” he explained.
She was concerned to hear this opinion echoed by another speaker, a man she recognized as a longtime resident of Nicolet, who asked, “Have you all considered what might become of this land if it’s not acquired for the collider? Maybe we’ll build more $400,000 homes that none of us can afford to live in. Maybe a couple more shopping malls. That’s just wonderful. Make no mistake,” he warned, “change and growth are coming. I believe the collider will give us a way to control that change.”
Rose thought of what had become of the farmland of the Nicolet she remembered from her girlhood. He was right to note that not much of it remained. Not much of Nicolet looked, anymore, like the small farm town of her girlhood.
Next had come the Lab director, Dr. Palmer, and then Dr. Cohen — Abhijat and Dr. Cardiff exchanging wary looks as he took the podium, both of them knowing him to be short-tempered and already long past exasperated on the matter.
Missing from Dr. Cohen’s speech had been any note of empathy, of sincerity, Sarala thought, listening as his tone shifted into one that might be used with a group of unruly kindergarteners. Predictably, the audience began booing, someone yelling out, “Quit patronizing us!”
“Look, I’m one of you,” Dr. Cohen continued, looking back at the audience. “I’m not some evil scientist. I live in this community. I raise my family here. If I thought this accelerator would be a danger to the community, do you think I would support it?” He turned back to the panel behind their long table. “Do not be misled by the shrill voice of opposition.” He turned and made his way back to his seat.
“Thank you, Dr. Cohen, and our thanks to all of you who shared your comments this morning,” the moderator said, beginning to gather his papers. “At this point we will adjourn for lunch,” whereupon the panel recessed, to reconvene at two o’clock that afternoon.
Many of the audience from the hearing made their way to the Cozy Café and Diner, where the restaurant’s three harried waitresses scurried from table to table in an attempt to serve everyone within the two-hour recess.