With that he returned to the equation. He got through most of the introductory discussion of the Poynting vector, ignoring the buzz of whispers at his back. He fell into the rhythm of the discussion. His stabs with the chalk made their clicking points, one by one. The equations unfolded their beauties. He conjured up electromagnetic waves and endowed them with momentum. He spoke of imaginary mathematical boxes brimming with light, their flux kept in precise balance by the unseen power of partial differentials.
Another stirring at the back of the room. Several students were leaving. Gordon put down his chalk. “I suppose you can’t concentrate under the circumstances,” he conceded. “We’ll take it up next time.”
One of the twins got up to leave and said to the other, “Lyndon Johnson. Jesus, we might end up with him.”
Gordon made his way down to his office and put away his lecture notes. He was tired, but he supposed he should go hunt up a TV and watch. The last week had been a madhouse of interviews, challenges by other physicists, and an astonishing amount of attention from the networks. He was thoroughly weary of the whole process.
He remembered that the student center down by Scripps beach had a TV. The drive down in his Chevy took only moments. There seemed to be few people on the streets.
Students were ranked three deep around the set. As Gordon came in and stood at the back Walter Cronkite was saying, “I repeat, there is still no definite word from Parkland Memorial Hospital about the President. A priest who just left the operating room was heard to have said that the President was dying. However, that’ is not an official announcement. The priest did acknowledge that the last rites have been administered to the President.”
Gordon asked a student next to him, “What happened?”
“Some guy shot him from a school book building, they said.”
Cronkite accepted a piece of paper from off camera. “Governor John Connally is undergoing treatment in the operating room next to the President. The doctors working on the governor have said only that he is in serious condition. Meanwhile, Vice President Johnson is known to be in the hospital. He is apparently waiting in a small room down the corridor from where the President lies. The Secret Service has the area completely surrounded, with the help of the Dallas Police.”
Gordon noticed several of the students from his class gathered nearby. The recreation room was packed now. The crowd was absolutely still as Cronkite paused, listening to a small headset which he pressed to his ear. Through the glass sliding doors which led out onto a wooden porch Gordon could see the waves breaking into white and sliding up the beach. Outside, the world went on with its unending rhythm. In this small pocket, a flickering color screen held sway.
Cronkite glanced off camera and then back. “The Dallas police have just released the name of the man they suspect of the shooting. His name is Lee Oswald. Apparently he is an employee of the School Book Depository building. That’s the building that the shots—some said rifle shots, but that has not been confirmed—came from. The Dallas police have not released any further information. There are many policemen around that building now and it is very difficult to get any information. However, we do have men on the scene and a television camera is being set up, I am told.”
The recreation room was becoming hot. Fall sunlight streamed through the glass doors. Someone lit a cigarette. The plumes of smoke slowed and formed blue layers as Cronkite spoke on, repeating himself, waiting for more reports. Gordon began breathing more rapidly, as though the thickened air would not come freely into his lungs. The light became watery, weaving. The crowd around him caught the feeling and moved restlessly, human wheat beneath a strange wind.
“Some members of the crowd around Dealey Plaza say there were two shots fired at the Presidential motorcade. There are reports of three and four shots, however. One of our reporters on the scene says the shots came from a window on the sixth story of that School Book Depository—”
The scene suddenly shifted to a bleak fall landscape in black and white. Knots of people crowded the sidewalk before a brick building. Trees stood out in stark contrast to the bright sky. The camera panned to show a bleached, open plaza. Cars blocked the streets. People milled aimlessly.
“That is the site of the shooting you are seeing now,” Cronkite continued. “There is still no definite word about the President. A nurse in the corridor outside has said that the doctors working on the President have carried out a tracheotomy—that is, a cut in the windpipe, to make another breathing path for the President. This seems to confirm reports that Mr. Kennedy was struck in the back of the neck.”
Gordon felt ill. He wiped beads of sweat from his brow. He was the only person in the room wearing a jacket and tie. The air felt silky, moist. The odd sensation of a moment before was ebbing slowly away.
“There is a report that Mrs. Kennedy has been seen in the corridor outside the operating room. We have no indication of what this means.” Cronkite was in shirt-sleeves. He looked uncertain and anxious.
“Back at Dealey Plaza—” Again the crowds, the brick building, police everywhere. “Yes, there is a police statement that Oswald has been removed from the area under heavy police guard. We did not see them leave the School Book Depository building, at least not from the front entrance. Apparently they left through the back. Oswald has been inside the building since he was captured there, moments after the shooting. Wait—wait—” On the screen the crowd parted. Men in overcoats and hats moved ahead of a double rank of police, pushing the crowd back.
“Someone else is leaving the Depository building, taken by the police. Our camera crew there tells me it is another person involved in the incident, in the capture of the suspect, Lee Oswald. I think I can see him now—”
Between the lines of policemen marched a teenager, a boy. He looked around at the press of bodies, appearing dazed. He wore a tan leather jacket and blue jeans. He was well over six feet in height and looked out over the heads of the policemen. His head swiveled around, taking it all in. He had brown hair and wore glasses that reflected the glaring, slanted sunlight. His head stopped when he saw the camera. A figure moved into the foreground, holding a microphone. The police surged to block him. Distantly: “If we could have just a statement, I—”
A plainclothesman leading the group shook his head. “Nothing until later, when—”
“Hey, hold on!” It was the teenager, in a loud, booming voice that stopped everyone. The plainclothesman, a hand raised palm forward toward the camera, looked back over his shoulder.
“You cops have bugged me enough,” the boy said. He shouldered his way forward. The policemen yielded before him and concentrated on keeping the crowd back. He reached the plainclothesman. “Look, am I under arrest or what?”
“Well, no, you’re under protective custody—”
“Okay, that’s what I thought. See that? What it is, is a TV camera, right? You guys don’t have to protect me from that, do you?”
“No, look, Hayes—we wanna get you off the street. There could be—”
“I tell you that guy was alone up there. There isn’t anybody else to worry about. And I’m gonna talk to these TV guys ‘cause I’m a free citizen.”
“You’re a minor,” the plainclothesman began hesitantly, “and we have to—”
“That’s a lotta bull. Here—” He reached beyond the plainclothesman and grabbed the microphone. “See?—no trouble.” Several people standing nearby applauded. The plainclothesman glanced uncertainly around. He began, “We don’t want you giving—”
“What happened in there?” someone shouted.