“He sniffed at the last of the heavy air, trying to place where he’d smelled that smell before. What he should do, he thought, was devise some way of measuring such fog—a funnel, a piece of string, a bottle and some scales. He’d try it tonight. In the columns of his meteorological journal, Dawes ruled off his usual notes of times and temperatures, set the journal’s loose sheets of paper square, and sat for a moment in the cool dark room of his observatory, blinking a little and flexing his finge...rs in time with the ticking of the pocket watch. The pages made quite a stack now, days and days quantified by heat and wind and thunder and water. More than a year of full records—more than a year without a comet. And almost exactly a year since the bright flares of the aurora australis had lit up the sky like the cataclysmic interruption feared by Gulliver’s Laputans. Perhaps that at least would come around again this season. To his right, on his desk, other journals lay ready for words transcribed from his conversations with the natives—they were beginning to talk, so long after the British arrival, and under the most dismal circumstances.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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