Perfume and TNT

Perfume and TNT

From A Feast of Science, by Dr. Joe Schwarcz

One of the most fascinating facets of chemistry is the process of discovery. Think of TNT and chances are you think BOOM, not Chanel #5. But rinitrotoluene (TNT) played a major role in thf formulation of one of the most famous fragrances in the world.

Following William Henry Perkin”s 1856 accidental discovery of mauve, the world's first synthetic dye, the chemical industry was hot on the trail of new colorants. It was then that German chemist Joseph Wilbrand synthesized TNT, which never made it is a yellow dye but did announce itself with a bang. At the time, trinitrophenol, commonly known as picric acid, was the most widely used high explosive but was prone to accidental detonation during production and transport. TNT, on the other hand, can be melted and poured into shell or bomb casings with safety. Its detonation requires the use of a more sensitive explosive such as lead azide, which when energetically struck, quickly decomposes to elemental lead and nitrogen gas. The shock wave created by the rapidly expanding nitrogen sets off the TNT. The same chemistry is used in automobile air bags where sodium azide supplies the nitrogen needed to inflate the bag.

When TNT detonates, it also releases nitrogen along with steam and carbon monoxide. It is the rapid production and expansion of thee gases that characterizes an explosion. While TNT never made it as a dye for fabrics, during World War I it did manage to taint the skin of munitions workers, most of whom were women. “Canary girls” these ladies came to be called. Skin discoloration, however, wasn't the only problem. TNT can be absorbed through the skin and cause nausea, loss of appetite, and liver problems. Many workers suffered before it was discovered that application of grease to the skin would prevent absorption.

After the explosive potential of TNT was recognized, chemists went to work trying to get more bang for their buck by attempting to modify the compound's molecular structure. And that is just what Albert Bauer was doing in 1888 when he used the well-known Friedel-Crafts alkylation reaction to add a four-carbon fragment known as a tertiary butyl group to the molecule. As the reaction proceeded, he noted that the lab filled with a decidedly unusual smell. Being a chemist, Bauer was familiar with all sorts of odors, and this one reminded him of the fragrances of musk. That was an exciting observation because at the time musk scent was a much sought-after commodity, highly prized by the perfume industry. Only did it lend a pleasing note to a perfume, but it also acted as a fixative, slowing down the evaporation of all the perfume's components.

Musk scent was very expensive because of the scarcity of its source, the sex glands of the Asian male musk deer. The animal secretes a smelly mixture of compounds from the glands located near its anus to attract the female. In its concentrated form, the scent is decidedly unattractive, but it becomes seductive when diluted. How anyone ever discovered that the dried and then diluted secretions from his inconspicuous little abdominal sac of the male musk deer charmed receptors in our nasal passage remains a mystery. What we do know, however, is that musk fragrance has been used by perfumers since antiquity, with the word “musk” itself deriving from the Sanskrit word for testicle. The ancient Hindus seemingly were better at perfume-making than anatomy since the scent glands are quite distinct from the animal's testes.

As soon as Bauer sniffed the musky aroma of his new compound, he recognized that he was on to something. He quickly filed a patent for Musk Bauer, and proceeded to make other “nitro musks” with even more effective scents. Musk xylene, musk ketone, and musk ambrette revolutionized the perfume industry and made Bauer a rich man. The nitro musks became the cornerstone of the perfume industry, accounting foe the popularity of perfumes such as Chanel #5, introduced in 1921, and L<Air du Temps in 1948. They were mainstays until the 1980s when they were dropped because of concerns about their poor biodegradibility, neurotoxicity, and tendency to cause a skin rash when exposed to sunlight.

Marilyn Monroe apparently wasn't worried about exposure to sunlight in her bedroom. When asked what she wears to bed at night, she famously replied, “Why Channel #5 of course!” Quite an explosive remark in those days.

Marilyn Monroe, Heidi Klum, Farrah Fawcett. Photo by Elena.

Seventh Plague

Seventh Plague

By James Rollins

June 2, 9:22 p.m. EDT

Airborne over Baffin Bay

As the Gulfstream banked over the open water of Baffin Bay, Painter studied their destination. Ellesmere Island lay directly ahead, shouted in a haze of ice fog. The coastline was a craggy line of jagged inlets, small bays, jumbles of rock, and beaches of broken shale. Plates of ice had rues aground in some sections, stacking up like a scatter of playing cards.

“Not exactly hospitable,” Kat said, watching from her window across the cabin.

“But man finds a way nonetheless,” Painter said, having read up on the place on the flight here. “The island’s been occupied by indigenous hunters going back some four thousand years. The the Vikings arrived later, followed by the Europeans in the seventeenth century.”

“And no the pair of us,” Kat said, trying to lighten the mood.

Painter simply nodded, his stomach still knotted with anxiety. Back in D.C., he had not wasted any time coordinating the mission with General Metcalf, his boss ad DARPA. The man had questioned the necessity of an excursion a thousand miles above the arctic Circle, but Painter had been adamant. He and Kat had flown due north, pushing the Gulfstream G150’s engines. They had landed and refuelled at Thule Air Base, the U.S. military’s northernmost camp, located on the western coast of Greenland.

If Painter had any question as to the importance of the region, Thule answered it. Run by two different air force squadrons, the base was home to a ballistic missile early-warning system and a global satellite control network. It also acted as the regional hub for a dozen military and research installations peppered throughout Greenland and the surrounding islands, including Aurora Station on Ellesmere.

And that was just the United States.

Seventh Plague. Photo by Elena.

Canada had additional camps, including one on Ellesmere called Alert, a seasonal military and scientific outpost about five hundred miles from the North Pole.

Painter tried to spot the place as their jet swept over the middle of the island, but the distances here were deceptively vast. The pilot navigated a course between Quttinirpaaq National Park, which took up the norther end of the island, and the spread of glaciers to the south. Below their wings, the Challenger Mountains rose up in a jumble of snowy peaks.

“We should be getting close,” Kat said.

Aurora Station had been constructed on the northwest coast of the island, bordering the Arctic Ocean. According to his research, the site had been chosen for a number of different reasons, but primarily because it was closest to the magnetic north pole, which was the subject of several of the station's research projects. While the geographi north pole was relatively fixed, the magnetic pole had been drifting for centuries slowly sweeping past the coastline of Ellesmere and up into the Arctic Ocean.

The pilot radioed back to them. “We're twenty miles out. Should be on the ground in ten. And from the look of the weather ahead, we're lucky we made such good tome.”

Painter turned his attention from the ground to the skies. While there were only a few clouds above, to the northwest the world ended at a wall of darkness. Painter had known a storm was coming, but forecasts had been worsening by the hour. The region was predicted to be socked in for days, maybe weeks. It was one of the reasons he had pressed General Metcalf so hard. If he missed this window, the chances of rescuing Safia would grow grimmer with each passing day.

He couldn't let that happen.

Losing North

Losing North

Musing on Land, Tongue and Self

by Nancy Huston

The Arrogant Mosaic

Someone sent me a copy of a Toronto Star article dating from August 1998, shortly after France's triumph in the soccer World Cup. You may think, the article says overall, that France's enthusiasm for the Blues, a mixed Black-White-and Arab team, reflects a global policy of racial tolerance and generosity. Well, you've got another think coming. “Racism is very much alive and well in France, in a disgraceful departure from the ideals of the 1789 Revolution. And it will remain so until the French begin to emulate the Canadian model of true multicultural equality for all citizens.”

Exactly what “multicultural equality” might mean is not specified. The expression not being set off by quotation marks, it is apparently assumed to be common knowledge. What is set off in quotes, however, is the word “foreigners.” Included in this category, pell-mell, are French-born children of immigrants from France's former colonies in North Africa, newly arrived refugees without papers, Kanaks (from New Caledonia, who are French citizens) and Jews. “There are more than four million “foreigners” inn France,” states the author of the article – and, having conveniently tossed all of them into the same boiling cauldron, he goes on to paint a horrifying picture of their situation in France.

This country – Canada – which puts the word foreigners in quotes, happens to be a country made up almost exclusively of foreigners, a country in which the word has no discriminatory function because it designates virtually anyone and everyone. In 1789, at the time of the famous Revolution lauded by the Toronto Star, Canada was seventy-eight years short of Confederation.

Upon arriving in Canada, did we (the French, English, Irish, Swedish, German, and Armenian immigrants to Canada) ask the local population if they agreed with our “multicultural” ideals? Having appropriated their land in order that our own cultures might thrive there, isn't it a bit caddish of us to par ourselves on the back for not being racist?

Come one, come all! Whether you hark from Sir Lanka the Ukraine or Saudi Arabia – the more the merrier! Look, there's plenty of land! Millions of acres at your disposal! Settle in, make yourselves at home, you're welcome to go on speaking foreign in private, provided you learn English (or a la rigueur French) for public life...

That is the origin of the Canadian mosaic. “As paradoxical as it may seem,” my brother wrote in a recent letter, “the paternalistic, condescending multiculturalism of English Canada in the exact equivalent of Quebecois nationalism. They're simply two different ways of maintaining a good conscience while continuing to feel superior to those you perceive as aliens.”

Perhaps what I'm trying to say it this: it's easy to be “multicultural” when you don't have a culture of your own.

Okey. I said it. But having said it, I've also given myself away as an emigrant, a national apostate, a traitor to the Great North. Because, deep down, I know that this vision of Canada – my vision, the one sarcastically formulated just now – is false. That Canada is not the real Canada – rather, it is an artificial construction, shaped by public discourse for political purposes. Deep down, I know that the real Canada is a fine place to live. I know that the texture of everyday life there, as real people live it, is rich and variegated. I know that Canadians are creating world-class literature and film, theatre and dance; I know they have specifically Canadian community activities and figures of speech; I know they're profoundly attached to their neighbourhoods and gardens churches and houses, cafes and restaurants... I also know that these things add up to make a culture.

Canada 150 years. Photo by Elena.

Flawed

Flawed

By Cecelea Ahern

... The feet I see standing around us, once observers, are now in on the act. They suddenly take flight, and they are everywhere. Some are on me, trampling me, somee are doing there best to block for me, but every time I try to get up, I am swiftly brought back down to earth again. With a bang, with a knock, winded, I lie on the ground, hands covering my head, waiting for the black spots in my vision to clear. I feel hands trying to pull me up, hands trying to push me down. I can barely breathe. Then I hear the whistles. The Whistleblowers have arrived, and I see black leather boots descending on the scene. Some people run away, more people hear about what's happening and join in. I see fists flying, blood spraying. I don't even know who is on whose side anymore. At one point, when I manage to see straight, I think I see Enya Sleepwell standing at the door of the supermarket, watching. But I have been knocked on the head too many times, and I know I'm seeing things. I give up trying to fight, trying to stand, and, instead, I lie down as I feel another blow to my head as a boot steps backward, not knowing I'm there, and I feel the leather on my cheek. Then it's all a blur.

I hear noises and the I hear nothing. A buzzing in my ear seems to block out most of the sound. I'm on the ground, and then I'm floating, and I wonder if I'm dead, if this is what it's like to rise toward the light. But the light is only the strip lighting of the supermarket, and I realize I'm alive, but I'm flying. Then I feel hands around my body, large, comforting, safe. Those hands place my arms around his neck. I feel flesh. My head rests on a chest. I feel flesh on my cheek. I focus on the chest and see an F, just like mine, below the clavicle, where a T-shirt has been ripped in the fight. A Flawed man is carrying me. He smells good, of clean sweat and something else I can't place, but I feel safe. He carries me like I'm a baby, and I cling to him, turning my head to his chest, my head resting beneath his chin to block out the light that hurts my eyes. As we move, I run my fingertrip over the F on his chest, which makes us stop moving. I have never felt anybody else's scar. It feels like mine. Five of mine, but not like the final one on my spine. The one that was done without any anesthetic, which made me jump and the sear moved, smudged. I see his large Adam's apple move as he gulps at my touch. I allow my finger to rest there on his chest. Even though he's a stranger, the feel of the brand is comforting, like my own skin.

I know immediately who this is. I move my head away from his chest and look upward and see that he's looking down at me.

Flawed. Picture by Elena.

Straken

High Druid of Shannara

Straken

By Terry Brooks

The transition happened quickly. The runes began to glow more intensely, gaining strength for her touch. Grianne blinked against the sudden brightness, and the felt a kind of shifting in the space she occupied. The grayness of the Forbidding grew slowly darker, as if the storm had caught up to them and they were about be engulfed. All that took place in seconds, barely giving her time enough to register what was transpiring. She glanced over at Pen, who held on to the darkwand from the other side, his eyes closed.

But she did not close hers. She wanted to see what was going to happen to her.

Even so, she did not. The runes suddenly burst into fiery brightness, and it appeared as if the staff itself was aflame. It was all she could do to keep holding on to it, to persuade herself that the fire was an illusion. The glow grew steadily cocooning her away, shutting off her surroundings, from the world of the Jarka Ruus, from everything but the staff and herself and Pen.

Then everything was gone, and she was fighting for air as a massive fist closed about her body, crushing her squeezing the air from her lungs with relentless pressure. She fought back against it, struggling to breathe, to stay alive. Something has gone wrong, she thought in desperation. Something isn't right.

Then the light dimmed, the runes darkened, and she was standing once more in the familiar surroundings of her sleeping chamber, returned safe and whole to Paranor. She still had a death grip on the staff, but the runes had gone dark.

But the glow was not uniform. Picture by Elena.

She exhaled sharply in relief.

In the next instant, the tiagenel collapsed about her.

She know what it was immediately. She had caught a glimpse of the magic's glow in the few seconds it took for her passage out of the Forbidding to become complete, but had failed to recognize its significance until was too late. The glow disappeared as the triagenel dropped into place, becoming an invisible presence that hemmed her in on all sides, an unbreakable cage.

“Don't move, Penderrin,” she said to him.

He stood across from her, still smiling happily at having escaped the Forbidding. The smile faded slowly, and he looked around in surprise.

“We're caught in a triangenel,” she informed him. A quick sweep of her hand illuminated the strands of their prison. “I told you they would be waiting. But I didn't foresee this.”

“What is it?”

“A very powerful form of magic. It takes three magic users to create it, a combination of their skills to bring it to life.”

But the glow was not uniform, she saw. In some place it was very nearly dark. In a properly constructed triangenel, the magic should be equally distributed. “There's something wrong here,” she murmured. “See.”

She pointed at a couple of the weaker spots, at the obvious darkness, and she did so the door to the concealed passageway on the far side of the chamber swung inward and her brother's face appeared in the opening. “Grianne.”

“Bek!” she exclaimed in shock. “How in the world...?”

“Listen to me,” he interrupted, cutting her short. “I've used the wishsong to weaken several of the triangenel's strands. I think you can break free, if you try.”