By Mark Miner

I was a little excited when I embarked on the bomb calorimeter lab yesterday.  It sounded so exciting, even racy, in this post-terrorism society.  The "bomb" seemed impressive, a squat piece of machined steel with heavy threads on the top.  A thick steel retaining ring held the top on.  A burly electrode jutted out of the lid.  A gelatin capsule filled with diesel fuel and wrapped in ignition wire nestled in a crucible deep within the bomb.  The whole assembly was filled with pure oxygen at 25 atmospheres.

Two kilograms of water were to be used as a heat sink, and the bomb was gently submerged in a steel bath chamber, which was laid inside an insulating drum.  The electrode was plugged in and grounded, running to the Bakelite ignition box lurking on the table nearby.  The data acquisition system on the computer was started, and a flat red line crept across the screen.

"When you push the button, hold it down for about two seconds, then let go."  The eastern European TA muttered instructions from across the room, glancing at the setup occasionally.  I reached for the ignition button and softly squished it down for the requisite two seconds.

Nothing.  No sound, no blips on the graph.  Nothing.  A lab partner turned away from his task and asked "when are you going to push the button?"  "I did," I replied.  "Oh."  He returned to his task.

After a few bored seconds the line began to rise, lackadaisically, to the final temperature of the chamber, one degree above the initial temperature.

Ah, real science.  Like English food: boring, but hearty and good for you.

The Bomb &c.

 

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