NEW YORK, N.Y. : “While the artistic genius of Leonardo da Vinci has been almost legendary since his lifetime (1452-1519), his equally extraordinary genius as a scientist has remained little known.” So ran the caption at an exhibit of Leonardo’s Codex Leicester at New York’s American Museum of Natural History (from which it has since departed). The assertion is debatable, to say the least. Leonardo’s most familiar image, after the Mona Lisa , must be his anatomical study of a human body enclosed in a circle and a rectangle. Yet even those who do know of Leonardo’s scientific work are unlikely to associate him with the study of hydrodynamics, which forms the Codex Leicester’s subject matter.

Or perhaps “ ostensible subject matter” would be better, since in the course of exploring the physics of still and running water, Leonardo calculated the distance from the earth to the sun, used fossil evidence to cast doubt on the biblical story of the Flood, explained why the sky is blue, and made numerous other digressions into almost every branch of science. No doubt the codex’s owner, Bill Gates (sorry, that’s William H. Gates III), appreciates how the document’s hypertextlike style fits his visions of a glorious future achieved through the extensive use of information technology, preferably from Microsoft.

The fragile manuscript pages, written between 1506 and 1510, sat in individual glass cases in a dimly lit, climatecontrolled area and were illuminated one by one for brief intervals. Despite some considerably rougher treatment over the years (the codex was bound into a book by a previous owner, the Earl of Leicester), the sturdy linen paper has held up very well, and Leonardo’s most detailed drawings are still clear, along with a few centuries-old liquid drops. The exhibit set the scene for Leonardo’s work with an assortment of contemporary maps, scholarly books, and scientific instruments. In a separate room experimental apparatus and devices demonstrated the principles Leonardo wrote about. With prodding from the museum staff, a few brave souls gingerly tried them out.

Banks of computer terminals let patrons view any page of the codex, either in Leonardo’s original backward writing or typeset in modern Italian or English. The handwriting could be reversed, as could the transcriptions, if anyone wanted. With a click of the mouse, sections of the page were magnified; with another, copious background information appeared. This computerized version of the codex, now available as a CD-ROM, was ingenious and informative and almost as convenient as having it printed in a book.

Leonardo never intended his codex to be exhibited in a museum. It was an outline for a longer volume, which he never got around to writing. Yet he would certainly have enjoyed seeing his scientific work, which, unlike his art, was aimed at a tiny audience of educated men, attracting such widespread interest. He would also have been pleased to find the latest information technology helping readers understand and appreciate the timeless results of his investigations.

SAN FRANCISCO, CALIF. : The United States Lighthouse Society (USLHS) is, as its name implies, devoted to the history and lore of the often majestic structures that have guarded our shorelines for centuries. (See “Notes From the Field,” Spring 1993.) Other aids to navigation fall within its bailiwick, however, including lightships and buoys. A recent issue of the USLHS newsletter, The Keeper’s Log , recalls one early and unsuccessful attempt at creating a cheap, effective offshore warning device: the bell boat.

At least five bell boats, and probably more, saw service between 1855 and the late 1880s on the Atlantic and Pacific coasts. They were unmanned craft, thirty feet long by twelve feet wide, built of iron, and anchored in place with strong cables. Atop the mast, about eighteen feet above the water line, was a large bell with four clappers, which rang with the rolling motion of the waves. The idea was that during daylight, in clear weather, the superstructure would be conspicuously visible, while in fog or at night the bell would provide a warning. In the end, though, bell boats proved inadequate, being too hard to see or hear when they were needed the most. They all eventually sank after being run into or coming loose from their moorings, to be replaced by much cheaper bell buoys or by manned ships that could signal with both light and sound.

The society also takes an interest in the United States LifeSaving Service (USLSS), established in 1878. An article by Dennis L. Noble describes some innovative technology the USLSS employed to rescue stranded sailors and passengers from shipwrecks. Rowboats, the service’s mainstay, were often mounted on wheeled carts and hauled by hand or pulled by horses into the surf. But when the sea was too rough for boats, the surfmen would shoot a line at the wreck from shore. For this purpose they used a small brass cannon called a LyIe gun, which could fire a weight, with line attached, as far as six hundred yards. Members of the service held regular target practice, like artillerymen.

When the line reached a wreck, stranded sailors would use it to pull over heavier lines, or hawsers. After a sturdy rope bridge was established, the sailors could be rescued by two methods. The first one employed a small sealed compartment called a life car, which resembled a tiny submarine. It could fit four to six passengers comfortably and up to eleven in a pinch. Surfmen would send a car out over the hawser, rescuees would crowd inside, and the surfmen would haul it to shore, sending it back and forth as many times as needed. Victims of smaller wrecks could be brought back with the “breeches buoy,” a flotation ring with canvas trousers attached, into which an individual would step and be hoisted to safety. The development of powered boats, which could plow through the roughest seas, and eventually helicopters eliminated the need for hawsers and LyIe guns, though the apparatus remained in use at some Great Lakes stations into the 1950s.

The U.S. Lighthouse Society can be reached at 244 Kearny Street, San Francisco, CA 94108 (415-362-7255).

NEW YORK, N.Y. : For many years historians and researchers have bemoaned the New York Public Library’s (NYPL) haphazard approach to the storage of materials dealing with technology. Items of recent date were housed in room 121—grandiloquently dubbed the Science and Technology Division but in reality a cramped and cheerless warren tucked away in the bowels of the main building. For older material, patrons had to face the dreaded Annex, with its shabby tables and chairs reminiscent of a 1950s high school detention study hall, in a corner of the Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood so remote that you had to walk several blocks to find the nearest peepshow.

But no more. The NYPL recently opened its spacious Science, Industry and Business Library (SIBL) on the site of the former B. Altman department store on Madison Avenue. New Yorkers mainly call it “the Altman’s branch,” but when they use the acronym it’s pronounced “Sybil,” and appropriately so, because like its schizophrenic homonym, SIBL has many personalities. To begin with, it is an old-fashioned research and lending library, with a large collection of books and journals quaintly printed on paper. It also contains the Electronic Information Center, from which users on-site and elsewhere can tap into databases ranging from census reports to scientific abstracts to financial information to New York State’s register of abandoned property. In an attempt to boost the local technology industry, patent searching, small-business counseling, resource computer training, and other services are available. The library also hosts a full schedule of lectures and classes. By the NYPL’s reckoning, it is the largest institution of its type in the country.

In contrast with the collection’s former quarters, the new SIBL building is open and airy, with plenty of room to stretch one’s legs, spread out and work, or just sit. (Most surprising of all, the last option has thus far attracted remarkably few vagrants.) Outside the Electronic Information Center, in what could almost be a modernart installation, a wall full of televisions is tuned to CNN, MSNBC, C-SPAN, and other news channels. Some of the sets are large and some are small, with no apparent pattern except a wacky architect’s vision. In the main foyer a large glass window reveals a bank of workstations packed with users. At peak hours the stations can be as sought after as tables at the season’s most fashionable restaurant. Behind them, neat but forlorn, sits the library’s circulating collection, into which readers make the occasional lonely foray.

Librarians hope the congestion will ease up as patrons start using SIBL’s resources from their homes and offices. Eventually the library’s on-site workstations might become as unwanted as tables at last season’s most fashionable restaurant. Will libraries ultimately go the way of phonograph parlors and bathhouses—archaic institutions to provide the public with something it can easily get at home? If so, SIBL will be among the last and most sophisticated developments of a dying art, like the classic silent movies of the late 1920s. But if you’ll pardon a sibylline comment, however many users decide to stay home, SIBL will keep on providing free information to all comers and preserving knowledge for future generations. No matter how much technology may change, that part of every public library’s traditional mission will endure.