He dipped a rod into it. It evaporated cleanly.
One autumn evening, a telegram arrived from the main office in Rochester. The message was terse: “Find a use for the waste. Acetone, if possible. War is coming.”
Decades later, Henry—now bald, stooped, and called “Mr. Henry” by the young chemists—stood on a catwalk overlooking a new plant. The company had survived the war, outlived the coal era, and pivoted to polyester, plastics, and fibers.
It wasn’t just a solvent. It was a new kind of plastic. Stronger than glass. Clearer than resin. Flexible enough to wrap a bullet or shield a bomber’s cockpit.
