The Big Eye (19 page)

 

 

"Are you kidding, Frank? It was what they call 'agreeing in principle.'
But they weren't putting that one over, not on me! I was with Globe
Press at the time, and I drew the assignment with the Control and
Inspection Commission in the Soviet. Sure, they showed us Moscow and
Kiev and Leningrad. But when we started to head east, into Siberia and
Manchuria, we began to be 'delayed.' And it was the 'Mystery Cities' we
wanted to see -- Dudinka, Norylsk, Petrovsk, Yakutsk, Seim-chan, Magadan,
and the others. Well, we never did. And, brother, that's where the Reds
were really radioactive. Anyway, we hung around awhile and finally came
home. What was the use?"

 

 

Joe Morgan, David's roommate at the Monastery, joined David briefly in
the projection room. The Old Man had just broken the news to the rest
of the staff, and the spectrograph man was pale under his sandy hair.

 

 

"Listen to them," said David. "They're like mourners talking at a wake."

 

 

"They don't know what we know," responded Morgan dully. "They don't know
that there won't be any wake because there won't be any mourners. Listen
to 'em, David. What they're saying now sounds like prattle -- childish
prattle."

 

 

They were two men playing God for a moment, it occurred to David, he and
Joe Morgan. Knowing what they knew, they could see these men as crawling
microorganisms in a laboratory test tube, crazily running around and
around the inside of the glass in awful and pitiful futility.

 

 

"What the hell is the President holding out for, I ask you, Fred? Look
at what happened in New York. It's obvious that the Reds have got a new
gimmick! What's he trying to do, get us to commit national suicide?"

 

 

"I hear they got him backed against the wall. He's getting it from
the generals, from senators, from the Cabinet, everybody but his wife.
They're all in favor of lighting the fuse quick."

 

 

"Yeah. But what's he holding out so long for?"

 

 

"Wants to be morally sure we're right, I guess."

 

 

"Hell, that's what I call old-fashioned. Someone ought to give him the
facts of life. You can't even spell 'morally' in Russian."

 

 

"It's ten-fifteen already. I've got to get back to the office. What's
holding Dawson up, anyway?"

 

 

"I don't know. I kicked like a steer, Al, when the boss assigned me to
this. I said, 'Look, Manny, the excitement's down here, right here in the
office, and to hell with spending half a day way up at Palomar.' Well,
said Manny, it might be a new comet or meteor Dr. Dawson's discovered,
you know, one of those things he pulls out of the sky now and then. And
I said: 'So what, Manny, and who cares? What's an item like that worth
now? Page 10? Page 20?"

 

 

"I wish the Old Boy would walk in and get it over with, Frank. I've
gotta get out of here and be back in L.A. by one."

 

 

"Maybe this clambake will turn out okay, Ed. After all, Varanov's here.
A big-shot Soviet in the U,S. now. It's a good angle."

 

 

"Yeah. I'm going to try to get to him, like the rest of you guys, right
after this lecture, or whatever it is. But if I know these Reds, we'll
all be lucky if we get a 'nyet' out of him."

 

 

"Wait a minute. Here comes Dawson."

 

 

The door at the rear of the auditorium suddenly opened. The chattering
of the newsmen suddenly stopped as Dr. Dawson came in, followed by the
others. One by one they filed in -- Smythe, the gnomelike hunchback of
the Royal Astronomical Society, his face like a wrinkled gray mask;
Perez, the muscles of his round face working with emotion; Manning,
the giant of Mount Wilson, his thin mouth a hard line, his bald head
shining with perspiration; Varanov, the massive white-bearded Russian,
his eyes hard and cold like two blue agates; Perez, Van Vreeden, Wallace,
Ellender, Duval, and the rest.

 

 

The newsmen stared at them with sudden respect and a kind of awe. These
were, after all, scientific men of international reputation, and the
simple fact that they were here, gathered in one room, was an event out
of the ordinary. But these days, when it came to news, everything was
out of the ordinary.

 

 

The news- and radiomen were there to get a story. They would listen
politely, even expectantly, to what Dr. Dawson had to say, and spot it
on an inside page or after the middle commercial on the news broadcast.
But they had their minds on other things.

 

 

Grimly and quietly the astronomers took their seats together on the
left-hand aisle. All except the Old Man. He walked up to the platform
and turned to face his audience.

 

 

For a long moment he stood there, his eyes straying over each of the
newsmen. He's a born showman, thought David Hughes. He's a showman in
the way he's standing there now and looking at them. He commanded their
deference and held them.

 

 

The auditorium was quiet as the Old Man began to speak.

 

 

"Gentlemen, as representatives of the press and radio, you are preoccupied
at the moment with current events of a highly unusual nature. But now,
for a few moments, I ask you to take your eyes from the affairs of our
own planet, the earth, and look at the sky.

 

 

"I summoned you here this morning because something completely
extraordinary has taken place up there in the domain of the heavens
-- something not only extraordinary, but completely unprecedented.
I stmnbled upon this phenomenon a short time ago.

 

 

and upon learning of its overwhelming implications I immediately summoned
these gentlemen, my colleagues, from their posts all over the world. They
have checked my observations and my calculations, and they will attest
to all I am going to tell you now."

 

 

The Old Man paused for a moment. Then he said with gentle irony:
"Gentlemen, I ask for your undivided attention for five minutes, and I
promise you a story for page 1."

 

 

The Old Man looked over the heads of his audience and nodded to Francis,
who was standing at the light switch in the rear of the auditorium.

 

 

The auditorium was plunged into darkness.

 

 

"All right, David," said the Old Man. "Give me the first slide."

 

 

The Old Man was through.

 

 

David shut off the projector. Its whirring sound slowed and died in the
dead silence of the darkened auditorium.

 

 

Then the lights went on.

 

 

The men in the auditorium sat there in the bright glare, stunned,
paralyzed, as though under a powerful narcotic. They sat stiffly,
like waxen images in a museum gallery, like rigid figures in a still
picture. They stared fixedly at Dr. Dawson, their jaws slack and sagging,
their faces ashen with shock and horror.

 

 

"My God!" someone moaned softly in the back row. "My God, my God!"

 

 

That was all. The one voice -- and that was all. Then silence again,
dead silence. And finally another voice, rising and cracking, shrill
in hysteria:

 

 

"It's not true! It cavit he true!"

 

 

It was Langley, a radioman. He had half risen from his seat, his eyes
bulging, his face dead white.

 

 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Langley," said the Old Man quietly. "It is true, and
there is no chance of error. My colleagues are ready to substantiate
what I have said."

 

 

The others began to stir and sigh and rustle in their seats, like
men coming out of a dream. The first smashing impact was beginning to
wear off. Then, with abnost a single accord, their voices rose, loud,
protesting, incredulous, hysterical. They rose from their seats almost
all at once, talking in a wild babel.

 

 

"Please, gentlemen." The Old Man raised his hand. "Please. If there are
any questions, please ask them one at a time."

 

 

The babel stopped as suddenly as it had started. Some of the men fell
back in their seats, others remained standing. Finally a newspaperman
named Graham spoke, his voice breaking into a cracked falsetto.

 

 

"Dr. Dawson."

 

 

"Yes?"

 

 

"Is there any chance of this catastrophe being averted? Is there any
chance at all -- of this Planet
Y
taking some other course?"

 

 

The Old Man shook his head. "Nothing I know of can stop it." He paused,
then said softly, "Nothing but a miracle."

 

 

"But the end of the world! It can't happen! It's crazy -- fantastic!" The
man from World Press, the man Corey had sent up, was sobbing out the
words. "I've got two kids. They're young. Why, they won't even have a
chance to grow up. Two years and one month!" Then he blurted foolishly,
"Dr. Dawson, for God's sake, there must be something we can do!"

 

 

The Old Man looked at him for a moment. Then he spoke, gently and
compassionately.

 

 

"It's out of our hands. I know it's clear to you, as well as to myself,
that this is a divine punishment. Any man, whether scientist or dreamer,
minister or atheist, can draw no other conclusion. In a sense, even in
the face of the coming catastrophe, we are fortunate "

 

 

"Fortunate?" someone cried hoarsely. "How?"

 

 

"We have been preparing to exterminate ourselves by our own hands in the
very near future. Tomorrow, or the day after that, or the next week,
perhaps, or next month. Now, at least, the immediate tragedy will be
averted. We have been given the opportunity to live a little longer.
Perhaps we will make good use of the time remaining to us, make our
peace with God."

 

 

A thick, foreign voice came from the left. "Dr. Dawson is right,
gentlemen."

 

 

The news> and radiomen turned their heads and stared at the speaker.

 

 

It was Varanov, the Russian.

 

 

"When I walked into Dr. Dawson's study yesterday, I did not believe in
God. I do now. So, too, will all my people in the Soviet Union. There
can be no other answer to what has happened.

 

 

"Neither can there be any further conflict. Now it is over, this threat
of war is over. Communism -- capitalism -- these systems are nonsense now.
Our Red soldiers will lay down their arms, as yours will. For there is
no use destroying each other, when all will finally be destroyed. Men
who are facing the same execution for the same reason do not hate each
other. And two years is not a very long time to live."

 

 

Varanov sat down. The men in the auditoriimi stared at him, fascinated.
For a moment there was dead silence. Then Perez, the Brazilian astronomer,
rose.

 

 

"Senhor Varanov is right. One must concede that there is divine purpose
in this terrible miracle. I am no philosopher, senhores, and I am no
politician. But even I understand one thing. We have been given these
years of grace, this little time that remains, for a purpose. It did not
just happen that way. Consider this and call it a curious kind of logic,
if you wish. But if God wished to destroy us by the cosmic explosion of a
star, if this was the method He chose. He did not have to reach far out
into the universe and explode the distant star from whence this Planet
Y
came. The sun is a star, senhores, very near and quite convenient
for this purpose. Had He been instant and quick in his wrath, had He
chosen the sun instead of this other and far-distant star for His cosmic
explosion, this little planet of ours, the earth, would have vanished
instantly in a blast of heat and a puff of smoke."

 

 

There was a moment of silence. Then a reporter named Brewer cried out
hysterically: "The hell with all this double talk. Nobody wants any
sermons or platitudes now!"

 

 

He jumped to his feet and, his face livid, pointed his finger at Dr.
Dawson.

 

 

"We're going to die!" he cried shrilly. "You and me and every damned
one of us! Why didn't you keep it quiet? Why did you and all these other
scientists tell us about it?"

 

 

"We had a moral duty to do so," answered the Old Man. "We discussed it,
my colleagues and I, in my study. We felt that if men had been given these
two years of grace, they should be so informed before they took matters
into their own hands and destroyed each other. Furthermore, had mankind,
by some miracle, compromised their differences and let each other live
a little while longer, they would have seen this planet come into the
sky and come closer and closer with each succeeding day. They would have
asked questions then, and these questions would have had to be answered."

 

 

"You should have kept quiet about it," insisted the newspaperman
sullenly. "What kind of a life do you think we're going to live, knowing
the date of our own execution, watching that damned thing in the sky
come closer day after day?"

 

 

"I think we'll all live a better life," answered the Old Man quietly,

 

 

"I'm not interested in your theories of reforming. Dr. Dawson," flared
Brewer hysterically. "All I know is that on Christmas of 1962 I'm going
to die. So is my wife, and so is my little girl and my little boy. As
far as I'm concerned, that's the only important thing."

 

 

"Is it?" The Old Man spoke patiently. "I wonder. No doubt death is a great
tragedy to all of us. But in a larger sense, an astronomical sense, what
does it amount to? Man is, after all, merely a microscopic organism living
on a grain of sand revolving around a fourth-rate star." He paused. "As
a matter of fact, we really have no right being alive in the first place."