A Handful of Darkness (11 page)

“Go on,” Andrews said. “What then?”

“That’s all. She got out of the launch. She and the robant. I stayed inside. They stood looking across the ocean. After a while the old woman sent the robant back to the launch.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. She wanted to be alone, I suppose. She stood for a time by herself. On the shore. Looking over the water. The wind rising. All at once she just sort of settled down. She sank down in a heap, into the salt ash.”

“Then what?”

“While I was pulling myself together, the robant leaped out and ran to her. It picked her up. It stood for a second and then it started for the water. I leaped out of the launch, yelling. It stepped into the water and disappeared. Sank down in the mud and filth. Vanished.” Norton shuddered. “With her body.”

Andrews tossed his cigarette savagely away. The cigarette rolled off, glowing behind them. “Anything more?”

“Nothing. It all happened in a second. She was standing there, looking over the water. Suddenly she quivered—like a dead branch. Then she just sort of dwindled away. And the robant was out of the launch and into the water with her before I could figure out what was happening.”

The sky was almost dark. Huge clouds drifted across the faint stars. Clouds of unhealthy night vapours and particles of waste. A flock of immense birds crossed the horizon, flying silently.

Against the broken hills the moon was rising. A diseased, barren globe, tinted faintly yellow. Like old parchment.

“Let’s get back in the ship,” Andrews said. “I don’t like this place.”

“I can’t figure out why it happened. The old woman.” Norton shook his head.

“The wind. Radio-active toxins. I checked with Centaurus II. The War devastated the whole system. Left the planet a lethal wreck.”

“Then we won’t—”

“No. We won’t have to answer for it.” They continued for a time in silence. “We won’t have to explain. It’s evident enough. Anybody coming here, especially an old person—”

“Only nobody would come here,” Norton said bitterly. “Especially an old person.”

Andrews didn’t answer. He paced along, head down, hands in pockets. Norton followed silently behind. Above them, the single moon grew brighter as it escaped the mists and entered a patch of clear sky.

“By the way,” Norton said, his voice cold and distant behind Andrews. “This is the last trip I’ll be making with you. While I was in the ship I filed a formal request for new papers.”

“Oh?”

“Thought I’d let you know. And my share of the kilo positives. You can keep it.”

Andrews flushed and increased his pace, leaving Norton behind. The old woman’s death had shaken him. He lit another cigarette and then threw it away.

Damn it—the fault wasn’t his. She had been old. Three hundred and fifty years. Senile and deaf. A faded leaf, carried off by the wind. By the poisonous wind that lashed and twisted endlessly across the ruined face of the planet.

The ruined face. Salt ash and debris. The broken line of crumbling hills. And the silence. The eternal silence. Nothing but the wind and the lapping of the thick stagnant water. And the dark birds overhead.

Something glinted. Something at his feet, in the salt ash. Reflecting the sickly pallor of the moon.

Andrews bent down and groped in the darkness. His fingers closed over something hard. He picked the small disc up and examined it.

“Strange,” he said.

It wasn’t until they were out in deep space, roaring back towards Fomalhaut, that he remembered the disc.

He slid away from the control panel, searching his pockets for it.

The disc was worn and thin. And terribly old. Andrews rubbed it and spat on it until it was clean enough to make out. A faint impression—nothing more. He turned it over. A token? Washer? Coin?

On the back were a few meaningless letters. Some ancient, forgotten script. He held the disc to the light until he made the letters out.

He shrugged, tossed the ancient bit of metal into a waste disposal unit beside him, and turned his attention to the star charts, and home…

“Zeno was the first great scientist,” Professor Hardy stated, looking sternly around his classroom. “For example, take his paradox of the frog and the well. As Zeno showed, the frog will never reach the top of the well. Each jump is half the previous jump; a small but very real margin always remains for him to travel.”

There was silence, as the afternoon Physics 3-A Class considered Hardy’s oracular utterance. Then, in the back of the room, a hand slowly went up.

Hardy stared at the hand in disbelief, “Well?” he said. “What is it, Pitner?”

“But in Logic we were told the frog would reach the top of the well. Professor Grote said—”

“The frog will not!”

“Professor Grote says he will.”

Hardy folded his arms. “In this class the frog will never reach the top of the well. I have examined the evidence myself. I am satisfied that he will always be a small distance away. For example, if he jumps—”

The bell rang.

All the students rose to their feet and began to move towards the door. Professor Hardy stared after them, his sentence half finished. He rubbed his jaw with displeasure, frowning at the horde of young men and women with their bright, vacant faces.

When the last of them had gone, Hardy picked up his pipe and went out of the room into the hall. He looked up and down. Sure enough, not far off was Grote, standing by the drinking fountain, wiping his chin.

“Grote!” Hardy said. “Come here!”

Professor Grote looked up, blinking. “What?”

“Come here,” Hardy strode up to him. “How dare you try to teach Zeno? He was a scientist, and as such he’s my property to teach, not yours. Leave Zeno to me!”

“Zeno was a philosopher.” Grote stared up indignantly at Hardy. “I know what’s on your mind. It’s that paradox about the frog and the well. For your information, Hardy, the frog will easily get out. You’ve been misleading your students. Logic is on my side.”

“Logic, bah!” Hardy snorted, his eyes blazing. “Old dusty maxims. It’s obvious that the frog is trapped for ever, in an eternal prison and can never get away!”

“He will escape.”

“He will not.”

“Are you gentlemen quite through?” a calm voice said. They turned quickly around. The Dean was standing quietly behind them, smiling gently. “If you are through, I wonder if you’d mind coming into my office for a moment.” He nodded towards his door. “It won’t take too long.”

Grote and Hardy looked at each other. “See what you’ve done?” Hardy whispered, as they filed into the Dean’s office. “You’ve got us into trouble again.”

“You started it—you and your frog!”

“Sit down, gentlemen.” The Dean indicated two stiff-backed chairs. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’m sorry to trouble you when you’re so busy, but I do wish to speak to you for a moment.” He studied them moodily. “May I ask what is the nature of your discussion this time?”

“It’s about Zeno,” Grote murmured.

“Zeno?”

“The paradox about the frog and the well.”

“I see.” The Dean nodded. “I see. The frog and the well. A two thousand-year-old saw. An ancient puzzle. And you two grown men stand in the hall arguing like a—”

“The difficulty,” Hardy said, after a time, “is that no one has ever performed the experiment. The paradox is a pure abstraction.”

“Then you two are going to be the first to lower the frog into his well and actually see what happens.”

“But the frog won’t jump in conformity to the conditions of the paradox.”

“Then you’ll have to make him, that’s all. I’ll give you two weeks to set up control conditions and determine the truth of this miserable puzzle. I want no more wrangling, month after month. I want this settled, once and for all.”

Hardy and Grote were silent.

“Well, Grote,” Hardy said at last, “let’s get it started.”

“We’ll need a net,” Grote said.

“A net and a jar.” Hardy sighed. “We might as well be at it as soon as possible.”

The “Frog Chamber”, as it got to be called, was quite a project.

The University donated most of the basement to them, and Grote and Hardy set to work at once, carrying parts and materials downstairs. There wasn’t a soul who didn’t know about it before long. Most of the science majors were on Hardy’s side; they formed a Failure Club and denounced the frog’s efforts. In the philosophy and art departments there was some agitation for a Success Club, but nothing ever came of it.

Grote and Hardy worked feverishly on the project. They were absent from their classes more and more of the time, as the two weeks wore on. The Chamber itself grew and developed, resembling more and more a long section of sewer pipe running the length of the basement. One end of it disappeared into a maze of wires and tubes: at the other there was a door.

One day when Grote went downstairs there was Hardy already, peering into the tube.

“See here,” Grote said, “we agreed to keep hands off unless both of us were present.”

“I’m just looking inside. It’s dark in there.” Hardy grinned. “I hope the frog will be able to see.”

“Well, there’s only one way to go.”

Hardy lit his pipe. “What do you think of trying out a sample frog? I’m itching to see what happens.”

“It’s too soon.” Grote watched nervously as Hardy searched about for his jar. “Shouldn’t we wait a bit?”

“Can’t face reality, eh? Here, give me a hand.”

There was a sudden sound, a scraping at the door. They looked up. Pitner was standing there, looking curiously into the room, at the elongated Frog Chamber.

“What do you want?” Hardy said. “We’re very busy.”

“Are you going to try it out?” Pitner came into the room. “What are all the coils and relays for?”

“It’s very simple,” Grote said, beaming. “Something I worked out myself. This end here—”

“I’ll show him,” Hardy said. “You’ll only confuse him. Yes, we were about to run the first trial frog. You can stay, boy, if you want.” He opened the jar and took a damp frog from it. “As you can see, the big tube has an entrance and an exit. The frog goes in the entrance. Look inside the tube, boy. Go on.”

Pitner peered into the open end of the tube. He saw a long black tunnel. “What are the lines?”

“Measuring lines. Grote, turn it on.”

The machinery came on, humming softly. Hardy took the frog and dropped him into the tube. He swung the metal door abut and snapped it tight. “That’s so the frog won’t get out again, at this end.”

“How big a frog were you expecting?” Pitner said. “A full-grown man could get into that.”

“Now watch.” Hardy turned the gas cock up. “This end of the tube is warmed. The heat drives the frog up the tube. We’ll watch through the window.”

They looked into the tube. The frog was sitting quietly in a little heap, staring sadly ahead.

“Jump, you stupid frog,” Hardy said. He turned the gas up.

“Not so high, you maniac!” Grote shouted. “Do you want to stew him?”

“Look!” Pitner cried. “There he goes.”

The frog jumped. “Conduction carries the heat along the tube bottom,” Hardy explained. “He has to keep on jumping to get away from it. Watch him go.”

Suddenly Pitner gave a frightened rattle. “My God, Hardy. The frog has shrunk. He’s only half as big as he was.”

Hardy beamed. “That is the miracle. You see, at the far end of the tube there is a force field. The frog is compelled to jump towards it by the heat. The effect of the field is to reduce animal tissue according to its proximity. The frog is made smaller the farther he goes.”

“Why?”

“It’s the only way the jumping span of the frog can be reduced. As the frog leaps he diminishes in size, and hence each leap is proportionally reduced. We have arranged it so that the diminution is the same as in Zeno’s paradox.”

“But where does it all end?”

“That,” Hardy said, “is the question to which we are devoted. At the far end of the tube there is a photon beam which the frog would pass through, if he ever got that far. If he could reach it, he would cut off the field.”

“He’ll reach it,” Grote muttered.

“No. He’ll get smaller and smaller, and jump shorter and shorter. To him, the tube will lengthen more and more, endlessly. He will never get there.”

They glared at each other. “Don’t be so sure,” Grote said.

They peered through the window into the tube. The frog had gone quite a distance up. He was almost invisible, now, a tiny speck no larger than a fly, moving imperceptibly along the tube. He became smaller. He was a pin point. He disappeared.

“Gosh,” Pitner said.

“Pitner, go away,” Hardy said. He rubbed his hands together. “Grote and I have things to discuss.”

He locked the door after the boy.

“All right,” Grote said. “You designed this tube. What became of the frog?”

“Why, he’s still hopping, somewhere in a sub-atomic world.”

“You’re a swindler. Some place along that tube the frog met with misfortune.”

“Well,” Hardy said. “If you think that, perhaps you should for him to force. inspect the tube personally.”

“I believe I will. I may find a—trap door.”

“Suit yourself,” Hardy said, grinning. He turned off the gas and opened the big metal door.

“Give me the flashlight,” Grote said. Hardy handed him the flashlight and he crawled into the tube, grunting. His voice echoed hollowly. “No tricks, now.”

Hardy watched him disappear. He bent down and looked into the end of the tube. Grote was half-way down, wheezing and struggling. “What’s the matter?” Hardy said.

“Too tight…”

“Oh?” Hardy’s grin broadened. He took his pipe from his mouth and set it on the table. “Well, maybe we can do something about that.”

He slammed the metal door shut. He hurried to the other end of the tube and snapped the switches. Tubes lit up, relays clicked into place.

Hardy folded his arms. “Start hopping, my dear frog,” he said. “Hop for all you’re worth.”

He went to the gas cock and turned it on.

It was very dark. Grote lay for a long time without moving. His mind was filled with drifting thoughts. What was the matter with Hardy? What was he up to? At last he pulled himself on to his elbows. His head cracked against the roof of the tube.

It began to get warm. “Hardy!” His voice thundered around him, loud and panicky. “Open the door. What’s going on?”

He tried to turn around in the tube, to reach the door, but he couldn’t budge. There was nothing to do but go forward. He began to crawl, muttering under his breath. “Just wait, Hardy. You and your jokes. I don’t see what you expect to—”

Suddenly the tube leaped. He fell, his chin banging against the metal. He blinked. The tube had grown; now there was more than enough room. And his clothing! His shirt and pants were like a tent around him.

“Oh, heavens,” Grote said in a tiny voice. He rose to his knees. Laboriously he turned around. He pulled himself back through the tube the way he had come, towards he metal door. He pushed against it, but nothing happened. It was now too large for him to force.

He sat for a long time. When the metal floor under him became too warm he crawled reluctantly along the tube to a cooler place. He curled himself up and stared dismally into the darkness. “What am I going to do,” he asked himself.

After a time a measure of courage returned to him. “I must think logically. I’ve already entered the force field once, therefore I’m reduced in size by one-half. I must be about three feet high. That makes the tube twice as long.”

He got out the flashlight and some paper from his immense and did some figuring. The flashlight was almost unmanageable.

Underneath him the floor became warm: Automatically he shifted a little up the tube to avoid the heat. “If I stay here long enough,” he murmured, “I might be—”

The tube leaped again, rushing off in all directions. He found himself floundering in a sea of rough fabric, choking and gasping. At last he struggled free.

“One and a half feet,” Grote said, staring around him. “I don’t dare move any more, not at all.”

But when the floor heated under him he moved some more. “Three-quarters of a foot.” Sweat broke out on his face. “Three-quarters of one foot.” He looked down the tube. Far, far down at the end was a spot of light, the photon beam crossing the tube. If he could reach it, if only he could reach it, if only he could reach it!

He meditated over his figures for a time. “Well,” he said at last, “I hope I’m correct. According to my calculations I should reach the beam of light in about nine hours and thirty minutes, if I keep walking steadily.” He took a deep breath and lifted the flashlight to his shoulder.

“However,” he murmured, “I may be rather small by that time…” He started walking, his chin up.

Professor Hardy turned to Pitner. “Tell the class what you saw this morning.”

Everyone turned to look. Pitner swallowed nervously. “Well, I was downstairs in the basement. I was asked in to see the Frog Chamber. By Professor Grote. They were going to start the experiment.”

“What experiment do you refer to?”

“The Zeno one,” he explained nervously. “The frog. He put the frog in the tube and closed the door. And then Professor Grote turned on the power.”

“What occurred?”

“The frog started to hop. He got smaller.”

“He got smaller, you say. And then what?”

“He disappeared.”

Professor Hardy sat back in his chair. “The frog did not reach the end of the tube, then?”

“No.”

“That’s all.” There was a murmuring from the class. “So you see, the frog did not reach the end of the tube, as expected by my colleague, Professor Grote. He will never reach the end. Alas, we shall not see the unfortunate frog again.”

There was a general stir. Hardy tapped with his pencil. He lit his pipe and puffed calmly, leaning back in his chair. “This experiment was quite an awakener to poor Grote, I’m afraid. He has had a blow of some unusual proportion. As you may have noticed, he hasn’t appeared for his afternoon classes. Professor Grote, I understand, has decided to go on a long vacation to the mountains. Perhaps after he has had time to rest and enjoy himself, and to forget—”

Grote winced. But he kept on walking. “Don’t get frightened,” he said to himself. “Keep on.”