The Big Eye (12 page)

 

 

". . . the over-all damage to New York, it can now be re-ported, was
surprisingly small. The modern structures in the city stood firm,
although a few antiquated wooden buildings collapsed. Casualties,
according to early estimates, amounted to some five thousand persons,
killed and injured, for the most part, from flying glass.

 

 

"The main damage has been to morale. The vibrations, although doing
little damage in a material sense, caused panic among those still left
in the city. The Army has declared the city under martial law and has
ordered the population evacuated.

 

 

"The rumor spread through the shaken city that the Russians had struck
with an atom bomb buried deep underground, that they would strike
again. Army authorities deny this, pointing out that an atomic underground
explosion would cause far more serious effects. They report, too, that
their Radiological Squads have found no sign of deadly radiation. I
repeat -- there is no indication of any lethal particles in the air.

 

 

"Seismologists are at a loss to explain the strange vibrations. They
point out that New York has always been considered tremor-proof and
earthquake-proof, that it stands on solid bedrock, and that it would
take a tremendous internal force to cause a fault in the rock.

 

 

"Meanwhile, the entire nation is being swept by the rumor that the Soviet
Union has a secret weapon quite different from but more potent than the
atom bomb. The rumor states that the Reds have used the weapon before,
and used it to create a tremor in New York this morning as one of the
final stages in the war of nerves. The Department of Defense has not
confirmed or denied this.

 

 

"A sensational story is now going the rounds that America's top-ranking
military men, at a special meeting this morning, have confirmed the
existence of this secret weapon. This story, entirely without confirmation
from any official source, states that the decision has been made to attack
the Soviet Union in self-defense, that tremendous pressure is being
brought on the President as Commander in Chief to give the signal. The
story goes on to say that he is, at the moment, resisting all pressures
and awaiting a fuller and more complete seismological report, on the
off-chance that the tremor may have been a natural phenomenon.

 

 

"There is even a wilder story, put forth by a former Washington
correspondent now at the temporary capital, that the President was about
to yield to the advice of his military advisers, when he received a
mysterious long-distance phone call from California. According to Frank
Landon, the newspaperman responsible, the President was on the phone
a half-hour. When he emerged from his office he was deathly pale and
changed his point of view abruptly, refusing to order the attack.

 

 

"I repeat, these are only rumors; there is no official confirmation from
any responsible quarter."

 

 

The stewardess came in and turned off the radio. "Please go back to
your seats and fasten your safety belts," she said. "We'll be coming
into San Diego in a few minutes."

 

 

 

 

At Lindbergh Field, David immediately went to a phone booth and called
Palomar.

 

 

It was Francis who answered. "Dr. Hughes! Where are you, sir?"

 

 

"In San Diego. I've got Miss Kenny with me, Francis."

 

 

"Oh. Dr. Dawson was worried about you, sir. We all were. After hearing
what had happened in New York -- well, you understand, Dr. Hughes. Was
it very bad?"

 

 

"Bad enough. Tell you more about it later, Francis "

 

 

"They say the Russians -- "

 

 

"Yes, I know," interrupted David impatiently. He wanted to know, he
wanted to find out fast. Everything. The phone calls. The urgent order
from the Old Man to return. "Francis, what's going on at the observatory?"

 

 

"I don't know. Dr. Hughes." Francis sounded dead tired. "All I know is
that I've been on the phone, calling astronomers from all over the world,
ever since yesterday evening, asking them to come to Palomar at once."

 

 

David remembered the operator's remote voice the night before, as he
had tried to get Francis, calling Rio, Amsterdam. . . .

 

 

"They've been coming in ever since last night and early this morning,"
continued the steward. "There must be twenty of them in all. Dr. Dawson's
been locked in his study with them for hours. They're in there now."

 

 

"Francis, who are they? What are their names?"

 

 

"Well, Dr. Hughes, there's a Professor Ellender of Harvard, Professor
Manning of Mount Wilson, Van Vreeden of Leyden, in Holland, Dr. Perez of
Rio de Janeiro, Bornson of Stockholm, Professor Varanov of the Pulkovo
Observatory in Leningrad, Dr. Graves of Cambridge Observatory in England,
Dr. Smythe of the Royal Astronomical Society, and oh -- several others."

 

 

David hung on the phone, spellbound.

 

 

Ellender, Manning, Graves, Van Vreeden, Varanov ...

 

 

These were names, the Greats and the near Greats, the select of the Who's
Who of astronomy. Ellender in stellar interiors, Manning in stellar
evolution, Van Vreeden in astrophysics, Perez in novae and nebulae,
Varanov in comets and meteors, Bornson and Smythe, quantum mechanics.

 

 

These were the giants, almost as big as the Old Man. And now, for some
fantastic reason, they had flown to Palomar from all over the world.

 

 

But why? Why?

 

 

The question drummed and throbbed in David's head as Francis continued
to talk:

 

 

"It started only about an hour after you left for New York, Dr. Hughes.
Dr. Dawson came out of his study and he looked -- well, I've never seen
him look that way. He looked pale -- almost wild. For a moment I thought
he'd had an attack. He gave me the list of names and told me to switch
the astronomers to the private phone in his study after I made the
connections. Then he asked for you." The steward's voice shook a little
through its weariness. "He was so excited that he'd even forgotten you'd
gone to New York. After that I tried to phone you and the wires went dead,
and finally this morning we managed to get in touch with you."

 

 

"And you've no idea what the doctor said to these other men, Francis?"

 

 

"No, sir."

 

 

"Francis, listen," said David, watching Carol through the glass door of
the phone booth. "If you can get to Dr. Dawson, tell him we're going
to have a bite to eat here at the air terminal and then start out for
Palomar. I've got my car parked in a garage in Dago. And by the way,
have you any room for Miss Kenny?"

 

 

"Yes, sir. It's quite crowded in the colony now, Dr. Hughes, but I think
I can arrange it."

 

 

"Thanks, Francis. See you in a couple of hours."

 

 

David hung up and walked out of the booth. Carol saw the stunned
expression on his face.

 

 

"David, what is it?"

 

 

He told Carol briefly what was happening at the observatory. But she
was unimpressed.

 

 

"With the earth ready to blow up, David, does it really matter what
happens up there in the sky?" She smiled at him wanly. "And, darling,
can we get something to eat now? I'm famished."

 

 

He relaxed a little over sandwiches and coffee, and they talked of other
things, mostly themselves. And Carol asked finally:

 

 

"David, when will we be married?"

 

 

"Tomorrow, if you like. We can come back down to Dago here in the morning
and stay at a hotel."

 

 

Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. "Here comes the bride, darling."
She smiled. Then she leaned over the table and kissed him. "And speaking
of brides, I'm going to be practically naked. All I've got is the dress
I'm wearing, not even a toothbrush. David, I know you're in a hurry,
an awful hurry, but when we get your car in San Diego, will you give
me a little while, just a few minutes, so that I can buy a few clothes,
anything, as long as it fits? Be a darling, say yes."

 

 

He grinned and said yes, and kicked himself mentally for not meaning it.

 

 

He needed the time; he begrudged it to her.

 

 

He wanted to get to Palomar -- fast.

 

 

They were well out of San Diego now, speeding through the starlit night
along the broad road to Palomar.

 

 

David kept his foot down hard on the accelerator. They turned off Route
101 at Solana Beach, raced past Rancho Sante Fe, Lake Hodges, through
Escondido, the southern gateway to Palomar. And then they began the long,
tortuous climb up through the San Jacinto range, pointing for the solid
hogback of granite that was Palomar itself.

 

 

"So this is what the newspapers call 'The Highway to the Stars,' "
said Carol.

 

 

"Yes."

 

 

She sniffed. "It looks like any other road."

 

 

"Naturally. Why shouldn't it?"

 

 

"I don't know," she said. "I expected it to look more -- well, glamorous."

 

 

He smiled. "It will after we get off' the plain here and start to climb."

 

 

The country grew progressively rugged, a vast and silent wilderness of
broken hills and canyons, the star-bright sky painting the patches of
snow in old silver and playing weird tricks with the shadows deep in
the gorges.

 

 

David felt Carol shiver close to him.

 

 

"Cold?" he asked.

 

 

"No." She laughed apologetically. "I guess I'm just a little scared."

 

 

"Why?"

 

 

"Well, in the first place, you're driving awfully fast. And in the
second place, it's so wild and lonely up here in the mountains. And
the way this road curves around and around the mountain with those deep
canyons dropping off on both sides."

 

 

"Don't worry," he reassured her. "I've driven this road so many times,
I think I could do it with my eyes shut and one hand tied behind my back."

 

 

They kept climbing for a few minutes before either of them spoke again.
Then Carol said thoughtfully:

 

 

"Funny what a difference a little distance makes, David. Back in New
York -- and yes, even in San Diego -- there was always that terrible pressure,
that awful waiting. But this mountain seems so remote, so far away from
everybody and everything. It's another world -- a whole new peaceful world."

 

 

He nodded. He, too, felt the release. What had happened back in New York
seemed now an ugly and nightmarish dream. Whatever happened to the cities,
he had thought, even if they were blasted clean off the earth, these
mountains would still be around.

 

 

But then he remembered the group in the candy store back on Broadway.
The talk of neutron radiation, the proprietor, Sam, worrying about his
family in the Catskills.

 

 

And he thought, The mountains would still be around, but not for man or
any other living thing.

 

 

Carol leaned her head on his shoulder and dozed a little. He drove on,
now and then looking up through the Plexiglas roof of his car, up into
the cold night sky. The heavens were blazing, as though some mighty
hunter had raised his gun in glee and spattered the black backdrop with
a million silver buckshot. His practiced, professional eye picked out
the buckshot one by one -- cold, dull red Betelgeuse, yellow Capella,
familiar Polaris, white-hot and blue-hot Vega and Rigel, and the brightest
of them all, Sirius.

 

 

He had seen them often enough, studied them through the months and years,
and yet he could never get over the wonder of them. There they were,
up there now, swimming around among the deep-sky objects -- the galaxies,
open and globular clusters, diffuse and planetary nebulae, and the bright
riot of the Milky Way. They had been moving in their courses billions
of years ago, and they would go on, thought David. They would go on
in their preordained courses, through astronomical and infinite time,
long after the earth had ceased to be.

 

 

The Old Man and he had enjoyed many a long talk over early-morning coffee,
after the night's work was done and the droning motors closed the dome
against the paling sky. On cloudy nights, when the dome stayed up, they
played chess in Dr. Dawson's study, and after that, over their brandy,
they had often talked all night. And more often than not, the Old Man
talked of the sky in non-astronomical terms. David recalled something
now that the Old Man had said in one of these sessions.

 

 

"Consider the sky, David," Dr. Dawson had said. "The non-professional,
perhaps, has never realized that what he sees overhead on a clear night
is the most amazing drama ever offered. The curtain rises for him, on any
clear night, to reveal a superb play written by a divine hand, and the
layman barely gives it a glance. But to you and me it has always been
a wonderful antidote for sanity when we compare it to the agitated and
unpredictable little madhouse on which we live and quarrel and come to
blows and die. "Yes, David," the Old Man had continued. "You and I are
astronomers and, therefore, fortunate. We can always retreat from the
turbulence around us to our sanctum sanctorum, the sky. It gives us an
exact ruler to measure by, a precise order of ideas. And in the presence
of the orderly march of illuminated worlds up there in the void, this
cold war, this new threat which currently plagues our fourth-rate planet,
seems to be only a local affair of some badly run asylum."