The Big Eye

by Max Ehrlich

  They walked halfway around the great, squat, round building before they came to a small door, not much bigger than a house door and almost lost in the massive circular wall. Through this, after identifying themselves to a sergeant at the door, they entered a foyer tastefully and simply furnished in early American and softly lighted by hidden lamps. The reception room beyond the foyer was in the celestial motif, topped by a miniature dome supported oi oval arches.

  A stout man with iron-gray hair, ruddy-cheeked and neatly dressed in a suit of shiny alpaca, rose from a desk and came forward to meet them. It was obvious that he was dead tired. His face was lined with fatigue, and there were shadows under his eyes,

  "Hello, Francis," said David. "Dr. Dawson still in the study with the others?"

  "Yes, Dr. Hughes. I didn't dare disturb him -- even to tell him you were here. They've been in there for hours."

  "Maybe I'd better not barge right in then. I'll wait till they've finished." David suddenly remembered that Carol was at his side. "Oh, darling, this is Francis, our steward, receptionist, and general major-domo of Palomar. He arranges for all the earthy wants of this stargazing colony, and if you ever need anything, call on him. Francis -- this is Carol Kenny."

  The stout man smiled. "In a way I've already met her face to face, sir. Welcome to Palomar, Miss Kenny."

  Carol looked puzzled for a moment until David grinned and said: "Francis is a great radio and television fan. One of your admiring public. He's seen your lovely face on the video screen many a time. In fact, he never fails to keep me posted when you're scheduled to go on."

  "Oh." Carol looked gratefully at Francis. "Thank you for reminding him. And of course he's written a lot about you in his letters. He spent half of one whole letter raving about the veal paprika you serve."

  Francis blushed. He was obviously pleased as he took their coats and hung them in a closet. When he turned back David looked at him solicitously and said:

  "You look all in, Francis."

  "It has been hectic, sir. Getting all those phone calls through for Dr. Dawson -- ordering extra food and setting up extra cots in the auditorium -- and then of course arranging for Tom and Guido to drive the station wagons down to San Diego to meet the planes and pick up the astronomers as they came in." Francis shrugged. "Well, sir, you can imagine, none of us have had much sleep in the last twenty-four hours."

  "How's Dr. Dawson taking it?" David was concerned. "You know he can't stand too much, Francis -- not with his heart."

  "Yes, sir. I know. Mrs. Dawson phoned the observatory here from the house three times in the last hour. She's tried to get through to the doctor, and I know she wants to get him home for some rest, but he won't talk to anyone. He's just locked himseff in the study with the others, and he hasn't had a bite to eat since early this morning."

  David thought of the galaxy of names closeted with the Old Man. Then he asked:

  "Did you say, Francis, that Varanov of the Pulkovo Observatory was here?"

  "Yes, Dr. Hughes."

  "Funny they let him leave Russia at a time like this."

  "He wasn't in Russia, sir. We located him in Mexico City. He was working on something with Professor Martinez down there. Dr. Dawson had some trouble with the officer in charge of the military guard here. At first he wouldn't admit Varanov into the observatory, but finally Dr. Dawson won out." Then the steward abruptly changed the subject. "Was it really terrible in New York, sir? The radio and television have been broadcasting all kinds of stories."

  "It was bad, Francis," admitted David. "But not as bad as a lot of people think. The buildings weren't damaged, outside of the windows, and those people who got hurt were caught in the streets."

  Francis shook his head. "I don't know. Dr. Hughes, up here we're so far from everything. They say the Soviets are responsible, that they've got some kind of new and terrible weapon. But I don't know. I just don't understand how it ever got to this. Another war, after the last one . . ."

  Suddenly the steward remembered his duties and turned to Carol.

  "Oh. You must be tired after your trip. Miss Kenny." And then to David: "I've saved her one of the small guest cottages, sir."

  "Thank you, Francis," said David. "I appreciate it."

  "And so do I," added Carol. "But somehow I'm not the least bit tired right now "

  She broke off abruptly as a tall, regal-looking woman with snow-white hair came through the foyer door.

  "Well, David!" Her bright eyes showed relief as Francis hurried to her and helped her off with her coat. "We were half afraid you weren't coming back!" Then she looked at Carol. "And this is Carol."

  "Carol," said David, "this is Mrs. Dawson."

  "You're right, David," Emily Dawson looked at Carol apprais-ingly. "She is lovely. And I'm glad you came, Carol; this young man was eating his heart out." She took Carol's hands in her own and smiled warmly. "Welcome to Palomar."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Dawson."

  Emily Dawson had met the Old Man when he was a student at Harvard. David could never look at her without thinking that she must have been a beauty in those days, in the days of her youth. Her features were chiseled so straight that they were almost severe, but her warm smile and the gracious welcome in her lively blue eyes belied any reserve. Her hair was startling, almost showy in its whiteness, and her skin was smooth, delicate in texture, and gave the illusion of being almost transparent.

  It struck David, as he watched Emily Dawson and Carol standing together, that the Old Man's wife was still a beauty, in a great and gracious way, in a different, antique frame.

  Those who knew the Old Man said she provided the only earth-bound competition to the stars in his affection. She fussed over him, worried about his food, bought his clothes, saw that he carried his heart tablets in every suit. And, as Mrs. Dawson once said to David:

  "I'm not a wife to the doctor, David. I'm just his caretaker."

  But she was his wife. The Old Man was utterly helpless without her. And now Emily Dawson was holding Carol at arm's length and smiling into her eyes.

  "Well, my dear! You're going to be an astronomer's wife. How do you think you'll like it?"

  "I think I'll like it very much."

  "Wait, child, wait!" The Old Man's wife shook her head dismally. "You'll be the most miserable woman in the world in a little while. No sensible girl in her right mind should marry an astronomer."

  "But why not?"

  "Astronomers work nights, my dear. You'll never have any social life. If you want to go to the theater, you have to consult the weatherman and make sure you buy your tickets on a cloudy night. If you want your husband to take you to a concert, you pray for rain. Sometimes, when the weather is clear and you've been home alone night after night, you could scream for a few friendly clouds to come along and cover the sky, so that your husband can come home from the observatory and keep you company."

  She shook her head again, dolefully. "Take the advice of an old woman, Carol. Learn to knit or take up solitaire -- anything to occupy those long evening hours. Otherwise you'll be horribly bored and start thinking of how nice it would be to be married to someone in the plumbing-supply business."

  David grinned at the Old Man's wife. "Before Carol has a chance to answer, Mrs. Dawson, and before you have any more chance to break up my happy home before it begins, Vd like to put my two cents in."

  "Yes?"

  "I've known you for a few years, and I can't remember ever seeing you knitting, or playing solitaire either. And I'd be willing to bet you aren't bored."

  The phone buzzed. Francis answered it and then stiffened tensely at his desk.

  "Yes, Doctor," Francis was saying. "Yes, sir. Dr. Hughes is here. He just came in with Miss Kenny. Yes, I'll tell him. What was that, sir? Bring the small radio into the study? Yes, Doctor, at once."

  Emily Dawson went to Francis quickly. "Tell the doctor I want to speak to him."

  She took the phone. "Charles, you've got to stop. You've got to come home and get
some rest. ... I know, I know. It's important, it's always important. But this time, Charles, you're overdoing it. I don't know what you're up to -- you've never told me -- but nothing is that important." She listened for a moment and then hung up.

  Her eyes were dull now, her lighthearted mood gone; she looked tired, worried.

  "I can't do anything with him. I can't do a thing with him, David. It's the first time. And whatever this thing is, he'll kill himself."

  So the Old Man wanted the radio in his study, thought David. Ordinarily Dr. Dawson hated the radio and television both. They intruded with affairs that didn't interest him, that disturbed him, that violated the tranquillity of his own kingdom.

  But now he was asking for it. Funny, thought David. The Old Man was closeted in his study with a group of top men, the greatest astronomers of them all, whose only horizon was infinity.

  But a radio was an earthly affair, confined to earthly matters. It had nothing to do with nebulae or island universes millions and billions of light years away.

  They must be talking about something very close to home, guessed David.

  But if so, what?

  He thought of the wild rumors sweeping the country, the phenomenon at New York, the Russian secret weapon General Hawthorne had talked about. Hawthorne had said that it was something on a cosmic scale.

  Maybe, thought David, maybe the general was right. Maybe Hawthorne had something, after all.

  Maybe that's what they were discussing in the Old Man's study right now -- looking down at their feet instead of over their heads.

  "Dr. Dawson wants to see you in a few minutes. Dr. Hughes," Francis was saying. "He told me to tell you to stand by."

  David nodded. Then, as the steward was helping Emily Dawson on with her coat, David took Carol's arm.

  "Carol, you don't have to wait "

  "I'd like to, David," she said. "I'm not tired at all, and I'd like to see the observatory. I'm terribly curious."

  "If you wish, Dr. Hughes," said the steward. "I could "

  "Thanks just the same, Francis," interrupted David. "But you've got plenty to do as it is. Anyway, I'd like to show her around myself while I wait for that meeting to finish."

  Mrs. Dawson offered Carol the hospitality of her home for the night, but David thanked her on Carol's behalf and told her that Francis had already made arrangements. Then the Old Man's wife turned to Francis and said:

  "Francis, I'll be waiting up. The moment the doctor finishes, call me. ril come for him myself." Her face sagged a little now, it was haggard, but she smiled as she turned to Carol.

  "Please come and see me tomorrow, my dear."

  After Emily Dawson had left, and as Francis was disconnecting the small radio from his desk, David said with an attempt at lightness:

  "Come on, Carol. I'll take you on the dollar tour."

  He led her through a door and onto the ground floor. This was a circular corridor, severely simple and paved in rubber parquet. From it, on each side, ran the astronomers' offices. Then he conducted Carol past the small auditorium and lecture hall, the library, the cafeteria, and the kitchen, gleaming in white tile and monel metal. They walked by a series of darkrooms, and finally he led her into his own office.

  "Like it?" he asked.

  She studied the leather furniture, the bookshelves recessed in the paneled walls, the deep gray rug, and the illustrations: David's graduating class picture at Columbia, an etching of the original Harvard Observatory, a drawing of Galileo peering through his telescope lens, an air view of Palomar itself, and finally a picture of herself on the leather-topped desk.

  "It's very nice, David," she said. "But it's so plain -- it needs a little color "

  "Oh no, you don't." He grinned. "No frilly feminine touches for me -- not here, anyway. This is my retreat, and if it's monastic -- well, I like it that way. I don't care what you do to the cottage we're going to live in -- that's your department -- but in my office, no colored pottery, no chintz curtains on the windows "

  "What windows!" She laughed. "There isn't a window in this whole darned mausoleum!"

  He took her back in the rotunda and up the stairs to the mezzanine. He pointed out the lounge, rest rooms, drinking fountains, exhibits of meteoric rock under glass, a model of the observatory itself, literature in racks, illustrations of the planets, and finally a large reception room displaying the history of the 200-inch reflector, in photographs, drawings, and text.

  "Now this looks a little more comfortable," Carol remarked.

  "Yes. The mezzanine here is our concession to the public. People come up here in droves every Sunday, not only from San Diego, but even from Los Angeles."

  David had forgotten his somber mood of a few minutes ago. This personal little tour was something he had planned for a long time, and now that Carol was here, he was enjoying her reactions.

  "But, David, why should they come here? Isn't the Mount Wilson observatory much nearer to Los Angeles?"

  "Sure." He smiled. "And ten years ago, back in 1950, before Palomar was really open to the public on a tourist basis, Wilson used to get all the business. But now we've got the biggest eye in the world, while Mount Wilson has to struggle along with a puny 100-inch. And you know people -- they like to see the biggest and the best."

  "What on earth do you do with them when they get here?"

  "Oh, show 'em around -- lecture 'em on the theory of operation -- open and close the dome for them -- let 'em look at the telescope."

  "That must keep Dr. Dawson pretty busy on Sundays."

  "The Old Man? He doesn't wet-nurse the tourists." David made a wry face. "I do!"

  She laughed up at him. "Well, the public is lucky to have a handsome barker like you. But, David, what do you do, line them up one by one when they want to look through the telescope?"

  "Look through what telescope?"

  "Why, the big one that's here." She was taken aback by his sudden and mock-stern expression. "David, what's the matter? What did I say?"

  "Oh, nothing. Nothing but blasphemy, heresy, and sacrilege -- at least for an astronomer's wife. I'm glad no one overheard you."

  "But all I said was "

  "I know. You see, my darling, you don't look through a reflector or mirror telescope. Not a big one like this, anjrway. You just take photographs."

  "But in all the pictures I've ever seen," she protested, "the astronomer always has his eye screwed up against a little eyepiece at the bottom of the telescope when he's looking at stars and heavenly bodies and things."

  He looked even more pained at that. "Sure. But they were looking through a refractor, or lens telescope. They're more romantic -- much more photogenic for movies or magazines. As I said, we don't look through a reflector like the Big Eye here at Palomar -- we get into it."

  "You what?"

  "We ride up to the top of the telescope and climb down inside of it. Or at least the Old Man does. He takes all the observations and makes all the complicated calculations. I just stay below near the switchboard and give him the position settings."

  She looked incredulous. "You mean you really get inside the telescope?"

  "Come on." He grinned. "I'll show you."

  He led her out past rows of switchboards protected by roller sheets of metal, and they climbed another flight of parquet stairs into a kind of transparent cubicle completely enclosed by glass, walls and ceiling alike. A tiny glass sign said: "No Visitors Allowed Beyond This Point."

  "Well," said David quietly, "there it is -- the Big Eye."

  "Oh, David!" Her whisper was almost inaudible.

  It was a thrilling, awe-inspiring sight. The huge telescope, like a great monstrous robot, loomed up almost vertically, sheer into the shadowy arch of the dome, where its soaring spiderwork disappeared entirely. It was big -- big beyond description -- ahnost frightening in its vastness. Its north and south piers, squat and solid and massive, came out of the floor and held up the great apparatus like two hunched shoulders. The two cylinders in its
yoke were bigger than railroad cars as they reached out for support into the horseshoe of the frame. The telescope tube itself rested silently, delicately, on its trunnions.

  It was still, motionless, now. Yet Carol, as she stared at it, almost had the feeling that it was alive, that it had a beating heart and nerves and muscles, that it was sleeping now but soon would bestir itself, yawn, and then reach up and up toward the stars, its five hundred tons creaking and groaning in the joints as it stretched itself.