by Max Ehrlich
Kellar did not speak for a moment. Then: "Are you suggesting, Doctor, that we deliberately stop the progress of science?"
"What I am suggesting is that we control it and judge whether whatever we create will do more harm than good when it is released,"
"I don't think scientists are capable of judging "
"Then it's about time they started to learn," interrupted the Old Man hotly. "Take myself, Professor. I am an astronomer. My worlds are universes. I use giant telescopes to study them. Should I then condescend to turn to a microscope and study the microbes on my own pitiful planet? The answer is yes. And again, yes! Perhaps I am lacking in nobility, in the pure scientist's approach that the truth is the thing, and damn the consequences. But I believe our first responsibility is to the people with whom we live, not to the things we find!"
David had never heard the Old Man swear before, had never seen him so worked up. His eyes blazed, and he spoke passionately.
"Of course this whole discussion is really academic, Kellar. We haven't much time left. But we've a lot to atone for. We scientists have been responsible for many of the world's ills for a long time. We've failed to understand that science moves fast, it is revolutionary, while the human mind is slow, evolutionary. As a result, we have a gap of thousands of years between scientific achievement and the human capacity to use it wisely."
"Then we have one of two alternatives," said Kellar. "In order to gain an equilibrium, we must either speed up the growing process of the mind or slow down science."
"Exactly," answered the Old Man. "One or the other. And of the two, the slowing down of our research functions is by far the more feasible. That comes into our province. Professor Kellar. Call it scientific sabotage, if you will. Call it anything you want. We should have put it into practice long ago. Now it's too late."
There was a commotion just outside the study. The door was flung open and two men burst in, sweeping Francis to one side.
One was the Secretary of Defense, and the other was General Matt Hawthorne.
Immediately after the first radio flash had hit their underground headquarters they had conferred briefly with the President. Then they had boarded a jet for San Diego, where an Army helicopter had picked them up and dropped them on Palomar.
General Hawthorne's face was livid.
"Damn it, Doctor, what the hell do you think you've done?" He pounded his fist on Dr. Dawson's desk. "Didn't you ever hear of something we call military security?"
"Yes, General," replied the Old Man quietly, "I have."
"Then why didn't you check with us before you released this information? The press and radio people went crazy on us -- rushed the story through before our censors had a chance to stop 'em!"
David saw Kellar's face out of the corner of his eye. It was almost contorted with hate and contempt for Hawthorne. But the Old Man was unruffled as he answered:
"Rather like trying to stop an avalanche with a red pencil, isn't it, General? Besides," he continued calmly, "it was precisely in the interests of security that my colleagues and I released the announcement when we did."
Hawthorne began to retort hotly, but here the Secretary of Defense stepped in. A tall, thin, hawk-faced man, and a former insurance company executive, the Secretary was noted for his brilliant administrative ability and his coolness under pressure.
But now his face was flushed; he chewed his cigar nervously and spoke rapidly, jerkily, as though his mind were busy groping for a solution and had not yet caught up with his tongue.
"Dr. Dawson, we were on the verge of attacking the Soviet Union. As you know, there was a meeting near New York "
"He knows it all right," interrupted Hawthorne angrily. "His boy here, Hughes, broke my orders and didn't show up. And by God, planet or no planet, I'm going to prefer charges "
The Secretary looked annoyed, silenced Hawthorne with a wave of his hand.
"Let me finish. General." He turned back to the Old Man. "To repeat, Doctor, we were on the verge of attacking Russia, on the honest premise that it was in our best interests. We were in the process of convincing the President himself that this was the wise course to take, when your bulletin came through. You must realize, you must be aware of the disastrous effect it will have. Our men are at strategic outposts everywhere, ready for action. When they hear about this -- this new planet -- their morale will break down -- their discipline crumble. There's sure to be a wave of hysteria, perhaps some sort of mass panic. Our men may simply throw down their weapons, leave their posts, and head for home, a demoralized mob." His voice rose a little. "And you, Doctor, speak of releasing this bulletin in the interests of security!"
"My colleagues and I, Mr. Secretary, were thinking of world security rather than just national security."
Hawthorne stepped in, his face a mottled red, and thrust it close to the Old Man's belligerently. "You say that, knowing that our whole military setup, let alone our war industries, may melt away overnight? Christ, man, don't you realize that'll leave us wide open for attack?"
"Attack?" said the Old Man softly. "Attack by whom?"
"By the enemy -- by the Reds. Who else?"
For a moment Dr. Dawson did not reply. David watched the Old Man's face closely. He thought he saw a flicker of amusement pass over it for the second time that day. His blue-veined hands toyed with a letter opener, and he tapped it in a kind of rhythmic beat on the desk.
"Gentlemen, apparently you didn't hear the President speak on the air a few minutes ago. He himself has pointed out that the threat of war is over. As for myself, I am an astronomer, not a military man. Believe me, I appreciate your concern for the national safety. But you have mentioned the enemy and it is here I must ask you. General Hawthorne and Mr. Secretary, a pertinent question."
The Secretary's eyes narrowed. "Well?"
"What do you think the men in the enemy armies will do, gentlemen, when they hear of the coming catastrophe?"
The red slowly faded from Hawthorne's face. The Secretary, caught o -- £E guard, stared at Dr. Dawson.
"As you implied, Mr. Secretary, the men in our armed forces are human and will certainly react hy throwing down their arms and going home. But the men in the Soviet armies are human, too, and they will do precisely the same thing. As I see it, this planet is not only scheduled to shatter the earth, but it will shatter some of the primitive notions we have nurtured since history began. Among other things, it will certainly vitiate the will to kill, to destroy each other."
The general and the Secretary listened, hypnotized, as the Old Man continued:
"In short, gentlemen. Planet Y will automatically make a human dream of many centuries come true. It will outlaw war. Men who are threatened with a common disaster do not attack each other. After all, what is there to fight about now? A future? There is no future. Territory? Natural resources? Political systems? Ideology?" Dr. Dawson shrugged. "These things are meaningless now."
The Old Man was magnificent, David marveled. He had his two visitors riveted to the spot; they were unable to move, to say anything. David noted that Hawthorne's mouth had sagged open ludicrously and that the Cabinet oflScer's cigar had gone out.
Finally the Secretary of Defense stirred, fumbled for his hat, and said quietly:
"You'll forgive us. Doctor, if we have to rush off now. The President has instructed us to report back to him immediately." He hesitated and then added hopefully, almost wistfully: "If we could only tell him that there was some possibility, however remote, that this catastrophe may not occur . . ."
The Old Man shook his head patiently. "I'm sorry, Mr. Secretary. But I assure you, my colleagues and I have gone over our calculations, checked and rechecked them numberless times. And there is no escape."
The two men walked slowly out of the study, into the hall of the observatory itself, through the crowd of silent, white-faced onlookers who had come to Palomar.
And David, as he watched General Hawthorne's retreating back, was fascinated by the four star
s on each shoulder. When the general had come in the stars had been highly polished; they had glittered brightly in the light.
Now, as he left, the stars seemed suddenly to have become a little dull, as though they had tarnished during the general's brief stay in the room.
It was late afternoon.
Carol and David were still miles away from San Diego when they heard the first faint tolling of the city's bells.
All along the road coming down, at Rincon, Valley Center, Escondido, Rancho Santa Fe, Solana Beach, and Del Mar, they had heard the bells.
Listen to the bells, thought David, listen to the bells. Bells went with wedding days. And this was his wedding day.
But these were funeral bells.
He had intended to postpone this wedding trip to Dago. They were going crazy back at the observatory. There were a thousand things to do, and he had volunteered to stay. But the Old Man would have none of it. He had insisted that David and Carol go through with their plans. And now, thought David, here he was with his bride beside him in the car, and they were racing down the Highway to the Stars to a justice of the peace and a wedding night in Dago. And tomorrow they would return to Palomar.
Listen to the bells. . . .
He was getting married this evening, and it was incongruous, almost ridiculous, on this day of all days. It was just too damned normal to be believable. Getting married was normal, if anything was. You said "I do" and she said "I do" and you went somewhere and had your honeymoon, and after that you settled down and planned for the future.
Or at least that was the way it had been in the old days.
But the old days were yesterday, and yesterday was another age, another era. Yesterday was the day before the Year One. One, two. Christmas Day, 1962.
Now you planned nothing, and there was no future.
Two years and a month. Twenty-five months. It was like walking through twenty-five separate rooms, each smaller and narrower, each with less ventilation and lower ceilings, each progressively colder and darker, each pressing downward and inward, until the last room.
And from this there would be no other escape, no other room.
"David," said Carol. "Listen to the bells."
They sounded nearer now, clearer. They were a great chorus of discordant calamity, wafted through the thin clear air by a hundred bronze mouths. They clashed and clanged and rang; they cried and wailed and sobbed. They welled up from the distant city and rippled across the plain and echoed faintly through the mountain canyons.
Ring out the old, ring in the new.
It was just getting dark when they drove into San Diego.
It was a different kind of darkness from what they had ever known or seen before. It was a darkness deafened and desecrated and made discordant with the awful constant clamor of the tolling bells. It had the feel and the texture and the weight of a great shroud.
It was a darkness of a special quality.
Every house in the city was ablaze with light, as though each held a mourners' wake.
The rooftops were black with people staring up at the sky, staring at something they could not see but knew was there. They seemed to be waiting in a kind of feverish anticipation, as though half expecting that the wildcat planet would somehow appear among the stars and plummet down upon the earth ahead of schedule.
Those who were not on the rooftops swarmed into the streets, thousands upon thousands of them, blocking traffic, moving aimlessly, mechanically, going nowhere.
And they, too, stared up at the sky.
They were close-packed and dense, men, women, and children, like animals huddled together for comfort and protection. They moved and swirled and eddied in an endless crowd, craning their necks upward. They were silent and sullen now, walking like automatons, shuMng along with slow and dragging steps.
But it was there within them, the threat of explosion, of awful hysteria, of terrible violence. It was ugly and alive in their white faces and frightened eyes. It bubbled and seethed and brewed and waited.
The din was deafening. The bells rang, seemed to grow louder by the hour. Horns honked as busses and cars moved by inches through the seething crowd. Newsboys hawked extras shrilly, with screaming headlines: END OF WORLD . . . PLANET HEADED FOR EARTH . . . DOOMSDAY, CHRISTMAS, 1962 . . . READ ALL ABOUT IT!
It was the only story in the newspapers; there was nothing else. There were pictures of Dr. Dawson, of Palomar Observatory, of the great telescope, a blown-up reproduction of the fatal spot of light.
The theater marquees blazed, the stores were brightly illuminated, the neon signs in the bars and taverns blinked reddened invitation.
But they were empty and abandoned. The people were on the rooftops or in the streets, out in the open, where they could look up and see the sky.
Only the churches were full. They were jammed to capacity, and the crowds choked their doorways and spilled out into the streets and waited in long lines. The wailing of prayer and the sound of lamentation came from their interiors, mixing with the din of the bells.
Already there were a few who had begun to make their peace with God.
David and Carol hardly heard what the justice of the peace had said. He mumbled the words in a kind of daze; his hands shook as he held the book.
He married them and signed the papers and took his fee. He was a man in a trance, going through the motions from force of habit. The chances were that he never really saw them, would never really remember them. Nor would they remember him.
Now David edged the car through the crowds, honking his horn. The people were no longer silent and sullen. Their nerves had been stretched taut, tighter than they could stand, and now they had snapped back the other way. They stopped looking at the sky and started looking at each other. They became animated, articulate, shrill.
There was the smell of hysteria in the air.
The streets turned into bedlam. As David and Carol drove toward their hotel they heard the crash of glass, the delighted yells of a great crowd. Someone threw a stone through a shopwindow, and the idea caught on. Soon they were breaking the windows of all the shops up and down the streets, swarming into the stores, ripping the merchandise from the shelves. Sirens sounded; the police fought the crowds. They surged forward and retreated, surged and retreated. Their faces red, their eyes wild and staring, they fought the police tooth and nail.
People who had never taken a drink, respectable people, middle-class people, solid citizens and regular churchgoers, now crowded the bars and taverns, or staggered in the streets, or lay in the gutters, dead drunk. Horns blared in an earsplitting din, women were openly attacked, the looting became general, shots were fired, cars tipped over, and busses turned on their sides.
The planet ended restraint, turning it into release. The pressure was gone, the emotional floodgates spewed wide open, and the people went wild in a kind of ugly ecstasy. They could soar now; they were free and untrammeled spirits; there was no future to face, only a future to forget.
Eat, drink, and be merry . . .
This was the first night of the Year One.
It was almost dawn now.
No one in the city had slept that night.
Carol and David, for the moment, lay quietly in each other's arms and listened to the sounds of the macabre holiday outside. They were still going on, the violent sounds, the honking of unrestrained horns, the distant sirens, the tolling of far bells, the sound of running feet on the pavement.
The hotel was a beehive; it was alive and awake. Its windows, from top to bottom, were ablaze with light, as though it were the hour after sunset instead of the hour before dawn. From them eddied anonymous voices, shrill, high-pitched in drunken laughter, hysterical, babbling, tinged with a kind of madness.
"To hell with it, Joe. Let it come outa the sky, this goddamn Planet Y. I'll never see it -- wont even know it's there. I'll be stiffer than a haddock for two years, Joe, see what I mean? Get myself so blind I won't be able to see it. Yeah. That's the ticket. A t
wo-year bender -- starting tonight. Have another drink, Joe!"
"Listen, Ann. You wanted that fur coat? Okay, you'll get it. That trip around the world? Sure. We'll go. Anything you want, baby. We're on the merry-go-round, honey. What've we got to lose? Sure, we'll take every dime we've got out of the bank -- sell the business. Who cares about money now? Who's saving for the future now? What future? We got two years to have fun in, baby -- two years. Let's start now, baby. You know what I mean. It's been a long time. Pull down the shades, baby. We're wasting time."
"The funny part of it was, Phil, this insurance agent was up to see me yesterday. Had me sold on a hundred thousand dollars' worth of life insurance. I was going to sign the papers today. Kind of funny, isnt it, when you think of it now? Who in hell would want any life insurance now? For what? Pour me another one, Phil. Make it weak though. I feel a little sick inside."