by Max Ehrlich
There was silence for a while. Ellender's gray eyes searched David's, his eyes probing deep. He saw the demand in the younger man's eyes, the burning desire to know.
"Sit down, David," he said finally.
Ellender lit a cigar very deliberately, waved out the match, and dropped it in an ash tray. Then he leaned back in his chair, fingering the piece of paper on his desk, as though searching for a way to begin.
"I'll have to tell you, David," he said. "I'll have to tell you the whole story now. You know something now, but not enough. In this case -- a little knowledge is a dangerous thing." Ellender paused a moment. "Later on, when I've finished, you'll know why."
"Yes?"
"Back in the beginning, back in November of 1960, I received a phone call at the observatory at Harvard. It was Dr. Dawson calling from Palomar. He told me of his new discovery and asked me to come to Palomar at once. Naturally, this was sensational news. I dropped everything else and took the first plane out that I could get."
"Then you didn't know about the path of Planet Y when he phoned. Dr. Ellender?"
"No. Not then. It was only when we gathered at the conference that night that Dr. Dawson broke the news. It was then we learned that Planet Y would just miss crashing into the earth on its heavenly journey. Dr. Dawson insisted on our checking his calculations to make sure that he was right, that it would miss."
Dr. Ellender fell silent for a moment. Then he put down his cigar and said quietly:
"It was then, David, that Dr. Dawson asked for our collaboration in a gigantic hoax."
David leaned forward, his eyes riveted on Ellender's immobile face.
"You mean, to misinform the world -- to tell people that Planet Y and the earth would meet?"
"Yes. I'll never forget Dr. Dawson then, David, as he stood up and began to speak. His eyes blazed, and there was the look in them -- well, of a prophet. He told us that this was our chance, the only chance to save the world from destroying itself. It was a heaven-made opportunity, he said, to save men from their own folly, from blowing themselves up with atomic bombs." Ellender's face was rapt. "We listened. We sat there without stirring, and listened. Dr. Dawson went on. He pointed out that this, this objective, was worth everything, the complete sacrifice of our scientific integrity, everything. Our duty now was not to truth, but to humanity. We who sat there, we astronomers, knowing what we knew, had the power to save the world. It meant that we had to lie to the world and deceive it. It meant that we had to enter into a great conspiracy."
"I see."
"Of course the proposal stunned us. In effect, we were being asked to participate in a great and colossal lie. But then Dr. Dawson pointed out that we, as scientists, could not afford to let things slip out of our hands this time. We could not afford to make the same mistake as the nuclear scientists who had failed to weigh the social consequences of their discovery and had given the atom over into irresponsible hands. War was imminent. The first bombs might drop at any moment. We had to act fast. And we did."
Now, out of the mist of David's memory, came something Dr. Dawson had said to Professor Kellar that night at the Big House. Now it was clear, now it added up. He heard the voice of the Old Man again:
"Professor Kellar, 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."
David heard Ellender as he went on:
"And so we released the joint announcement that there would be a cosmic clash on Christmas Day of 1962 the date when the two planets would be nearest each other. We knew the consequences of such an announcement would be staggering, its effect shattering. We knew that there would be suicides, that few if any children would be bom. But on the scales, the cost in human life was trivial compared to that of an atomic war."
David stirred. "How did you know some research astronomer -- some man who wasn't present there that night -- would not rise to dispute your calculations on the basis of his own?"
"We took a chance on that, David," answered Ellender. "And it was a desperate gamble. But the margin of difference was so small -- almost infinitesimal -- that even a crack research astronomer might have doubted his own figures. And we counted on Dr. Dawson's prestige and our own to add weight to our conclusion. As it turned out, we were lucky."
"And so you kept the secret within the group? You didn't extend the conspiracy to anyone else?"
"No. We entered a solemn pact, David, that we would tell no one, not even those close to us, not even our immediate colleagues, not even our own wives. That is why Dr. Dawson did not tell his wife of the lie we had created, and that is why he did not tell you. We knew that if the truth of our hoax ever got beyond our own small circle it would somehow leak out and spread, and that would be the end. A secret like this, we reasoned, was too big, too important, to hide for very long. Its possession, under the pressure of the Big Eye, under the stresses and strains it would bring about, would be almost unbearable. Only we would know it, we decided that night, only we jvould live with it. And when we died, it would die with us."
Now David remembered the Old Man on the night Emily Dawson had died. Dr. Dawson knew, and he might have saved his wife by assuring her that there was a future to fight for, and live for, but he had kept silent. He had kept silent and watched her die, and it had been too much for him. And so he had gone to the top of the telescope to die. But even when his mind had gone, he had kept the secret and died with it.
Dr. Ellender was watching David steadily. Finally he rose and began to pace the floor.
"Well, David, now you know. Now -- you know everything. You discovered our hoax by accident, and now you are one of us."
"Yes."
"Now," continued Ellender, "we have seen an exciting new world come to pass in the last two years. Now that the Big Eye is passing away, almost every second woman on the street is bearing a child; a new generation will be born. Our hope is that as the elders die out the old concepts of greed and power will die with them, while they are still imder the influence of the miracle. Then the new generation, trained in the concepts of this new world, and never knowing any other, will take it on from there."
Ellender turned to the desk, picked up the slip of paper, and handed it to David.
"Well, David, that's all," said Ellender quietly. "I ask only this of you. Say nothing of our conspiracy to anyone -- not even your own wife. Take Avhat you know to the graveyard, as we will. Let the people go on believing that they have seen a miracle. If they ever find out the truth they will be disillusioned. They will go back to building atom bombs, to their prejudices and ancient fears, to wars and the same old destructive insanity. Let them believe that they were saved from the Big Eye only by divine will. Let them believe that they have been given a last chance -- to make good. Let them have their miracle."
David nodded. He shook hands with the shaggy, gray-eyed man and then walked out along the corridor to the observatory door.
As he stood on the threshold his eye strayed up toward the heavens.
The Big Eye was still there, but it was a pin point now, and very far away.
Slowly David Hughes reached into his pocket, took out the piece of paper, tore it into shreds, and threw the fragments into the wind.
Then he walked out into the night.
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