Pi in the Sky

by Fredric Brown

  Pi in the Sky

  Fredric Brown

  Pi in the Sky

  by Fredric Brown

  I

  Roger Jerome Phlutter, for whose absurd surname I offer no defense other than it is genuine, was, at the time of the events of this story, a hard-working clerk in the office of the Cole Observatory.

  He was a young man of no particular brilliance, although he performed his daily tasks assiduously and efficiently, studied the calculus at home for one hour every evening, and hoped some day to become a chief astronomer of some important observatory.

  Nevertheless, our narration of the events of late March in the year 1999 must begin with Roger Phlutter for the good and sufficient reason that he, of all men on earth, was the first observer of the stellar aberration.

  Meet Roger Phlutter.

  Tall, rather pale from spending too much time indoors, thickish, shell-rimmed glasses, dark hair close-cropped in the style of the nineteen nineties, dressed neither particularly well nor badly, smokes cigarettes rather excessively…

  At a quarter to five that afternoon, Roger was engaged in two simultaneous operations. One was examining, in a blink-microscope, a photographic plate taken late the previous night of a section in Gemini. The other was considering whether or not, on the three dollars remaining of his pay from last week, he dared phone Elsie and ask her to go somewhere with him.

  Every normal young man has undoubtedly, at some time or other, shared with Roger Phlutter his second occupation, but not everyone has operated or understands the operation of a blink-microscope. So let us raise our eyes from Elsie to Gemini.

  A blink-mike provides accommodation for two photographic plates taken of the same section of sky hut at different times. These plates are carefully juxtaposed and the operator may alternately focus his vision, through the eyepiece, first upon one and then upon the other, by means of a shutter. If the plates arc identical, the operation of the shutter reveals nothing, but if one of the dots on the second plate differs from the position it occupied on the first, it will call attention to itself by seeming to jump back and forth as the shutter is manipulated.

  Roger manipulated the shutter, and one of the dots jumped. So did Roger. He tried it again, forgetting—as we have—all about Elsie for the moment, and the dot jumped again. It jumped almost a tenth of a second. Roger straightened up and scratched his head. He lighted a cigarette, put it down on the ash tray, and looked into the blink-mike again. The dot jumped again when he used the shutter.

  Harry Wesson, who worked the evening shift, had just come into the office and was hanging up his topcoat. “Hey, Harry!” Roger said. “There’s something wrong with this blinking blinker.”

  “Yeah?” said I Harry.

  “Yeah. Pollux moved a tenth of a second.”

  “Yeah?” said harry. “Well, that’s about right for parallax. Thirty-two light years—parallax of Pollux is point one o one. Little over a tenth of a second, so if your comparison plate was taken about six months ago, when the earth was on the other side of her orbit, that’s about right.”

  “But, Harry, the comparison plate was taken night before last. They’re twenty-four hours apart.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Look for yourself.”

  It wasn’t quite five o’clock yet, but Harry Wesson magnanimously overlooked that and sat down in front of the blink-mike. He manipulated the shutter, and Pollux obligingly jumped.

  There wasn’t any doubt about its being Pollux, for it was far and away the brightest dot on the plate. Pollux is a star of 1.2 magnitude, one of the twelve brightest in the sky and by far the brightest in Gemini. And none of the faint stars around it had moved at all.

  “Um,” said Harry Wesson. He frowned and looked again. “One of those plates is misdated, that’s all. I’ll check into it first thing.”

  “Those plates aren’t misdated,” Roger said doggedly. “I dated them myself.”

  “That proves it,” Harry told him. “Go on home. It’s five o’clock. If Pollux moved a tenth of a second last night, I’ll move it back for you.”

  So Roger left.

  He felt uneasy somehow, as though he shouldn’t have. He couldn’t put his finger on just what worried him, but something did. He decided to walk home instead of taking the bus.

  Pollux was a fixed star. It couldn’t have moved a tenth of a second in twenty-four hours.

  “Let’s see—thirty-two light years.” Roger said to himself. “Tenth of a second. Why, that would be movement several times faster than the speed of light. Which is positively silly!”

  Wasn’t it?

  He didn’t feel much like studying or reading tonight. Was three dollars enough to take out Elsie?

  The three balls of a pawnshop loomed ahead, and Roger succumbed to temptation. He pawned his watch and then phoned Elsie. “Dinner and a show?”

  “Why certainly, Roger.”

  So until he took her home at one-thirty, he managed to forget astronomy. Nothing odd about that. It would have been strange if he had managed to remember it.

  But his feeling of restlessness came back as soon as he left her. At first, he didn’t remember why. He knew merely that he didn’t feel quite like going home yet.

  The corner tavern was still open, and he dropped in for a drink. He was having his second one when he remembered. He ordered a third.

  “Hank,” he said to the bartender. “You know Pollux?”

  “Pollux who?” asked Hank.

  “Skip it,” said Roger. He had another drink and thought it over. Yes, he’d made a mistake somewhere. Pollux couldn’t have moved.

  He went outside and started to walk home. He was almost there when it occurred to him look up at Pollux. Not that, with the naked eye, he could detect a displacement of a tenth of a second, but he felt curious.

  He looked up, allocated himself by the sickle of Leo, and then found Gemini—Castor and Pollux were the only stars in Gemini visible, for it wasn’t a particularly good night for seeing. They were there, all right, but he thought they looked a little farther apart than usual. Absurd, because that would be a matter of degrees, not minutes or seconds.

  He stared at them for a while and then looked across at the Dipper. Then he stopped walking and stood there. He closed his eyes and opened them again, carefully.

  The Dipper just didn’t look right. It was distorted. There seemed to be more space between Alioth and Mizar, in the handle than between Mizar and Alkaid. Phecda and Merak, in the bottom of the Dipper, were closer together, making the angle between the bottom and the lip steeper. Quite a bit steeper.

  Unbelievingly, he ran an imaginary line from the pointers, Merak and Dubhe, to the North Star. The line curved. It had to. If he ran it straight, it missed Polaris by maybe five degrees.

  Breathing a bit hard, Roger took off his glasses and polished them very carefully with his handkerchief. He put them back on again, and the Dipper was still crooked. So was Leo when he looked back to it. At any rate, Regulus wasn’t where it should be by a degree or two. A degree or two! At the distance of Regulus. Was it sixty-five light years? Something like that.

  Then, in time to save his sanity, Roger remembered that he’d been drinking. He went home without daring to look upward again. He went to bed but he couldn’t sleep.

  He didn’t feel drunk. He grew more excited, wide awake.

  Roger wondered if he dared phone the observatory. Would he sound drunk over the phone? The devil with whether he sounded drunk or not, he finally decided. He went to the telephone in his pajamas.

  “Sorry,” said the operator.

  “What d’ya mean, sorry?”

  “I cannot give you that number,” said the operator in dulcet tones. And then, “I am sorry. We do not have that
information.”

  He got the chief operator and the information. Cole Observatory had been so deluged with calls from amateur astronomers that they had found it necessary to request the telephone company to discontinue all incoming calls save long distance ones from other observatories.

  “Thanks,” said Roger. “Will you get me a cab?”

  It was an unusual request but the chief operator obliged and got him a cab.

  He found the Cole Observatory in a state resembling a madhouse.

  The following morning most newspapers carried the news. Most of them gave it two or three inches on an inside page but the facts were there.

  The facts were that a number of stars, in general the brightest ones, within the past forty-eight hours had developed noticeable proper motions.

  “This does not imply,” quipped the New York Spotlight, “that their motions have been in any way improper in the “past. ‘Proper motion’ to an astronomer means the movement of a star across the face of the sky with relation to other stars. Hitherto, a star named ‘Barnard’s Star’ in the constellation Ophiuchus has exhibited the greatest proper motion of any known star, moving at the rate of ten and a quarter seconds a year. ‘Barnard’s Star’ is not visible to the naked eye.”

  Probably no astronomer on earth slept that day.

  The observatories locked their doors, with their full staffs on the inside, and admitted no one, except occasional newspaper reporters who stayed a while and went away with puzzled faces, convinced at last that something strange was happening.

  Blink-microscopes blinked, and so did astronomers. Coffee was consumed in prodigious quantities. Police riot squads were called to six United States observatories. Two of these calls were occasioned by attempts to break in on the part of frantic amateurs without. The other four were summoned to quell fist-fights developing out of arguments within the observatories themselves. The office of Lick Observatory was a shambles, and James Truwell, Astronomer Royal of England, was sent to London Hospital with a mild concussion, the result of having a heavy photographic plate smashed over his head by an irate subordinate.

  But these incidents were exceptions. The observatories, in general, were well-ordered madhouses.

  The center of attention in the more enterprising ones was the loudspeaker in which reports from the Eastern Hemisphere could be relayed to the inmates. Practically all observatories kept open wires to the night side of earth, where the phenomena were still under scrutiny.

  Astronomers under the night skies of Singapore, Shanghai, and Sydney did their observing, as it were, directly into the business end of a long-distance telephone hook-up.

  Particularly of interest were reports from Sydney and Melbourne, whence came reports on the southern skies not visible—even at night—from Europe or the United States. The Southern Cross was, by these reports, a cross no longer, its Alpha and Beta being shifted northward. Alpha and Beta Centauri, Canopus and Achernar, allshowed considerable proper motion—all, generally speaking, northward. Triangulum Amtrak and the Magellanic Clouds-were undisturbed. Sigma Octanis, the weak pole star, had not moved.

  Disturbance of the southern sky, then, was much less than in the northern one, in point of the number of stars displaced. However, relative proper motion of the stars which were disturbed was greater. While the general direction of movement of the few stars which did move was northward, their paths were not directly north, nor did they converge upon any exact point in space.

  United States and European astronomers digested these facts and drank more coffee.

  II

  Evening papers, particularly in America, showed greater awareness that something indeed unusual was happening in the skies. Most of them moved the story to the front page—but not the banner headlines—giving it a half-column with a runover that was long or short, depending upon the editor’s luck in obtaining quotable statements from astronomers.

  The statements, when obtained, were invariably statements of fact and not of opinion. The facts themselves, said these gentlemen, were sufficiently startling, and opinions would be premature. Wait and see. Whatever was happening was happening fast.

  “How fast?” asked an editor.

  “Faster than possible,” was the reply.

  Perhaps it is unfair to say that no editor procured expressions of opinion thus early. Charles Wangren, enterprising editor of The Chicago Blade, spent a small fortune in long-distance telephone calls. Out of possibly sixty attempts, he finally reached the chief astronomers at five observatories. He asked each of them the same question.

  “What, in your opinion, is a possible cause, any possible cause, of the stellar movements of the last night or two?”

  He tabulated the results.

  “I wish I knew.”

  —Geo. F. Stubbs, Tripp Observatory, Long Island.

  “Somebody or something is crazy, and I hope it’s me—I mean I.”

  —Henry Collister McAdams, Lloyd Observatory, Boston.

  “What’s happening is impossible. There can’t be any cause.”

  —Letton Tischauer Tinney, Burgoyne Observatory, Albuquerque.

  “I’m looking for an expert on astrology. Know one?”

  —Patrick R. Whitaker, Lucas Observatory, Vermont.

  Sadly studying this tabulation, which had cost him $187.35, including tax, to obtain, Editor Wangren signed a voucher to cover the long distance calls and then dropped his tabulation into the wastebasket. He telephoned his regular space-rates writer on scientific subjects.

  “Can you give me a series of articles—two-three thousand words each—on all this astronomical excitement?”

  “Sure,” said the writer. “But what excitement?” It transpired that he’d just got back from a fishing trip and had neither read a newspaper nor happened to look up at the sky. But he wrote the articles. He even got sex appeal into them through illustrations, by using ancient star-charts, showing the constellations in deshabille, by reproducing certain famous paintings, such as “The Origin of the Milky Way,” and by using a photograph of a girl in a bathing suit sighting a hand telescope, presumably at one of the errant stars. Circulation of The Chicago Blade increased by 21.7 percent.

  It was five o’clock again in the office of the Cole Observatory, just twenty-four and a quarter hours after the beginning of all the commotion. Roger Phlutter—yes, we’re back to him again—woke up suddenly when a hand was placed on his shoulder.

  “Go on home, Roger,” said Mervin Armbruster, his boss, in a kindly tone.

  Roger sat up suddenly.

  “But, Mr. Armbruster,” he said, “I’m sorry I fell asleep.”

  “Bosh,” said Armbruster. “You can’t stay here forever, none of us can. Go on home.”

  Roger Phlutter went home. But when he’d taken a bath, he felt more restless than sleepy. It was only six-fifteen. He phoned Elsie.

  “I’m awfully sorry, Roger, but I have another date. What’s going on, Roger? The stars, I mean.”

  “Gosh, Elsie—they’re moving. Nobody knows.”

  “But I thought all the stars moved,” Elsie protested. “The sun’s a star, isn’t it? Once you told me the sun was moving toward a point in Samson.”

  “Hercules.”

  “Hercules, then. Since you said all the stars were moving, what is everybody getting excited about?”

  “This is different,” said Roger. “Take Canopus. It’s started moving at the rate of seven light years a day. It can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” said Roger patiently, “nothing can move faster than light.”

  “But if it is moving that fast, then it can,” said Elsie. “Or else maybe your telescope is wrong or something. Anyway, it’s pretty far off, isn’t it?”

  “A hundred and sixty light years. So far away that we see it a hundred and sixty years ago.”

  “Then maybe it isn’t moving at all,” said Elsie. “I mean, maybe it quit moving a hundred and fifty years ago and you’re getting all
excited about something that doesn’t matter any more because it’s all over with. Still love me?”

  “I sure do, honey. Can’t you break that date?”

  “’Fraid not, Roger. But I wish I could.”

  He had to be content with that. He decided to walk uptown to eat.

  It was early evening, and too early to see stars overhead, although the clear blue sky was darkening. When the stars did come out tonight, Roger knew few of the constellations would be recognizable.

  As he walked, he thought over Elsie’s comments and decided that they were as intelligent as anything he’d heard at the Cole Observatory. In one way, they’d brought out one angle he’d never thought of before, and that made it more incomprehensible.

  All these movements had started the same evening—yet they hadn’t. Centauri must have started moving four years or so ago, and Rigel five hundred and forty years ago when Christopher Columbus was still in short pants, if any, and Vega must have started acting up the year he—Roger, not Vega—was born, twenty-six years ago. Each star out of the hundreds must have started on a date in exact relation to its distance from Earth. Exact relation, to a light-second, for check-ups of all the photographic plates taken night before last indicated that all the new stellar movements had started at four-ten a.m., Greenwich time. What a mess!

  Unless this meant that light, after all, had infinite velocity.

  If it didn’t have—and it is symptomatic of Roger’s perplexity that he could postulate that incredible “if “—then -then what? Things were just as puzzling as before.

  Mostly he felt outraged that such events should be happening.

  He went into a restaurant and sat down. A radio was blaring out the latest composition in dissarythm, the new quarter-tone dance music in which chorded woodwinds provided background patterns for the mad melodies pounded on tuned tomtoms. Between each number and the next a frenetic announcer extolled the virtues of a product.