The Falling Sky

by Pippa Goldschmidt

  ‘What’s that?’ Paula points at a thin, steady dot of light making its way overhead.

  ‘A satellite.’ Satellites are a nuisance for astronomers, their tracks polluting the sky, like fast cars bombing along country lanes.

  ‘You should be called Stella,’ Paula says.

  ‘Hmm?’ Jeanette can’t always keep up with Paula’s twists and turns.

  ‘The starry woman.’

  ‘Oh. Stellar. I see.’ She reaches out to touch Paula’s hand and they continue to lie there, watching occasional flashes of light in the surrounding darkness.

  Pau-la Pau-la Pau-la. Jeanette walks down the street to work, her feet tapping out an easy one-two rhythm. The name brings its own joy, independent of the association with its owner.

  It’s still early on in their relationship, it’s still simple and straightforward to understand. She’s aware that at some point, other elements will have to be included, and the model will get more complicated. There will be aspects she won’t fully understand, probably related to other, earlier, interactions. There are things you simply have to accept, in any models of the physical universe. When she was young, her teachers thought she’d go on and do maths at university, but it was always physics that drew her. Trying to describe the reality, the complexity of what you see around you.

  But right now it’s just Pau-la. When Jeanette strokes her stomach, it quivers like a small animal. Pau-la rests her head on Jeanette’s shoulder when they watch telly together. Paula used to wear contact lenses that made her eyes an improbable but definite shade of sky blue; Pau-la’s eyes are a more tentative and changeable greenish-brown.

  But there is a vague sense of unease, because she still can’t figure out the exact chain of events, the cause and effect that brought them together. They’ve been friends for years, after all, so why didn’t it happen earlier? What made it happen when it did? She can’t even remember, although she tries so hard, the first time they met. She conjures up an image of Paula haloed by light, garlanded with flowers, but knows this is a fiction. Most likely it would have been in a pub. She can’t even remember what she thought, or felt, about Paula. But there was one incident shortly after they met, which now seems prescient.

  They were walking along the beach at Musselburgh, one pale evening in summertime. She can’t recall why they were there, but her memory places them on the beach, walking away from the low sun and towards their own long shadows, as they picked their way along the stretches of shells and pebbles.

  ‘They find all sorts of things here. Things get washed up from the past,’ Jeanette said.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Old bottles. Bullet cases. Clay pipes.’

  Paula looked down. ‘All I can see are pebbles and stones.’

  ‘Most of the interesting things are submerged. You have to dig for them,’ suggested Jeanette.

  So Paula obediently crouched down and picked up a stone. ‘Eurgh! It’s filthy!’ she shrieked, and burst out laughing. There was a man watching them further along the beach. Jeanette could see him looking at Paula as she laughed. She nudged Paula, but Paula didn’t seem to notice or care, until it was too late and the man was walking towards them. He stood there in his ratty little jacket and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand before speaking.

  ‘Found anything?’ he asked Paula, smiling. Jeanette guessed he was smiling at his own audacity in speaking to her.

  ‘Only dirt,’ Paula replied, ‘Nothing interesting.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. You can find all sorts along here.’

  ‘Yes, so my friend said.’

  He turned to Jeanette and winked before Paula continued, ‘She also said everything’s usually old and past it round here.’

  Jeanette winked back as the man stumbled past, hissing under his breath, ‘Bloody lezzers.’

  Paula burst out laughing, delighted. ‘Lezzers!’ she screamed. ‘We’re lezzers!’

  Jeanette smiled, but felt shaken. Was her sexuality so obvious? Could people tell? ‘Ssshhh,’ she said, ‘He’ll hear.’

  ‘Good!’

  Paula clutched onto her, still laughing, their shadows merging together.

  Her memory finishes there, leaving them laughing on the beach. She savours it in its innocence, and her present self feels almost jealous of her past self for not knowing what would happen, the unexpected happiness that was waiting in the future.

  But she still can’t attach a clear meaning to this. Did it matter? Was it a foretaste of what was to happen between them? Or was it essentially random? And if she can’t even figure out the past, how can she hope to navigate the future?

  One morning she switches on her computer and finds an email from Richard. He’s applied for her grant. She can’t believe it. He was not one of the people she ever had in mind. Even apart from their personal differences, she doesn’t rate his work. He’s too much of a follower, a data processor. She needs someone who can think for themselves, who can take her initial ideas and create something of their own. She’s never seen any evidence of Richard doing that. He spent his entire PhD churning the handle of his programmes and spewing out data. She doesn’t think he ever actually analysed it.

  But. She needs to tell him that he’s not going to be successful, and tell him nicely. There’s space for him somewhere, on someone’s project. But hers is not the right one. She doesn’t have enough data for a start. He’d flounder.

  It’s coffee time. Before she gets up from her desk, she watches the smooth progression of the second hand on the wall clock, suddenly aware of how time can only be represented by spatial movement. How odd it is to rely on clocks, with their proxy measurement of the passage of time. The real thing is so much more difficult to grasp and understand.

  She walks down the curved stone steps to get some coffee, as she has done hundreds of times before, thinking about her history always intersecting at this place.

  Richard’s sitting in the far corner of the canteen, surrounded by pieces of paper scattered all over the floor. She ignores the other lecturers where they are gathered together and walks over to him. As she gets closer he glances up at her, from beneath his eyelashes. Almost a flirtatious glance, but she notices the pouched, dark skin around his eyes, and guesses that he hasn’t been sleeping well. She needs to speak to him so she perches on the arm of a nearby chair. Now she notices that the pieces of paper are identical to what he sent her, they’re all job applications.

  ‘Richard.’

  He glances at her again and then back at the paper, as if he’s too busy to talk to her.

  ‘Thanks for your application.’ She remembers being told about an apocryphal rejection letter that an Oxford professor is rumoured to use; ‘Thank you for your application. Lots of good people applied for this post and you were not one of them.’ She grins, before realising that this is rather inappropriate. But Richard seems to take heart from this and smiles back, almost shyly, as if he can expect some good news.

  A few weeks ago he told her how many jobs he’d applied for and she’d been secretly shocked at the high number. It was the opposite of bragging about sexual conquests, an admission of how many times you’d tried and failed to seduce would-be employers. She feels for him, but she has to tell him. ‘I’m sorry.’

  There is a silence, before he asks, ‘Have you already done the sift, then?’

  Oh, shit. ‘Sort of.’ She’s not followed the proper process, but it won’t make any difference. He still won’t make it onto her shortlist.

  ‘I thought I’d be in with a chance because of the data… There may be more data in the future, other projects that we could work on together…’

  Is he trying to bribe her or blackmail her? Is there a difference?

  ‘The point of my grant is to work on new projects, get new data, write new papers.’

  ‘Your paper relied on the consortium’s data.’ His voice is almost dreamy now, as if he’s reminiscing about good old days. He’s staring down into his coffee mug now, perhaps to
avoid looking at her. She’s quite irritated now, the paper was helped by her reference to the consortium’s data, but it didn’t exactly rely on it. She knows enough not to contradict him directly, though.

  ‘You can’t read your future in instant coffee,’ she tries to joke. Again, completely inappropriate. She should be professional about this. Clear and brisk, but helpful. ‘Do you want me to help?’ She gestures at the piles of paper.

  He squints up at her. ‘Help?’

  ‘I could read what you’ve written.’

  ‘Just because you’re a step above me in the food chain doesn’t mean you’re better than me.’ He starts scrabbling around to pick up the papers.

  She steps back. ‘I’m only offering because I’ve been through it too.’

  ‘Well, good for you.’ He starts to read something and then looks at her again. ‘Shouldn’t you be at one of your very important meetings?’

  That’s too much. ‘You’re right, I should go.’ As she walks away, she calls out, ‘Good luck with all your other applications!’ and she hopes it sounds bitchy.

  That afternoon the college press officer phones to ask if she can be interviewed at the BBC. Yes, she can. Does she need any help in getting ready? Jeanette knows that the subtext to this question is; does she look recognisably female? Jeanette says that she’s wearing a skirt, and the press officer purrs with gratitude.

  ‘Just like all the other stories that have been hyped up and then sank without trace,’ Jon says when she tells him. ‘A rotating universe, a neutrino-filled universe, anti-matter galaxies.’ He ticks them off one by one on his fingers. ‘Enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame.’

  Silently, she agrees with him.

  Now, as she stands waiting in the BBC office, she looks at the reflection of the sky in the water of the Clyde. Every time a boat goes past, the sky breaks up into little chunks.

  When the news researcher finally appears, she has to unclench her hands, and she’s surprised to see crescents of dark red on her palms.

  The researcher glances over her, making her feel shabby. Her skirt seemed smart in her own office but here, under the sharp lights, it looks dull and used. The researcher’s wearing something so black and shiny that she appears to have been dipped in plastic.

  Jeanette talks about the tenuousness of the results and how it’s really too early to make any grandiose claims. The woman stares down at her notes. ‘But if it’s right now, how can it be wrong in the future?’

  ‘We don’t know if it’s definitely right. All we can say is how likely it is to be right — or wrong.’

  ‘I thought science was about definite answers.’ The woman’s lips form a sad little pout and for a moment Jeanette feels bad about letting her down.

  ‘That’s exactly what science isn’t about,’ she says gently. ‘Usually it’s about quantifying uncertainty.’

  The woman perks up again. ‘The uncertainty principle? Like, nothing’s really there until you observe it?’

  Jeanette tries not to sigh. But the next thing that the researcher says gives her a shock. ‘We’re really pleased because we’ve managed to get David Grant here today. We’re going to interview him alongside you.’

  David Grant? A tinny noise starts up in Jeanette’s head. She can’t immediately remember who David Grant is, but she associates the name with something unpleasant, something wrong.

  ‘He’s come up here all the way from Manchester specially to take part.’

  Ah. She remembers. David Grant is what is politely known as a maverick astronomer, or if you want to be less polite, a loony.

  ‘He’s very excited about your work.’ The researcher is actually smiling now. She thinks she’s doing Jeanette a favour, interviewing her alongside someone who agrees with her. But the researcher doesn’t know what Jeanette knows, that David Grant is the kiss of death for any real astronomer. She’s never actually met him before, but she’s seen him in the distance at conferences, standing by the dirty coffee cups, trying to talk to people. Come to think of it, he was at the Brighton conference. She remembers how she veered away when she almost sat next to him by accident. She didn’t even want to sit next to him then. And now she has to talk to him. On national television.

  In the green room he comes bustling up to her and the researcher introduces them. Jeanette has to shake his hand and only realises how much she’s been sweating, when he wipes his hand theatrically on his trousers.

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ he booms at her. ‘It’s all going to be alright. Don’t worry. We’re going to have fun out there!’

  He takes a step back then and regards her as if she’s on display. Perhaps she is. Too soon, they’re both in the studio, in front of the lights and cameras.

  The interviewer is one of those BBC types who regards science as a joke, done by ‘boffins’. He actually uses this word in his introduction, as he glances at both Jeanette and Grant, over his half-moon glasses.

  ‘The world of astronomy boffins has been turned upside down by the latest discovery that the Big Bang never happened. With me here to explain it all — in simple language for all of us ignoramuses who never got beyond Maths O-grade, haha! — is Dr. Jeanette Smith, from the University of Edinburgh, and David Grant, an amateur astronomer from England.’ He turns to Jeanette and beams at her, ‘Dr. Smith, can you explain to us what it is you found and why it’s so important.’

  Jeanette knows what she has to say, before she gets cut off. She has to bring this down, back to the reality of what she and Maggie actually did find, and away from all this hyperbole. ‘To start with, we haven’t found evidence that the Big Bang is wrong. We’ve just found a couple of peculiar galaxies that appear to be connected.’

  ‘In a way that can’t be possible in the Big Bang theory,’ David Grant chips in and already she wants to hit him. But she manages to carry on.

  ‘As I said, they only appear to be connected. But there’s a lot of uncertainty about this result. The image is very faint. To be really sure of what we’ve found we need to get some more detailed observations of the stuff that appears to connect the galaxies. Only then can we say more definitely whether the galaxies are connected — or not.’

  ‘Isn’t there going to be a satellite?’ The interviewer looks very pleased with himself.

  ‘Yes. Orion will be able to make a much more definitive study of these galaxies and hopefully answer all our questions.’ She feels her stomach muscles relax slightly. The interviewer turns to Grant and she sneaks a glance around the studio. She catches sight of her image in one of the camera lenses, tiny and glittering and far away. The row of black lenses regarding the three of them as they perch on their chairs in the ersatz room makes her feel as if someone’s at the other end of some microscopes, observing her.

  ‘But just one result can change a theory,’ Grant is saying to the interviewer. ‘Galileo looked at moons orbiting Jupiter and what he saw there shattered the old Earth-centred model of the universe. I think this observation is as important as Galileo’s.’

  ‘Really?’ The interviewer looks sceptical. But Grant isn’t deterred.

  ‘Yes. This could be a turning point in cosmology, one that finally breaks the hegemony of the Big Bang theory and marks a new era.’

  Hegemony? Jeanette is baffled. Don’t they just get data and interpret it according to the model that best fits it? She knows there are standard models, but these are standard for a reason, they’re the ones that best explain the observations.

  ‘So if the Big Bang can’t explain it, then what can?’ Fortunately, the interviewer is still focused on Grant.

  ‘Oh, there are all sorts of possibilities. The plasma universe is one. In this model everything is connected by twisted magnetic fields…’ He’s off. Not even the interviewer can stop him spouting an incontinent stream of alternative theories. Jeanette feels polluted just listening to him. It’s all words. He’s not making any attempt to explain these madcap ideas, they’re just spilling out all over the studio, most likely confirming the
interviewer’s prejudice that science is long words and jargon, designed to exclude ordinary people.

  ‘…C fields.’ He finishes. The interviewer turns to Jeanette, his spectacles have slipped slightly down his nose, giving his face a twisted appearance.

  ‘What are you doing to test all these other…’ he pauses, ‘possibilities?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she says crisply. There is a small pause.

  ‘Nothing?’ repeats the interviewer.

  ‘You see, that’s the problem with the institutionalised approach to science.’ Grant’s face is purple with the effort of getting his views across. ‘Only certain ideas can get accepted, and no one else can get funding.’

  Jeanette carries on as if Grant hasn’t spoken. We already know they’re wrong. The Big Bang model isn’t perfect, but it explains more observations than any other idea, and it makes predictions that can be tested. All we’re doing here is testing one aspect of it. That testing isn’t complete yet.’

  ‘Ah,’ says Grant, and the interviewer’s head bobs back to him. ‘Aaaah, but I know you scientists, you won’t stop looking until you get the result you want.’ He’s actually wagging a finger at her now. ‘You should read your Popper, Dr. Smith…’

  ‘I know all about Popper, Mr. Grant,’ she hisses at him. ‘If you try to use one result to falsify an entire theory, you’d better be pretty damn certain that the result is correct.’

  ‘And that’s all we’ve got time for right now! We’ll have more on this story when the satellite launches.’ There’s no mistaking the look of relief on the interviewer’s face. The camera swings away and the studio goes dark. She and Grant are led off back to the green room, where she goes straight over to the table of drinks. She wants a whisky, but makes do with some water. Fortunately, Grant is standing just slightly too far away for any sort of pretence that they’re going to have a post-interview chummy chat. Her hands are trembling so much that she slops some water onto the table.

  ‘You shouldn’t be so modest, my dear.’ He is going to try and speak to her after all. But modest? She thinks she probably came across as rather arrogant. He continues, ‘You’ve found something extraordinary. Take the credit. It could be the making of you.’