Hard-Luck Diggings: The Early Jack Vance, Volume One
Page 24
“Honest to Pete?” Sam glanced politely around the sky.
“Yes.” I looked at my watch. “Astronomers call them the Perseids. Every year about this time we run into a meteoric shower which seems to come from the constellation of Perseus—right up there. A little later in the year come the Leonids, from Leo.”
Sam shook his head admiringly. “My mother’s nuts on that stuff, but I didn’t know she got it from you guys.” He turned to the trooper. “How about that? All the time I thought these guys up at the observatory was—well, kinda passing the time, but now Professor Sisley tells me that they put out these Sign of the Zodiac books—you know, don’t-invest-money-with-a-blonde-woman-today stuff. Real practical dope.”
The trooper said, “What do you know? I always figured that stuff for so much hogwash.”
“Of course it is,” I said heatedly. “All foolishness. I said that was the constellation Leo up there, not the ‘sign of Leo’!” I checked the time. About thirty seconds. “I’ll have five gallons of ethyl, Sam.”
“Right,” said Sam. “Can you back up a bit? Wait! I guess the hose will reach…” He stood facing the direction I wished him to face.
Glare lit the sky; a flaming gout of white fire plunged down from the heavens, followed an instant later by a flat orange smear of light.
“Heavens to Betsy,” cried Sam, standing with his mouth open and the hose in his hand, “what was that?”
“A meteor,” I said. “A shooting star.”
“That was a humdinger,” the trooper said. “You don’t see many that close!”
Out of the sky came a sharp report, an explosion.
Sam shook his head and numbly valved gas into the tank. “Looked like that one struck ground right up close to the observatory too.”
“Yes,” I said, “it certainly did. I think I’ll telephone Dr. Patcher and ask if he noticed it.”
“Notice it!” said Sam. “He’s lucky if he got out of the way!”
I went into the station, dropped a dime into the box, called the observatory.
“Sorry,” the operator said a moment later. “There’s no reply.”
I returned outside. “He doesn’t answer. He’s probably up in the cage and can’t be bothered.”
“Cantankerous old devil,” said Sam. “But then—excuse me, Professor—all you astronomers act a little bit odd, one way or another. I don’t mean screwy or anything like that—but just, well, odd. Absent-minded like.”
“Ha, ha,” I said. “That’s where you’re mistaken. I imagine that very few people are as methodical and systematic as I am.”
Sam shrugged. “I can’t argue with you, Doc.”
I got into my car and drove through town toward the University; I parked in front of the Faculty Club, walked into the lounge, and ordered a pot of tea.
John Dalrymple of the English Department joined me. “I say, Sisley, something in your line—saw a whacking great fire-ball a moment or two ago. Lit up the entire sky, marvellous thing.”
“Yes, I saw it at the service station. It apparently struck ground somewhere up near the observatory. This is the time of year for them, you know.”
Dalrymple rubbed his chin. “Seems to me I see ’em all the time.”
“Oh indeed! But these are the Perseids, a special belt of meteorites, or perhaps, a small comet traversing a regular orbit. The earth, entering this orbit, collides with the rocks and pebbles that make up the comet. When we watch, it seems as if the meteors are coming from the constellation of Perseus—hence we call them Perseids.”
Dalrymple rose to his feet. “Well put, old man, awfully interesting and all that, but I’ve got something to say to Benjamin. See you again.”
“Good evening, Dalrymple.”
I read a magazine, played a game of chess with Hodges of the Economics Department, and discovered it was twelve-thirty. I rose to my feet. “Excuse me; Dr. Patcher’s alone at the observatory. I think I’ll call and find out how long he’s going to be.”
I called the observatory once more, and was told, “Sorry, sir, no answer.”
“He’s probably up in the cage,” I told Hodges. “If he gets busy, he refuses to move.”
“Rather crusty old bird, isn’t he?”
“Not the easiest person in the world to work with. No doubt but what he has his good points. Well, good-night, Hodges; thanks for the game. I think I’ll snooze a bit in one of the chairs before heading up the hill. I’m due at three or thereabouts.”
At two o’clock Jake the night janitor aroused me. “Everybody’s gone home, sir, and the heat’s been turned off. Don’t know as you’d want to catch your death of cold sitting here.”
“No, by all means. Thank you, Jake.” I looked at my watch. “I must be off to work.”
“You and me,” said Jake, “we keep strange hours.”
“The best time of the day is night,” I said. “By day, of course, I mean the sidereal day.”
“Oh, I understand you, sir. I’m used to hearing all manner of strange talk, and I understand lots better than some of ’em think.”
“I’m sure you do, Jake.”
“The things I’ve heard, Mr. Sisley.”
“Yes, interesting indeed. Well, good-night, Jake. I must be off to work.”
“Getcher coat, Mr. Sisley?”
“Thank you, Jake.”
The night was glorious beyond description. Stars, stars, stars—magnificent flowers of heaven, spurting pips of various lights down from their appointed places. I know the night skies as I know my face; I know all the lore, the fable, the mystery. I know where to expect Arcturus, in one corner of the Great Diamond, with Denebola to the side, Spica below, Cor Caroli above. I know Argo Navis and the Northern Cross, sometimes called Cygnus, and the little rocking-horse of Lyra, with Vega at the head. I know how to sight down the three stars in Aquila, with Altair at the center, to find Fomalhaut, when it comes peering briefly over the southern horizon. I know the Lair of the Howling Dog, with Vindemiatrix close by; I can find Algol the demon star and Mira the Wonderful on the spine of Cetus the whale. I know Orion and his upraised arm, with the river Eridanus winding across twenty million light-years of desolation. Ah, the stars! Poetry the poor day-dweller never dreams of! Poetry in the star names: Alpheta, Achernar, Alpheratz; Canopus, Antares, Markab; Sirius, Rigel, Bellatrix; Aldebaran, Betelgeuse, Fomalhaut; Alphard, Spica, Procyon; Deneb Kaitos, Alpha Centauri: rolling magnificent sounds, each king of a myriad worlds. And now, with old Dog Patcher gone to his reward, the heavens were mine, to explore at my leisure; possibly with the help of young Katkus, who would be promoted to my place, when I became head of the department.
I drove up the familiar road, winding among aromatic eucalyptus, and breasted over the edge of the parking area.
The observatory was as I had left it, with Patcher’s shiny old sedan pressed close to the wall, much more lonesome and pathetic than ever Patcher’s body would look.
But I must not cry out the alarm too quickly; first I had one or two matters to take care of.
I found my flashlight and walked out on the slope behind the observatory. I knew approximately where to look and exactly what I was looking for—and there it was: a bit of cardboard, a scrap of red paper, a length of stick. Everything was proceeding as I had planned, and after all, why should it not? It is very easy to kill a man, so I find. I merely had chosen one of many ways, perhaps a trifle more elaborate than necessary, but it seemed such a fitting end for old Dog Patcher. I could have arranged for his car to have left the road; there would have been precedent in the death of Professor Harlow T. Kane, Patcher’s predecessor as Senior Astronomer, who had lost his life in just such a manner…So the thoughts ran through my head as I burned the stick and cardboard and paper, and scattered the ashes.
I returned to the observatory, sauntered inside, looked over the big reflector with a sense of proprietorship…About time now for the alarm.
I wandered outside, turned my flashlight on the body. Ever
ything just so. I ran back in, telephoned the sheriff’s office, since the observatory is outside city limits. “Sheriff?”
A sleepy voice grumbled, “What in Sam Hill’s the idea, waking me up this time of night?”
“This is Professor Sisley up at the observatory. Something terrible has happened! I’ve just discovered the body of Dr. Patcher!”
The sheriff was a fat and amiable man, much more concerned with his take from slot machines and poker rooms than the prevention of crime. He arrived at the observatory with a doctor. They stood looking down at the body, the sheriff holding a flashlight, neither one showing zest or enthusiasm.
“Looks like he’s been beaned with a rock,” said the sheriff. “Find out how long he’s been dead, will you, Doc?”
He turned to me. “Just what happened, Professor?”
“It looks to me,” I said, “as if he’s been struck by a meteorite.”
“A meteorite, hey?” He pulled at his chin doubtfully. “Ain’t that a little far-fetched? One chance in a thousand, you might say?”
“I can’t be sure, naturally. You’ll have to get an expert to check on that piece of metal or rock, whatever it is.”
The sheriff was still rubbing his chin.
“When I left him at about ten-thirty, he said he was going to watch the meteors—we’re passing through the Perseids, you know—and shortly after—I was in town by then at Sam’s Service Station—we saw a very large shooting star, meteor, fire-ball, whatever you want to call it, come down from the sky. Sam saw it, the state trooper saw it—”
“Yeah,” said the sheriff, “I saw it myself. Monstrous thing…” He bent over Dr. Patcher’s dead body. “You think this might be a meteorite, hey?”
“I certainly couldn’t say at a glance, but Professor Doheny of the Geology Department could tell you in jig-time.”
“Humph,” said the sheriff. To the doctor, “Any idea when he died, Doc?”
“Oh, roughly five or six hours ago.”
“Humph. That’s ten-thirty to eleven-thirty…That meteor came down at, let’s see—”
“At exactly twelve minutes to eleven.”
“Well, well,” said the sheriff, looking at me with mild speculation. After this, I told myself, I would volunteer no more information. But no matter, no harm done.
“I suppose,” said the sheriff, “we’d better wait till it’s light, and then we can look around a little bit more.”
“If you will come into the observatory,” I said, “I’ll brew up a pot of coffee. This night air is a trifle brisk.”
Dawn came; the sheriff called his office; an ambulance climbed the hill. I was asked a few more questions, photographs were taken, and the body was moved.
Newspapers from coast to coast featured accounts of the “freak accident”. The “man bites dog” angle was played up heavily; the astronomer who made a career of hunting down “comets” had got a taste of his own medicine. Of course a meteor is by no means a comet, and Dr. Patcher was uninterested in comets, but in the general hullabaloo no one cared very much, and I suppose that insofar as the public is concerned it is all one and the same.
The president of the University telephoned his sympathy. “You’ll take Patcher’s place, of course; I hope you won’t refuse out of any misplaced feelings of delicacy. I’ve approached young Katkus, and he’ll move up to your previous place.”
“Thank you, sir,” said I, “I’ll do my best. With your encouragement and the help of young Katkus I’ll see that Patcher’s work goes on; indeed, I think it would be a fitting memorial if the first nova we found we named for poor old Patcher.”
“Excellent,” said the president. “I’ll put through your appointment at once.”
So events went their course. I cleaned Patcher’s notes and books out of the study and moved my own in. Young Katkus made his appearance, and I was pleased by the modest manner in which he accepted his good fortune.
A week passed and the sheriff called at my apartment. “Come in, sheriff, come in. Glad to see you. Here—” I moved some journals “—have a chair.”
“Thanks, thanks very much.” He eased his fat little body gingerly into the seat.
I had not quite finished my breakfast. “Will you have a cup of coffee?”
He hesitated. “No, think I’d better not. Not today.”
“What’s on your mind, sheriff?”
He put his hands on his knees. “Well, Professor, it’s that Patcher accident. I’d like to talk it over with you.”
“Why certainly, if you wish…but I thought that was all water under the bridge.”
“Well—not entirely. We’ve been lying low, you might say. Maybe it’s an accident—and again, maybe it’s not.”
I said with great interest, “What do you mean, sheriff? Surely…?”
As I have mentioned, the sheriff is a mild man, and looks more like an insurance salesman than a law-enforcement officer. But at the moment a rather dogged and unpleasant expression stiffened his features.
“I’ve been doing a bit of investigating, and a bit of thinking. And I’ve got to admit I’m puzzled.”
“How so?”
“Well, there’s no question but what Dr. Patcher was killed with a meteorite. That chunk of rock was a funny kind of nickel—iron mixture, and showed a peculiar set of marks under the microscope. Professor Doheny said meteorite it was, and no doubt about it.”
“Oh?” I said, sipping my coffee.
“There’s no question but what a streak of fire was seen shooting down out of the sky at about the time Dr. Patcher was killed.”
“Yes, I believe so. In fact, I saw it myself. Quite an impressive phenomenon.”
“I thought at first that a meteorite would be hot, and I wondered why Patcher’s hair wasn’t singed, but I find that when a meteor comes down, only a little bit of the surface heats up and glows off, but the rest stays icy-cold.”
“Right,” I said cordially. “Exactly right.”
“But let’s suppose,” said the sheriff, looking at me sidewise with an expression I can only call crafty, “let’s suppose that someone wanted to kill poor old Dr. Patcher—”
I shook my head doubtfully. “Far-fetched.”
“—and wanted to fake the murder so that it looked like an accident, how would he go about it?”
“But—who would want to do away with Patcher?”
The sheriff laughed uneasily. “That’s what’s got us stumped. There’s no one with a speck of motive—except, possibly, yourself.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Of course, of course. But we were just—”
“Why should I want to kill Dr. Patcher?”
“I hear,” said the sheriff, watching me sidelong, “that he was a hard man to get along with.”
“Not when you understood his foibles.”
“I hear that you and he had a few bust-ups over the work up at the observatory?”
“Now that,” I said with feeling, “is pure taradiddle. Naturally, we had our differences. I felt, as many of my colleagues did, that Patcher was entering upon his dotage, and it shows in the rather trivial nature of the work he was doing.”
“Exactly what was the work, Professor? In words of one syllable?”
“Well,” and I laughed, “he was actually going over the sky with a fine-tooth comb, looking for novae, and I’ll admit that occasionally it was a vexation, when I had important work to do—”
“Er, what is your work, Professor?”
“I am conducting a statistical count of the Cepheid variables in the Great Nebula of Andromeda.”
“Ah, I see,” said the sheriff. “Pretty tough job, sounds like.”
“The work is progressing now, of course. But certainly you don’t think—you can’t assume—”
The sheriff waved his hand. “We don’t assume anything. We just, well, call it figure a little.”
“How could I, how could anyone, control what might literally be called a bolt from the blue?”
“My dear sheriff, are you accusing—”
“No, no, sit still. We’re just talking things over. I was telling you how you could—if you wanted, mind you, if you wanted—fake a meteor.”
“Well,” I asked in fine scorn, “how could I fake a meteor?”
“You’d need something to make a good streak of light. You’d need something to get it up there. You’d need a way of setting it off at the right time.”
“And?”
“Well, the first could be a good strong old-fashioned sky-rocket.”
“Why—theoretically, I suppose so. But—”
“I thought of all kinds of things,” said the sheriff. “Airplanes, balloons, birds—everything except flying fish. The answer has to be one thing: a kite. A big box kite.”
“I admire your ingenuity, sheriff. But—”
“Then you’d need some way to send this thing off, and aim it right. Now I may be all wet on this—but I imagine that you had the rocket fixed with a couple of wire loops over the string, so that it would follow the string to the ground.”
“Sheriff, I—”
“Now as for setting it off—why that’s a simple matter. I could probably rig up something of the sort myself. A wrist-watch with the glass off, a flashlight battery, a contact stuck on the dial, insulated from the rest of the watch, so that when the minute hand met it, the circuit would open. Then you’d use magnesium floss and magnesium tape to start the fuse of your rocket, and that’s practically the whole of it.”
“My dear sheriff,” I said with all my dignity, “if I were guilty of such a pernicious offense, how in the world would I dispose of the kite?”
“Well,” said the sheriff, scratching his chin, “I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose you could haul it down and burn it, together with the string.”
I was taken aback. Actually, I hadn’t thought of anything so simple. The kite I had blown up with half a stick of dynamite, fused to explode after the rocket had started down; the string I had soaked in a solution of potassium chlorate; it had burned to dust like a train of gunpowder. “Humph. Well, if you are accusing me of this crime you have conceived—”