Charlie switched off the television.
Yes, by the standards of post-Enlightenment astronomy the man was a crank. Yet if he had lived three hundred years earlier he might have been called a seer. The fact was, leaving aside the metaphysics, he’d just about got it right. Charlie’s own most sophisticated projection, using every resource of modern astronomy and mathematics, came to the same thing. The time was short. And crank or not, the man had correctly noted the key factor that had struck Charlie from the first: the thing was coming from the center of the galaxy. If he had noticed that, how many others would? How many had heard this morning’s broadcast? And how long before others began to make similar predictions, perhaps more scientifically based and therefore more acceptable to the post-Enlightenment mind?
Suddenly Charlie knew that his decision had been made. Almost, it seemed, made for him. And wasn’t this the very guidance for which he’d asked? What more did he want? The government that commanded him to secrecy would soon have no secret to command. The veil was disintegrating as he watched. And that being so, he must surely follow, as Michael put it, the imperative of his dream.
With that settled, he at once felt better. Certainly, it was a strange world he was entering. Yet it too was a world of facts. The experience of the dream was a fact. Its coincidence with the coming of Siding Star was a fact. St. Andrew’s Church and Michael Aarons were real. He would confide in Michael Aarons. Somehow he did not feel that the gentle, somewhat pained wisdom of the priest would lead him astray.
He went to the telephone.
seventy-seven
Saturday, January 24.
Cecilia telephoned the Shoreditch and Hackney Police Station, which occupied (as she never observed without amusement) numbers 4 to 6 in Shepherdess Walk. Her inquiries about an obscure disappearance were not received with quite the zeal she might have desired. She persevered, nonetheless, exercising a blend of patience, sympathy, and refusalto-be-diverted-until-she-had-what-she-needed that eventually got her to one of the officers who had dealt with the young men’s disappearance.
They were pursuing the usual inquiries, of course, but there was really nothing to go on. Cranston College? Yes, well, they’d had a look but seen nothing that was any help. Tomb? Oh—the old site. Yes, well, they’d looked at it—one of the archaeologists had gone with them. Funny old chap. Said they mustn’t talk too loud in case they brought the roof down. They’d gone down some steps and found themselves in what seemed like a large hall. Very dank and dreary. Bits of stone lying about. And a horrible smell—couldn’t wait to get out of there, but they’d looked round and seen no sign of any missing boys.
Cecilia was about to thank him and end the conversation, when the officer said, “You know, ma’am, we might have missed something. I’m not saying we did but we might. The fact is, ma’am, things have been very difficult round here for the last couple of weeks and I think we’re all feeling the pressure.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Cecilia said. There was a pause. Perhaps he was wondering if he’d been indiscreet?
“Of course I’ve heard about the power outages,” she said. “I saw those on the BBC. Having to clear Poplar High Street in the middle of a Tuesday morning must have been a nightmare.”
“Yes, ma’am, it was a bit of a pain. But that’s not what’s so bad. It’s the violence. And half the time there’s no sense to it. Not even bad sense. Something really nasty seems to have got into the place.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I thought statistics were showing a drop in the crime rate.”
“So they may be, ma’am, in other parts of the country. But not in East London and sure as hell not in our manor. As far as we’re concerned, I think we’re entering a lot of stuff in the records as ‘no crime’ when in fact there obviously was a crime, but we simply can’t work out who did it or even why.”
“Oh.” This was depressing indeed. “It sounds like a tinder box.”
“That’s what it is, ma’am. That’s exactly what it is. A tinder box.”
seventy-eight
Later the same day.
It was a fine day and Charlie, after an early lunch, was tempted to walk. On reflection he realized he didn’t quite have time for that and compromised by catching the tube as far as High Holborn. He then walked to Holborn Circus, enjoying the crowds and the delicate, chilly sunshine. As he reached St. Andrew’s an enormous limousine, no doubt containing some civic dignitary, was just leaving through the green double gates that lead to the vicarage. Inside, Michael Aarons was standing amidst several people by the south entrance to the church. For a moment Charlie hesitated, but Michael saw him, waved and smiled, then nodded towards the open front door of the vicarage. Inside, Jim was sorting letters on the hall table. “Father will be with you in a couple of minutes.” He smiled.
“He says would you mind waiting in his study? And would you like some coffee?”
“Thank you. I’d like that very much.”
In the study he found both armchairs occupied—one by a magnificent Persian cat who was asleep, the other by a hand- some little black cat with green eyes who flicked his tail and stretched luxuriously but made no attempt to move. Feeling he had no right to disturb either of them, Charlie went and stood by the window.
He had arrived a few minutes early, and the hands of the church clock were pointing exactly to two when Michael arrived, still in his cassock and carrying a tray with cups.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m happy to see you, Charlie. But not standing! Felix! Marlene! What is going on? Do you occupy the best chairs—illegally!—whilst our guest stands? Off!”
The Persian jumped from the chair, exuding offended dignity, and stalked out of the room. The green eyed little black cat sat up, yawned—and began to wash himself.
“Felix!”
Felix continued to wash.
“Felix!” Michael pointed to the floor. The cat, with an expres- sion that clearly said, “Oh well, if you are going to make such a childish fuss!” rose to his feet, stretched, and in a leisurely fashion withdrew to the carpet, where he continued to wash.
“I’m sorry, Charlie. As you can see, I’ve a strict rule that Felix and Marlene are not allowed on the armchairs.”
Charlie laughed. “I’m afraid Mickey never took much notice of anything I said, either—not unless it happened to suit him. There was never much doubt which of us was in charge.”
“Exactly,” Michael said. “Anyway, have some coffee and a comfortable chair guaranteed to get cat hair on your trousers. Good. Now let’s talk. I rather think you’ve made a decision.”
“Yes, I have. I’ve thought about this as carefully as I can and I think I must share my secret with you.”
Michael nodded. “Though you must already know, let me say that I hear many secrets. Yours will go no further—at least, not without your permission.”
“I believe you.”
As clearly as he could Charlie told the story of the last few months—of his work with other British astronomers at the Siding Spring Observatory, their concentration on a single segment of sky, and through that, their becoming aware, three months before the world could see it, of the phenomenon that was now attracting the world’s attention. Of the theory he had
siding stAr 325 formed and its subsequent support, and of his concern over international refusal to acknowledge the seriousness of the threat or even to inform the world about of it.
When he had finished, neither of them said anything for sev - eral minutes.
“Do you believe all this?” Charlie said at last.
“Oh yes, I believe you. You’re a person I’d be inclined to trust anyway but as it happens—I hope you’ll forgive me—I took the liberty this morning of asking a friend of mine in the university about you. I gather your description of yourself as ‘teaching’ was modest, to say the least. You’re the senior professor in your department and the youngest ever to hold your chair. In the field of galactic structure you’re regarded as one of th
e top dozen people in the world. No, I don’t think for a moment that someone like you would make this up. And of course I’ve read about the supernova, though I haven’t yet got round to getting up at four o’clock in the morning to look at it. Look—your coffee’s cold. Would you like a fresh cup?”
“Actually, I’d like a glass of water, if you don’t mind.”
“That’s easy,” Michael got to his feet. “Do you like ice?”
“Just room temperature out of the tap, if that’s all right.”
In a few minutes Michael was back from the kitchen.
“Of course,” he said as he gave Charlie the water, “I’ll admit that what you say is personally threatening. Yet I do already know that the world isn’t immortal, and neither am I.”
“There’s something in that.”
“I think I also understand your concern about when the world should be told—yet even there, well, all of us already know we’re going to die sooner or later. And it may be sooner.” He sighed. “What does puzzle me is that if we’re to take your dream seriously, which we surely must, and if your dream is connected with the Siding Star—and it does seem to be—then all this also somehow links to me, and there’s something that you must do. But how does it link to me? And what is it you must do?”
“I haven’t the remotest idea.”
Silence.
Apparently, neither had Michael Aarons.
Michael sat gazing into space, turning over the story in his mind. If they were right in connecting Charlie’s dream with Siding Star, there had to be a connection with Michael himself. Something that concerned him? All right. Go from there. What was concerning him most at present? The Academy for Philosophical Studies? Cranston College? Cranston seemed to involve a threat to the future of the world, so how could it be linked with this threat of universal destruction now? As for the academy, since the affair of the Beriyt et-Mavet on All Saints’ Eve, he could think of nothing that had the slightest —
Then it came to him.
“When did you say this star was first seen?”
“November the first. It appeared between 01:20 and 07:20.” “Do you mean by Australian time?”
“We work by Universal Time—UT,” Charlie said. “For all
intents and purposes it’s the same as GMT—Greenwich Mean Time.” “So you’re saying it appeared, British time, during the morning of November the first?’
“Let’s see… British Summer Time would have ended the last Sunday in October…yes, you’re right. Why?”
The morning of November the first.
The morning of All Saints’ Day.
The morning after the fire had stopped the Ceremony of the Beriyt et-Mavet—the Covenant with Death.
He looked at Charlie.
“I think I see it. But the boot’s now on the other foot. I’m the one who‘s made a pledge to keep a confidence.”
He paused. Charlie was watching him.
“Some friends of mine—one a police officer—were involved
Siding Star 327 with me on the night of October thirty-first in an affair that might be linked to yours. I don’t pretend to know how. I’ve only the coincidence of dates to go on, but it’s a coincidence I can’t overlook. Now, as it happens, my friends are due to come here on Friday evening.” He paused once more, then continued.
“I propose this—I’ll telephone them, explain that a very serious situation has arisen, and ask if they’re willing to share our knowledge with a fourth person—with you. At the same time, I must ask if you’re willing to share your secret with them. I give you my assurance they’re a family on whose loyalty and discretion I’d stake my life. They’re to stay with me this weekend. If you agree, and they agree, I think we should meet here on Friday evening for a council. If there’s something you must do, then surely we’re more likely to find it by pooling our knowl- edge. But the first question is—will you agree to all this?”
To his surprise, Charlie found himself nodding before Michael had quite finished his last sentence.
“I’ve a late seminar on Fridays,” he said. “But I think I can be here by nine.”
After Charlie had left, Michael sat alone in his study. What an interesting and impressive man Charlie was! Michael had actually learned more of him from his friend in the university than he’d mentioned—including Charlie’s losing both his parents. Well, he could identify with that. Charlie seemed, indeed, to have coped with it better than Michael had. But then he’d been younger, a child. And he’d had the cat. The cat was clearly important—as cats are! And what a long path of brilliance Charlie had then followed to where he was today!
Michael sighed.
And what of you, Michael? What of your path? What odd events and coincidences led you to where you are now? What brought you out of your madness?
Some things, some stages on the way, he could identify. Coming back to England had been one, certainly. His own first cat, Squeak, who’d appeared on the doorstep the day after his arrival in London and refused to go, had been another. Then there was the battered copy of the Gospel according to Saint Mark he’d come across at a second-hand book stall in Chapel Street Market and picked up for ten pence out of idle curiosity: it still stood in the book rack on his desk. There’d been a conversation with an American soldier on a bus. And finally a moment when he’d fallen to his knees in his bedroom, weeping, and suddenly realized that mum and dad were all right, and that as for him—he didn’t quite know how— he’d become a Christian. So he’d got himself baptized and confirmed. Then after a while, not being one to do anything by half measures, there had been theological college and the priesthood.
In many ways it had been made very easy for him. Sometimes religious conversions could be terrible things, with people tearing robes and casting other people off. But nothing like that had happened to him. Generally he’d received nothing but kindness from the Reform Synagogue he’d left and the Anglican Church he’d entered. With all their flaws as human institutions, still he could have nothing but gratitude for the individuals he’d known in both as they’d encouraged him on his way—certainly not a way he or they could have planned!
And now apparently his being a priest mattered: it mattered when it came to Siding Star, if for no other reason than that Charlie Brown had confided in him. But he knew—of course he knew—there was more to it than that.
seventy-nine
The same day.
W
hen Charlie Brown got back to the house, the telephone was ringing. It was Natalie, rather earlier than they had planned. She sounded even more harassed.
“Charlie,” she said, “I’m really sorry. I hate this, but I just can’t make our date on Monday. Mother’s ill and I’ll have to go to Charleston. I just have to.”
His universe fell apart.
He heard himself saying, “Darling, I’m so sorry. What’s happened?”
“It’s her damned emphysema. They’re going to stabilize her in the hospital and put her on oxygen. I wouldn’t mind so much if she tried to stop smoking and failed, but I’ve tried to talk to her about it and she just says she can’t change a lifetime habit and she enjoys it, dammit, and which one of us is the parent, and… and…”
“Darling, of course you’ve got to go to her. We’ll get together as soon as you can—as soon as she’s feeling better.”
“As soon as she’s got the hang of negotiating that oxygen tank—I promise! Look, Charlie, I love you like crazy, but at the moment I need to fix about ninety things here. I’ll call you from Charleston. It may be in the middle of the night, but at least then we can talk properly and make plans. Okay?”
“I love you calling me in the middle of the night,” he said. “But go now and see to your mother. And give her my best regards—even though I’ve never met her.”
“Oh, but she knows who you are—as soon as I told her I was dating you she looked you up on the London University website, found what books you’d written and everything. And would you believ
e it? She approves! Apparently you’re a good catch. Did you know that, darling?”
“Actually I can’t say that ever occurred to me.”
“Well, you are. Mother says so. And I assure you, on such matters as these Mother is never wrong.”
“Oh.”
“So take good care of yourself, darling, and I’ll come to you as soon as I can. I love you. Have you got that?”
“I’ve got it. And I love you.”
“And that’s all that matters. Try to stay safe. Go with God, my darling.”
“And you, sweetheart.”
Natalie put down the phone. She loved it when he called her his sweetheart. She was not at all sure that she was a sweetheart, except maybe with him, but she loved to be called it, all the same. Like the time when he… but that was enough daydreaming!
She picked up her calendar. If she was going to catch an evening flight to Charleston, there were about five more things she needed to reschedule.
A knock at her door was followed by Boris, carrying a file— the duBois file.
“Quoyt would like you to take a look at this before we send it. He doesn’t think Levenson’s translation is accurate enough.”
“What? That’s ridiculous. Of course it’s accurate.”
siding stAr 331 “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger, lovely lady.”
“Bad message, Boris! Go away!”
“I go! I go!” He dropped the file on her desk and backed out
salaaming ostentatiously. Poor Boris! She wasn’t being a sweetheart to him. She was being a bitch. Fortunately Boris knew she loved him to death. When she got back, on the first Sunday they could both make it, she’d take him for Skazka at Mari Vanna—he always enjoyed that. But Quoyt—she glared at the file —was a pedantic ass. She thumbed through the places marked in red and swore softly. It boiled down to three occasions where the French had used the subjunctive and Levenson had translated with the indicative. It wasn’t what she’d have done herself but it was entirely defensible and made no difference at all to the sense. She was damned if she was going to “correct” it.
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