The telescope was a monumental white cylinder clasped at the base by a blue fork. “Do you mind explaining a bit about how the telescope works? Karl,” Sarah suggested. “Sure,” Karl replied, rubbing his hands together; “So incoming light enters the telescope and hits a large hyperbolic mirror near the base,” he explained, pointing along the telescope as he did so; “this light is then reflected up onto a smaller hyperbolic mirror mounted above the large mirror. The light is then focused back down through a hole in the large mirror where it forms an image; this image is then sent to the computer and displayed on the monitors in the office downstairs,” and here he turned back to face his audience, “Almost all modern telescopes are setup in this arrangement,” he added for good measure, as if to remind them that it was still a worthy telescope despite its years.
“It doesn’t look like it’s from the forties,” Minho critiqued. “It’s been repainted,” Sarah explained. “And also modernized,” chimed in Karl, indicating the spaghetti of cables that ran around the floor; “It used to be that you had to come up here and move the telescope manually. Now I can just tell the computer to do it,” said he, in hint of relief in his tone. “Do the original controls still work?” Maxine asked, gazing at what appeared to be a monitoring console taken from a hydropower station of yore. “Sure,” said Karl, “they still work. Do you want to see?” Everyone nodded. “Okay then,” was his easy reply.
The dashboard was covered with a variety of buttons, toggles, meters and whatnots, for which Karl gave a quick run-through. Then, to begin his demonstration in high showmanship fashion, the lights were turned off with a switch. “Well that was dramatic,” Balzac mouthed to Perry. Next, a button was pressed, and the roof made a blood-curdling screech as the shutter slid open; whence starlight flooded in like a sunbeam through a prison slit. Another manipulation resulted in the coming to life of the telescope. It was a slow and noisy process, as the tube was large and the controls awkward. Someone, probably Maxine, suggested cuing in the famous soundtrack from “2001: A Space Odyssey”. Ultimately, it took a few starts and stops before the eye could be aligned with the peep-hole. “That is why I use the computer,” said Karl, decidedly.
Back in the control room downstairs wherein concluded their tour, the docent turned with good nature to his visitors; “Do you have any questions for me?” he asked. “I do,” Maxine said pertly, “Do you get bored here all by yourself?” Karl chuckled amiably; everyone took this as an affirmative.
XVII
“The Dome”, as it was called by the locals, was a gigantic domed tower, shell to a telescope spanning five meters in diameter; thus making it the largest spyglass at Coonabara Observatory. “Whow,” exclaimed Minho, craning his neck heavenward. “And this is only five meters?!” Maxine chimed in, thinking about the famous Keck domes in Hawaii which housed ten-meter telescopes.
At the entrance, a warehouse-sized door, they were received by a man in his mid-forties with a portly figure and sunny personality. His name was Eric. And he reminded Bouchard of the titular robotic blue cat in Doraemon. “Hello, hello!” said Eric, beaming widely. “Hi Eric,” Sarah replied, representing the team, her serious smile at breaking point. “So good to see you!” said he to Sarah, then to the rest: “Welcome!”
The Dome differed somewhat from the previous facility presided by Karl, in that the paneled corridors, designated areas and bustling activity therein, all gave the observatory a weaponized space station impression versus the latter’s Dr. Frankenstein’s house. And unlike the latter’s tube, The Dome’s telescope was hollow and held in place by a thick horseshoe-shaped grabber, itself propped up on a base frame that could have past for a bronze sculpture in Sweden.
“It looks like an ion cannon,” Balzac observed, leaning over the balustrade which encircled the structure. To arrive here they had ridden an elevator to the fourth floor, and then climbed an extra set of stairs. The others, aside from Zimmerman, seemed surprised and amused by Bouchard’s remark; not expecting such a reserved and grave-looking young man to say such things. “Ha, ha,” Eric laughed; “Actually, someone once compared it to the inside of a Death Star!” Bouchard did not mention that that was his first thought too; for he went with the ion cannon comparison because it sounded less nerdy.
“What have you guys been observing?” Sarah turned to Eric. “For the past three nights we’ve been pointing at the Magellanic Clouds,” Eric replied, becoming more serious now, as Sarah’s question had not been delivered lightly; “But we’re a bit behind schedule at the moment.”
“Is something wrong with the Cassegrain cage?” Perry asked, indicating the crew of technicians working on a catwalk platform at the bottom of the telescope, appearing to be engaged hurriedly in fixing a technical issue. “Yes!” Eric exclaimed, excited that someone recognized the serious trouble The Dome was currently facing; “One of the components was replaced this morning,” he explained, “But the strange thing is, it didn’t fix the problem!”
After a brief stop at the control room, where three operators sat separately interacting with their respective consoles, the tour headed for the Coudé room. “This is where the magic happens!” Eric said dramatically; “All the collected light rays are focused in here.” It was a messy room with cables and connected apparatuses. “Air con, really?” Minho gruffly complained, hugging himself. “The machines can get really hot,” Sarah explained. “And they’re very expensive to replace!” Eric joked.
XVIII
It was nearing eleven o’clock by the time Sarah dropped off her charges back at the guest house. The other group had already arrived and were assembled in the drawing-room, filling it up with a lively exchange that was only amplified by the merging. A French evening ensued. The kind one reads about in novels that repeat verbatim the dialogues and meaningful glances exchanged during a private party hosted by a great lady in Paris; events which frequently take place in Bouchard’s own creative writings. For example:
“With an address in the Faubourg Saint-Germain was a handsome baroque mansion; it belonged the House of Chichi and had been built during the height of Madame de Pompadour’s influence over at Versailles. Within, chandeliers fountained from ceilings and portraits worthy of belonging in the Winter Palace decorated walls; a Parian marble staircase communicated between the floors and sets of glazed furniture turned rooms into living spaces; ornaments from across the seas gave purpose to its stands and vases of exotic flowers perfumed the air. In short, all the things that announce taste could be found in this house, whose present occupants included the Dowager Duchess de Chichi and her recently ennobled grandson Zola, known henceforth in high society as Monsieur le Duc de Chichi.
Gathered in the red salon on this summer evening were important ladies and statesmen of the upper echelon, men of letters and celebrity artists, whose geniuses the aristocrats poked and prodded with the condescending interests of a child jabbing at a washed-up jellyfish. Presiding over it all like an Empress of China in her imperial court was the exuberant Madame de Chichi herself; a thin-figured woman with an expressive face and a body that perpetually shook with gesticulations — a thousand words conveyed in a single wave of the hand. This grande dame was tonight attired in black to better contrast with the set of chunky rubies she loaded on for the occasion. Indeed, her personality was still full of pizzazz despite the winters she had endured.
‘That hair!’ exclaimed Madame de Chichi, passing by a mature socialite while making her rounds of the salon. ‘These old things?’ to a compliment of her jewels. ‘Jealousy is the one thing love and hate have in common,’ she remarked after listening to a saucy scandal involving a countess, her husband, and her other man. ‘You’ve never tried paprika?!’ was the dumbfounded question addressed to a sojourning Romanov. ‘But if all art was tasteful then where would you be?’ she said to a school of art critics. ‘I don’t miss the old days one bit. I adore my neck,’ was her response to a reminiscence of earlier decades. ‘Fame is the cheapest form of power,’ she quipped to a g
roup discussing a rising political figure whose reputation preceded him.
While all this high humor took place, over near a tall window commanding a gossipy view of a polished street whereon escutcheoned carriages and glazed landaus passed by on their way to other mansions, three young nobles stood talking familiarly about things of existential import. Among them was Zola de Chichi; a youth of one-and-twenty summers with a slim figure and medium height, light skin, black hair and green eyes.”
Returning to present time and geography, Maxine filled the role of Madame de Chichi of the Faubourg Saint-Germain; leading the brouhaha with the effervescence of a lady worthy of being noticed by Louis XIV of France. “That one is full of pizzazz,” appraised Balzac Bouchard, thinking of casting such a personality in one of his stories.
“Nerd!” exclaimed Maxine at Perry, whose explanation of quantum transportation proved most enlightening. “Oh, Minho,” was said at one point with an affectionate shake of the head. “Rome is the mature version of Game of Thrones,” stated to a person who wondered about the differences. “Probably astrobiology,” replied to a question regarding her field of interests. “I’ve always been attracted to little green men,” the tongue-in-cheek reason. “Let’s play charades!” suggested at a later stage. “You can only use astronomy-related words or phrases,” was the rule.
“I’m not sure if I’d want to be an observational astronomer if it means spending months in a creepy house at night all by myself,” Annika commented, in regards to Karl’s isolated situation. “You scared?” Minho retorted with a mischievous grin. “It is lonely,” the former pointed out, not unreasonably. Indeed, the encounter had been a reality check to all the young and aspiring stargazers in attendance.
“Does it make sense for a scientist to be wary of the supernatural?” a person from the other Coonabara group posed for all present to consider. “Why not?” was Minho’s fast contribution. “That’s actually a good question,” said Maxine, momentarily sober. “I believe so,” Balzac spoke up, the philosophic nature of the question emboldening him to share his thoughts; “for rationality and imagination are different chemical reactions in the brain.”
“That’s an interesting way of looking at it,” Perry noted, nodding wisely. “History provides many examples of scientific men who were slaves to their active imaginations,” Balzac continued, encouraged by his audiences’ kind attentions; “Take Isaac Newton for example, a brilliant physicist who pursued alchemy during his free time and in secret. Or Wolfgang Pauli, the genius behind the Pauli Exclusion Principle, who was convinced that it was not a coincidence when things broke or malfunctioned in his presence. In fact, I’m sure the latter was chilled to the bones every time he experienced the Pauli effect.”
“Good point,” the same person from the other group conceded, pleasantly surprised to hear Bouchard speak animatedly. “That’s exactly what I was going to say,” Minho confirmed, adopting a complacent posture for comedic effect. “And I knew you were going to say something like that!” Maxine exclaimed at Minho; thus having the last laugh.
“Where are you from?” a second year with curly brown hair asked an unsuspecting Bouchard. “Thailand,” was the latter’s mechanical reply. “Really?” Minho looked surprised; “I thought you were Egyptian or something,” he said, puzzled. “I’m also half French,” Balzac added. “Ah,” Minho returned, all made sense now. “I have a friend living in Bangkok,” Maxine joined in, matter-of-fact; “I visited her a couple years back. It’s so hot there! I swear, you could fry an egg on my face!”
“When did you move to Australia, Minho?” Annika asked her new Korean friend. “At the beginning of Year Eleven,” the other replied curtly, though well-meaning. “And is your family still in Korea?” Maxine asked, all curiousness and gossip once more. “Yeah,” he confirmed, “I stayed at a boarding school in Brisbane.”
It was one o’clock by the time the soirée broke up. Though whispered tête-à-têtes continued behind closed doors well past two. “Perry,” Balzac called from the other bed. The house was heated, comfortable and dark. “Yeah?” came the reply. “Can you tell me about gravitational lensing?” Balzac asked; it was terminology he had caught Karl, or was it Eric using. “Now?” Perry returned, his usual calm broken by a hint of incredulity. “Are you busy?” retorted the other. “All right,” said Perry with an acquiescent sigh. “In simple English!” Balzac reminded, imparted in the manner a child might adopt when dictating the story arc of his father’s bedtime narrative. “Basically,” said the gentle man; “strong gravitational fields cause light to bend around massive objects like galaxies, which means that astronomers can study objects that are behind them simply by looking at their halos around it.”
XIX
Not surprisingly everyone woke up late that same morning; luckily, their program did not start till later during the day. Sarah came by the guest house at half-past eleven. “Tired?” she asked, grinning knowingly at the party assembled in the living room; decidedly hung-over. “Today we’ll break up into groups again,” she continued, herself alert and ready for action; “We’ll walk around the campus in the afternoon so you get a feel of the place, and then tonight visit another two telescopes. But first, I’ll take you guys for,” and she consulted her watch, “lunch I guess.” So saying she led them once again to the refectory.
As was planned, they spent the afternoon touring the grounds like school children at a museum; their teacher acquainting them with the exhibit’s history and purpose. None of the buildings were entered though as they were locked from the outside; its rulers leading vampiric lifestyles and only returning to their haunts come twilight. “It’s less creepy during the day,” Annika observed, as they walked up to the house with the dome on its roof. “Karl’s place,” it was now referred to; coined by witty Maxine no doubt.
Towards the end of their excursion, as if turning a bend in the river and coming face to face where the water falls — gasp, they came upon an enormous satellite dish perched atop a windmill-like tower. The locals called this radio telescope “The Dish”; naturally. It was a reasonably large structure, though shorter than The Dome. Apparently famous too; having made an appearance in the movie “The Dish”.
Sarah pressed the buzzer next to the door; The Dish was the only structure at Coonabara Observatory to operate during the day. “Let’s see if we can get a tour inside,” she said with a serious smile, adding in a conspiratorial tone: “Don’t tell the other group.” A dozen or so seconds later they were welcomed in by a happy man who went by the name of Andrew.
“I was a consultant for the movie,” Andrew affirmed, as proud as a patriot. “Cool!” said Maxine; the others nodded in agreement. “Though many of the scenes were filmed on sets,” Andrew conceded, “a few important ones were shot here.” So saying he took them through these sacred locations. “In all of the scenes were you see the dish turn,” said he, walking, pointing, and narrating like a tour guide in Beverly Hills; “That was me in the control room inputting the commands!”
The control room did not reflect its half a century age; redone, decidedly, to resemble a bridge on some research vessel. “The dish has to be monitored constantly,” their guide explained, importantly; “For example, when it’s windy outside, the dish has to be returned to its stationary position.” A person in the audience asked how that might look from outside. “An upside down umbrella,” he quipped without pause. “Do you mind explaining a bit about how the telescope works? Andrew,” Sarah suggested.
“Of course,” said Andrew, obligingly. You see, many celestial objects in space like stars, pulsars, quasars, galaxies and nebulas among other things, emit radio waves,” he explained in a manner belonging to a scholar, a drastic departure from the fanboy attitude of before; “The radio waves hit the dish,” and here he demonstrated with his hands, cupping the palm of one to represent a dish, and stacking his fingers on the other to denote incoming radiation hitting the dish; “are reflected into the aerial and converted into electric currents, whi
ch we can then use to determine the composition and motion of the source.”
For the full Dish experience, they were given hard hats, taken up to the top of the tower and shown the machine responsible for turning the telescope. The room smelt funny, and the gears were smirched in black oil. “As you can imagine,” Andrew spoke in a tone of lost opportunity; “this part was filmed on a set.”
By the afternoon’s end, whatever energies had been replenished at lunchtime were all expended. However, the tour was not quite over yet, apparently. “One last stop,” said Sarah. So saying she took them up to an observation point. “Whow,” Minho noted, speaking for everyone. The view of the Coonabara Ranges from this height was truly grand. Appearing to Bouchard like waves of green ocean during a tempestuous storm.
XX
Supper was a hearty fare, in that it was good for the heart. Conversation on Bouchard’s side of the table revolved around the tedious process of publication. “Once you submit your paper to a journal,” explained a forty-something astrophysicist in a cartoony t-shirt and puffed vest, “the editors will either reject it right off or send it to two academics to review it. Not being rejected right off is your first victory. Your second one comes months later when the reviewers give you a chance to make revisions. At this point the editor usually gives you anywhere from a few weeks to less than two months to respond to the reviewers’ comments. Then,” he said with mock exasperation, “you re-submit your manuscript, the reviewers go through your responses, and if they like what they see then they’ll approve your paper for publication.” Here Maxine interjected: “And if they don’t?” The astrophysicist shrugged his shoulders; “Then you either beef up the manuscript and submit it to another journal or,” he added condescendingly, “you look for a journal with a lower impact factor.”
A Vomit of Diamonds Page 5