The Black Cloud

by Fred Hoyle

  At length he called in his secretary.

  “Please will you ask Caltech to fix me a seat on the night plane to Washington, the one that leaves about nine o’clock? Then get Dr Ferguson on the phone.”

  James Ferguson was a big noise in the National Science Foundation, controlling all the activities of the Foundation in physics, astronomy, and mathematics. He had been much surprised at Herrick’s phone call of the previous day. It was quite unlike Herrick to fix appointments at one day’s notice.

  “I can’t imagine what can have bitten Herrick,” he told his wife at breakfast, “to come chasing over to Washington like this. He was quite insistent about it. Sounded agitated, so I said I’d pick him up at the airport.”

  “Well, an occasional mystery is good for the system,” said his wife. “You’ll know soon enough.”

  On the way from the airport to the city, Herrick would commit himself to nothing but conventional trivialities. It was not until he was in Ferguson’s office that he came to the issue.

  “There’s no danger of us being overheard, I suppose?”

  “Goodness, man, is it as serious as that? Wait a minute.”

  Ferguson lifted the phone.

  “Amy, will you please see that I’m not interrupted — no, no phone calls — well, perhaps for an hour, perhaps two, I don’t know.”

  Quietly and logically Herrick then explained the situation. When Ferguson had spent some time looking at the photographs, Herrick said:

  “You see the predicament. If we announce the business and we turn out to be wrong, then we shall look awful fools. If we spend a month testing all the details and it turns out that we are right, then we should be blamed for procrastination and delay.”

  “You certainly would, like an old hen sitting on a bad egg.”

  “Well, James, I thought you have had a great deal of experience in dealing with people. I felt you were someone I could turn to for advice. What do you suggest I should do?”

  Ferguson was silent for a little while. Then he said:

  “I can see that this may turn out to be a grave matter. And I don’t like taking grave decisions any more than you do, Dick, certainly not on the spur of the moment. What I suggest is this. Go back to your hotel and sleep through the afternoon — I don’t expect you had much sleep last night. We can meet again for an early dinner, and by then I’ll have had an opportunity to think things over. I’ll try to reach some conclusion.”

  Ferguson was as good as his word. When he and Herrick had started their evening meal, in a quiet restaurant of his choice, Ferguson began:

  “I think I’ve got things sorted out fairly well. It doesn’t seem to me to make sense wasting another month in making sure of your position. The case seems to be very sound as it is, and you can never be quite certain — it would be a matter of converting a ninety-nine per cent certainty into a ninety-nine point nine per cent certainty. And that isn’t worth the loss of time. On the other hand you are ill-prepared to go to the White House just at the moment. According to your own account you and your men have spent less than a day on the job so far. Surely there are a good many other things you might get ideas about. More exactly, how long is it going to take the cloud to get here? What will its effects be when it does get here? That sort of question.

  “My advice is to go straight back to Pasadena, get your team together, and aim to write a report within a week, setting out the situation as you see it. Get all your men to sign it — so that there’s no question of the tale getting around of a mad Director. And then come back to Washington.

  “In the meantime I’ll get things moving at this end. It isn’t a bit of good in a case like this starting at the bottom by whispering into the ear of some Congressman. The only thing to do is to go straight to the President. I’ll try to smooth your path there.”

  A Meeting in London

  Four days earlier in London a remarkable meeting had been held in the rooms of the Royal Astronomical Society. The meeting had been called, not by the Royal Astronomical Society itself, but by the British Astronomical Association, an association essentially of amateur astronomers.

  Chris Kingsley, Professor of Astronomy in the University of Cambridge, travelled by train in the early afternoon to London for the meeting. It was unusual for him, the most theoretical of theoreticians, to be attending a meeting of amateur observers. But there had been rumours of unaccounted discrepancies in the positions of the planets Jupiter and Saturn. Kingsley didn’t believe it, but he felt that scepticism should rest on solid ground, so he ought to hear what the chaps had to say about it.

  When he arrived at Burlington House in time for the four o’clock tea, he was surprised to see that quite a number of other professionals had already arrived, including the Astronomer Royal. “Never heard of anything like this before at the B.A.A. The rumours must have been put around by some new publicity agent,” he thought to himself.

  When Kingsley went in to the meeting room some half hour later he saw a vacant place on the front row by the Astronomer Royal. No sooner had he sat down than a Dr Oldroyd who was in the chair began the meeting in the following terms:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we meet here today to discuss some new and exciting results. But before I call on the first speaker I would like to say how pleased we are to see so many distinguished visitors. I am confident they will find that the time they have consented to spend with us will not have been wasted, and I feel that the important role of the amateur in astronomy will be demonstrated yet once again.”

  At this Kingsley grinned inwardly to himself, and several of the other professionals squirmed in their seats. Dr Oldroyd went on:

  “I have great pleasure in asking Mr George Green to address us.”

  Mr George Green jumped up from his seat half-way down the room. He then bustled forward to the rostrum, clutching a large pile of papers in his right hand.

  For the first ten minutes Kingsley listened with polite attention as Mr Green showed slides of his private telescopic equipment. But when the ten minutes lengthened to a quarter of an hour he began to fidget, and for the next half hour he lived in torment, first crossing his legs one way, then the other, then squirming round every minute or so to look at the clock on the wall. It was all in vain, for Mr George Green went right ahead with the bit firmly between his teeth. The Astronomer Royal kept glancing at Kingsley, a quiet smile on his face. The other professionals hugged themselves with delight. Their eyes never left Kingsley. They were calculating when the outburst would come.

  The outburst never came, for Mr Green suddenly seemed to remember the purpose of his talk. Quitting the description of his beloved equipment, he began to throw off his results, rather like a dog shaking itself after a bath. He had observed Jupiter and Saturn, measuring their positions with care, and he had found discrepancies from the Nautical Almanac. Running to the blackboard he wrote down the following figures, and then sat down:

  Discrepancy in Longitude Discrepancy in Declination

  Jupiter+1 minute 29 seconds–49 seconds Saturn+42 seconds–17 seconds

  Kingsley never heard the loud applause offered to Mr Green as a reward for his address, for Kingsley was choking with rage. He had come up to the meeting expecting to be told of discrepancies amounting to no more than a few tenths of a second at most. These he could have attributed to inaccurate, incompetent measurement. Or there might have been a subtle mistake of a statistical nature. But the figures that Mr Green had written up on the board were preposterous, fantastic, so large that a blind man could have seen them, so large that Mr George Green must have made some quite outrageous blunder.

  It must not be thought that Kingsley was an intellectual snob, that he objected to an amateur on principle. Less than two years previously he had listened in the very same room to a paper presented by an entirely unknown author. Kingsley had immediately perceived the quality and competence of the work and was the first person to give public praise to it. Incompetence was Kingsley’s béte noire, not inc
ompetence performed in private but incompetence paraded in public. His irritation in this respect could be aroused in art and music as much as in science.

  On this occasion he was a seething cauldron of wrath. So many ideas flashed through his head that he was unable to decide on any one particular comment, it seemed such a pity to waste the others. Before he could reach a decision, Dr Oldroyd sprang a surprise:

  “I have great pleasure,” said he, “in calling on the next speaker, the Astronomer Royal.”

  It had been the Astronomer Royal’s first intention to speak shortly and to the point. Now he was unable to resist the temptation to expatiate at length, just for the pleasure of watching Kingsley’s face. Nothing could have been calculated to torment Kingsley more than a repetition of Mr George Green’s performance, and this is just what the Astronomer Royal produced. He first showed slides of the equipment at the Royal Observatory, slides of observers operating the equipment, slides of the equipment taken to pieces; and he then went on to explain the detailed operation of the equipment in terms that might have been chosen for the benefit of a backward child. But all this he did in measured confident tones, unlike the rather hesitant manner of Mr Green. After some thirty-five minutes of this he began to feel that Kingsley might be in real medical danger, so he decided to cut the cackle.

  “Our results in broad outline confirm what Mr Green has already told you. Jupiter and Saturn are out of position and to amounts that are of the general order given by Mr Green. There are some small discrepancies between his results and ours but the main features are the same.

  “At the Royal Observatory we have also observed that the planets Uranus and Neptune are out of their positions, not it is true to the same extent as Jupiter and Saturn, but nevertheless in very appreciable amounts.

  “Finally I may add that I have received a letter from Grottwald in Heidelberg, in which he says that the Heidelberg Observatory has obtained results that accord closely with those of the Royal Observatory.”

  Whereon the Astronomer Royal returned to his seat. Dr Oldroyd immediately addressed the meeting:

  “Gentlemen, you have heard presented to you this afternoon results that I venture to suggest are of the very first importance. Today’s meeting may well become a landmark in the history of astronomy. It is not my wish to take up any more of your time as I expect you will have much to say. In particular I expect our theoreticians will have much to say. I should like to begin the discussion by asking Professor Kingsley whether he has any comment he would like to make.”

  “Not while the law of slander is still operative,” whispered one professional to another.

  “Mr Chairman,” began Kingsley, “while the two previous speakers were addressing us I had ample opportunity to perform a fairly lengthy calculation.”

  The two professionals grinned at each other, the Astronomer Royal grinned to himself.

  “The conclusion I have arrived at may be of interest to the meeting. I find that if the results that have been presented to us this afternoon are correct, I say if they are correct, then a hitherto unknown body must exist in the vicinity of the solar system. And the mass of this unknown body must be comparable with or even greater than the mass of Jupiter itself. While it must be granted implausible to suppose that the results given to us arise from mere observational errors, I say mere observational errors, it may also be thought implausible that a body of such large mass existing within the solar system, or on the periphery of the solar system, could so far have remained undetected.”

  Kingsley sat down. The professionals who understood the general trend of his argument, and what lay under it, felt that he had made his point.

  * * *

  Kingsley glowered at the railwayman who asked to see his ticket as he boarded the 8.56 p.m. train from Liverpool Street to Cambridge. The man fell back a pace or two, as well he might, for Kingsley’s rage had not been assuaged by the meal he had just eaten, a meal consisting of poor food badly cooked, condescendingly served in pretentious but slovenly conditions. Only its price had been ample. Kingsley stamped through the train looking for a compartment where he could bite the carpet in solitary splendour. Moving quickly through a first-class carriage he caught a glimpse of the back of a head that he thought he recognized. Slipping into the compartment, he dropped down by the Astronomer Royal.

  “First-class, nice and comfortable. Nothing like working for the government, eh?”

  “Quite wrong, Kingsley. I’m going up to Cambridge for a Trinity Feast.”

  Kingsley, still acutely conscious of the execrable dinner he had just consumed, pulled a wry face.

  “Always amazes me the way those Trinity beggars feed themselves,” he said. “Feasts on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and four square meals on each of the other days of the week.”

  “Surely it’s not quite as bad as that. You seem quite put out today, Kingsley. In trouble of any sort?”

  Metaphorically the Astronomer Royal was hugging himself with delight.

  “Put out! Who wouldn’t be put out, I’d like to know. Come on, A.R.! What was the idea of that vaudeville stunt this afternoon?”

  “Everything that was said this afternoon was plain sober fact.”

  “Sober fact, my eye! It would have been much more sober if you’d got up on the table and done a clog dance. Planets a degree and a half out of position! Rubbish!”

  The Astronomer Royal lifted down his brief case from the rack and took out a large file of papers on which a veritable multitude of observations was entered.

  “Those are the facts,” he said. “In the first fifty or so pages you’ll find the raw observations of all the planets, day-by-day figures over the last few months. In the second table you’ll find the observations reduced to heliocentric co-ordinates.”

  Kingsley studied the papers silently for the best part of an hour, until the train reached Bishop’s Stortford. Then he said:

  “You realize, A.R., that there isn’t the slightest chance of getting away with this hoax? There’s so much stuff here that I can easily tell whether it’s genuine. Can I borrow these tables for a couple of days?”

  “Kingsley, if you imagine that I would go to the trouble of staging an elaborate — hoax as you call it, primarily with the object of deceiving you, of taking a rise out of you, then all I can say is that you flatter yourself unduly.”

  “Let’s put it this way,” answered Kingsley. “There are two hypotheses that I can make. Both at first sight seem incredible, but one of them must be right. One hypothesis is that a hitherto unknown body with a mass of the same order as Jupiter has invaded the solar system. The second hypothesis is that the Astronomer Royal has taken leave of his senses. I don’t want to give offence, but quite frankly the second alternative seems to me less incredible than the first.”

  “What I admire about you, Kingsley, is the way you refuse to mince matters — curious phrase that.” The Astronomer Royal reflected thoughtfully for a moment. “You should go in for politics one day.”

  Kingsley grinned. “Can I have these tables for a couple of days?”

  “What do you propose to do?”

  “Well, two things. I can check the consistency of the whole business and then I’ll find out just where the intruding body is located.”

  “And you’ll do this how?”

  “First I’ll work backwards from the observations of one of the planets — Saturn might be the best one to choose. This’ll determine the distribution of the intruding body, or intruding material if it isn’t in the form of a discrete body. This’ll be much the same thing as the J. C. Adams — Le Verrier determination of the position of Neptune. Then once I’ve got the intruding material pinned down, I’ll work the calculation forwards. I’ll work out the disturbances of the other planets Jupiter, Uranus, Neptune, Mars, etcetera. And when I’ve done that, I’ll compare my results with your observations of these other planets. If my results agree with the observations then I’ll know there’s no hoax. But if they don’t ag
ree — well!”

  “That’s all very fine,” said the Astronomer Royal, “but how do you propose to do all this in a couple of days?”

  “Oh, by using an electronic computer. Fortunately I’ve got a programme already written for the Cambridge computer. It’ll take me all tomorrow modifying it slightly, and to write a few subsidiary routines to deal with this problem. But I ought to be ready to start calculating by tomorrow night. Look here, A.R., why don’t you come to the lab after your Feast? If we work through tomorrow night, we ought to get the matter settled very quickly.”

  The following day was most unpleasant; it was cold, rainy, and a thin mist covered the town of Cambridge. Kingsley worked all through the morning and into mid-afternoon before a blazing fire in his College rooms. He worked steadily, writing an astonishing scrawl of symbols of which the following is a short sample, a sample of the code by which the computer was instructed as to how it should perform its calculations and operations:

  T

  z0A23

  1U11

  2A 2F3U13

  At about three-thirty he went out of College, thoroughly muffled up and sheltering under his umbrella a voluminous sheaf of papers. He worked his way by the shortest route to Corn Exchange Street, and so into the building where the computing machine was housed, the machine that could do five years of calculation in one night. The building had once been the old Anatomy School and was rumoured by some to be haunted, but this was far from his mind as he turned from the narrow street into the side door.

  His first move was not to the machine itself, which in any case was being operated by others just at that moment. He still had to convert the letters and figures he had written into a form that the machine could interpret. This he did with a special kind of typewriter, a typewriter that delivered a strip of paper in which holes were punched, the pattern of the holes corresponding to the symbols that were being typed. It was the holes in the paper that constituted the final instructions to the computer. Not one single hole among many thousands must be out of its proper place, otherwise the machine would compute incorrectly. The typing had to be done with meticulous accuracy, with literally one hundred per cent accuracy.