New Writings in SF 5 - [Anthology]

by Edited By John Carnell

  Willoughby then lay back in his chair and chatted lengthily between drinks to a very knowledgeable Science Editor. He then put down the telephone and stood up with a groan. He stood looking down at his betrousered knee. “What the hell’s a cold compress?” he asked irritably aloud.

  * * * *

  Weiner drove fast once he was off the mountain and within two hours came to San Diego airport. He put his car in the long-stay park and strode quickly towards “Bookings”. As he approached the east-bound counter, a well-dressed young man rose from a seat and said, “Excuse me, Professor Weiner.”

  Weiner experienced a momentary shock as the all-pervading stream of his thoughts was invaded by this outside distraction.

  “Can’t stop,” he apologized and pressed onwards as fast as his short legs would carry him.

  “Is it true that you are on your way to see the President?” asked the young man, pacing alongside.

  Weiner stopped in momentary amazement.

  “I represent the Los Angeles Times. A Mr. Willoughby phoned us,” explained the young man, looking important and apprehensive at the same time.

  “No, I am not going to see the President,” said Weiner crisply, “I’m going to my normal half-yearly consultation with the Board considering Scientific Expenditure in the U.S.A., having its office as you may know in Washington, DC. As regards Mr. Willoughby, I would simply say that he is known to have a strong liking for a strong drink. Will there be anything more?”

  The young man looked red, but doggedly asked the key question. “Is the Sun going out in two days’ time?”

  Weiner managed to smile, then went to the counter without saying a word. The young man followed. “Mr. Willoughby said ...”

  “Please,” interrupted Weiner patiently. “Do you have to pester me with all Mr. Willoughby’s jokes.” He turned away and asked the counter attendant for a ticket on the first plane to Washington.

  “Sorry, Professor,” said the young man and he went off.

  “The first plane available with space is the 23.30 tonight from Los Angeles arriving Washington 07.15 tomorrow,” said the attendant pleasantly. “There’s one seat left on that.”

  “Seven hours to wait!” ejaculated Weiner. “What about the afternoon plane from here?”

  “Full up hours ago,” said the attendant sympathetically. “I could ring San Francisco and ask them if they have any vacancies on their New York flight, you could connect back to Washington. That would save you some hours. Of course you would have to take the plane up to San Francisco, cost you more.”

  Weiner controlled himself.

  ‘Yes, yes, do that,” he said. Perspiration burst from his forehead as he stood waiting while the attendant went to an inner office and put through a call. A large man with a wide-brimmed felt hat, a loose-fitting suit and an open-necked shirt came up, dumped his bag and stared irritably at the empty section, then put his finger on the buzzer and kept it there.

  “Where the hell they all gone?” he demanded of Weiner.

  “He’s fixing a ticket for me,” answered Weiner. “He’ll be back.”

  “You want Washington, sonny?” asked the man bellicosely, ceasing his buzzing.

  Weiner nodded briefly. He suddenly felt as if all his nerves had become charged with electricity. The sweat poured down his face, his arms and legs trembled. In heaven’s name did he have to stand here in the company of this boorish slob waiting for clerks to exchange pleasantries and to consult diagrams, while the minutes ticked off to the end of all this for ever!

  The attendant was still behind the glass partition grinning and cracking away to San Francisco. He looked up and saw Weiner glaring at him. He gave the thumbs down sign and went on talking.

  “What’s that mean?” demanded the big man suspiciously. “He ain’t going to tell me he ain’t got no tickets because I’ll pin his ears back if he does. I got to get to Washington tonight.”

  The attendant came out.

  “Sorry,” he began to Weiner.

  “Look!” roared the big man, shouldering Weiner’s slight body to one side. “I’ve been waiting here for some service while you’ve been in there gabbing. Get me to Washington, and fast! Don’t give me any talk about no tickets: I got cash that buys tickets.”

  The attendant shrugged at Weiner and backed from the wad of notes thrust towards him.

  Weiner felt sick with rage and humiliation. Not since he had been in school had he felt so annihilated by the fact of his small stature and baby looks. He fled away from the scene and stood looking without seeing from one of the huge windows, mopping his face and fighting his nerves. Damn! Damn! Damn! Why hadn’t he fixed his flight before he left? And why had he let that red-faced bully bluster him out of the last place on the 23.30! He turned about determinedly and went to “Enquiries”.

  “Where do I charter a plane?” he asked.

  After a lot of form filling and phoning and precious minutes thrown away, Weiner was led down the corridor and out on to the inner road. A few minute’s walk and they entered a brick hut. Weiner was handed over to a grizzle-haired fellow who was still worming his way into a flying suit. Snatching up a flying officer’s cap, the silent pilot led the way to the twin-engined plane standing at the edge of the flying-field. Weiner was settled in the small cabin, the pilot busied himself in his crowded compartment. The minutes passed away. Owing to the much smaller power and fuel capacity of this plane compared to the trans-continental services it would not arrive much before 07.00 in Washington, and his interview was timed for 08.30. Not a minute could be wasted here. Weiner felt his control slipping again. And then a young man came up on the run. Papers were passed across. Hands were shaken, the engines roared, the wireless squawked instructions. They were away.

  * * * *

  Smith spent an embarrassing afternoon casually walking round the various domes engaged on Solar work and answering in a variety of manners the questions put to him.

  He went around the place telling his big lie, thinking jerkily on the utter futility of passing one’s last hours in putting down truth, and yet of the world-wide panic if the truth got out, and then of Mildred and what he could possibly tell her, and where the hell he could get some tobacco. In the small coronagraph dome he came on Professor Gran pottering about on his own, loading photographic plates into a camera.

  “Oh, hallo,” Professor Gran said cheerfully. “All your chaps seemed stuck on spectral observation, so I thought I’d do a bit of visual work. It would be a crime if we never had a record of the last minutes of old Sol.”

  “Old Sol!” thought Smith. “You Norfolk-suited fool! Why don’t you grow up!”

  “Have you got all you want?” asked Smith.

  “I think so, I think so,” answered Gran busily.

  Smith left him and went out into the late afternoon. The sun was poised high above the mountains to the West and over there the colours were washed out and detail lost in the general brightness. In the East, however, the first beautiful colours of evening were tinting the rolling panorama— clear water blues, violets and purples and rich chrome-filled greens. He stood with his hands in his pockets studying the scene with much sadness. When the Sun went out, all this magic would vanish and never reappear; only dim starlight would come down through the slowly freezing atmosphere.

  One of the young students employed by the Observatory to study and do odd jobs came hurrying up.

  “Mrs. Smith rang up for you, sir. She says it’s urgent. Will you ring her back right away.”

  Smith hurried to the nearest office and dialled his home.

  “Hallo, Mildred,” he said. “Leonard here. What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve had Mr. Willoughby on the telephone. He was terribly wild, Leonard, drunk I suppose. He kept going on about the end of the world. He wanted me to go over there to comfort his last hours.”

  “Did he,” said Smith flatly. “Where was he speaking from?”

  “His home. But, Leonard, I’m not annoyed or anything. Pleas
e don’t get upset. It’s just that he sounded so peculiar I feel sure he’ll do something terrible to himself if he’s not stopped. I thought you might be able to send somebody down to look at him.”

  Smith terminated the conversation, then walked over to the car park and got into his open-top car. For a few seconds he cursed Willoughby for further complicating these last days. Instead of taking all his money out of the bank and setting off with Mildred on a round-the-world air holiday, here he was endeavouring to keep up a front before his staff, and on his way to wet-nurse a drunk in case he did any more talking.

  Smith drove the car down the mountain, passed his own house, and down to Willoughby’s chalet in the foothills. As he drew up, he could hear Willoughby smashing things inside the chalet.

  Smith opened the front door.

  “Bernard!” he called. “Bernard, it’s Leonard.”

  There was a momentary pause, then a brief scurrying sound, then a tremendous explosion.

  Smith heard a body fall. For a second of shock he thought Willoughby had committed suicide, then he banished the thought, simultaneously developing a towering rage at Willoughby’s adolescent behaviour. He threw open the door leading to the back room which looked out on to the mountain. Willoughby was sprawled on the floor with the side of his head gone.

  Smith had an impulse to run out of the chalet—the sight on the floor was so horrible—but he turned his eyes away and mastered himself. He then picked up the telephone and asked for Dr. Manorelli, the Observatory physician. He explained what had happened. “Stay there,” ordered Dr. Manorelli. “Mrs. Willoughby and her daughter may come back at any moment. She must not be allowed just to walk in and discover him. I’ll be down in a few minutes. Don’t touch him in the meantime.”

  When Manorelli arrived, his first words were, “I’ve notified the police. They’re sending somebody out.”

  “Before you’ve seen him!” ejaculated Smith. He instantly saw the endless examinations and the awkward probing. “Why did Willoughby shoot himself? Don’t know. What was he doing at home at this hour? Sleeping for night duty? For what, then, did you, Smith, come down here disturbing valuable sleep? Oh, just wanted a chat. In the middle of sleep period ? What did you want to chat about that couldn’t wait?” No, that was all very implausible.

  Dr. Manorelli, examining the body, said, “Suicide or attempted suicide, one way or the other it’s a police matter. Why wait?” He looked around the room. “Looks as though he was wrecking the place. Did you hear him ? Wonder why he was doing that. Of course, obviously disturbed state of mind, but what was he disturbed about? Go into the bedroom and bring me a sheet, would you please.”

  Smith was glad to get out of the room. The bedroom was a mess. A framed photograph of Mona Willoughby was smashed, all her clothes dragged from the wardrobe, some of them torn, the dressing-table had been swept clear, bottles and powder on the carpet.

  Smith opened a cupboard and found sheets. As he left the bedroom he heard car wheels crunch on the pebbled drive. He gave the sheet to Dr. Manorelli, then went to meet Mona Willoughby. She entered running, with Sally a few steps behind.

  “Hallo, Professor Smith!” she exclaimed. “I saw your car.”

  Smith moved so that she was intercepted in her intention to go into the back room.

  “Dr. Manorelli’s here,” he said.

  Her young face flashed into terror. “He did it!” she cried.

  Smith hated every moment of the next few hours. He had to bear her first shrieks and sobs, then her heart-rending account of the telephone conversation she had had with Bernard. (He had rung every store where she was a regular shopper and they had put out calls for her. She had eventually rung him back in a panic wondering what had occurred, only to hear him drunkenly calling for her and saying the end of the world was coming. She had let loose at him. He had cried and sworn he would kill himself. She had told him to do just that.) After this the police arrived and he had to hang about while they questioned first Dr. Manorelli, then Mona. His own interrogation was quite brief. He told them about the call Mildred had had and how he had come down to see if he could help his associate.

  Finally, he volunteered to take Mona and Sally back to his house where Mildred could look after them. All in all, it had been a gruelling few hours.

  Night had come down over the mountain. Smith paid a last visit to the Observatory to have a word about Professor Gran with Hartwing who would be running things that night.

  “I’ve seen the old coot already,” said Hartwing. “What goes on ? He’s burbling about photographing the end of the Sun. What’s he getting at?”

  “He and Weiner have got an answer on the business of the disappearing lines—you’ve followed it over the past month—the Sun stops shining in about twenty-four hours’ time. Weiner’s gone off to see the President. Gran’s dedicated himself to seeing the end here. It’s your job and mine to see the story doesn’t break on the Press until Weiner’s seen the President.”

  Hartwing’s face showed his incredulity. He stood silent, staring at Smith, obviously waiting for him to explain his joke.

  “It’s true,” said Smith sombrely. “I don’t question conclusions reached on their level—you’ll see sunrise tomorrow and sunset, but probably no more. The world will go mad when it finds out. A lot of terror may be averted if the Government has a few hours to think and act. God knows what they will do—send troops to guard power-stations and the lie, I suppose—but it will all go wrong if the Press gets hold of it too early. We’ve got to pooh-pooh any enquiries that reach us.”

  “You can’t be serious!” said Hartwing. He laughed breathlessly. “They must have been joking. Why, it’s impossible !”

  Smith shook his head.

  Hartwing made one or two confused gestures.

  “No. Look here! Look, you don’t expect anybody to believe you, do you? I think Weiner ought to have better taste than to start a ridiculous hoax like that. A man in his position—and you, Leonard. I don’t think it’s in the least bit funny.”

  “It’s not meant to be funny,” suddenly shouted Smith, then choked on a mouthful of tobacco smoke and fell into a fit of coughing and gasping.

  Hartwing grinned and banged him across the shoulders.

  “You won’t see the night out at this rate,” he jibed.

  Smith knew that he would not now be able to convince Hartwing that he was not joking. He had a drink of water. “Well, if any newspapers get through, asking when the Sun goes out, don’t ass about; just tell them it’s a hoax and shut them up.”

  Hartwing smiled and Smith realized that far from scotching any rumour he would in all probability amplify it, regarding it as all good fun.

  When Smith got home, both his wife and Helen Weiner were away upstairs closeted with Mona and Sally Willoughby. He only saw Mildred for a few minutes when she came downstairs to heat some milk. He went to bed about midnight, and fell asleep reading some feeble novel.

  * * * *

  Weiner had never before realized how vast America was. He had flown from East to West when he had joined the Observatory, but that had been in a high-flying Coast to Coast jet. Now he was able to examine every mile of the way, see every gully of the desert mountainscape, pick out the threads of trails—Arizona seemed never ending.

  Ted Mass, his pilot, so hard-bitten and laconic on the ground, had grown more and more boisterous the farther they flew. He sang, he pointed out landmarks, he shouted back incomprehensible comments and progressively turned what should have been a time of introspection and sorrowful farewell into a torment of simmering rage.

  Two hours’ flight saw them dropping steeply down out of the sunlight over the mountains into the long shadows beginning to shroud Tucson Municipal Airport, The time was 19.15 Mountain Standard Time. Ted Mass taxied the aircraft off somewhere to get it refuelled. Weiner sat patiently over a coffee working out a probable ETA. His figures comforted him a little, but he vowed he would keep the pressure on at each stop so that the pil
ot got the plane into the air again with the minimum of delay.

  On the trip to Midland with the land below in darkness, the eastern sky before them was impenetrably black while, behind them, the glow of the set sun sadly illuminated the clear air. Ted Mass began a series of meteorological reminiscences interspersed with periods of thoughtful humming. He tuned the radio into Midland and listened to the weather report.

  “Rain,” he shouted back to Weiner. “Buckets of it. Come over from Tennessee. Unusual. Bit of headwind.”

  Weiner watched the opaque blanket approaching, thinking of the curtain that would be drawn for ever round the Earth.