New Writings in SF 5 - [Anthology]

by Edited By John Carnell

  “It won’t hold us up, will it?” he called.

  Ted Mass shrugged doubtfully.

  “It mustn’t! You’ve got to get me to Washington on time.”

  “I’ll get you there,” bawled Mass without much enthusiasm.

  The windscreen suddenly ran with water, while the plane rocked, then dropped and rose.

  Approaching Midland, the plane suddenly soared upwards and they found themselves in clear air with the stars above and a thousand blurred stars below.

  “Oil wells,” announced Mass. He burst out singing, then patted the framework of the plane affectionately. “Good old bird!” Weiner heard him say, and wondered if they had come through worse perils than even his mind had created.

  They were a half-hour later in arrival at Midland than Weiner’s estimated time.

  During the seven-hundred-mile flight to Memphis, Weiner switched off the cabin light and tried to relax in his chair. Ted Mass took the hint, and apart from an occasional noisy yawn or an expletive at some navigational problem, was silent. Weiner could not sleep. In the dim light that came from forward in the pilot’s compartment, his imagination was able for the first time to build on the calamity shortly to kill the world. Would he ever see Helen again? Perhaps for a few hours, if he was able to leave Washington and return to the Observatory before the last sunset. If he delayed his return longer and the news got out no doubt travel would be impossible. They might see the last sunset together, then everlasting night with only electric light until the fuel supply for the Observatory ran out. Perhaps they could then drive to San Diego or maybe the oilfields he had just left where fuel might last longer. He saw the fleeing multitudes searching for fuel to give light and warmth, increasingly lawless, forests aflame, oilfields and coalfields looted. Lower and lower the temperature. Packs of wild animals and humans each hunting the other. Towns deserted; life only in the deepest mines and caverns —and then even this frozen into extinction. There was not a thing anyone could do to avert it.

  He switched on the light. Ted Mass looked round. “Can’t sleep?” He held out a sandwich. “Get outside this,” he advised. “Memphis in an hour. Sun comes up soon after.”

  Between Memphis and Knoxville they ran into the dawn. Straight into their eyes as the plane floated high over Tennessee came an orange flash of light instantly warming to flesh and feelings. Weiner was momentarily appalled to see the redness of the light, but then realized this was normal dawn light. His wristwatch showed him the time to be 3.40 and he was interested to see how an elevated horizon could give such an early dawn.

  “Grand day,” prophesied Ted Mass. His face which had been pale with the strain of eleven hours’ flying, took colour from the warm dawn. He hitched his shoulders and began singing again. Despite this Weiner dozed until they landed in Knoxville.

  During the last leg, Ted Mass with the aid of a favourable wind, pushed the plane to its safe limit, and as Washington appeared in a thin ground mist he was able to announce that they were on schedule. Weiner’s heart began to thump with the imminence of his interview. Two hours in which to get himself cleaned up, have a bite to eat and to drive the five miles into Washington. Just right!

  The plane landed smoothly and the nerve-drilling roar of the two engines stopped. Ted Mass conducted Weiner to the arrival office and after a few minutes Weiner was free to go on his way. On the way to the airport toilet he glanced at the lobby clock. 09.30! He looked at his watch. 06.30! His legs almost buckled beneath him. He, an astronomer, of all people to forget the necessity to change from Pacific Standard to Mountain Standard Time, to Central Standard Time and then to Eastern Standard Time. He was an hour late for his interview already!

  For a half-minute, Weiner was incapable of coherent thought and he stood trembling in the busy lobby staring at the clock. However, a species of rage directed against himself rose up and he jerked himself towards the line of public telephones. One booth was disengaged and he soon discovered it was out of order. When he did get another booth, he spent some futile minutes searching the directory for the White House number, and then with his control nearly gone, he asked the operator to put him through.

  There was a long pause, and then a voice identifying itself as Public Relations asked him his business. Weiner rapidly explained that he had missed an appointment with the President and wanted to arrange another. “I’ll give you the President’s Secretary,” said the voice, expressing disapproval. There was another long pause. Weiner fed in more coins.

  “Hallo, Professor Weiner,” said the Secretary, “what happened?”

  Even with death only a few days away Weiner was not able to explain that he, one of the foremost astronomers of the world, had forgotten the three-hour difference between East and West coast. “I’m afraid we had trouble over Tennessee. Look! I must see the President without delay. Can you arrange it? I’m not exaggerating. I’ve got to see him within the hour.”

  The Secretary blew into the phone. “He’s on his way to New York. Has to keep a tight schedule.”

  “Can’t you reach him there?” pleaded Weiner.

  “Not without knowing what you want to discuss with him.” The Secretary softened that: “I just can’t ring him and say drop everything, Professor Weiner wants to talk to you. Anyway, he won’t arrive until another hour.”

  Weiner writhed in indecision, then said, “I can’t tell you over the phone. I’m coming to the White House right now. Will you see me as soon as I arrive?”

  “Certainly, I’ll advise the gate-keeper.”

  * * * *

  Weiner shook hands with the Secretary and dropped into the offered chair. He felt exhausted, sick and dirty, and he knew he looked dishevelled and wild. He ran a shaking hand over his smooth hair.

  The Secretary asked if he had had any breakfast, and immediately picked up the phone and asked for some coffee to be sent in. “These long trips at high speed are a strain—I know it well, Professor—it’s essential to keep up with meals, especially on coast-to-coast trips when it’s difficult to know what time of day it is.” He offered Weiner a cigarette. “Now, Professor, what have you to tell me ?”

  Weiner drew a deep breath. Sitting before this well-dressed, well-shaved and very alive-looking man, he knew how small and insignificant he looked. Could anybody believe such a fantastic announcement from such a foolish-looking scarecrow ?

  “What I want to tell the President,” he began, “can be fully substantiated by Professor Gran who is staying at the Observatory for the next few days. My heads of staff are also aware of the discovery we have made and they, too, can be called as witnesses if you require.”

  The Secretary bowed his head politely. Weiner clenched his hands out of sight below the desk-top.

  “In short, what we have found is that certain changes are taking place in the Sun which make it positive that within twenty-four hours it will cease to radiate visible light. The Sun will set over America tonight and will not be visible again.”

  The Secretary stared hard at Weiner and groped for the cigarette he had placed in the large ashtray.

  “You mean it will go out?” he queried. Automatically he glanced over his shoulder at the window, then stared again at Weiner. He visibly donned his air of composure again.

  “That’s a terrible thing to say, Professor. What makes you so certain?” Weiner knew the Secretary had already decided he was a crank.

  As Weiner opened his mouth to reply, the Secretary held up his hand and said, “Just a moment, Professor.” He picked up the telephone. “Can you get hold of Mr. Cano-witch and ask him to see me at once. Thank you.” He replaced the telephone. “Mr. Canowitch is a scientific consultant the President keeps on the staff here to advise him on technical subjects. I think it would be better if you explained in his presence. You understand, I hope. Well, Professor, this is a shattering thing. If you are right, what will it mean for the world?”

  The door opened and a servant brought in a tray and placed it before Weiner, then went out. The
Secretary poured coffee and handed Weiner a steaming cup. Weiner’s hands shook so much, the cup rattled in the saucer.

  “It means death to all life on Earth within a matter of a few months. We shall freeze to death.” He trailed off. His mind felt too weary and dizzy to visualize farther.

  The Secretary picked up a pencil and prodded the point into the blotting-pad on the desk-top.

  “They have, what? Six months’ night in the Arctic regions, but the Eskimos survive. Wouldn’t it be like that?”

  Weiner gulped a mouthful of coffee and immediately felt more sick.

  “Even Arctic air receives some warmth from the sunlit regions,” he said. “If the whole planet is dark, the store of energy in the air or the ground will soon radiate away— you know how quickly the temperature drops on a winter’s evening—and there won’t be any more energy coming to Earth to keep the level up. Eventually, the temperature will go down to near absolute zero.”

  Canowitch entered and was introduced. He said he had met the Professor during a tour round the Observatory some years ago. Weiner did not recognize him. “I had hair then,” said Canowitch with a laugh. He drew up a chair and looked attentive.

  “Professor Weiner has just told me that they have discovered at the Observatory that the Sun will cease to shine in twenty-four hours. He is going to outline the scientific side of it and I want you, Mr. Canowitch, to be here so that we can put it in plain language to the President if need be.”

  Canowitch said, “What!” and his forehead wrinkled up into his bald scalp.

  “Just listen, Mr. Canowitch,” said the Secretary. “Now, Professor, will you tell us on what grounds you base your conclusion.”

  Weiner opened the small brief-case he carried and took out photographs and typed sheets. He began from the first observations and worked through, showing Canowitch successive spectrographs and explaining the significance of each of the minute differences. He produced a graph showing atomic excitation levels and the calculated and actual time of extinction of each element. He pointed to the end of the down slope and silently traced across to the Time axis. He sat back, leaving the papers scattered on the desktop.

  Canowitch was flushed with the effort of following Weiner. He looked at the Secretary significantly in silence. “Have any other Observatories confirmed this?” he asked.

  “The first detected disappearance was made only two months ago. We checked with Hurstmonceaux immediately and got a negative answer. A difference in location and instruments without doubt. But three weeks ago the effect accelerated and this time Hurstmonceaux contacted us. Correspondence has been going on, but Professor Gran and I only completed the mathematics two days ago. I doubt whether any other group have explored the whole thing yet.”

  “It’s unbelievable!” said Canowitch in a shocked voice. “Mr. Secretary, there’s no doubt, though, of that I feel sure. My God! The Sun going out after billions of years! But why, Professor. What is happening?”

  Weiner mutely looked his ignorance.

  The Secretary roused himself.

  “I’ll get the President,” he said. “You’ll stay here, Professor, of course.” He picked up the telephone and obtained a line out. He dialled, spoke, waited, spoke again, waited and said finally, “Hallo, sir. Black Alert. Can you come back immediately? Yes, sir, I’ll arrange it all.”

  He replaced the telephone.

  “He’ll be back around five this evening.”

  Weiner for some reason he could not explain began to weep.

  * * * *

  Professor Gran was up before dawn on the last day. It took mental driving to do it, even with his enthusiasm, as he was seventy years old and a sufferer from rheumatism. The night on the mountain-top had been very cold, and he had slept in the dark room attached to the dome wrapped only in a laboratory coat and a length of matting. About 1 a.m., feeling frozen, he had wandered out beneath the wonderful starry night and made his way to the “big” dome. Here he was able to scrounge a cup of coffee and a sandwich from a lonely mechanic, which cheered him up for a time, but, returned once more to the Coronagraph dome, he felt all his fingers stiffening and aching and fancied he could hear his knees creaking. About 2 a.m. Hartwing found him and insisted he rested on the couch in his warm office. At 4.30 a.m. Hartwing woke him again. “Sunrise in forty-five minutes,” he said, and went out again.

  Professor Gran raised himself from the couch by hard use of “self-scorn” and the enticement of a flask of coffee Hartwing had left on the desk. He eased his feet to the floor and sat rubbing his face trying to drag his wits together. His mind, so keen in the day, swirled around now, and try as he might, he could not fix his thoughts on anything higher than the foul taste in his mouth, the aches in his bones and the rumbling of his stomach. He shuffled over to the table and poured himself a cup of coffee. He half sat on the table edge and clasped the hot cup in both hands easing the rheumatism away. He hadn’t smoked for ten years (ever since his doctor had warned him about the worsening of his bronchial condition and the strain it was beginning to put on his heart), but he wished Hartwing would come back so that he could get a cigarette from him. The desire to smoke welled up into his saliva glands. He went round the desk and opened the middle drawer. Delighted, he grabbed the pack of cigarettes he found there. There were no matches. Swearing softly in his affected voice he pulled open the other drawers, keeping his ears alert in case Hartwing should return.

  Suddenly he straightened himself with a gasp and then sat in the chair behind the desk. “What the devil are you up to, Gran?” he asked himself aloud. He gave himself a gentle slap on the cheek. “You don’t smoke, you silly old fool!” He held his hand up and watched it tremble out of control. “You’re getting old,” he sneered at himself. He threw the pack of cigarettes back into the drawer and slammed it close. “The world ends today and you wrestle with a gnat you killed ten years ago! Well, it just shows you what are the really important things in life.”

  He looked at his huge vest-pocket watch, then painfully walked to the door and stepped out into the chill drifting air of pre-dawn. With his hands plunged into his trouser pockets he hurried back to the Coronagraph dome as fast as his uncertain knees would allow. His jaws chattered together with the cold. The yearning to smoke returned intensified. He clenched his teeth together and halted in a conflict of mind—one part arguing that surely on the last day he could smoke, and the other that if he was going to die it might as well be with his mind in full control of itself. The two parts of his mind sparred together while he stood with his hand on the knob of the dome door.

  He looked round as the sound of a car cresting the top and entering the car park came to his ears. He saw headlights swing then blink out. He didn’t think, “I wonder who that is?” He thought, “I wonder if they’ve got a cigarette?” He hurried back down the path.

  The newcomer was Smith, coming on early as the better alternative to lying awake and listening to the soft sounds of doors opening and closing as the women exchanged visits to comfort each other.

  “Hallo, Gran,” greeted Smith. “Thought I’d come and help you catch the dawn.”

  “That’s very good of you, Smith,” said Gran perfunctorily. They walked back towards the dome.

  “The last one,” said Smith. “I couldn’t miss the last one.”

  For some obscure reason these words said quietly in the dark transmuted the whole thing for Professor Gran from a unique fascinating astronomical event, to a tragedy that was shortly to overwhelm not only Earth but also the entire Solar System. He forgot he wanted to smoke. They walked quietly into the dome and commenced to make everything ready for dawn. When they were ready, they stopped and stood at the mouth of the slit watching the first elusive tints in the eastern sky. Smith pulled out his pipe.

  Gran looked sideways. “I suppose you haven’t got a cigarette?” he asked.

  “Never touch the things,” said Smith. “Why? Thought you didn’t smoke.”

  “Oh, nothing,” answered
Gran.

  “I can get you some,” offered Smith.

  “No, no,” snarled Gran. “No time now.” He rushed away to fiddle with the camera slide-loader.

  They observed the same dawn as Weiner had two thousand miles eastward, but whereas he found relief in its apparent normality, they were able to see in a moment that overnight the Sun’s corona had greatly declined. Smith rang up the spectrograph chamber and listened to the call off of vanished lines.

  “I’m going over to have a look,” he told Gran. “By the sound of it, the spectrum’s looking almost bald. I can’t visualize what he’s told me.”

  Gran grunted, then added, “Don’t forget those cigarettes when you come back.”

  Smith swore silently to himself as he went out. He had better things to do than act as messenger boy for the old goat at a time like this.

  At 11 a.m. he took the car back home hoping the ladies would have sorted themselves out and that he would be right for breakfast, also that he would be able quietly to break the news to Mildred. He found the kitchen filled with unwashed crockery and a note from Mildred pinned to the kitchen door: “Couldn’t find you at the Observatory. Helen’s had a telephone call from Launcelot in Washington. He wants her to catch this afternoon plane and meet him there. Gone with Mona and Sally to see her off. Be back about 6 p.m. Don’t forget to eat up the jelly.”