Smith had an impulse to run out to his car and to set off in pursuit of Mildred, then he literally rushed backwards and forwards between the dining-room door and the telephone as he was torn between this idea and the idea that he should phone the airport and ask for her to be paged. Then he was deflected by noticing a newspaper folded in one of the room’s armchairs. He hurriedly scanned every page but could find no intimation that the news had leaked. Another idea presented itself and he quickly switched on the radio. Everything was proceeding normally. Somehow, this made the impending disaster less imminent and he was able calmly to ring the airport, get through to the right person, make his requirements quite plain and, thinking ahead, ask that Mrs. Smith should ring his office at the Observatory. He went back to the kitchen and made himself a breakfast, then drove back to the Observatory.
Professor Gran pounced on him when he passed by the Coronagraph dome. “Got those cigarettes, Smith?”
Smith, with his mind filled with anxiety for Mildred and growing terror at the plainer and plainer face of death, exploded, “For Christ’s sake, no!” He hurried on, but Gran called, “Self, self, self, that’s all some people think of!”
Smith seemed to feel a blow beneath his heart; thought left him. He turned and ran back to the startled Professor, grasped him by the lapels and shook him. “You dried up old fool,” he shouted. “What do you know about it? What do you know about it?” He pushed Gran away and the Professor staggered back then sat down on the step of the Observatory and was sick.
Smith knelt and put his arm round the old man’s shoulders.
“I’m sorry, Tom. I lost control.”
Professor Gran moaned softly and feebly wiped his lips with a handkerchief. His forehead and cheeks were white. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Let me rest a minute.”
Smith felt drained of anger and filled with contrition. A headache had started to throb between his eyes.
“Have you had breakfast?” he asked.
Professor Gran shook his head.
“Come on, then. I’ll take you to the canteen and get them to cook you something.”
Gran groaned at the idea, but nevertheless allowed himself to be assisted to his feet. Half carrying the exhausted Professor, Smith set off towards the canteen at the far edge of the site.
After seeing the Professor fed, stocked up with cigarettes and matches and returned to the Coronagraph dome, Smith hurried to his office and checked with the airport that Mildred had not phoned in the meantime. She had not, and he knew the four women were engaged on a store crawl before going for the afternoon flight.
He phoned the underground chamber of the Solar telescope and asked Swanson to come to the office. Swanson arrived irritated at being called away from the sensational developments going on. “Yes, I know, Will,” said Smith. He tugged at his moustache, which felt untidy as he had omitted to trim it that morning.
“Have you guessed what it all means?” he asked.
Swanson stared at Smith, said “No!” carefully, and waited. .
“The Sun’s dying,” said Smith. In an unemotional voice he went through the conclusions reached by Weiner and Gran. “I called you here because I want you to tell the rest. It’s only fair. By now Weiner will have passed it on to the President and I guess it doesn’t matter any more. If anybody wants to go off, let them. I’m sorry I had to hold it up so long.”
“My God!” said Swanson. He continued sitting, his eyes on the bright-lit sky outside. “We guessed, of course, but we didn’t believe it. Who could?”
He went out like a man in a trance. Ten minutes later Smith heard cars leaving the car park.
At two-thirty the phone rang and it was Mildred. Tears came into his eyes as he heard her voice. “Listen, dear,” he said, “don’t argue with me. Leave Helen there and come back immediately with Mona and Sally.” She attempted to break in but he over-rode her. “No, listen, dear, listen. Weiner’s gone to Washington to break the news about a terrible disaster that’s going to happen today. I want you back here ...”
“What disaster?” she thrust in. He heard the fear in her voice. “Leonard, what are you talking about!”
“Now, now, dear,” he soothed. “You’ve got plenty of time to get back. I’ll tell you when I see you. Now just go out and say good-bye to Helen. Tell her I’ve been taken ill. Bring the other two, and be careful how you drive, dear. Come straight up to the Observatory.” He cut across her appeals, repeated his instructions, then hung up.
He went outside and walked to the end of the terrace to stare out over the beautiful bowl between the mountains. The Sun had a peculiar pink tinge about it. So this is how the world ends, he thought, all a mess of trivialities, secrecy, cigarettes, shopping wives, headaches.
* * * *
After phoning Helen in the morning, Weiner spent an hour talking to Canowitch, then had a simple lunch in the staff dining-room. After lunch he was taken back to the Secretary’s room and they began to discuss what might be done to avert panic among the people. A telephone call came in from London and it appeared the news had been passed to H.M. Government who were cautiously checking the validity of the evidence. Other transatlantic calls came in as the hours ticked off.
Weiner felt himself going to pieces. Helen could not possibly arrive until nightfall, by which time, panic would be everywhere. He longed to be away from this quiet haven and to go to the airport where, at least, he could comfort Helen and plan something with her. But the figure of the President loomed over the house and nothing could move until he arrived to press his magic finger on the button marked “go”.
Afternoon coffee was served.
About five-thirty Canowitch came in looking white. “Have you seen the Sun?” he asked. “It’s red.”
Weiner rushed to the tall windows overlooking the lawn at the rear of the house. The Sun, still high, was a fierce orange colour. All three men stared at it in stricken silence.
The Secretary turned away and sat abruptly into his chair. “Somehow I hadn’t believed until now,” he said in a hushed voice. He picked up the telephone: “Get me a connection to the President’s plane at once,” he ordered. He waited while the other two men stood at the window. Eventually the telephone rang and he grabbed it. “Hallo, sir.” He listened. “Yes, sir, it’s about the Sun. Yes, I’ve got Professor Weiner here. It’s to do with the Black Alert. It’s imperative you let nothing delay you, sir.” The guarded interchange went on. “I’ve had to make emergency civil arrangements. Can I release them before you arrive? Yes, I’ll do that. I’ve already alerted Pentagon. Yes, sir. Right, sir.” The Secretary replaced the telephone, and immediately asked for another connection.
“Black Alert!” thought Weiner. “How prophetic!”
The Secretary was speaking to somebody, referring to the pages of notes they had made that afternoon. “At once,” he concluded. “This has the President’s top priority. At once. Yes, at once.”
He put down the telephone and for a moment held his head in his cupped hands. He suddenly picked up the telephone again and asked for a number. He ignored the two men and stared at the portrait of Washington hanging on the wall facing his desk.
“Hallo, dear,” he said softly. “I’m afraid I shan’t be able to get home tonight. Something’s blown up. Yes, yes, I know. I’m terribly sorry. Don’t forget to wish Mary good night from me, will you.” He forced a chuckle. “I’ll try to get in tomorrow morning. Good-bye, dear.”
The Secretary turned to Weiner. “The President asked if you would mind stopping until he arrived. Can you do that? I don’t like to ask it, but I think your help in working out the release to the Press, Radio and Television will be invaluable. The President needs all the help he can get at a time like this.”
Weiner nodded. The Secretary went on hesitantly, “Is there any hope we can offer the people?”
Quite sincerely Weiner said, “Only prayer.” He wandered tiredly back to the desk and sat down again. “As for the News Services, I can tell you what
is happening but not why it’s happening. The President can only ask the people to face death with resignation and courage.”
The Secretary turned a pencil over and over between his fingers.
“He’ll be here within the hour. Will the Sun last out that long?”
The telephone rang. It was Public Relations asking if there was any information he could give the newspapers who were bombarding the office with calls.
The Secretary hesitated. “Tell them a news release will be put out in an hour’s time.”
He put down the telephone. “I expect they’ll find out soon enough from the Observatory,” he remarked to Weiner. He seemed to have forgotten his previous question.
They went again to look at the Sun. It was a deep red as if seen through high fog. Even as they looked the light took on a subtle purple hue.
“If he doesn’t hurry,” said Canowitch hysterically, “it will be too late!”
“Too late for what?” asked the Secretary sharply. “You can’t expect the President to stop it, can you.” He turned away and opened a cabinet. Solemnly he poured drinks and handed them round.
“Oh, Helen, Helen!” thought Weiner. His chest ached with a hopeless sorrow.
Again the telephone gave its sharp ring. The Secretary went and took the call. “Right,” he said. “The President’s car has left the airport,” he announced. “Let us get out of this infernal room and meet him on the porch.”
The room was red like an inferno.
The President’s car came up the drive with its headlights on. Weiner saw the white head duck out of the car and the tall figure commence to mount the steps. As the President approached in the gloom he called, “Well, Charlie?”
The Secretary went down a step and greeted the President with an urgency showing his held-down panic.
“This is Professor Weiner,” he said, turning.
The President extended his hand.
The Sun went out.
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New Writings in SF 5 - [Anthology] Page 18