Chapter 2. _Breakdown_
Ken Maddox could not remember a time when he had not wanted to become ascientist. Maybe it started when his father first invited him to lookthrough a microscope. That was when he was a very small boy, but hecould still remember the revelation of that experience. He rememberedhow it had seemed, on looking away from the lens, that the whole worldof normal vision was only a fragment of that which was hidden behindcurtains and shrouds and locked doors. Only men, like his father, withspecial instruments and wisdom and knowledge, could ever hope tounderstand the world of the unknown, which the ordinary person did noteven suspect.
Now, at sixteen, Ken was tall, with black hair that had an annoying curlto it. He was husky enough to be the main asset of the football squad ofMayfield High School in his senior year. He knew exactly where he wasgoing and what he was going to do. He would be one of those men wholived beyond the mere surface of the world, and who would seek tounderstand its deep and hidden meanings.
Ken thought of this as he watched Maria at the telescope. What adifference between knowing the comet as this instrument showed it, andwith the knowledge revealed by modern astronomy, and knowing it as theaverage person in Mayfield did.
Ken and Maria stayed in the observatory until the comet had almostdisappeared below the horizon. Mrs. Maddox brought a snack of sandwichesand punch.
"I always do this when I see the observatory dome open," she said,smiling. "I never know when Ken's going to quit his stargazing and comein for the night."
"We're about through, Mom. I'll drive Maria over to her place and beback in a little while."
"I'm going to loan him the stamps," Maria said.
Mrs. Maddox looked at Ken in mock severity. "You mean you forgot_again_?"
"No--I remembered," Ken said lamely. "After the post office closed, thatis. Anyhow, Maria has plenty."
"Well," said Mrs. Maddox, "I know who's going to have to mail myinvitations if they're ever to get out in time for the party!"
After he and Maria had finished the snack, Ken started his car again.The engine had cooled to normal temperature, but he watched theindicator closely as he drove. Nothing seemed right about the action ofthe car. The engine had turned over sluggishly when he pressed thestarter button, as if the battery were almost dead. Now it luggedheavily, even when going downhill.
"The whole thing's haywire," Ken said irritably. "It acts like thecrankcase is full of sand or something."
"Let me walk the rest of the way," said Maria. "You take the car back,and I'll bring the stamps over on my way to school in the morning."
"No, we're almost there. Nothing much more could go wrong than alreadyhas."
When they reached Maria's place they found Professor and Mrs. Larsensitting on the porch.
"We've been watching the comet," Maria said excitedly. "Ken let me lookat it through his telescope."
"A remarkable event," said Professor Larsen. "I feel very fortunate tobe alive to witness it. My generation hasn't had this kind of privilegebefore. I was a child when Halley's comet appeared."
"I've been trying to tell Maria what a lucky break this is, but sheagrees with Granny Wicks," said Ken.
"Oh, I do not!" Maria snapped.
"Granny Wicks?" Professor Larsen inquired. "Your grandmother?"
"No." Ken tried to cover the professor's lack of familiarity withAmerican idioms. "She's just the town's oldest citizen. Everybody likesher and calls her Granny, but her mind belongs to the Middle Ages."
"You hear that, Papa?" cried Maria. "Her mind belongs to the MiddleAges, and he says I'm like Granny Wicks!"
Maria's mother laughed gently. "I'm sure Ken didn't mean your mind is ofthe Middle Ages, too, dear."
Ken flushed. "Of course not. What I mean is that Granny Wicks thinks thecomet is something mysterious and full of omens, and Maria says she sortof thinks the same about it."
"I didn't say anything about omens and signs!"
"Well, except for that...."
"Except for that, I suppose we are all in agreement," said ProfessorLarsen slowly. He drew on his pipe and it glowed brightly in thedarkness. "The whole universe is a terrible place that barely toleratesliving organisms. Almost without exception it is filled with great sunsthat are flaming, atomic furnaces, or dead cinders of planets to which ascrap of poisonous atmosphere may cling. Yes, it is indeed a greatmiracle that here in this corner of the universe conditions exist whereliving things have found a foothold. We may be glad that this is so, butit does not pay man to ever forget the fierceness of the home in whichhe lives. Earth is merely one room of that home, on the pleasant, sunnyside of the house. But the whole universe is his home."
"That's the thing I've been trying to say," Ken answered. "We can knowthis without being afraid."
Maria's father nodded. "Yes. Fear is of no use to anyone. Awe, respect,admiration, wonder, humility--these are all necessary. But not fear."
Maria turned from the group. "I'll bring the stamps, Ken," she said.
"Won't you come in and have some cake?" Mrs. Larsen asked.
"No, thanks. Mother fed us before we left my place. I'm afraid Icouldn't eat any more."
In a moment Maria was back. "Here are two whole sheets," she said. "Ihope that will be enough."
"Plenty. I'll see you get repaid tomorrow. Good night, everybody."
"Good night, Ken."
He moved down the walk toward his car and got in. When he pressed diestarter button the engine groaned for a few seconds and came to acomplete stop. He tried again; there was only a momentary, protestinggrind.
Ken got out and raised the hood and leaned over the engine in disgustedcontemplation. There was no visible clue to the cause of the trouble.
"Is your battery dead?" Professor Larsen called.
"No. It's something else." Ken slammed the hood harder than he hadintended. "I'll have to leave it here overnight and pick it up in themorning."
"I can push you home with my car, or at least give you a ride."
"No, please don't bother," Ken said. "I'll tow it home with Dad's cartomorrow. I'd just as soon walk, now. It's only a few blocks."
"As you wish. Good night, Ken."
"Good night, Professor."
* * * * *
Ken's clock radio woke him the next morning. He reached over to shut offthe newscast it carried. There was only one item any commentator talkedabout now, the comet. Ken wondered how they could get away with arepetition of the same thing, over and over, but they seemed able to getan audience as long as they kept the proper tone of semi-hysteria intheir voices.
As his hand touched the dial to switch it off, something new caughtKen's attention. "A curious story is coming in from all parts of thecountry this morning," the announcer said. "Auto mechanics are reportinga sudden, unusually brisk business. No one knows the reason, but thereseems to be a virtual epidemic of car breakdowns. Some garagemen aresaid to be blaming new additives in gasoline and lubricating oil. It isreported that one major oil company is undertaking an investigation ofthese charges, but, in the meantime, no one really seems to have a goodanswer.
"In connection with the comet, however, from widely scattered areascomes the report that people are even blaming these engine failures onour poor, old comet. In the Middle Ages they blamed comets foreverything from soured cream to fallen kingdoms. Maybe this modern ageisn't so different, after all. At any rate, this comet will no doubt behappy to get back into open space, where there are no Earthmen to blameit for all their accidents and shortcomings!"
Ken switched off the radio and lay back on the pillow. That was a realchoice one--blaming the comet for car breakdowns! Page Granny Wicks!
The breakdowns were curious, however. There was no good reason why thereshould be a sudden rash of them. He wondered if they had actuallyoccurred, or if the story was just the work of some reporter trying tomake something out of his own inability to get into a couple of garagesthat were swamped by the usual weekend rush. This was mos
t likely thecase.
However it didn't explain why his own car had suddenly conked out, Kenthought irritably. He'd have to get it over to Art Matthews' garage assoon as school was out.
At school that morning there was little talk of anything but the comet.After physics class, Ken was met by Joe Walton and three other membersof the science club, of which Ken was president.
"We want a special meeting," said Joe. "We've just had the mostbrilliant brainstorm of our brief careers."
"It had better be more brilliant than the last one," said Ken. "Thatdrained the club treasury of its last peso."
"I was watching the comet last night, and I began to smell the dust ofits tail as the Earth moved into it...."
"You must have been smelling something a lot more powerful than cometdust."
"I said to myself--why don't we collect some of that stuff and bottle itand see what it's made of? What do you think?" Joe asked eagerly.
Ken scowled. "Just how many molecules of material from the comet's taildo you think there are in the atmosphere over Mayfield right now?"
"How do I know? Six--maybe eight."
Ken laughed. "You're crazy, anyway. What have you got in mind?"
"I'm not sure," Joe answered seriously. "We know the comet's tail is sorarefied that it resembles a pretty fair vacuum, but it _is_ composed ofsomething. As it mixes with the atmosphere we ought to be able todetermine the changing makeup of the air and get a pretty good idea ofthe composition of the comet's tail. This is a chance nobody's ever hadbefore--and maybe never will again, until we go right out there inspaceships--being right inside a comet's tail long enough to analyzeit!"
"It sounds like a terrific project," Ken admitted. "The universitieswill all be doing it, of course, but it would still be a neat trick ifwe could bring it off. Maybe Dad and Professor Larsen will have ideas onhow we could do it."
"We ought to be able to make most of the equipment," said Joe, "so itshouldn't be too expensive. Anyway, we'll have a meeting then, rightafter school?"
"Yes--no, wait. The engine in my car conked out. I've got to go over toArt's with it this afternoon. You go ahead without me. Kick the ideaaround and let me know what's decided. I'll go along with anything shortof mortgaging the football field."
"Okay," said Joe. "I don't see why you don't just sell that hunk of junkand get a real automobile. You've got a good excuse now. This breakdownis a good omen!"
"Don't talk to me about omens!"
* * * * *
Art Matthews had the best equipped garage in town, and was a sort ofunofficial godfather to all the hot-rodders in the county. He helpedthem plane the heads of their cars. He got their special cams andcarburetor and manifold assemblies wholesale, and he gave them fatherlyadvice about using their heads when they were behind the wheel.
Ken called him at noon. "I've got troubles, Art," he said. "Can I bringthe car over after school?"
"I'm afraid I can't do a thing for you today," Art Matthews said. "Idon't know what's happened, but I've had tow calls all day. Right nowthe shop is full and they're stacked four-high outside. I'm going to doa couple of highway patrol cars and Doc Adams'. I figured they ought tohave priority."
Ken felt a sudden, uneasy sense of recognition. This was the same kindof thing he had heard about on the radio that morning! A rash of carbreakdowns all over the country. Now, the same thing in Mayfield!
"What's wrong with them?" he asked the mechanic. "Why is everybodycoming in with trouble at the same time?"
"They're not coming in," said Art. "I'm having to go out after them. Idon't know yet what's wrong. They heat up and stall. It's the craziestthing I've run into in 30 years of garage work."
"Mine acted the same way," Ken said.
"Yeah? Well, you're in good company. Listen, why don't you and maybe Joeand Al come down and give me a hand after school? I'll never get on tophere without some help. After we get these police and other prioritycars out of the way, maybe we can get a quick look at what's wrong withyours."
"It's a deal."
Joe Walton wasn't much in favor of spending that afternoon and anunknown number of others in Art's garage; he was too overwhelmed by theidea of analyzing the material of the comet's tail. However Art had doneall of them too many favors in the past to ignore his call for help.
"The trouble with this town," Joe said, "is that three-fourths of theso-called automobiles running around the streets belong down atThompson's Auto Wrecking."
Al Miner agreed to come, too. When they reached the garage after schoolthey saw Art had not been exaggerating. His place was surrounded bystalled cars, and the street outside was lined with them in bothdirections. Ken borrowed the tow truck and brought his own car back fromthe Larsens'. By that time the other two boys were at work.
"Batteries are all okay," Art told him. "Some of these engines will turnover, but most of them won't budge. I've jerked a couple of heads, butI can't see anything. I want you to take the pans off and take down thebearings to see if they're frozen. That's what they act like. Whenthat's done, we'll take it from there."
Ken hoisted the front end of one of the police cars and slid under it ona creeper. Art's electric impact wrenches were all in use, so he beganthe laborious removal of the pan bolts by hand. He had scarcely startedwhen he heard a yell from Joe who was beneath the other police car.
"What's the matter?" Art called.
"Come here! Look at this!"
The others crowded around, peering under the car. Joe banged and priedat one of the bearings, still clinging to the crankshaft after the caphad been removed.
"Don't do that!" Art shouted at him. "You'll jimmy up the crankshaft!"
"Mr. Matthews," Joe said solemnly, "this here crankshaft has beenjimmied up just as much as it's ever going to get jimmied. Thesebearings are welded solid. They'll have to be machined off!"
"Nothing could freeze them to the shaft that hard," Art exclaimed.
Joe moved out of the way. Art crawled under and tapped the bearing. Hepried at it with a chisel. Then he applied a cold chisel and pounded.The bearing metal came away chip by chip, but the bulk of it clung tothe shaft as if welded.
"I've never seen anything like that before in my life!" Art came outfrom beneath the car.
"What do you think could cause it?" Joe asked.
"Gas!" said Art vehemently. "The awful gas they're putting out thesedays. They put everything into it except sulphur and molasses, and theyexpect an engine to run. Additives, they call 'em! Detergents! Why can'tthey sell us plain old gasoline?"
Ken watched from a distance behind the group. He looked at the silent,motionless cars in uneasy speculation. He recalled again the radioannouncement of that morning. Maybe it _could_ be something they wereadding to the gas or oil, as Art said. It couldn't, however, happen sosuddenly--not all over the country. Not in New York, Montgomery,Alabama, San Francisco, and Mayfield. Not all at the same time.
Art turned up the shop lights. Outside, as the sun lowered in the sky,the glow of the comet began turning the landscape a copper-yellow hue.Its light came through the broad doors of the garage and spread over thehalf-dismantled cars.
"All right, let's go," said Art. His voice held a kind of falsecheeriness, as if something far beyond his comprehension had passedbefore him and he was at a loss to meet it or even understand it.
"Let's go," he said again. "Loosen all those connecting rods and get theshafts out. We'll see what happens when we try to pull the pistons."
The Year When Stardust Fell Page 3