The Big Eye (15 page)

 

 

He led her back into the elevator, and they stopped on a narrow
balcony. From here they climbed a short, circular iron stairway to what
David called the "jump-off" bridge. They were already at a dizzy height,
and he could feel Carol holding his hand with almost frantic pressure. A
blast of icy-cold air blew down upon them through the open dome.

 

 

"All right, darling?" he asked.

 

 

"I think so," she said in a small voice. "But as far as I'm concerned
this is the end of the world."

 

 

He held her close. "In a way it is. From here on we take a scenic railway
to the stars."

 

 

He pressed a push button on the bridge. Carol gasped as a flying conveyor
car raced down a curved track from an invisible perch far up under the
dome and stopped at the bridge. David grinned at her discomfiture and
motioned her to step onto the narrow car.

 

 

She looked at him and shook her head, a little pale. "Don't be afraid,"
he said gently. "Just hang onto me." He held her by the arm, and gingerly
she stepped across the abyss beneath and onto the car.

 

 

David closed the small swinging gate on the conveyor car and locked it.
"Hang onto the rail with both hands," he said.

 

 

Then he pushed a button, and somewhere below motors began to sing a
muted song. The cage glided away, then soared outward and upward in
a dizzy, fantastic ascent toward the top of the telescope. Now they
were two fur-covered pygmies whirling up into the vault of the dome,
riding a steel carpet toward the stars. Finally the car slowed and came
to a stop next to a catwalk. The observation floor yawned far below,
and they were almost fifteen stories from the ground level itself.

 

 

For a moment Carol clung to David, trembling as he held her. He was
immediately penitent. "Maybe I shouldn't have brought you up here."

 

 

"No, no," she said faintly. "I -- just for a moment I felt -- well,
a little sick. I'll be all right."

 

 

"Sure?" He was really concerned now.

 

 

She nodded. He held onto her and pointed down into the top of the
telescope. She saw a cisternlike cubbyhole, a cylindrical steel well, with
a curved bottom and an instrument desk coming up through the floor. There
was a strange-looking little chair at the desk which rolled around on
rails within the well, and an instrument panel opposite the desk, set
with dials.

 

 

"This is the observer's cage," said David. "The Old Man sits in that chair
and through the voice-power phone signals to me down at the control board
for star settings. When I start the Big Eye moving, he rides along down
there inside of it, watching those luminous dials until they indicate the
exact observation position. Then he pushes his photographic plateholder
into position, pulls out the slide -- and that's the 'take.' "

 

 

He said nothing more for the moment. They stood there, clinging to the
catwalk. Carol felt David's arm slip around her waist, and she leaned
against him. A strange, almost wild feeling of exaltation filled her, and
she looked up through the dome into the indigo sky. The stars seemed to be
floating by across it, moving through it like tiny lighted ships at sea.

 

 

They had escaped from their own planet now, and they were standing in
space. They had stepped off the earth and ridden up into the mysterious
bosom of the heavens and thrust their heads among the stars, into the
vault of the universe itself. Up there the illuminated stars moved
along their ordained paths through infinity, through everlasting
tranquillity. The earth was not a few feet below, but a million light
years below, a remote and troubled and diseased speck of dirt swimming
around in the void, crawling with microscopic and cannibalistic organisms.

 

 

"It's wonderful," Carol whispered, "wonderful. I've never felt so
exhilarated, so free" She stole a look at David's face, saw his reverent,
faraway look.

 

 

It's like being close to God up here, she thought, so close that you
could almost see His face.

 

 

The phone suddenly buzzed down in the cisternlike cage. Like a noisy
burglar, it broke the silence and the spell. Up here at the top of the
telescope, they had for a moment soared into the heavens, but now they
knew that it, too, was earthbound.

 

 

David turned to Carol. "Somebody below wants us," he said. "Do you think
you can hang onto the catwalk here for a moment?"

 

 

She nodded. He walked to the top of the telescope and clambered down
a series of pipe rails into the cage. The phone buzzed again, and he
hunched over it like a furry dwarf, fumbling with the receiver in his
heavy mittens.

 

 

He spoke briefly, put the receiver back on the hook, and then looked up
at Carol from the cistern below.

 

 

"That was Francis. We'd better go right back down. The Old Man wants to
see me now."

 

 

As they descended to the ground-floor corridor they heard the news
coming over Francis's radio, muflSed in the Old Man's study.

 

 

They were back on earth again.

 

 

Outside of Dr. Dawson's study they saw small knots of men gathered,
talking in low voices. David was struck by the fact that their faces
were taut and grim, that they seemed strangely quiet, without animation.

 

 

He picked them out one by one -- Ellender of the Harvard Observatory, the
shaggy man with the ill-fitting suit; Manning of Mount Wilson, a giant of
a man, bald as a billiard ball; Van Vreeden of Holland; Perez of Brazil,
rotund and swarthy; Vara-nov, the Russian from Leningrad, a white-bearded
man with ice-blue eyes; Dr. Smythe of the Royal Astronomical Society,
a wizened hunchback.

 

 

There were others, too, whom Francis hadn't mentioned. Duval, who
watched the heavens from the Swiss Alps, Wallace of Aberdeen, Alvarez of
Chile. Many of them were refugees from Soviet-dominated Europe and Asia.

 

 

What was the matter with them? thought David, bewildered. Where was all
the excitement of the new discovery, if there had been something new.
Why were they speaking in hushed tones? Why were their faces so grave,
so pale and rigid, like puppet masks?

 

 

David walked up to Dr. Ellender and extended his hand. Ellender had
been his mentor at Harvard and had been largely instrumental in getting
the Old Man to invite David to Palomar. But Ellender seemed hardly to
recognize him; his gray eyes seemed to look through and beyond David.

 

 

"Hello, David," he said absently. That was all. Ellender turned and
followed the other men down the corridor. His hand, in the brief moment
it had touched David's, was damp and limp and cold. And his forehead,
too, was wet with perspiration.

 

 

As they drifted ofi, Francis came out of the reception room and met David
and Carol near Dr. Dawson's door. Then he added almost apologetically:

 

 

"Dr. Dawson just rang for me. Dr. Hughes. He asked me to bring in both
of you."

 

 

David looked puzzled for a moment and then knocked on the door. A gentle
voice spoke from within, almost inaudibly.

 

 

"Come in."

 

 

A man was seated at a desk piled with a jumble of books, slide
rules, photographs, pencils, and yellow scratch pads covered with
computations. Carol looked at him curiously as he rose to greet them.
So this is Dr. Dawson, she thought. This is the Old Man of the Mountain,
the Wizard of Palomar, one of the great men of all time, whose back yard
was the universe itself.

 

 

Carol lived in a world of celebrities, of Big Names, and she was used
to them. She was one herself, in a modest way. Yet in the presence of
this man she suddenly felt an almost embarrassing humility. There was
nothing blatant about his appearance, nothing particularly bizarre or
striking. Yet in a roomful of men you would pick him out among all the
others for some baflSing reason. You would know instinctively that here
was a great man, a man who attracted others by a personal magnetism of
sheer intelligence glowing from within and radiating outward.

 

 

"Dr. Dawson," said David. "This is my fiancee, Carol Kenny."

 

 

The Old Man offered her a thin, blue-veined hand. "Welcome to Palomar,
Miss Kenny."

 

 

He spoke mechanically, almost without interest, as though he were
hardly aware she was there. He seemed preoccupied, a million miles
away. He was courteous enough, but there was no warmth in his voice,
no welcoming smile.

 

 

The Old Man's just going through the motions, that's all, thought David.

 

 

It was unbelievable, he thought, unbelievable. He'd never seen the Old Man
act like this before. Ordinarily Dr. Dawson was an unfailing gentleman
in his relations with others. He put them at their ease, and they took
to him immediately. No matter whom he met, in whatever station of life,
he gave others the impression of humility, made them feel that it was
his privilege to meet them, listened intently to what they had to say,
as though every word they spoke were a word of wisdom. David knew that
this appreciation of others was genuine. The Old Man was no poseur. Yet
now he was almost rude.

 

 

It was plain that something had shaken him deeply, that he was laboring
under some kind of tremendous tension. There was no other answer. After
all, he wasn't meeting a perfect stranger in Carol. He had always been
keenly interested in her, had asked David a hundred questions about her,
had looked forward to meeting her. Now . . .

 

 

"You must be tired after your trip, Miss Kenny. Francis here will take
you to your quarters if you wish."

 

 

His voice was gentle, but it was an obvious dismissal. David, shocked,
glanced at Carol to see how she was taking it. He wondered : What is
she thinking of the Old Man now -- especially after the way I built him up?

 

 

But Carol was sensitive and a good actress. She could see that the Old
Man wanted to be alone with David. She only smiled gratefully and said:
"I am a little tired, Dr. Dawson. Thank you for being so thoughtful."
David saw her to the door with Francis and squeezed her hand. "See you
in the morning, darling," he said. Then he closed the door and turned
to face the Old Man.

 

 

"Sit down, my boy," said Dr. Dawson gently.

 

 

David sank into one of the deep leather chairs. His curiosity was like
a mouse in his belly, gnawing away at his innards. What was the Old Man
waiting to tell him?

 

 

Slowly, almost deliberately. Dr. Dawson reached into his desk, took out
one of the small cigars he favored. He lit it, and as he did David saw
that his hand trembled.

 

 

"My boy, I don't have to tell you that something tremendous has
happened. You know that I would not have countermanded General Hawthorne's
order and exposed you to grave charges without a very good reason."

 

 

David nodded. The Old Man puffed on his cigar for a moment and looked
steadily at his protege. Then he said suddenly:

 

 

"David -- do you believe in God?"

 

 

David's mouth dropped half open at the question. It stunned him by its
very suddenness, by its irrelevance to anything he had even remotely
expected. But the Old Man was dead serious, his eyes demanded an answer,
and David managed to falter:

 

 

"Of course, sir, of course -- I believe in God."

 

 

The Old Man paused. He seemed to look deep into David, weighing the
sincerity of his answer. Then he said quietly:

 

 

"I know what you must be thinking, my boy, and I don't blame you. But I
have not gone suddenly mad, and I am not yet senile. We have known each
other for some time, David, and for some reason we have never touched
upon this subject, this subject of faith, or religion, if you like.
Now, in view of what has happened, I had to ask you, I had to know."

 

 

In view of what has happened, the Old Man had just said. Well, thought
David, what has happened? And what did God have to do with it?

 

 

Dr. Dawson seemed to anticipate what David was thinking. He went on:

 

 

"Here at Palomar, David, you and I, as astronomers, have seen the great
procession of stars and planets move in their immutable courses. We have
named and classified them, measured them in precise terms -- positions,
orbits, velocities, temperatures, luminosities, compositions, and
absolute magnitudes. If, in doing this kind of work, we have thought of
our relationship to God at all, we have marveled at the orderly manner
in which He has arranged the expanding universe."

 

 

Dr. Dawson put his cigar on a tray and leaned back in his chair, his
eyes half closed. Then he continued:

 

 

"There are men of science who, since they cannot measure God, weigh
him, or produce Him in chemical synthesis, are not concerned with his
existence. Yet even they must have reflected that once, at the beginning
of time, there was an original nebula that filled the void of the
universe with equal density everywhere. They must have asked themselves,
'Where did it come from ? How did it get there? Who put it there?' i a
Creator did not create it, who did? n the agnostics and atheists among
us do not admit the role of a Creator here, they must at least admit
that it is an undefinable mystery.