The Expert Dreamers (1962) Anthology

by Frederik Pohl (ed. )

  Harling found one of the metal stairways that led from the crown of the dam to the bottom of the lake. He tied the boat to it, made certain that the several dozen of red starlight rockets set up in the copper net were still in proper position. He took the main fuse—electric ignition was, of course, impossible—which was inserted into a watertight rubber hose. There were matches in a watertight case tied to the end of the hose. Harling took the end of the main fuse with him. Then he lifted the net of the boat and stepped on the metal staircase, always careful to have his wire mesh armor trailing in the water. He waited for electrical effects, there were none.

  Fortunately, there was a catwalk running along the inner side of the dam, now submerged under about four feet of water. Harling decided that the submerged catwalk was a still better way than the crown of the dam. He might be seen up there, even if he crawled and in spite of the darkness. Hasgrave had a theory that “those others” might be able to “see” the heat his body radiated.

  He held match case and rubber hose in his left hand, heavy service pistol in the other, nobody could know what he might encounter in the valve house. The door was not closed when he arrived there at last. The body of a dead man blocked his way, the guard that had been on duty when the invaders came. There was no living being in the four rooms. He looked over the controls, nobody had touched them for weeks and they seemed to be in working order. He tried one of the smallest valves experimentally … it did work. He could go through with the original plan.

  He opened the match case. The matches were dry.

  Then he turned the wheels that opened the upper gates of both spillways. But he did not open the lower locks that made the water coming through the spillways pour into the canal. The water would fill both of the gigantic spillways and would stop at the lower lock. If this lock would give the water would not enter the canal that was closer by a second lock but would flood the valley itself. Therefore the mechanisms were set once and for all in such a way that the lower locks could not be operated independently. They could only be opened and closed together. Harling left them all closed as they were according to the instruments on the panel.

  He waited for three minutes, knowing that everything depended on these three times sixty seconds. A hundred times he thought during the next hundred and fifty seconds that his watch had stopped. A hundred times he made sure that it had not.

  Everywhere in the forest the officers of the gun crews were waiting too, eyes glued to the dials of the watches, hands ready to pull the lanyards of their pieces. Crack pilots, while doing crazy stunts with their hydroplanes above the quietly resting three alien ships glanced at the crown of the dam.

  Two minutes and forty seconds.

  Countless tons of water were falling down the steep grading of the tubular spillways.

  Two minutes and forty-five seconds.

  More and more water going into the spillways. The level of the lake actually receding by inches, unobservable due to the beating rain.

  Two minutes and fifty seconds.

  The water must reach the lower locks in twenty seconds. Three seconds … one had to allow for the fuse to burn, one or two for the rockets, four more for …

  Two minutes and fifty-five seconds.

  Harling lighted six or seven matches in a bundle, held the rubber hose clenched.

  Three minutes!

  Now two more seconds to wait. Harling counted them with a strained voice counting not “one, two” but higher figures that would take a second to pronounce.

  “A hundred and one” … “A hundred and two” …

  He lighted the fuse, let it fall to the floor and threw himself down.

  Three seconds later five dozens of army rockets rose into the sky. Though wet most of them worked. They fought their way through the rain … Harling thought that the resistance of the rain was very fortunate, else they might explode in the deep hanging clouds and go unnoticed.

  The sky suddenly shone red with Very lights.

  Like a mighty thunderclap four score guns answered, barrels jerking back under the recoil, reports deafening crews, shells screaming through the rain.

  The shells of the howitzers arrived first, exploding over their usual targets, ships and dome. A second later the twenty-four-inch projectiles of the railroad guns came. They were aimed with deadly accuracy. Two on each side of the valley arrived side by side …

  And broke the lower locks!

  A flood of water spouted out of the spillways, spread over the valley because the second locks, those closing the canal, still blocked the way. The same instant the shells of two combined batteries of seventeen-inch mobile mortars crashed into the dam—where sections joined that were not so stable now under lessening water pressure. Harling Dam broke, thundered down into the valley.

  It poured over the dome and the ships. And together with the water came all the shells the already steaming barrels of dozens of batteries of heavy howitzers had held in reserve.

  And Professor Hasgrave proved to be right again. The repellent shield on which shells and bombs had exploded was gone, somehow the water made its power fail. The avalanche of heavy shells exploded on the hulls and inside of their targets. The targets ceased to exist …

  The general himself was present in the rescue party that climbed up to the valve tower in search for Harling. They did not have a very clear conception what they had expected to see … at any event it was not what they really saw.

  Harling was sitting with only very little clothing—the other hung over the rail to dry—in the rays of the early morning sun at the only table in the control room. He was furiously writing equations on the back of beer advertising posters. And instead of listening to congratulations he informed the rescue party that Harling Dam could be ready to resume work before spring.

  TO EXPLAIN MRS. THOMPSON

  PHILIP LATHAM

  (R. S. Richardson)

  Science fiction readers have a special fondness for the Mount Palomar astronomer R. S. Richardson, partly because of his unique experiment, some years backy of propounding to a science fiction audience, through a science fiction magazine, some of the challenging questions of the day in astronomyy with a frank hope for wild guesses that might answer them—and might be susceptible to checking.

  But there is another reason why science fictionists know R. S. Richardson—but not under that name; for Richardson is also science fiction author Philip Latham. As Philip Latham he propounds here the question of a wild phenomenon indeed.

  It was a superb plate, one of the best of Andromeda that Kirby had ever seen. The resolution in the spiral arms was amazing. He fancied there was even a hint of approaching resolution in the central nucleus.

  “Is this the discovery plate?” he inquired, holding the photograph at arm’s length in front of the viewing screen.

  “That’s right,” Rea replied, a disembodied voice from the shadows behind the developing tank. “I got it last dark of the moon. That would be just a month ago on October ist.”

  Kirby laid the plate on the illuminated screen taking care to place the emulsion side up. Then he pulled up a chair, let his great bulk down upon it with obvious relief, and began groping around over the table for a magnifying glass. ‘‘Now where’s this famous object of yours?” he grunted.

  The younger man pointed to a spot on the emulsion with the tip of his lead pencil. “Right here in this little rectangle of stars about a degree south of the nucleus. You’ll know it when you see it.”

  Kirby began moving the glass slowly back and forth over the region indicated. Suddenly he stopped and bent nearer the glass.

  “Got it?” said Rea.

  Kirby nodded absently. The light from the viewing screen threw deep shadows over his face, accentuating his fleshy features and thick bushy eyebrows. “Well, it certainly looks real enough,” he said, at length. “No question about that. How much exposure did you give this plate?”

  “Thirty minutes was all it would stand. The night was rather brigh
t. Aurora probably.”

  “So I judged,” said Kirby, gazing at the plate admiringly. “That Schmidt sure gives beautiful images, doesn’t it? Right out to the very edge.” He reached for the magnifier. “Now where’s the plate you got last night?”

  Rea placed another 14 x 14 plate on the screen beside the first. One corner was still damp from the wash. “The seeing wasn’t quite so good on this one but I think you’ll find the images are nearly comparable. Now take a look at that same region.”

  Kirby peered at the object within the rectangle of stars again. Only on this plate the outline extended considerably beyond the rectangle. “Well, it does look different,” he admitted. “Bigger, I’d say, with more detailed structure.

  You’ve probably got a variable star although you’d think it would have been picked up before, considering how many times this region is photographed. Could even be a nova. The spiral arms extend out a long way, you know.”

  Rea bent nearer the screen. His thin sensitive features were in marked contrast to the square jaw and general solid appearance of the older man. “That’s one of the things Slater and I are investigating. He has an idea that by restricting our counts to B stars we’ll find new arms that are invisible against the general background.”

  “Slater, eh?” said Kirby, glancing, up quickly. “He’s pretty high-powered, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, he’s a lot like most of those theoretical fellows. Never at a loss for an explanation. Seems to know all about almost everything. A second Henry Norris Russell.”

  “Keep you busy?”

  “I’ll say. After he left it was like being on a vacation.”

  Kirby reached for his fur cap and heavy gloves. “Well, I’ll see if I can photograph your object at the Cassegrain focus of the 120-inch next run,” he said, getting ponderously to his feet. “The scale there ought to show up the structure of this thing whatever it is.” He studied it through the glass again. “Sure is funny looking.”

  “Here, you haven’t been looking at it from the right angle,” said Rea. He picked up the plate and turned it end-for-end. “Now take a look and tell me if it reminds you of anything.”

  Kirby scrutinized the object in its new position, his face as grave and serious as before. Suddenly he let out a roar of laughter that shook the darkroom walls. “Why, it’s a dead ringer for old lady Katzenjammer in the funny paper! I didn’t get it right at first.”

  “You’ve got to see it just right,” said Rea, grinning.

  Kirby chuckled softly. “That just goes to show you can find anything in the sky you want. We’ve already got the Owl Nebula and the Crab Nebula and the Horse’s Head. Now I suppose they’ll be calling this thing the Katzenjammer effect.”

  Outside the thermostatically controlled darkroom the air in the dome felt damp and chill. Overhead the white tube of the Big Schmidt loomed like a dim ghost in the faint evening light filtering in around the shutter.

  They walked down to the clump of oaks below the dome where Kirby had left his car. The sun had set a few minutes before leaving a long crimson streak along the coastline. In the east the twilight bow was rising over the mountains like an advancing thunderstorm.

  “Seeing must be awful from the way those stars are jumping,” said Kirby, glancing at the faint outline of the cross of Cygnus beginning to sparkle in the zenith. “You’d better forget about observing tonight. Take my advice and curl up by the stove with a good detective story.”

  Rea looked thoughtfully at the fading streak of red along the coast. “I’ve been seeing things in the sky ever since I was a kid. You know hardly any of the constellations look like the people and animals they’re supposed to represent. Yet I’ve never had any trouble seeing them. The Lion and Medusa and the Dragon are just as clear to me as if someone had marked them out on the sky.” He thrust his hands deeper into the pockets of his sheep-lined coat. “Depends on your personality, I guess. Like those ink-blot tests.”

  Kirby snorted. “If you ask me, it would be a good idea if we got rid of all that junk in the sky. Why, lots of people think that’s about all there is to astronomy. They don’t think you know anything unless you can point out the Bull or tell ‘em which star marks the hind end of the giraffe. Me —I don’t know Lepus from Puppis.”

  He slammed the door of his car and kicked the starter. “Well, see you next week. We’ll take a crack at old lady Katzenjammer.”

  He waved good-by and sent his car grinding down the road toward the gate to the observatory grounds. Rea stood watching him until the car disappeared around the old pine tree. Then he turned and started slowly plodding up the trail to his cabin.

  The sound of the dome rumbling to a halt was followed by the thin high-pitched whine of the motor turning the telescope in declination. The massive framework that formed the tube of the 120-inch reflector continued to turn until it was directed to a hazy patch of light barely visible in the constellation of Andromeda. The whining of the motor stopped, there was a series of sharp reports like the crack of a rifle, and then silence.

  “Well, that oughta be it,” the man at the control desk said, glancing at the illuminated dial of the sidereal clock in front of him. “Right on the nose.”

  There was no reply from the two men huddled together on the little platform at the Cassegrain focus fifty feet above him. One of the men was peering into the focal plane of the mirror, an oblong section of the heavens brought down to earth for mortal men to explore.

  “Find it?” said Rea, from his precarious perch on the rear of the platform.

  Kirby moved his head from side to side viewing different portions of the star field. “Yeah, I got Andromeda all right. But we don’t seem to be centered on the object quite.” He punched one of the buttons on the panel by his elbow. “There—she’s coming in now.” He released the button and turned back to the star field. “Want to take a look?” he inquired casually, turning to Rea.

  They shifted positions on the platform. Rea settled himself in the observing chair, took the eyepiece from Kirby, and began scanning the focal plane. He stopped and bent nearer the focal plane with a sharp intake of breath. Neither man spoke. The night assistant at the desk yawned and began turning through the pages of an old Sears, Roebuck catalogue.

  “Got another eyepiece?” said Rea, in a toneless voice.

  “Try this one,” said Kirby, groping in his pocket. “It’s a little lower power.”

  Rea took the eyepiece and moved it over the focal plane again. After a brief inspection he leaned back and sat looking down at his feet in the direction of the mirror. Suddenly he swayed slightly and grabbed at the side of the platform. Kirby’s arm was around him in an instant.

  “Hang on!” he said. “I felt the same way the first time I saw it, too.”

  Rea sat for a few moments holding hard to the edge of the platform. Presently his grip relaxed. “Thanks for grabbing me. It’s a long way to the floor.”

  “I know,” said Kirby, “I fell off once.” He moved back a little farther. “Should have warned you probably, but I wanted to see if it hit you the same way that it did me. Guess there’s not much doubt about it now.”

  “No, I guess not,” Rea said thoughtfully. “Kirby, it is a face in the sky! Up there among the stars just as if it were projected on the sky with a magic lantern.”

  “Huh, you don’t need to tell me. I’ve been photographing it for three nights running now. I know every line in that face.”

  Rea gave him a startled look. “And you’ve never told anyone!”

  “Well, I didn’t want to go off half-cocked till I was sure what I was doing, did I? So I took some exposures here and a bunch more at the 6o-inch. Red and blue sensitive both out of an emulsion we just received. Broke the seal myself. And they all show the same identical things-a plump middle-aged woman with a hair-do like Mrs. Katzenjammer’s in the middle of the Andromeda Nebula.” He took a can of tobacco from his pocket and began tamping down the bowl with deliberate care.

  Rea half turn
ed in his chair. “But man alive, it’s insane! Crazy! Look here, nobody could be trying to pull something on us, could they? Trying to trick us?”

  “Who, for instance?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Anybody. The night assistant down there at the desk.”

  “You mean old Hank? No. He hasn’t had a new idea in the last twenty years.”

  Kirby puffed reflectively on his pipe. “No, in my opinion the face is real in the sense that it’s not an optical illusion or an instrumental effect. I’m thoroughly satisfied on that score. What it really is I haven’t any idea. That’s what we’ve got to find out.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Kirby clenched the stem of his pipe more firmly. “I’m going to take some more exposures. If you’ll hand me that plateholder over there—”

  The face that had been only faintly visible at the telescope stood out with startling clarity when the plates were developed downstairs in the darkroom.

  “One thing’s sure,” said Kirby, holding a plate up to the light. “This face is outside our own galactic system. You can see foreground stars superimposed all over it. In fact, from the way the spiral arms and some of this obscuring matter crosses the left eye and the bridge of the nose, I’d say it was a little farther than Andromeda itself.”

  He replaced the plate in the wash and began drying his hands on a towel. Rea lifted a plate from the wash with the tip of his finger. “Mind if I look at this one? I think it’s a longer exposure.”