by Jack Vance
“No, no, no!” cried the sheriff. “I’m not accusing anybody. We’re just sitting here chewing this thing over. But I admit I am wondering why you bought all that kite-string from Fuller’s Hardware about three weeks ago.”
I stared at him indignantly. “Kite-string? Nonsense. I bought that string at the request of Dr. Patcher himself, with which to tie up his sweet peas, and if you check at his home they’ll tell you the same story.”
The sheriff nodded. “I see. Well, just a point I’m glad to have cleared up. I understand you’re an amateur rock-hunter?”
“That’s perfectly true,” I said. “I have a small but not unrepresentative collection.”
“Any meteorites in the bunch?” the sheriff asked carelessly.
Just as carelessly I replied, “Why I believe so. One or two.”
“I wonder if I could see them.”
“Certainly, if you wish. I keep my collection out here, in the back rooms. I’m very methodical about all this; I don’t let the rocks intrude into the astronomy, or vice versa.”
“That’s how hobbies should be,” said the sheriff.
We went out upon the back-porch, which I have converted to a display room. On all sides are chests of narrow drawers, glass-topped tables where my choicest pieces are on view, geological charts, and the like. At the far end is my little laboratory, with my reagents, scales, and furnace. Midway is the file cabinet where I have indexed and catalogued each piece in my collection.
The sheriff glanced with an unconvincing show of interest along the trays and shelves. “Now, let’s see them meteorites.”
Although I knew their whereabouts to the inch, I made a move of indecision. “I’ll have to check in the catalogue; I’m afraid it’s slipped my mind.”
I pulled open the filing cabinet, flipped the dividers to M. “Meteorites—RG-17. Ah yes, right on here, sheriff. Case R, tray G, space 17. As you see, I’m nothing if not systematic…”
“What’s the matter?” asked the sheriff.
I suppose I was staring at the sheet of paper. It read:
RG-17-A—Meteorite—Nickel—iron
Weight—171 grams
Origin—Burnt Rock Ranch, Arizona
RG-17-B—Meteorite—Granitic stone
Weight—216 grams
Origin—Kelsey, Nevada
RG-17-C—Meteorite—Nickel—iron
Weight—1,842 grams
Origin—Kilgore, Mojave Desert
Meticulously, systematically, I had typed in red against RG-17-C: Removed from collection, August 9. Three days before Dr. Patcher had been killed by a meteorite weighing 1,842 grams.
“What’s the matter?” asked the sheriff. “Not feeling so good?”
“The meteorites,” I croaked, “are over here.”
“Let’s see that sheet of paper.”
“No—it’s just a memorandum.”
“Sure—but I want to see it.”
“I’ll show you the meteorites.”
“Show me that paper.”
“Do you want to see the meteorites or don’t you?”
“I want to see that paper.”
“Go to blazes.”
“Professor Sisley—”
I went to the tray, pulled it open. “The meteorites. Look at them!”
The sheriff stepped over, bent his head. “Hm. Yeah. Just rocks.” He cocked an eye at the sheet of paper I gripped in my hand. “Are you going to show me that paper or not?”
“No. It’s got nothing to do with this business. It’s a record of where I obtained these rocks. They’re valuable, and I promised not to reveal the source.”
“Well, well.” The sheriff turned away. I walked quickly to the toilet, locked the door, quickly tore the paper to shreds, flushed it down the drain.
“There,” I said, emerging, “the paper is gone. If it was evidence, it’s gone too.”
The sheriff shook his head a little mournfully. “I should have known better than to come calling so friendly-like. I should have had a gun and a search-warrant and my two big deputies. But now—” he paused, chewed thoughtfully at something inside his mouth.
“Well,” I asked impatiently, “are you going to arrest me or not?”
“Arrest you? No, Professor Sisley. We know what we know, you and I, but how will we get a jury to see it? You claim a meteorite killed Dr. Patcher, and a thousand people saw a meteor head toward him. I’ll say, Professor Sisley was mad at Dr. Patcher; Professor Sisley could have whopped Dr. Patcher with a rock, then fired his sky-rocket down from a kite. You’ll say, prove it. And I’ll say, Professor Sisley flushed a piece of paper down the toilet. And then the judge will bang his gavel a couple of times and that’s all there is to it. No, Professor, I’m not going to arrest you. My job wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel. But I’ll tell you what I’m going to do—just like I told Doc Patcher when the head man before him died so sudden.”
“Well, go ahead, say it! What are you going to do?”
“It’s really not a great lot,” the sheriff said modestly. “I’m just going to let events take their course.”
“I can’t say as I understand your meaning.”
But the sheriff had gone. I blew my nose, mopped my brow, and considered the file which had so nearly betrayed me. Even at this juncture, I took a measure of satisfaction in the fact that it was system and method which had come so close to undoing me, and not the absent-mindedness which an ignorant public ascribes to men of learning.
I am senior astronomer at the observatory. My work is progressing. I have control of the telescope. I have the vastness of the universe under my finger-tips.
Young Katkus is developing well, although he currently displays a particularly irritating waywardness and independence. The young idiot thinks he is hot on the track of an undiscovered planet beyond Pluto, and if I gave him his head, he’d waste every minute of good seeing peering back and forth along the ecliptic. He sulks now and again, but he’ll have to wait his chance, as I did, as Dr. Patcher did before me, and, presumably, Dr. Kane before him.
Dr. Kane—I have not thought of him since the day his car went out of control and took him over the cliff. I must learn who preceded him as senior astronomer. A telephone call to Nolbert at Administration Hall will do the trick…I find that Dr. Kane succeeded a Professor Maddox, who drowned when a boat he and Dr. Kane were paddling capsized on Lake Niblis. Nolbert says the tragedy weighed on Dr. Kane to the day of his death, which came as an equally violent shock to the department. He had been computing the magnetic orientation of globular clusters, a profoundly interesting topic, although it was no secret that Dr. Patcher considered the work fruitless and didactic. It is sometimes tempting to speculate—but no, they all are decently in their graves, and I have more serious demands upon my attention. Such as Katkus, who comes demanding the telescope at the very moment when air and sky are at their best. I tell him quite decisively that off-trail investigations such as his must be conducted when the telescope is otherwise idle. He goes off sulking. I can feel no deep concern for his hurt feelings; he must learn to fit himself to the schedule of research as mapped out by the senior astronomer.
I saw the sheriff today; he nodded quite politely. I wonder what he meant, letting events take their course? Cryptic and not comfortable; it has put me quite out of sorts. Perhaps, after all, I was overly sharp with Katkus. He is sitting at his desk, pretending to check the new plates into the glossary, watching me from the corner of his eye.
I wonder what is passing through his mind.
Afterword to “The Absent-Minded Professor” (aka “First Star I See Tonight”)
[After] I read a book by Sir James Jeans, The Universe Around Us, I became involved with a new preoccupation: namely, identifying the stars. I obtained star charts. I would take a flashlight, cover it over with a red bandana, lie out in the sand a few hundred feet from the house, stare up into the sky and trace out the constellations. In due course I learned all the constellations and all the first mag
nitude stars, and many of the second magnitude stars. I find it hard to convey how much pleasure this pursuit gave me. The stars all became familiar, friends almost, and I rejoiced when, in the middle of the summer, Fomalhaut would appear over the southern horizon. Even now, as I write this, I can envision how the skies looked, aglow with those wonderful stars: Arcturus, Vega, Betelgeuse, Antares, Sirius, Achernar, Algol, Polaris…
Aboard another tanker…the Verendrye, I obtained some luminous tape and, for no particular reason, created a star chart on the overhead of our forecastle, with the major constellations, the first and second magnitude stars picked out accurately. The captain, learning of this enterprise, came down to the forecastle, lay down on his back, looked up and marveled at this unprecedented creation. At the end of the voyage, he gave me a glossy photograph of the ship signed with his name and best regards. I still have this photograph and am naturally very proud of it.
Background for “First Star” was assimilated during my association with Palomar astronomer Robert Richardson (“Philip Latham”), during the time we both wrote Captain Video scripts for television. There are dark and sinister aspects to the astronomer’s life of which the public is unaware; this story, so I am told, prompts astronomers to nod in grim corroboration and look over their shoulders.
—Jack Vance
When the Five Moons Rise
Seguilo could not have gone far; there was no place for him to go. Once Perrin had searched the lighthouse and the lonesome acre of rock, there were no other possibilities—only the sky and the ocean.
Seguilo was neither inside the lighthouse nor was he outside.
Perrin went out into the night, squinted up against the five moons. Seguilo was not to be seen on top of the lighthouse.
Seguilo had disappeared.
Perrin looked indecisively over the flowing brine of Maurnilam Var. Had Seguilo slipped on the damp rock and fallen into the sea, he certainly would have called out…The five moons blinked, dazzled, glinted along the surface; Seguilo might even now be floating unseen a hundred yards distant.
Perrin shouted across the dark water: “Seguilo!”
He turned, once more looked up the face of the lighthouse. Around the horizon whirled the twin shafts of red and white light, guiding the barges crossing from South Continent to Spacetown, warning them off Isel Rock.
Perrin walked quickly toward the lighthouse; Seguilo was no doubt asleep in his bunk or in the bathroom.
Perrin went to the top chamber, circled the lumenifer, climbed down the stairs. “Seguilo!”
No answer. The lighthouse returned a metallic vibrating echo.
Seguilo was not in his room, in the bathroom, in the commissary, or in the storeroom. Where else could a man go?
Perrin looked out the door. The five moons cast confusing shadows. He saw a gray blot—“Seguilo!” He ran outside. “Where have you been?”
Seguilo straightened to his full height, a thin man with a wise doleful face. He turned his head; the wind blew his words past Perrin’s ears.
Sudden enlightenment came to Perrin. “You must have been under the generator!” The only place he could have been.
Seguilo had come closer. “Yes…I was under the generator.” He paused uncertainly by the door, stood looking up at the moons, which this evening had risen all bunched together. Puzzlement creased Perrin’s forehead. Why should Seguilo crawl under the generator? “Are you—well?”
“Yes. Perfectly well.”
Perrin stepped closer and in the light of the five moons, Ista, Bista, Liad, Miad and Poidel, scrutinized Seguilo sharply. His eyes were dull and noncommittal; he seemed to carry himself stiffly. “Have you hurt yourself? Come over to the steps and sit down.”
“Very well.” Seguilo ambled across the rock, sat down on the steps.
“You’re certain you’re all right?”
“Certain.”
After a moment Perrin said, “Just before you—went under the generator, you were about to tell me something you said was important.”
Seguilo nodded slowly. “That’s true.”
“What was it?”
Seguilo stared dumbly up into the sky. There was nothing to be heard but the wash of the sea, hissing and rushing where the rock shelved under.
“Well?” asked Perrin finally. Seguilo hesitated.
“You said that when five moons rose together in the sky, it was not wise to believe anything.”
“Ah,” nodded Seguilo, “so I did.”
“What did you mean?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Why is not believing anything important?”
“I don’t know.”
Perrin rose abruptly to his feet. Seguilo normally was crisp, dryly emphatic. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Right as rain.”
That was more like Seguilo. “Maybe a drink of whiskey would fix you up.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
Perrin knew where Seguilo kept his private store. “You sit here, I’ll get you a shot.”
“Yes, I’ll sit here.”
Perrin hurried inside the lighthouse, clambered the two flights of stairs to the commissary. Seguilo might remain seated or he might not; something in his posture, in the rapt gaze out to sea, suggested that he might not. Perrin found the bottle and a glass, ran back down the steps. Somehow he knew that Seguilo would be gone.
Seguilo was gone. He was not on the steps, nowhere on the windy acre of Isel Rock. It was impossible that he had passed Perrin on the stairs. He might have slipped into the engine room and crawled under the generator once more.
Perrin flung open the door, switched on the lights, stooped, peered under the housing. Nothing.
A greasy film of dust, uniform, unmarred, indicated that no one had ever been there.
Where was Seguilo?
Perrin went up to the top-most part of the lighthouse, carefully searched every nook and cranny down to the outside entrance. No Seguilo.
Perrin walked out on the rock. Bare and empty; no Seguilo.
Seguilo was gone. The dark water of Maurnilam Var sighed and flowed across the shelf.
Perrin opened his mouth to shout across the moon-dazzled swells, but somehow it did not seem right to shout. He went back to the lighthouse, seated himself before the radio transceiver.
Uncertainly he touched the dials; the instrument had been Seguilo’s responsibility. Seguilo had built it himself, from parts salvaged from a pair of old instruments.
Perrin tentatively flipped a switch. The screen sputtered into light, the speaker hummed and buzzed. Perrin made hasty adjustments. The screen streaked with darts of blue light, a spatter of quick, red blots. Fuzzy, dim, a face looked forth from the screen. Perrin recognized a junior clerk in the Commission office at Spacetown. He spoke urgently. “This is Harold Perrin, at Isel Rock Lighthouse; send out a relief ship.”
The face in the screen looked at him as through thick pebble-glass. A faint voice, overlaid by sputtering and crackling, said, “Adjust your tuning…I can’t hear you…”
Perrin raised his voice. “Can you hear me now?”
The face in the screen wavered and faded.
Perrin yelled, “This is Isel Rock Lighthouse! Send out a relief ship! Do you hear? There’s been an accident!”
“…signals not coming in. Make out a report, send…” the voice sputtered away.
Cursing furiously under his breath, Perrin twisted knobs, flipped switches. He pounded the set with his fist. The screen flashed bright orange, went dead.
Perrin ran behind, worked an anguished five minutes, to no avail. No light, no sound.
Perrin slowly rose to his feet. Through the window he glimpsed the five moons racing for the west. “When the five moons rise together,” Seguilo had said, “it’s not wise to believe anything.” Seguilo was gone. He had been gone once before and come back; maybe he would come back again. Perrin grimaced, shuddered. It would be best now if Seguilo stayed away. He ran down to the outer
door, barred and bolted it. Hard on Seguilo, if he came wandering back…Perrin leaned a moment with his back to the door, listening. Then he went to the generator room, looked under the generator. Nothing. He shut the door, climbed the steps.
Nothing in the commissary, the storeroom, the bathroom, the bedrooms. No one in the light-room. No one on the roof.
No one in the lighthouse but Perrin.
He returned to the commissary, brewed a pot of coffee, sat half an hour listening to the sigh of water across the shelf, then went to his bunk.
Passing Seguilo’s room he looked in. The bunk was empty.
When at last he rose in the morning, his mouth was dry, his muscles like bundles of withes, his eyes hot from long staring up at the ceiling. He rinsed his face with cold water and, going to the window, searched the horizon. A curtain of dingy overcast hung halfway up the east; blue-green Magda shone through like an ancient coin covered with verdigris. Over the water oily skeins of blue-green light formed and joined and broke and melted…Out along the south horizon Perrin spied a pair of black barges riding the Trade Current to Spacetown. After a few moments they disappeared into the overcast.
Perrin threw the master switch; above him came the fluttering hum of the lumenifer slowing and dimming.
He descended the stairs, with stiff fingers unbolted the door, flung it wide. The wind blew past his ears, smelling of Maurnilam Var. The tide was low; Isel Rock rose out of the water like a saddle. He walked gingerly to the water’s edge. Blue-green Magda broke clear of the overcast; the light struck under the water. Leaning precariously over the shelf, Perrin looked down, past shadows and ledges and grottos, down into the gloom…Movement of some kind; Perrin strained to see. His foot slipped, he almost fell.
Perrin returned to the lighthouse, worked a disconsolate three hours at the transceiver, finally deciding that some vital component had been destroyed.
