by Jack Vance
The Absent Minded Professor
I stood in the dark in front of the observatory, watching the quick fiery meteor trails streaking down from Perseus. My plans were completed. I had been meticulous, systematic.
The night was remarkable: clear and limpid…a perfect night for what we had arranged, the cosmos and I. And here came Dr. Patcher—old “Dog” Patcher, as the students called him—the lights of his staid sedan sniffing out the road up the hill. I looked at my watch: ten-fifteen. The old rascal was late, probably had spent an extra three minutes shining his high-top shoes, or punctiliously brushing the coarse white plume of his hair.
The car nosed up over the hill, the head-lights sent scurrying yellow shapes and shadows past my feet. I heard the motor thankfully gasp and die, and, after a sedate moment, the slam of the door, then the crush-crush of Dr. Patcher’s feet across the gravel. He seemed surprised to see me standing in the doorway, and looked at me sharply as much as to say, “Nothing better to do, Sisley?”
“Good evening, Dr. Patcher,” I said smoothly. “It’s a lovely night. The Perseids are showing very well…Ah! There’s one now.” I pointed at one of the instant white meteor streaks.
Dr. Patcher shook his head with that mulish nicety which has infuriated me since I first laid eyes on him. “Sorry, Sisley, I can’t waste a moment of this wonderful seeing.” He pushed past me, remarking over his shoulder, “I hope that everything is in order.”
I remained silent. I could hardly say “no”; if I said “yes”, he would pry and poke until he found something—anything—at which he could raise his eyebrows: a smudge of oil, the roof opening not precisely symmetrical to the telescope, a cigarette butt on the floor. Anything. Then I would hear a snort of disparagement; a quick gleam of a glance would flick in my direction; the deficiency would be ostentatiously remedied. And at last he would get busy with his work—if work it could be called. Myself, I considered it trivial, a piddling waste of time, a repetition of what better men at better instruments had already accomplished. Dr. Patcher was seeking novae. He would not be satisfied until a nova bore his name—“Patcher’s Nova”. And night after night, when the seeing was best, Dr. Patcher had crowded me away from the telescope, I who had research that was significant and important. Tonight I would show Dr. Patcher a nova indeed.
He was inside now, rustling and probing; tonight he would find nothing a millimeter out of place. I was wrong. “Oh, Sisley,” came his voice, “are you busy?”
I hurried inside. Patcher was standing by the senior faculty closet with his old tweed coat already carefully arranged on a hanger. Instantly I knew his complaint. Patcher affected a white laboratory coat, which he called his “duster”. About twice a month the janitor, in cleaning out the senior faculty closet, would remove the duster and replace it in the junior closet—whether as an act of crafty malice or sheer wool-gathering I had never made up my mind. In any event the ritual ran its course as usual. “Have you seen my duster, Sisley? It’s not in the clothes closet where it should be.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to retort, “Dr. Patcher, I am a professor of astronomy, not your valet.” To which he would make the carping correction: “Assistant professor, my dear Sisley,” thus enraging me. But tonight of all nights a state of normality must be assured, since what was to happen would be so curious and unique that only a framework of absolute humdrum routine would make the circumstances convincing.
So I swallowed my temper and, opening the junior closet, handed Patcher his duster. “Well, well,” said Patcher as usual, “what on earth is it doing in there?”
“I suppose the janitor has been careless.”
“We’ll have to bring him up short,” said Patcher. “One place where carelessness can never be tolerated is an observatory.”
“I agree whole-heartedly,” I said, as indeed I did. I am a systematic man, with every aspect of my life conducted along lines of the most rigorous efficiency.
Buttoning his duster, Dr. Patcher looked me up and down. “You seem restless tonight, Sisley.”
“I? Certainly not. Perhaps a little tired, a little fatigued. I was prospecting up Mount Tinsley today and found several excellent specimens of sphalerite.” Perhaps I should mention that my hobby is mineralogy, that I am an assiduous “rock-hound”, and devote a good deal of time to my collection of rocks, minerals and crystals.
Dr. Patcher shook his head a little. “I personally could not afford to dilute my energy to such an extent. I feel that every ounce of attention belongs to my work.”
This was a provocative misstatement. Dr. Patcher was an ardent horticulturalist and had gone so far as to plant a border of roses around the observatory.
“Well, well,” I said, perhaps a trifle heavily, “I suppose each of us must go his own way.” I glanced at my watch. Twenty-five minutes. “I’ll leave the place in your hands, Doctor. If the visibility is good I’ll be here about three—”
“I’m afraid I’ll be using the instrument,” said Patcher. “This is a perfect night in spite of the breeze—”
I thought: it is a perfect night because of the breeze.
“—I can’t afford to waste a minute.”
I nodded. “Very well; you can telephone me if you change your mind.”
He looked at me queerly; I seldom showed such good grace. “Good-night, Sisley.”
“Good-night, Dr. Patcher. Perhaps I’ll watch the Perseids for a bit.”
He made no reply. I went outside, strolled around the observatory, re-entered. I cried, “Dr. Patcher, Dr. Patcher!”
“Yes, yes, what is it?”
“Most extraordinary! Of course I’m no gardener, but I’ve never seen anything like it before, a luminescent rose!”
“What’s that?”
“One of the rose bushes seems to be bearing luminescent blossoms.”
“Oh, nonsense,” muttered Patcher. “It’s a trick of vision.”
“A remarkable illusion, if so.”
“Never heard of such a thing,” said Patcher. “I can’t see how it’s possible. Where is this ‘luminescent rose-bush’?”
“It’s right around here,” I said. “I could hardly believe my eyes.” I led him a few feet around the observatory, to where the bed of roses rustled and swayed in the breeze. “Just in there.”
Dr. Patcher spoke the last words of his existence on earth. “I don’t see any—”
I hurried to my car, which I had parked headed down-slope. I started the motor, roared down the hill as fast as the road and my excellent reflexes allowed. Three days ago I had timed myself: six minutes from the observatory to the outskirts of town. Tonight I made it in five.
Slowing to my usual pace, I rounded the last turn and pulled into Sam’s Service Station, stopping the car at a spot which I had calculated to a nicety several weeks earlier. And now I had a stroke of rather good luck. Pulled up in the inside lane was a white police car, with a trooper leaning against the fender.
“Hello, Mr. Sisley,” said Sam. “How’s all the stars in their courses tonight?”
At any other time I might have treated the pleasantry to the cool rejoinder it deserved. Sam, a burly young man with a perpetual smut on his nose, was a typical layman, in a total fog concerning the exacting and important work that we do at the observatory. Tonight, however, I welcomed his remark. “The stars are about as usual, Sam, but if you keep your eyes open, you’ll see any number of shooting stars tonight.”
“Honest to Pete?” Sam glanced politely around the sky.
“Yes.” I looked at my watch. “Astronomers call them the Perseids. Every year about this time we run into a meteoric shower which seems to come from the constellation of Perseus—right up there. A little later in the year come the Leonids, from Leo.”
Sam shook his head admiringly. “My mother’s nuts on that stuff, but I didn’t know she got it from you guys.” He turned to the trooper. “How about that? All the time I thought these guys up at the observatory was—well, kinda passing the
time, but now Professor Sisley tells me that they put out these Sign of the Zodiac books—you know, don’t-invest-money-with-a-blonde-woman-today stuff. Real practical dope.”
The trooper said, “What do you know? I always figured that stuff for so much hogwash.”
“Of course it is,” I said heatedly. “All foolishness. I said that was the constellation Leo up there, not the ‘sign of Leo’!” I checked the time. About thirty seconds. “I’ll have five gallons of ethyl, Sam.”
“Right,” said Sam. “Can you back up a bit? Wait! I guess the hose will reach…” He stood facing the direction I wished him to face.
Glare lit the sky; a flaming gout of white fire plunged down from the heavens, followed an instant later by a flat orange smear of light.
“Heavens to Betsy,” cried Sam, standing with his mouth open and the hose in his hand, “what was that?”
“A meteor,” I said. “A shooting star.”
“That was a humdinger,” the trooper said. “You don’t see many that close!”
Out of the sky came a sharp report, an explosion.
Sam shook his head and numbly valved gas into the tank. “Looked like that one struck ground right up close to the observatory too.”
“Yes,” I said, “it certainly did. I think I’ll telephone Dr. Patcher and ask if he noticed it.”
“Notice it!” said Sam. “He’s lucky if he got out of the way!”
I went into the station, dropped a dime into the box, called the observatory.
“Sorry,” the operator said a moment later. “There’s no reply.”
I returned outside. “He doesn’t answer. He’s probably up in the cage and can’t be bothered.”
“Cantankerous old devil,” said Sam. “But then—excuse me, Professor—all you astronomers act a little bit odd, one way or another. I don’t mean screwy or anything like that—but just, well, odd. Absent-minded like.”
“Ha, ha,” I said. “That’s where you’re mistaken. I imagine that very few people are as methodical and systematic as I am.”
Sam shrugged. “I can’t argue with you, Doc.”
I got into my car and drove through town toward the University; I parked in front of the Faculty Club, walked into the lounge, and ordered a pot of tea.
John Dalrymple of the English Department joined me. “I say, Sisley, something in your line—saw a whacking great fire-ball a moment or two ago. Lit up the entire sky, marvellous thing.”
“Yes, I saw it at the service station. It apparently struck ground somewhere up near the observatory. This is the time of year for them, you know.”
Dalrymple rubbed his chin. “Seems to me I see ’em all the time.”
“Oh indeed! But these are the Perseids, a special belt of meteorites, or perhaps, a small comet traversing a regular orbit. The earth, entering this orbit, collides with the rocks and pebbles that make up the comet. When we watch, it seems as if the meteors are coming from the constellation of Perseus—hence we call them Perseids.”
Dalrymple rose to his feet. “Well put, old man, awfully interesting and all that, but I’ve got something to say to Benjamin. See you again.”
“Good evening, Dalrymple.”
I read a magazine, played a game of chess with Hodges of the Economics Department, and discovered it was twelve-thirty. I rose to my feet. “Excuse me; Dr. Patcher’s alone at the observatory. I think I’ll call and find out how long he’s going to be.”
I called the observatory once more, and was told, “Sorry, sir, no answer.”
“He’s probably up in the cage,” I told Hodges. “If he gets busy, he refuses to move.”
“Rather crusty old bird, isn’t he?”
“Not the easiest person in the world to work with. No doubt but what he has his good points. Well, good-night, Hodges; thanks for the game. I think I’ll snooze a bit in one of the chairs before heading up the hill. I’m due at three or thereabouts.”
At two o’clock Jake the night janitor aroused me. “Everybody’s gone home, sir, and the heat’s been turned off. Don’t know as you’d want to catch your death of cold sitting here.”
“No, by all means. Thank you, Jake.” I looked at my watch. “I must be off to work.”
“You and me,” said Jake, “we keep strange hours.”
“The best time of the day is night,” I said. “By day, of course, I mean the sidereal day.”
“Oh, I understand you, sir. I’m used to hearing all manner of strange talk, and I understand lots better than some of ’em think.”
“I’m sure you do, Jake.”
“The things I’ve heard, Mr. Sisley.”
“Yes, interesting indeed. Well, good-night, Jake. I must be off to work.”
“Getcher coat, Mr. Sisley?”
“Thank you, Jake.”
The night was glorious beyond description. Stars, stars, stars—magnificent flowers of heaven, spurting pips of various lights down from their appointed places. I know the night skies as I know my face; I know all the lore, the fable, the mystery. I know where to expect Arcturus, in one corner of the Great Diamond, with Denebola to the side, Spica below, Cor Caroli above. I know Argo Navis and the Northern Cross, sometimes called Cygnus, and the little rocking-horse of Lyra, with Vega at the head. I know how to sight down the three stars in Aquila, with Altair at the center, to find Fomalhaut, when it comes peering briefly over the southern horizon. I know the Lair of the Howling Dog, with Vindemiatrix close by; I can find Algol the demon star and Mira the Wonderful on the spine of Cetus the whale. I know Orion and his upraised arm, with the river Eridanus winding across twenty million light-years of desolation. Ah, the stars! Poetry the poor day-dweller never dreams of! Poetry in the star names: Alpheta, Achernar, Alpheratz; Canopus, Antares, Markab; Sirius, Rigel, Bellatrix; Aldebaran, Betelgeuse, Fomalhaut; Alphard, Spica, Procyon; Deneb Kaitos, Alpha Centauri: rolling magnificent sounds, each king of a myriad worlds. And now, with old Dog Patcher gone to his reward, the heavens were mine, to explore at my leisure; possibly with the help of young Katkus, who would be promoted to my place, when I became head of the department.
I drove up the familiar road, winding among aromatic eucalyptus, and breasted over the edge of the parking area.
The observatory was as I had left it, with Patcher’s shiny old sedan pressed close to the wall, much more lonesome and pathetic than ever Patcher’s body would look.
But I must not cry out the alarm too quickly; first I had one or two matters to take care of.
I found my flashlight and walked out on the slope behind the observatory. I knew approximately where to look and exactly what I was looking for—and there it was: a bit of cardboard, a scrap of red paper, a length of stick. Everything was proceeding as I had planned, and after all, why should it not? It is very easy to kill a man, so I find. I merely had chosen one of many ways, perhaps a trifle more elaborate than necessary, but it seemed such a fitting end for old Dog Patcher. I could have arranged for his car to have left the road; there would have been precedent in the death of Professor Harlow T. Kane, Patcher’s predecessor as Senior Astronomer, who had lost his life in just such a manner…So the thoughts ran through my head as I burned the stick and cardboard and paper, and scattered the ashes.
I returned to the observatory, sauntered inside, looked over the big reflector with a sense of proprietorship…About time now for the alarm.
I wandered outside, turned my flashlight on the body. Everything just so. I ran back in, telephoned the sheriff’s office, since the observatory is outside city limits. “Sheriff?”
A sleepy voice grumbled, “What in Sam Hill’s the idea, waking me up this time of night?”
“This is Professor Sisley up at the observatory. Something terrible has happened! I’ve just discovered the body of Dr. Patcher!”
The sheriff was a fat and amiable man, much more concerned with his take from slot machines and poker rooms than the prevention of crime. He arrived at the observatory with a doctor. They stood looking down at
the body, the sheriff holding a flashlight, neither one showing zest or enthusiasm.
“Looks like he’s been beaned with a rock,” said the sheriff. “Find out how long he’s been dead, will you, Doc?”
He turned to me. “Just what happened, Professor?”
“It looks to me,” I said, “as if he’s been struck by a meteorite.”
“A meteorite, hey?” He pulled at his chin doubtfully. “Ain’t that a little far-fetched? One chance in a thousand, you might say?”
“I can’t be sure, naturally. You’ll have to get an expert to check on that piece of metal or rock, whatever it is.”
The sheriff was still rubbing his chin.
“When I left him at about ten-thirty, he said he was going to watch the meteors—we’re passing through the Perseids, you know—and shortly after—I was in town by then at Sam’s Service Station—we saw a very large shooting star, meteor, fire-ball, whatever you want to call it, come down from the sky. Sam saw it, the state trooper saw it—”
“Yeah,” said the sheriff, “I saw it myself. Monstrous thing…” He bent over Dr. Patcher’s dead body. “You think this might be a meteorite, hey?”
“I certainly couldn’t say at a glance, but Professor Doheny of the Geology Department could tell you in jig-time.”
“Humph,” said the sheriff. To the doctor, “Any idea when he died, Doc?”
“Oh, roughly five or six hours ago.”
“Humph. That’s ten-thirty to eleven-thirty…That meteor came down at, let’s see—”
“At exactly twelve minutes to eleven.”
“Well, well,” said the sheriff, looking at me with mild speculation. After this, I told myself, I would volunteer no more information. But no matter, no harm done.
“I suppose,” said the sheriff, “we’d better wait till it’s light, and then we can look around a little bit more.”
“If you will come into the observatory,” I said, “I’ll brew up a pot of coffee. This night air is a trifle brisk.”
Dawn came; the sheriff called his office; an ambulance climbed the hill. I was asked a few more questions, photographs were taken, and the body was moved.
