A moment later he had left the construction site and was threading through densely foliated hills, moving so fast now that the trees close to him were a blur of sunlight and green leaves, of light and shadow. He leaned back, against the extraordinarily comfortable cushions, trying to enjoy the ride. But he was too excited to relax, too keyed up by the speed of events and all of the excitement of a strange, new place—so blissfully far, now, from Iowa, from college students, bearded intellectuals, men like Canutti. He looked toward the windows, watching the increasingly rapid flashing of light, shade, light, pale green and dark shadows; and then, abruptly ahead of him, as the car sped over a rise, he saw the glimmer of the lake, spread out in a hollow like a sheet of wonderfully blue-gray metal, a giant, serene disc. Just beyond it rose, in the shadow of a mountain, a huge, old white house with a white-columned porch and large, shuttered windows, sitting quietly at the edge of the broad lake, solidly, at the base of a mountain. Then the house and lake, seen in the distance, vanished behind another hill as the monorail track dipped down, and he realized that the car was beginning to decelerate. A minute later the house and lake reappeared and the car eased in a broad, curving glide that swooped along the edge of the water, delicately inclining with the curve of the track, and he saw a man standing, waiting for him, at the side of the house. The car came to a gentle stop and Bryce took a deep breath, touched the doorknob, watched the wood-paneled door slide quietly open, and stepped out into the shade of the mountain and the smell of pine trees and the gentle, almost inaudible sound of water lapping against the shore of the lake. The man was small and dark, with little bright eyes and a mustache. He stepped forward, smiling formally. “Doctor Bryce?” His accent was French.
Suddenly feeling exhilarated, he answered, “Monsieur Brinnarde?” holding out his hand to the man. “Enchanté.”
The man took his hand, his eyebrows slightly raised. “Soyez le bienvenu, Monsieur le Docteur. Monsieur Newton vous attend. Alors…”
Bryce caught his breath. “Newton will see me?”
“Yes. I will show you the way.”
Inside the house he was greeted by three cats, who stared at him from the floor where they had been playing. They seemed to be ordinary alley cats, but well fed, and scornful of his entrance. He did not like cats. The Frenchman led him silently through the parlor and up a heavily carpeted staircase. There were pictures on the walls—odd, expensive-looking tableaux by painters he did not recognize. The staircase was very wide, and curved. He noticed that it had one of those motor-powered seats, folded now, that could run up and down by the banister. Could Newton be a cripple? There seemed to be no one else in the house except the two of them, and the cats. He glanced back; they were still staring at him, eyes wide, curious and insolent.
At the top of the stairs was a hall, and at the end of the hall was a door, which obviously led into Newton’s room. It opened and a rather sad-eyed, plump woman came out, wearing an apron. She walked up to them, blinked at him and said. “I guess you’re Professor Bryce.” Her voice, amiable and throaty, was thick with a hillbilly accent.
He nodded and she led him to the door. He walked in alone, noticing to his dismay that his breath was short and his legs unsteady.
The room was immense and the air in it was cold. The light came dimly from a huge, only slightly transparent bay window that overlooked the lake. There seemed to be furniture everywhere, in a bewildering array of colors—the heavy forms of couches, a table, desks, taking on blues and grays and faded orange as his eyes became accustomed to the dim, yellowish light. Two pictures faced him on the back wall; one was an etching of a giant bird, a heron or whooping crane; the other a nervous abstraction by someone like Klee. Maybe it was a Klee. The two works did not go well together. In the corner was a giant birdcage, with a purple and red parrot, apparently asleep. And now walking toward him slowly, carrying a cane, was a tall, thin man, with indistinct features. “Professor Bryce?” The voice was clear, faintly accented, pleasant.
“Yes. You’re… Mr. Newton?”
“That’s right. Why don’t we sit down and talk for a while?”
He sat, and they talked for several minutes. Newton was pleasant, easy, a shade over-correct in his manner, but neither imposing nor snobbish. He had a great deal of natural dignity, and he discussed the painting that Bryce mentioned—it was a Klee after all—with interest and intelligence. In talking about it he stood up for a minute to point out a detail and Bryce got his first good look at the man’s face. It was a fine face, beautifully featured, almost womanish, with a strange cast to it. Immediately the thought, the absurd thought that he had toyed with for over a year, came to him strongly. For a moment, watching the strange, tall man pointing a delicate finger toward an eerie, nervous-lined painting there in the dim light, it did not seem at all absurd. Yet it was; and, when Newton turned back to him, smiled, and said, “I think we ought to have a drink. Professor Bryce,” the illusion vanished completely and Bryce’s reason asserted itself. There were stranger-looking men than this one in the world, and there had been brilliant inventors before.
“I’d like a drink,” he said. And then, “I know you’re busy.”
“Not at all.” Newton smiled easily, walking over toward the door. “Not today at least. What would you like?”
“Scotch.” He started to add, “If you have it,” but checked himself. He imagined Newton would have it. “Scotch and water.”
Instead of pressing a button or ringing a gong—in this house ringing a gong would not have seemed out of place—Newton merely opened the door and called out, “Betty Jo.” When she answered, he said, “Bring Professor Bryce the Scotch, with water and ice. I’d like my gin and bitters.” Then he closed the door and returned to his chair. “I’ve only recently come to enjoy gin,” he said. Bryce shuddered inwardly at the thought of gin and bitters.
“Well, Professor Bryce, what do you think of our site here? I suppose you saw all the… activity when you got off the plane?”
He settled back in his chair, feeling more at ease now. Newton seemed very gracious, genuinely interested in hearing what he had to say. “Yes. It looked very interesting. But to tell you the truth I don’t know what you are building.”
Newton stared for a moment, and then laughed. “Didn’t Oliver tell you, in New York?”
Bryce shook his head.
“Oliver can be very secretive. I certainly didn’t mean him to go that far.” He smiled—and for the first time. Bryce was vaguely bothered by the smile, although he could not see precisely what it was that bothered him. “Perhaps that was why you demanded to see me?”
Apparently he only meant it lightly. “Maybe.” Bryce said. “But I had other reasons as well.”
“Yes,” Newton started to say something, but stopped when the door opened and Betty Jo came in, carrying the bottles and pitchers on a tray. Bryce looked at her closely. She was a slightly pretty, middle-aged woman, the kind you would expect to see at a matinee or a bridge club. Yet her face was not vacant, not stupid, and there was a warmth, a trace of good humor or amusement, around her eyes and in her full lips. But she was somewhat out of place as this millionaire’s only visible servant. She said nothing and set the drinks down, and as she walked past him on her way out he was astonished at the unmistakable odors of liquor and perfume as she went by.
The Scotch had been freshly opened, and he fixed himself a drink with some amusement and wonder. Was this the way millionaire scientists went about things? One asks for a drink and a half-drunk servant brings a fifth? Perhaps it was the best way. The two of them poured the liquor in silence and then, after the first drink, Newton said unexpectedly, “It’s a space vehicle.”
Bryce blinked, not understanding what the man meant. “How’s that?”
“The thing we’re building here will be a space vehicle.”
“Oh?” It was a surprise, but not overmuch of one. Space-probing craft, unmanned, of one sort or another were common enough…. Even the Cuban bloc had
put one up a few months ago.
“Then you’ll want me on metals for the frame?”
“No.” Newton was sipping his drink slowly, and looking out the window as if thinking of something else. “The frame is worked out thoroughly already. I’d like you to work on the fuel-carrying systems—to find materials that can contain some of the chemicals, such as fuels and wastes and the like.” He turned back to Bryce, smiling again, and Bryce realized that the smile was vaguely disquieting because of a hint of some incomprehensible weariness about it. “I’m afraid I know very little about materials—heat and acid resistance and stresses. Oliver says that you’re one of the very best men for that kind of work.”
“Farnsworth may be overrating me, but I know the work fairly well.”
That seemed to end the subject and they were silent for a while. From the moment Newton had mentioned a space vehicle the old suspicion had, of course, returned. But with it came the obvious refutation—if Newton were, through some wild irrationality, from some other planet, he and his people would not be building spacecraft. That would be the one thing that they would be certain to have already. He smiled at himself, at the cheap, science-fiction level of his own private discourse. If Newton were a Martian or a Venusian, he should, by all rights, be importing heat rays to fry New York or planning to disintegrate Chicago, or carrying off young girls to underground caves for otherworldly sacrifices. Betty Jo? Feeling imaginative now, from the whiskey and his fatigue, he almost laughed aloud at the thought: Betty Jo, on a movie poster, with Newton in a plastic helmet, menacing her with a ray gun, a bulky, silver gun with heavy convector fins and little bright zig-zags coming out of it. Newton was still looking distractedly out the window. He had already finished his first gin drink and had poured himself another. A drunken Martian? An extraterrestrial who drank gin and bitters?
Newton had spoken abruptly before—yet without rudeness—and he turned back and spoke abruptly again. “Why did you want to see me, Mr. Bryce?” His voice was not demanding, only curious.
The question caught him off guard, and he hesitated, pouring himself another drink to cover the pause. Then he said. “I was impressed with your work. The photographic films—color. X-ray—and your innovations in electronic gear. I thought them the most… the most original ideas I’ve seen in years.”
“Thank you.” Newton seemed more interested now. “I thought very few people knew that I was… responsible for those things.”
Something about the tired, dispassionate way that Newton spoke made him feel slightly ashamed of himself, ashamed of the curiosity that had made him trace down the W. E. Corporation to Farnsworth, and browbeat Farnsworth into arranging this interview. He felt like a child who has tried to gain the attention of an indulgent father and has failed, has instead only disturbed and wearied the man. For a moment he thought that he might be blushing, and was thankful for the dim light in the room in case he were.
“I… I’ve always admired a first-rate mind.” He had somehow got caught up in embarrassment and he knew, cursing himself, that he sounded like a schoolboy. But when Newton answered with something modest and polite, Bryce was shocked out of embarrassment by realizing, in an instant, that the other man might well be drunk. He heard the distant, apathetic, slightly blurred speech, saw the distracted, unfocused look in the man’s wide eyes, and saw that Newton, almost imperceptibly, was either very drunk—quietly, calmly drunk—or very sick. And he suddenly felt a wave of quick affection—was he drunk himself?—for the thin, lonely man. Was Newton, also, a master of quiet morning drunkenness, looking for—for whatever it was that could supply a sane man in an insane world a reason for not being drunk in the morning? Or was this only one of the notorious aberrations of genius, a kind of wild and lonely abstraction, the ozone of an electrical intelligence?
“Oliver has arranged with you about your salary? And you’re satisfied with it?”
“It’s all been taken care of very well.” He stood up, recognizing that Newton’s question closed the interview. “I’m thoroughly content with the salary.” And then, before he offered to go, he said, “I wonder if I may ask you a question before I leave, Mr. Newton?”
Newton hardly seemed to hear him; he was still looking out the window, the empty glass held gently in his frail fingers, his face smooth, unlined, yet very old looking. “Certainly, Professor Bryce,” he said, his voice very soft, almost a whisper.
He felt embarrassed again, awkward. The man was so impossibly gentle. He cleared his throat, and noticed that, across the room, the parrot was awake, peering at him somewhat curiously as the cats had before. He felt dizzy and was certain now that he was blushing. He stammered, “It really doesn’t matter, I guess. I’ll… I’ll ask you some other time.”
Newton looked at him as though he had not heard him, but was still waiting to hear. He said, “Certainly. Some other time.”
Bryce excused himself, left the room, and walked, squinting, into bright light. When he got downstairs again the cats were gone.
10
During the next several months Bryce was busier than he had ever been before in his life. From the moment Brinnarde had led him from the big house and had sent him to the research labs, on the far side of the lake, he had plunged, with a willingness and fervor that were altogether foreign to him, into a multiplicity of jobs that Newton had waiting. There were alloys to be selected and developed, endless tests to be run, unearthly ideal qualifications of heat and acid resistance to be met in plastics, metals, resins, and ceramics. This was work for which his training ideally suited him, and he adjusted to it with great rapidity. He had a staff of fourteen under him, a huge aluminum shed of a laboratory to work in, a practically limitless budget, a small private house of four rooms and carte blanche—which he never exercised—for plane trips to Louisville, Chicago, or New York. There were irritations and confusions of course, especially in having necessary equipment and materials brought in on time, and in occasional petty feuds among his assistants, but these annoyances were never sufficiently great to hold up the work in more than a few of its multiple aspects. He was, if not happy, too busy to be unhappy. He was absorbed, engaged, in a way that he had never been as a teacher, and he was aware that much in his life was dependent upon his work. He knew that he had broken completely with teaching, just as he had broken, years before, with government work, and that it was imperative that he believe in his present work. He was too old to fail again, to sink into despair again; he would never be able to recover. In a series of events that had begun with a roll of caps and had depended on an absurd, science-fiction speculation, he had fluked into a job that many men might dream of. He often found himself working far into the night, absorbed in his work; and he no longer drank in the mornings. There were deadlines to be met, certain designs had to be ready for production at certain dates, and he was not worried about these. He was well ahead of schedule. Occasionally the fact that the work was applied research and not genuinely basic research was a source of some concern to him; but he was a little too old now, a little too disillusioned, to worry about points of honor, matters of integrity. Perhaps the only real moral question was whether or not he was working on a new weapon, a new means of dismembering men or destroying cities. And the answer to that was negative. They were building a vehicle to carry instruments around the solar system, and that in itself was, if not worthwhile, at least harmless.
A routine part of his work consisted of checking his progress against the portfolio of Newton’s specifications that had been given him by Brinnarde. These papers, which he thought of as the “master plumber’s inventory,” consisted largely of specifications for hundreds of minor parts of refrigeration, fuel control and guidance systems, specifications which called for certain measures of thermal conductivity, electrical resistance, chemical stability, mass, ignition temperature, and the like. It was Bryce’s business to find the most thoroughly suitable material, or if none could be found, to find what would be second best. In many cases this was
quite easy, so much so that he could not help wondering at Newton’s naiveté about materials; but in several cases the specifications could be matched by no known substances. He was forced, in such cases, to talk the thing over with the project engineers and devise the shrewdest possible compromise. The compromise would be delivered, then, to Brinnarde, and would be pronounced upon by Newton. The project engineers told him that they had been having this kind of trouble all along, during the six months the project had been under way, Newton was a genius at design, the over-all pattern was the most sophisticated they had ever seen and embodied a thousand startling innovations, but there had been hundreds of compromises already, and the construction of the ship itself was not due to begin for another year. The entire project was scheduled to be finished within six years—by 1990—and everyone seemed to entertain doubts about the probability of finishing by that time. But this speculation did not disturb Bryce very much. Despite the ambiguous nature of his one interview with Newton, he was immensely confident of that strange person’s scientific abilities.
Then, on a cool evening three months after he had first come to Kentucky, Bryce made a discovery. It was near midnight and he found himself alone in his private office at one end of the laboratory building, tiredly going over a group of specification sheets, unwilling yet to go home, since the evening was pleasant and he enjoyed the quietness of the lab. He was idly staring at one of Newton’s few sheets of diagrams—a schematic of the cooling system that was supposed to eliminate reentry heat—and tracing the relationship of parts, when some unidentifiable strangeness about the measurements and computations began vaguely to annoy him. For several minutes he chewed the end of his pencil, staring first at the neatly laid-out diagrams and then out the window that faced the lake. There was nothing wrong with the figures, but something about them disturbed him. He had noticed that before, in the back of his mind; but it had always been impossible to put his finger on the discrepancy. Outside, a clear half-moon was poised over the black lake, and hidden insects clicked remotely. It all seemed strange—like a lunar landscape. He looked back to the paper on the desk before him. The central group of figures was a progression of thermal values—values in an irregular sequence—Newton’s tentative specifications for a kind of tubing. Something about the sequence was suggestive; it was like a logarithmic progression, and yet was not. But then, what was it? Why should Newton pick this particular set of values, and not others? It had to be arbitrary. The precise values didn’t count anyway. These were only tentative requirements; it was up to Bryce to find the actual values for the material that would come closest to satisfying the specifications. He stared at the figures on the paper in a kind of gentle hypnosis until the digits seemed to merge and blend before his eyes and to lose all meaning for him except for their pattern. He blinked and then, with an effort of will, looked away, staring once again out the window into the Kentucky night. The moon had changed position, was now obscured by the hills beyond the lake. Across the black water a faint light burned in the second floor of the big house, probably in Newton’s study, and overhead the stars, a myriad of faint pinpricks, covered the black sky like specks of luminous powder. Suddenly with no apparent cause, a bullfrog began to glunk outside the window, startling Bryce. The frog continued, unanswered, unchorused, for several minutes, calling with heavy, purposeful vibrancy, crouched wetly somewhere; he could visualize its demi-reptilian body huddled, legs beneath chin, in cool, dew-wet grass. The sound seemed for a while to vibrate over the lake, in rhythm, and then it abruptly stopped, leaving Bryce’s ears dissatisfied for a moment, waiting for the final beat that never came. But the insects returned, in chorus, and he settled wearily back to the paper before him and it was then that he saw easily, in a brief moment of insight, his eyes merely tracing the familiar figures in an automatic way, what had been bothering him. They were in logarithmic progression; they had to be. But in no familiar logarithm—not to the base ten, or two, or pi—but in some unheard-of one. He picked up his slide rule from the desk and, his weariness gone, began to make trial-and-error divisions….
The Man Who Fell to Earth Page 7
