Well, that hadn’t worked out; Tommy Pedigrue had proved surprisingly stubborn about assistants. It was a matter of budgets, he explained. Her honorarium, like Tib’s and Meredith Bradison’s, was paid out of the private Pedigrue Foundation’s money, and there was just so much of that. Computer time, on the other hand, could be run up against the limitless credit of his brother’s United States Senate committee. Computer, si; payroll, no.
No matter, the job still had seemed easy enough. But it refused to get done! Too late she realized they were up against one of the fundamental axioms of the scientific methodology. It is impossible to prove a negative. It was not hard to prove that the predicted events hadn’t happened under similar conjunctions of the planets in the past. But they could find no way to prove that, this time, they wouldn’t.
And, every day, the pressure was growing to provide an answer. The Jupes were everywhere, with their blacked-out faces and flame-red clothes, and even sensible people were beginning to ask questions. Especially when every crackpot in the western world seemed to be descending on Los Angeles to capitalize on the panic.
“Panic” was perhaps a little too strong a word, Rainy conceded to herself. There was still a lot of skepticism, and plenty of jokes—Johnny Carson’s monologue had a dozen new ones every night. But underneath the jokes there was worry.
It was like breaking a mirror. Rational people did not believe in bad luck. But even rational people were more careful with mirrors than with other kinds of glass.
There was another consideration, and a scary one. Rainy herself was beginning to worry.
It had not occurred to her that she was becoming a convert, but that kook, Meredith Bradison’s grandson, had noticed it in her before she had seen it in herself. The man seemed always to be hanging around, watching and asking questions, and when he told her he thought she was beginning to take the danger seriously Rainy snapped at him. “I do not believe in your Nostradamus, or your Jupiter Effect, or your Edgar Cayce, or the tooth fairy!” Then honesty had made her add, “But I admit I’m beginning to think about what might happen. A lot.” It was true. She looked at the foundations of buildings now before she entered them. Like everyone in Los Angeles, Rainy knew perfectly well that the danger of earthquakes existed. Everyone knew that death existed, too. With practice, you learned not to remember that.
But you could not not remember earthquakes when you were spending ten and twenty hours a week with a man who knew every subterranean crack in California by name. The tectonic plates came alive in her mind. Great stiff slabs of grease, floating on cold soup. When they touched, the edges crumpled and crumbled. As she drove around the city she looked up at the hills and imagined them thrust high and toppling, the buildings shaking themselves to rubble….
It was, after all, certain to happen—some day.
Part of Rainy’s job was to counteract the cries of wolf from the lunatic fringe. That meant she had to talk to the news media—i.e., to seek out people she was anxious to avoid—and then to try so to steer the discussions that they did not ask her again about her satellite, while trying at the same time not to reveal her own growing disquiet. She left public relations as much as possible to Tib and Meredith Bradison—even better, to Tommy Pedigrue, who blossomed under press attention at any time. But when Tommy was in Washington, and Tib and Meredith were busy at something else, it was up to her. So she had spent all the afternoon explaining simple planetary ballistics to two feature writers. Then the gray men from the federal government had dropped in—“Just one or two questions, Mrs. Keating, to fill in the picture”—and the moment when one of them stopped at the door to wish her a Merry Christmas was the moment when it first became clear to her that the next day was Christmas Eve.
Christmas Eve! And her shopping not done!
So there had been one more bad day for Rainy Keating, out of a long series of bad days. As late as Arecibo she had been right on top of the world, and now she was under all 6595 X 1018 tons of it. She had never felt less Christmasy.
It had been her intention to get rid of the Feds, work out for an hour at the apartment health club, do her hair, go to bed early. That was all out now. She went Christmas shopping instead. It was not arduous; she had only three gifts to buy. A pipe and a bottle of perfume to take to San Diego for her parents, and one other; and as soon as she had found a nice-looking wallet and glove set and had it gift-wrapped, she got in her Volkswagen and drove to deliver it, in the home that had once been her own and now belonged to her ex-, or anyway almost ex-, husband.
Why the hell am I doing this? she asked herself, reaching out to perform the unfamiliar act of ringing her own front doorbell. She knew the answer. It was better to do this than to do the alternative. She could not forget Tinker for Christmas, because he wouldn’t let her forget; if she didn’t come here, he would go to her apartment. She had gone to a lot of trouble to prevent that—including bribing the doorman to keep him out, or, more accurately, rebribing the doorman after Tinker’s own bribe to let him in. And if she went to him she had the option to leave. “Rainy, love!” he cried at the door, throwing his arms around her and kissing her on the lips. “Merry Christmas! It’s marvelous to see you! I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
She shrugged herself free. “I promised,” she said.
“Yes, you did.” He closed the door behind her and had the coat off her back before she could say she couldn’t stay. “I know I can trust your promise. Money in the bank. You’d never break a—”
“Tinker, God damn it!”
He paused at the hall closet, her trench coat in his hand. His expression went down through the spectrum, from the welcoming joy through apology to self-loathing. “Oh, Rainy,” he said humbly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help feeling physically jealous.”
“Oh, God, Tinker.” But she wasn’t really upset. Not any more; the nerve had worn out. “I’m keeping my promise about other men. Just as agreed. ” Then, quickly, “Listen, I can only stay a moment. I’ve got to get home and pack—”
“You’re going to see your parents? Wonderful. They’re such great people, and I’ve got something for you to take them for me, if you wouldn’t mind.” He was fluttering around the room as he talked, winding up at the sideboard. “Of course, you’ll have some eggnog,” he said, setting out the crystal cups. “It won’t take a minute, I’ve just got to get it out of the fridge.”
She sat down, looking around the room to see what had been changed. Very little had. This exact corner of the couch was exactly where she had sat, night after night, to watch PBS television with Tinker by her side, with the same pillow that fit just properly into the curve of her back and the same remote control for the TV just at her left hand. From the kitchen he called, “I was talking about you in group today. Were your ears burning?”
Oh, God. “How’s it going?” she asked out loud.
“Oh,” he said, carrying in the crystal punch bowl, “you know. Slow. But there’s real progress.” He was still a good-looking man, she thought—balding a little, a little too plump, but with a face that had to be called “nice”. That was a good word for all of Will Keating. It was strange that she hadn’t been able to stand such, a nice man. The mannerisms that were objectively most attractive were the ones that got under her skin. That soft, gentle voice—how marvelously, paternally reassuring it had seemed when they were dating. The soft, caring way he looked at her and touched her, how much more adult and suave than the clutching of her age-mates in Griffith Park.
And the things that she had found strange and repellent no longer seemed serious. Tinker Keating was a psychotherapy junkie. Encounter group, bioenergetics, Primal Scream, Rolfing, Transcendental Meditation, orgone energy—all of them; first she had been startled, then it had seemed funny, finally pathetic. He was telling her now about the afternoon’s session with his new group. She had turned her ears off, but the reproach in his voice seeped in: the pain he was trying to get rid of was pain that only she could heal. She stood up. “That�
�s marvelous, Tink, but I really have to fly.”
He dropped the story in mid-sentence. “But surely you’re going to open your present?”
“Not until Christmas, Tink.’ Santa Claus would be mad.”
“At least another cup of eggnog? It’s early.…”
She couldn’t avoid the second cup of eggnog, but she left as soon as she possibly could, his lovingly wrapped gift in her purse. She could feel that it was jewelry, and was glad she had avoided having his eyes on her when she discovered what tenderly thoughtful, madly extravagant bribe he had selected for her this time.
He had selected the furniture for their home, too. Oh, not as a matter of seniority. He had consistently asked her opinions at every step, and listened to what she said. But they both knew his opinions were better. She parked in the lot at her apartment, entered her home and looked it over appraisingly.
After an hour surrounded by Tinker’s good taste the furniture she had bought with such pleasure for herself now looked tacky. It was not as good as the pieces she and Tinker had so carefully collected—not counting that it wasn’t paid for.
At least there were messages on the answering machine. Three, of course, were from Tinker, all received while she was shopping for his Christmas present. One was from her instrument technician, Margie Bewdren; but when she called back Margie’s number didn’t answer. That was disturbing, because Margie had never called her at home before. What a drag! Plus the other drags, which was to say the fact that three times the answering machine had given her beeps but no message, which meant that, three times, someone had called but had hung up without speaking. She hated that. She tried to imagine who, or what three whos, it might have been while, every few minutes, while trying to catch up on all the other things she should be doing, she kept trying Margie’s number.
Finally the technician answered. Her voice sounded remote and a little vague. “Oh, Rainy. Hi. Listen.”
“I’m listening.” What was wrong with the woman?
“I hate to bother you, but—well, have you been getting a lot of pressure from the F.B.I.?”
“Have I! You mean they’re after you, too?”
“You bet your ass, hon. More all the time. I thought after the first time they’d just file their reports and go away but, jeez, Rainy, they just won’t believe I’m giving them all the data. You think they suspect me of something?”
“I guess they suspect both of us, hon. Or maybe what they suspect is the Russians did it and we’re too dumb to know it.”
“Well, whatever it is, they’ve been bothering me at work. And I was supposed to go to the Cape for a Skylab payload job and that’s been called off—I think they asked my boss to keep me here.”
“Tell me all about it,” Rainy ordered. “Let’s see if they’re asking us both the same questions.”
It took forty-five minutes of comparing notes to be sure that the pattern was identical. Half the agencies of the federal government had taken an interest in the fate of Newton-8, but after the first few days it had settled down to the pair from the F.B.I. And they were not satisfied. Every interview with Rainy had provided questions to ask Marge; every answer from Marge had sparked a new question for Rainy. By the time Rainy said good-bye to her technician she was no longer scared. She was furious. And the phone rang again almost immediately and it was Tib Sonderman, looking for company at this irregular hour of the night. Rainy told him to come on over before she realized what she was saying; it wasn’t so much that she wanted to see him as that she wanted to get him off the line so she could think about this harassment. But by then it was too late. Resentfully she went back to her thoughts and her chores; and then the phone rang again and, of course, it was Tinker. “Did I wake you up, dear?”
“No, Tink but—damn it, it’s late!”
“Well, I knew you were awake, because I’ve been getting a busy signal for the last hour. I just wanted to thank you for this evening—”
“You’re welcome, Tinker. Good night, Tinker. Merry Christmas.” Civility to an ex-mate could make excessive demands on a person, she thought, and then remembered that she had started to touch up her hair and hadn’t finished. She fled to the bathroom. By the time she had dealt with the emergency it was the doorman on the house phone, announcing her guest Tib Sonderman. “Oh, God,” she said, “send the son of a bitch up.”
Rainy lived in an immense apartment complex, eleven hundred units altogether, perched on the side of a hill. It would have had a fine view of the valley at night if it weren’t for the smog, and also if it weren’t for the fact that most of the units looked directly into the windows of the units across the court. Tib parked his car in the wrong lot and took a while to find the right building, and then the doorman kept him waiting while he checked with Rainy Keating. Maybe this was a bad idea, he thought; but then the doorman waved him in and he was committed.
As Tib navigated his way to Level B, Apartment Eight, he smelled a dozen varieties of recent cooking in the halls, heard all seven audio channels of TV and a selection of pop, rock, classical and all-news radio stations and got invited to two Christmas parties. The second one, which had spilled over into the hall, was only a few doors from Rainy’s apartment. For a moment Tib thought some of the guests were about to follow him in.
So did Rainy, as she opened the door and looked over his shoulder. She let him in quickly and closed the door behind him. “This wasn’t such a good idea, Tib,” she said, obviously making an effort to be polite. “If I’d been thinking I would have asked for a rain check.”
“Have you been having a bad day?”
“Christ! You don’t know. Listen, come in and sit down.” She pointed to a chair and took one herself, across the room. “I’ve been having more trouble with the Feds,” she said, and told him about the phone conversation with Margie Bewdren.
“That’s partly why I wanted to see you—no,” he corrected himself, “there is no reason to lie to you. I wanted to see you because, as I said, I was lonesome. But as I was leaving I remembered. ” He pulled a sheaf of offprints out of his pocket and handed them to her. “My friend Wes Grierson thought you would find these interesting.” He hesitated, and then shrugged. “He thought that two weeks ago. But I forgot.”
She took the papers from him, glanced at them absently, and then frowned. “Did you look at these things?” she asked.
“Yes, of course. It is not my field. They seem to be about gravitational focusing of starlight by the sun.”
“Did you look at the date?”
She was holding the first of the Xeroxes out to him; before the date he noticed the name signed to it—Albert Einstein! And the year was 1936!
It was not like Grierson to play practical jokes, but Tib said uncomfortably, “I apologize if I am wasting your time—”
“Oh, hell, Tib. Sit down. Make us both a drink, will you? Canadian whiskey and ginger ale for me—not too strong.” She was speaking absently, her attention on the papers. Sonderman took off his coat, found ice in the freezer, made Rainy a mild highball and himself a plain ginger ale and sat down on the couch, looking around her apartment. Apartment was too strong a word. It was one room, really, and he had a conviction that the couch he was sitting on opened out to become her bed. But it was comfortable looking. Almost all new. At least she had not looted her ex-husband’s home!
“Hey, Tib,” she said at last, pushing her glasses up over her hair. “I think I know what your friend was talking about. Not the Einstein paper itself; that’s pretty out of date, but the later papers—especially the one by this fellow named Von Eshleman at Stanford. What do you know about relativistic physics?”
“Zero,” Tib said honestly. “Near enough, anyway. Say zero.”
“Well—” she fished in a drawer of the desk for a pencil—“here’s the thing. Einstein said that light had mass, you know that much, right? That’s the famous experiment of 1919 that confirmed relativity, when the eclipse expedition found that starlight coming around the sun was bent—fo
cused, like a lens—just as he predicted.”
“That was a lot earlier than 1936,” Tib objected.
“Right, and then Einstein had some afterthoughts. If you’re looking past the sun at another star—assuming there’s an eclipse or something so the sunlight doesn’t drown it all out—then the light gets deflected all around it. The gravitational field of the sun becomes a sort of spherical lens—a telescope. This is the Eshleman formula.”
Tib moved to the arm of her chair to peer down at what she was scribbling:
“I’ll take your word for it,” he said. “Unless you want to tell me what the Xs and Is are.”
Rainy grinned. “I’m taking his word for it, or at least I am until I get back to JPL. But what it comes down to is that the sun focuses millimeter radiation to a point. Radiation from another star—wait a minute.” She sketched rapidly again:
“There’s your distant star, there’s the sun, and there’s my poor old Newton! Right at the focal point, in syzygy with the other two bodies!”
“What’s ‘syzygy’? And which star are you talking about?”
She put down the Flair and stared thoughtfully at the diagram. “Syzygy just means they’re in line, and I don’t know which star—that’s easy enough to check, though. I think it would have to be a fairly bright one, maybe an A-or an F-type star at least. And not too far away. A hundred light-years or so? There aren’t really bright ones much closer than that.…” She shook her head. “Anyway, at that point in the diagram the radiation is so focused that it’s like holding a piece of paper under a magnifying glass. My poor little spaceship would suddenly be right in the middle of a heat ray! Except for one thing, it fits the facts just fine. The shorter the wavelength, the better the focusing. Right under the millimeter microwave is infra-red—heat! So we got some sort of squeal on the radio receiver at the one-millimeter length, and then the heat began to build up and burned out the spaceship! It wouldn’t really have to burn. It had those photovoltaic sails—the way it generated part of its energy, from sunlight. A sudden concentrated burst of heat would overload them; they weren’t built for it. Only…”
Syzygy Page 15
