APPROACHING DISASTER
It was night. The stars which had just been coming out were spotted by
millions over the sleeping desert. One of the nights that are peculiar
to the country, which we all of us know so well, if not from
experience, at least from hearsay; mellow, soft, sprinkled like salted
fire, twinkling.
Each little light a message out of infinity. Cosmic grandeur; mind:
chaos, eternity—a night for dreaming. Whoever had chosen the spot in
the desert had picked full well. Charley had spoken of consciousness.
On that night when he gazed up at the stars he was its
personification. Surely a good spirit was watching over the earth.
A cool wind was blowing; on its breath floated the murmurs from the
village; laughter, the song of children, the purring of motors and the
startled barking of a dog; the confused drone of man and his
civilization. From the eminence the observatory looked down upon the
town and the sheen of light, spotting like jewels in the dim glow of
the desert. To the east the mellow moon just tipping over the
mountain. Charley stepped to the window.
He could see it all. The subtle beauty that was so akin to poetry: the
stretch of desert, the mountains, the light in the eastern sky; the
dull level shadow that marked the plain to the northward. To the west
the mountains looming black to the star line. A beautiful night;
sweetened with the breath of desert and tuned to its slumber.
Across the lawn he watched the professor descending the pathway under
the acacias. An automobile was coming up the driveway; as it drove up
under the arcs he noticed its powerful lines and its driver; one of
those splendid pleasure cars that have returned to favor during the
last decade; the soft purr of its motor, the great heavy tires and its
coating of dust. There is a lure about a great car coming in from the
desert. The car stopped, Charley noted. Doubtless some one for
Williams. If it were, he would go into the observatory alone.
In the strict sense of the word Huyck was not an astronomer. He had
not made it his profession. But for all that he knew things about the
stars that the more exact professors had not dreamed of. Charley was a
dreamer. He had a code all his own and a manner of reasoning. Between
him and the stars lay a secret.
He had not divulged it, or if he had, it was in such an open way that
it was laughed at. It was not cold enough in calculation or, even if
so, was too far from their deduction. Huyck had imagination; his
universe was alive and potent; it had intelligence. Matter could not
live without it. Man was its manifestation; just come to
consciousness. The universe teemed with intelligence. Charley looked
at the stars.
He crossed the office, passed through the reception-room and thence to
the stairs that led to the observatory. In the time that would lapse
before the coming of his friend he would have ample time for
observation. Somehow he felt that there was time for discovery. He had
come down to Arizona to employ the lens of his friend the astronomer.
The instrument that he had erected on his own mountain in Colorado had
not given him the full satisfaction that he expected. Here in Arizona,
in the dry clear air, which had hitherto given such splendid results,
he hoped to find what he was after. But little did he expect to
discover the terrible thing he did.
It is one of the strangest parts of the story that he should be here
at the very moment when Fate and the world’s safety would have had
him. For years he and Dr. Robold had been at work on their visionary
projects. They were both dreamers. While others had scoffed they had
silently been at their great work on kinetics.
The boy and the burning glass had grown under the tutelage of Dr.
Robold: the time was about at hand when he could out-rival the saying
of Archimedes. Though the world knew it not, Charley Huyck had arrived
at the point where he could literally burn up the earth.
But he was not sinister; though he had the power he had of course not
the slightest intention. He was a dreamer and it was part of his dream
that man break his thraldom to the earth and reach out into the
universe. It was a great conception and were it not for the terrible
event which took his life we have no doubt but that he would have
succeeded.
It was ten-thirty when he mounted the steps and seated himself. He
glanced at his watch: he had a good ten minutes. He had computed
before just the time for the observation. For months he had waited for
just this moment; he had not hoped to be alone and now that he was in
solitary possession he counted himself fortunate. Only the stars and
Charley Huyck knew the secret; and not even he dreamed what it would
amount to.
From his pocket he drew a number of papers; most of them covered with
notations; some with drawings; and a good sized map in colors. This he
spread before him, and with his pencil began to draw right across its
face a net of lines and cross lines. A number of figures and a rapid
computation. He nodded and then he made the observation.
It would have been interesting to study the face of Charley Huyck
during the next few moments. At first he was merely receptive, his
face placid but with the studious intentness of one who has come to
the moment: and as he began to find what he was after—an eagerness of
satisfaction. Then a queer blankness; the slight movement of his body
stopped, and the tapping of his feet ceased entirely.
For a full five minutes an absolute intentness. During that time he
was out among the stars beholding what not even he had dreamed of. It
was more than a secret: and what it was only Charley Huyck of all the
millions of men could have recognized. Yet it was more than even he
had expected. When he at last drew away his face was chalk-like; great
drops of sweat stood on his forehead: and the terrible truth in his
eyes made him look ten years older.
“My God!”
For a moment indecision and strange impotence. The truth he had beheld
numbed action; from his lips the mumbled words:
“This world; my world; our great and splendid mankind!”
A sentence that was despair and a benediction.
Then mechanically he turned back to confirm his observation. This
time, knowing what he would see, he was not so horrified: his mind was
cleared by the plain fact of what he was beholding. When at last he
drew away his face was settled.
He was a man who thought quickly—thank the stars for that—and, once he
thought, quick to spring to action. There was a peril poising over the
earth. If it were to be voided there was not a second to lose in
weighing up the possibilities.
He had been dreaming all his life. He had never thought that the
climax was to be the very opposite of what he hoped for. In his under
mind he prayed for Dr. Robold—dead and gone forever. Were he only here
to help him!
He seized a piece of paper. Over its white face he ran a mass of
computations. He worked like lightning; his fingers plying and his
mind keyed to the pin-point of genius. Not one thing did he overlook
in his calculation. If the earth had a chance he would find it.
There are always possibilities. He was working out the odds of the
greatest race since creation. While the whole world slept, while the
uncounted millions lay down in fond security, Charley Huyck there in
the lonely room on the desert drew out their figured odds to the point
of infinity.
“Just one chance in a million.”
He was going to take it. The words were not out of his mouth before
his long legs were leaping down the stairway. In the flash of seconds
his mind was rushing into clear action. He had had years of dreaming;
all his years of study and tutelage under Robold gave him just the
training for such a disaster.
But he needed time. Time! Time! Why was it so precious? He must get to
his own mountain. In six jumps he was in the office.
It was empty. The professor had not returned. He thought rather grimly
and fleetingly of their conversation a few minutes before; what would
Williams think now of science and consciousness? He picked up the
telephone receiver. While he waited he saw out of the corner of his
eye the car in the driveway. It was—
“Hello. The professor? What? Gone down to town? No! Well, say, this is
Charley”—he was watching the car in front of the building. “Say,
hello—tell him I have gone home, home! H-o-m-e to Colorado—to
Colorado, yes—to the mountain—the m-o-u-n-t-a-i-n. Oh, never mind—I’ll
leave a note.
He clamped down the receiver. On the desk he scrawled on a piece of
paper:
Ed:
“Look these up. I’m bound for the mountain. No time to
explain. There’s a car outside. Stay with the lens. Don’t
leave it. If the earth goes up you will know that I have
not reached the mountain.”
Beside the note he placed one of the maps that he had in his
pocket—with his pencil drew a black cross just above the center. Under
the map were a number of computations.
It is interesting to note that in the stress of the great critical
moment he forgot the professor’s title. It was a good thing. When
Williams read it he recognized the significance. All through their
life in crucial moments he had been “Ed.” to Charley.
But the note was all he was destined to find. A brisk wind was
blowing. By a strange balance of fate the same movement that let Huyck
out of the building ushered in the wind and upset calculation.
It was a little thing, but it was enough to keep all the world in
ignorance and despair. The eddy whisking in through the door picked up
the precious map, poised it like a tiny plane, and dropped it neatly
behind a bookcase.