Arthur Clarke - Earthlight

Someone reached out and turned off the set, but at first nobody seemed inclined to start the inevitable discussion. Then Jansen, from Power, said admiringly:

“Beynon’s got guts, you must admit. He wasn’t pulling his punches. I’m surprised they let him make that broadcast.”

“I thought he talked good sense,” remarked Mays. The High Priest of Computing had a slow, measured style of delivery that contrasted quaintly with the lightning speed of his machines.

“Whose side are you on?” someone asked suspiciously.

“Oh, I’m a friendly neutral.”

“But Earth pays your salary. Which side would you support if there was a showdown?”

“Well that would depend on the circumstances. I’d like to support Earth. But I reserve the right to make up my own mind. Whoever it was who said ‘My planet right or wrong’ was a damned fool. I’d be for Earth if it was right, and would probably give it the benefit of the doubt in a borderline case. But I’d not support it if I felt its cause was definitely wrong.”

There was a long silence while everyone thought this over. Sadler had been watching Mays intently while the mathematician was speaking. Everyone, he knew, respected Mays’s honesty and logic. A man who was actively working against Earth would never have expressed himself as forthrightly as this. Sadler wondered if Mays would have spoken any differently had he known that a counter-intelligence man was sitting within two meters of him. He did not believe that he would have altered a word.

“But, blast it,” said the chief engineer, who as usual was blocking the synthetic fire, “there’s no question of right and wrong here. Anything found on Earth or Moon belongs to us, to do with as we like.”

“Certainly, but don’t forget we’ve been falling back on our quota deliveries, as Beynon said. The Federation has been relying on them for its programs. If we repudiate our agreements because we haven’t got the stuff ourselves, that’s one thing. But it’s a very different matter if we have got it and are just holding the Federation up for ransom.”

“Why should we do any such thing?”

It was Jamieson, unexpectedly enough, who answered this. “Fear,” he said. “Our politicians are frightened of the Federation. They know it already has more brains, and one day it may have more power. Then Earth will be a back number.”

Before anyone could challenge him on this, Czuikov from the Electronics Lab started a fresh hare.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “about that broadcast we’ve just heard. We know that Beynon’s a pretty honest man, but after all he was broadcasting from Venus, with their permission. There may be more in that talk of his than meets the ear.”

“What do you mean?”

“He may be putting across their propaganda. Not consciously, perhaps; they may have primed him to say what they want us to hear. That talk about raids, for instance. Perhaps it’s intended to scare us.”

“That’s an interesting idea. What do you think, Sadler? You’re the last to come up from Earth.”

This frontal attack took Sadler rather by surprise, but he dexterously tossed the ball back.

“I don’t think Earth can be frightened as easily as that. But the passage that interested me was his reference to possible new supplies on the Moon. It looks as if rumors are beginning to float around.”

This was a calculated indiscretion on Sadler’s part. It was not so very indiscreet, however, for there was no one in the Observatory who did not know (a) that Wheeler and Jamie-son had stumbled on some unusual government project in the Mare Imbrium, and (b) that they had been ordered not to talk about it. Sadler was particularly anxious to see what their reactions would be.

Jamieson assumed a look of puzzled innocence, but Wheeler did not hesitate to rise to the bait.

“What do you expect?” he said. “Half the Moon must have seen those ships coming down in the Mare. And there must be hundreds of workmen there. They can’t all have come from Earth—they’ll be going into Central City and talking to their girl friends when they’ve had a few drinks too many.”

How right you are, thought Sadler, and what a headache that little problem was giving Security…

“Anyway,” continued Wheeler, “I’ve got an open mind on the subject. They can do what they like out there as long as they don’t interfere with me. You can’t tell a thing from the outside of the place, except that it’s costing the poor taxpayer an awful lot of money.”

There was a nervous cough from a mild little man from Instrumentation, where only that morning Sadler had spent a boring couple of hours looking at cosmic-ray telescopes, magnetometers, seismographs, molecular-resonance clocks, and batteries of other devices which were surely storing information more rapidly than anyone would ever be able to analyze it.

“I don’t know about them interfering with you, but they’ve been playing hell with me.”

“What do you mean?” everyone asked simultaneously.

“I had a look at the magnetic-field-strength meters half an hour ago. Usually the field here is pretty constant, except when there’s a storm around, and we always know when to expect those. But something odd’s going on at the moment. The field keeps hopping up and down—not very much, a few microgauss —and I’m sure it’s artificial. I’ve checked all the equipment in the Observatory, and everyone swears they’re not mucking around with magnets. I wondered if our secretive friends out in the Mare were responsible, and just on the chance, I had a look at the other instruments. I didn’t find anything until I came to the seismographs. We’ve got a telemetering one down by the south wall of the crater, you know, and it had been knocked all over the place. Some of the kinks looked like blasting; I’m always picking that up from Hyginus and the other mines. But there were also some most peculiar jitters of the trace that were almost synchronized with the magnetic pulses. Allowing for the time-lag through the rock, the distance checked up well. There’s no doubt where it comes from.”

“An interesting piece of research,” Jamieson remarked, “but what does it add up to?”

“There are probably a good many interpretations. But I’d say that out there in the Mare Imbrium someone is generating a colossal magnetic field, in pulses lasting about a second at a time.”

“And the moon-quakes?”

“Just a by-product. There’s a lot of magnetic rock around here, and I imagine it must get quite a jolt when that field goes on. You probably wouldn’t notice that quake even if you were where it started, but our seismographs are so sensitive they can spot a meteor falling twenty kilometers away.”

Sadler listened to the resulting technical argument with great interest. With so many keen minds worrying around the facts, it was inevitable that some would guess the truth—and inevitable that others would counter it with their own theories. This was not important; what concerned him was whether anyone showed special knowledge or curiosity.

But no one did, and Sadler was still left with his discouraging three propositions: Mr. X was too clever for him; Mr. X was not here; Mr. X did not exist at all…

Nova Draconis was waning; no longer did it outshine all the suns of the Galaxy. Yet in the skies of Earth it was still brighter than Venus at her most brilliant, and it might be a thousand years before men saw its like again.

Though it was very near on the scale of stellar distances, N, Draconis was still so remote that its apparent magnitude did not vary across the whole width of the solar system. It shone with equal brilliance above the firelands of Mercury and the nitrogen glaciers of Pluto. Transient though it was, it had turned men’s minds for a moment from their own affairs and made them think of ultimate realities.