Arthur Clarke: Earthlight

There was no way of calling back knowledge that had leaked out, but there were other things about the Moon which it was now equally important that the Federation should not learn. Yet somehow it was learning them; somehow, information was leaking across space from Earth to Moon, and then out to the planets.

When there’s a leak in the house, thought Sadler, you send for the plumber. But how do you deal with a leak which you can’t see—and which may be anywhere on the surface of a world as large as Africa?

He still knew very little about the scope, size and methods of Central Intelligence—and still resented, futile though that was, the way in which his private life had been disrupted. By training, he was precisely what he pretended to be—an accountant. Six months ago, for reasons which had not been explained and which he probably never would discover, he had been interviewed and offered an unspecified job. His acceptance was quite voluntary; it was merely made clear to him that he had better not refuse. Since then he had spent most of his time under hypnosis, being pumped full of the most various kinds of information and living a monastic life in an obscure corner of Canada. (At least, he thought it was Canada, but it might equally well have been Greenland or Siberia.) Now he was here on the Moon, a minor pawn in a game of interplanetary chess. He would be very glad when the whole frustrating experience was over. It seemed quite incredible to him that anyone would ever voluntarily become a secret agent. Only very immature and unbalanced individuals could get any satisfaction from such frankly uncivilized behavior.

There were a few compensations. In the ordinary way, he would never have had a chance of going to the Moon, and the experience he was gathering now might be a real asset in later years. Sadler always tried to take the long view, particularly when he was depressed by the current situation. And the situation, both on the personal and interplanetary levels, was depressing enough.

The safety of Earth was quite a responsibility, but it was really too big for one man to worry about. Whatever reason said, the vast imponderables of planetary politics were less of a burden than the little cares of everyday life. To a cosmic observer, it might have seemed very quaint that Sadler’s greatest worry concerned one solitary human being. Would Jeannette ever forgive him, he wondered, for being away on their wedding anniversary? At least she would expect him to call her, and that was the one thing he dared not do. As far as his wife and his friends were concerned, he was still on Earth. There was no way of calling from the Moon without revealing his location, for the two-and-a-half-second time-lag would betray him at once.

Central Intelligence could fix many things, but it could hardly speed up radio waves. It could deliver his anniversary present on time, as it had promised—but it couldn’t tell Jeannette when he would be home again.

And it couldn’t change the fact that, to conceal his whereabouts, he had had to lie to his wife in the sacred name of Security.

When Conrad Wheeler had finished comparing the tapes, he got up from his chair and walked three times round the room. From the way he moved, an old hand could have told that Wheeler was a relative newcomer to the Moon. He had been with the Observatory staff for just six months, and still overcompensated for the fractional gravity in which he now lived. There was a jerkiness about his movements that contrasted with the smooth, almost slow-motion gait of his colleagues. Some of this abruptness was due to his own temperament, his lack of discipline, and quickness at jumping to conclusions. It was that temperament he was now trying to guard against.

He had made mistakes before—but this time, surely, there could be no doubt. The facts were undisputed, the calculation trivial—the answer awe-inspiring. Far out in the depths of space, a star had exploded with unimaginable violence. Wheeler looked at the figures he had jotted down, checked them for the tenth time, and reached for the phone.

Sid Jamieson was not pleased at the interruption. “Is it really important?” he queried. “I’m in the darkroom, doing some stuff for Old Mole. I’ll have to wait until these plates are washing, anyway.”

“How long will that take?”

“Oh, maybe five minutes. Then I’ve got some more to do.”

“I think this is important. It’ll only take a moment. I’m up in Instrumentation 5.”

Jamieson was still wiping developer from his hands when he arrived. After more than three hundred years, certain aspects of photography were quite unchanged. Wheeler, who thought that everything could be done by electronics, regarded many of his older friend’s activities as survivals from the age of alchemy.

“Well?” said Jamieson, as usual wasting no words.

Wheeler pointed to the punched tape lying on the desk.

“I was doing the routine check of the magnitude integrator. It’s found something.”

“It’s always doing that,” snorted Jamieson. “Every time anyone sneezes in the Observatory, it thinks it’s discovered a new planet.”

There were solid grounds for Jamieson’s skepticism. The integrator was a tricky instrument, easily misled, and many astronomers thought it more trouble than it was worth. But it happened to be one of the director’s pet projects, so there was no hope of doing anything about it until there was a change of administration. Maclaurin had invented it himself, back in the days when he had had time to do some practical astronomy. An automatic watchdog of the skies, it would wait patiently for years until a new star—a “nova”—blazed in the heavens. Then it would ring a bell and start calling for attention.

“Look,” said Wheeler, “there’s the record. Don’t just take my word for it.”

Jamieson ran the tape through the converter, copied down the figures and did a quick calculation. Wheeler smiled in satisfaction and relief as his friend’s jaw dropped.

“Thirteen magnitudes in twenty-four hours! Wow!”

“I made it thirteen point four, but that’s good enough. For my money, it’s a supernova. And a close one.”

The two young astronomers looked at each other in thoughtful silence. Then Jamieson remarked:

“This is too good to be true. Don’t start telling everybody about it until we’re quite sure. Let’s get its spectrum first, and treat it as an ordinary nova until then.”

There was a dreamy look in Wheeler’s eyes.

“When was the last supernova in our galaxy?”

“That was Tycho’s star—no it wasn’t—there was one a bit later, round about 1600.”

“Anyway, it’s been a long time. This ought to get me on good terms with the director again.”

“Perhaps,” said Jamieson dryly. “It would just about take a supernova to do that. I’ll go and get the spectrograph ready while you put out the report. We mustn’t be greedy; the other observatories will want to get into the act.” He looked at the integrator, which had returned to its patient searching of the sky. “I guess you’ve paid for yourself,” he added, “even if you never find anything again except spaceship navigation lights.”

Sadler heard the news without particular excitement in the Common Room an hour later. He was too preoccupied with his own problems and the mountain of work which faced him to take much notice of the Observatory’s routine program, even when he fully understood it. Secretary Wagnall, however, quickly made it clear that this was very far from being a routine matter.

“Here’s something to put on your balance sheet,” he said cheerfully. “It’s the biggest astronomical discovery for years. Come up to the roof.”