Orbit 2

Yours for learning, Morton M. Finch, Ph.D.

The cold river water seated Dokerfins’ spirit in him aright while it washed the troll’s blood from his skin and garments, so that when we reached the grassy bank at last he knew not how he came there and I must needs tell him all that had occurred and of his help in the battle, though I misdoubt he understood. The servants tell me that since that time he speaks a strange tongue abed of nights and beats with his arms upon the sleeping furs as a man kills snakes with a staff; no doubt the troll’s spirit often troubles his in dreams, as it sometimes does mine.

The silver wand of light I gave him as a reward, for he swore that it was his. Doubtless he came upon it in the troll’s cave.

The coronet the troll wore, which I took from his brow with my own hand, I send to you by the courier who bears this letter. It is a fair thing; but I would, if I dared, advise you, Supremacy, against wearing it — though it will fit a man, for it became less in compass as I drew it from the troll's head, by what power I know not. It is a fell thing still, and made the world grow strange when I wore it, and all men seem lower to me than beasts. I was ill and dizzy when I snatched it off.

Such is the tale of my travels thus far. I am proud that the glory of the West Lands is enhanced in Jana since the death of the troll. Dokerfins, whom I bore for mercy's sake from the den of the troll, has become a clever friend and useful, his wit good though his thought strange. He is so intent upon digging into old places that I would think him a ghoul if he did not do it with such innocence. He wished mightily to have the troll's crown, though I kept its secret from him, but I think it better far to give it to a stronger mind.

Nammue the scribe hath

written this for the Lord

Garth, the Son of Garth,

and Watcher of the North

Marches.

FROM: Prof. John Beatty

Edgemont Inst., Earth

TO: Dr. M.M. Finch

UNworld spcrft MOTH (Reg #387760)

Sorry to be so slow to write, Morton, but I have been busy as ten sub-instructors at theme time doing a new symposium for Archaeological Worlds. Some of the people who want to write in this kind of thing are such asses!

About your native, this Garth. Morton, let an old friend warn you; it is always a temptation for someone situated as you are to strike a lofty pose and impress the natives. “Me great magician, come from star in silver boat.” And all that. But, Morton, sooner or later he is bound to discover that you are only flesh, even as he. Don’t carry on in such a way that this comes to him as too great a shock; he may turn on you then if you have. Take him into your confidence at times; explain the simpler principles of what you are doing and allow him to make a minor decision at times — whether to camp or go on, which of a group of similar sites to tackle first — that kind of thing. Fear and awe alone will not suffice indefinitely.

Meanwhile, would you please send more detail on the markings and pictures. Rubbings and photographs as soon as you can get them and arrange for civilized mail service. I had to write my article for Arch. Worlds (the one that stirred up all this symposium rubbish) on the very sketchy information in your letter; how sketchy it was you will note in the clipping I am having transmitted with this. I gave you full credit, as you will see. It is the paragraph beginning: “I sent an investigator. .”

Hastily,

J. Beatty

JB/s1

"Philip Latham” is the pen name of Robert S. Richardson, an American astronomer formerly on the staffs of the Mt. Wilson and Palomar Observatories. He was born in Kokomo, Indiana; his wife won't let him say when, but he can remember seeing Halley's Comet the last time around. He is the former holder of the UCLA record in the 100-yard dash—101 yards in 9.8 seconds (he was set back a yard for jumping the gun). After about twenty-five years at Mt. Wilson, he joined Griffith Planetarium for a few years, then resigned to devote himself to writing. He is not retired. (“Just try to retire and make your living as a free-lance writer!”)

There was never any doubt when quitting time came to the Institute for Cosmological Physics, Bill Backus reflected. Promptly at 4:53 the women all started heading for the powder room, whence shortly thereafter came the sound of water in turbulence. It was one of the zero points in this uneasy world.

For the third time he reached for the telephone and for the third time hesitated. It was 4:57 now. The girl at the switchboard always got sore if you kept her after five o’clock. Oh, well, the hell with her. He needed help. He seized the phone.

“Two-seven, please.”

No answer… no answer. . no. .

“MacCready,” came a noncommittal voice.

“Mac, this is Bill.”

“Bill! It’s so good to hear your voice!”

“Listen, Mac, I’ve got something down here in the measuring room I think will interest you.”

“So’s my wife. She’s probably mixing it now.”

“I’d like your opinion very much. Shouldn’t take ten minutes.”

One. . two. . three. .

“All right. See you.”

A few minutes later MacCready sauntered into the measuring room, hoisted one leg over a corner of the bench that ran along the wall, and applied a match to his pipe. When the tobacco was going to his satisfaction, he folded his arms and gazed expectantly at Bill.

“Here I am. Interest me.”

Bill indicated the Toepfer measuring engine beside him.

“Plate’s on there. Got it last week with the prime focus spectrograph. Six-hour exposure in the second order blue. I nearly froze. Coldest night in the memory of man—”

“You don’t look so good,” MacCready remarked.

“Maybe that’s because I don’t feel so good,” Bill said. He rose and began pacing the floor. “Take a look at the plate, will you, and tell me what you think.”

“But your feet seem better,” MacCready added encouragingly.

“Yeah, they are better. Now will you look at the plate?” MacCready laid aside his pipe and peered into the eyepiece.

“Nice spectrum,” he said. “Real sharp lines.”

“But what lines?” Bill cried. “I’ve been working on those lines for three days. Can’t identify a single one.” He ran his fingers through his back hair. “It’s driving me crazy.”

“Well, d’you have to get so dramatic about it?” Mac-Cready asked. He gave the focusing screw a touch. “What is this famous object, anyhow?”

“Well, you see, that’s what I don’t know.”

"You don't know!" MacCready stared at him. “Do you realize how much it cost the Institute to get this plate? Do you know that we have seventeen applications on file for time at this instrument?* Applications from highly qualified individuals with no suspicion of insanity in their background. And then you take our giant eye, as the newspapers are pleased to call it, and bang away at any old—”

“Mac, shut up.” Bill lit a cigarette. “I was after NGC 2146, that way-north nebula in Cepheus, I guess it is. This new night assistant was on that evening. Poor guy got all balled up. My fault as much as his. You wouldn’t believe it possible but he got set on the wrong side of the pole. Landed me over in Draco somewhere. I thought the setting looked kind of funny—”

“Couldn’t you tell from your star field?”

“Well, I should, but the fields weren’t so different. Anyhow—”

“—anyhow you goofed but you got something” Mac-Cready finished for him. “By any chance would you have the vaguest notion what it is? Radio source? Interloper? QSG? Haro-Luyten object? Humason-Zwicky star? Have I left out anything?”