Фред Хойл: October the First Is Too Late

If I had known I should never see New York again, I would have made an effort to do much more in the way of sightseeing during those three days. On the evening of the second day I found a note from John saying we were booked to San Diego on an eleven o’clock flight the following morning and that he would see me at the flight-gate half an hour before take-off.

We were met at San Diego airport by a young man, apparently a graduate student at the university. He drove us north about ten miles to an hotel in La Jolla. We were shown up to our rooms. I decided I was in need of sleep, a wise move in view of the party to which we were apparently invited that night.

I got up at about five o’clock, shaved and dressed, and then took a stroll on the beach. This was my first sight of the Pacific. I was to see much more of it in the days to come. The beach stretched to the north for a mile or so. Beyond were cliffs running into the distance as far as I could see.

A car arrived for me at half past six. The driver introduced himself—I am sorry to say I immediately forgot his name. We chatted without the least trace of embarrassment as he drove up through a complex of small roads on to the side of a steepish hill. It occurred to me that one would never have got into such an immediately casual relationship with anybody back home. We pulled up outside a single-storey house.

John had arrived already. There were one or two women there so it seemed this was to be a social occasion rather than a work conference. But the conference developed all right. If I had been more experienced in the American way of life I would have realized how inevitable this was. Work conferences always develop at every dinner party provided the men have some common interest. We started with drinks, which were enlivened by the arrival of a spritely fellow wearing an incredible hat. It was of the trilby variety. It looked as if it had been treated by being first buried in the ground for a year or two, then by being thrown as food to an army of hungry mice. His name was Art Clementi. I did not forget the name this time.

There seemed plenty to talk about. John was apparently well known in these parts, so drinks took quite a while. They dissolved imperceptibly into a buffet supper. When the women learnt I was a musician there were the usual demands that I should play. Many musicians detest being invited to the piano at times when they feel they should be off duty. I have never developed a hard and fast dividing line between being on and off duty so playing at odd moments never worries me. I rattled off a couple of Scarlatti sonatas. Then a big fellow standing, somewhat unsteadily, a glass in one hand, by the piano, said, ‘How about that Tchaikovsky thing?’ He hummed a few notes. Evidently he meant the first piano concerto. I threw off the big opening chords and said, rather unkindly, ‘Now you do the orchestra.’ They all laughed, the big man as well, not in the least embarrassed. So I began the incredible Tchaikovsky Opus 1, No 1, incredible because it was Tchaikovsky’s first work. When I came to the storming finish I heard the big man mutter, ‘Christ!’

A few of the people left. The women seemed to melt away, at maybe half past ten. I noticed the time because I was beginning to feel sleepy again, in fact I was wondering how soon we would get away. Apart from John and me there were six of them. I guessed Clementi must be the friend John had spoken about back in Scotland. He wanted to know what had brought us hot-footed from England.

‘Because I know where the modulation is coming from.’

‘Then just give us a hint,’ said the big man.

John was almost irritatingly precise. He took three quite simple diagrams out from his briefcase. On each there were just three lines meeting at a point. On each line there was an arrow, two pointing away from the point of intersection, the other towards it. The angles between the lines were marked.

‘We’ve had three cases where vehicles have changed directions. In each of them I’ve shown the direction of the Sun, at the moment of change.’

‘As seen from the vehicle?’

‘Right. Now you’d better check my facts because a lot depends on them.’

Clementi took up the sheets, studied them, then shook his head. ‘We could do that tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll have it right.’ He turned to the others and grinned, giving them a wink.

John went on, ‘Everybody believes something in the rocket is at fault, because the frequencies changed when the rocket changed.’

‘That seems to settle it.’

‘Then why are the frequencies somewhat different in the three cases?’

John pulled out a fourth sheet. On it were four columns, three numbers in each column. He pointed to the first. ‘These were the frequencies on the three occasions before the change of direction was made. You see they’re not the same. What should cause the difference?’

‘I don’t know. But for that matter why the hell is there a change whenever the course corrections are made? The mere fact there are changes shows there must be a connection with the rocket.’

‘I’m not doubting it. But the connection is with the direction of the rocket not with the electronics inside it.’

Clementi winked again, not I saw by way of derision but to fire John with a little emotion. He didn’t succeed. John went on in the same irritatingly precise fashion, ‘I’m sorry it’s so triflingly simple. The whole thing turns on the direction of the rocket relative to the Sun. In the second column I’ve divided the frequencies in the first column by the sine of the corresponding angles. You see the numbers are still different.’

‘I’d expect them to be different,’ grunted one of the men.

‘Then I noticed that if I normalized everything to the speed of the rocket something very interesting happened. The speeds were about twenty per cent different in the three cases. I took one of the three as standard and divided this time by the speeds. These are the numbers in the third column here. They’re very nearly identical.’

I didn’t understand what all this was about. But I did see, elementary as it all looked, that it produced a sharp reaction in the local boys.

‘I did exactly the same for the frequencies measured after the shifts of direction.’

John produced another piece of paper, again with four columns. He pointed to the third and said, ‘You see they’re the same, not only the same among themselves, but the same as before the changes were made.’

‘What’s the fourth column for?’ asked Clementi.

‘The numbers in the fourth column are just a little more nearly equal than those in the third. The difference is very slight. It was a check, a sort of clinching factor.’

‘Clinching for what?’

‘For the Sun. Those last figures include the Doppler shift correction, the shift due to the rocket motion in the solar direction.’

There was a long silence. Then Clementi nodded gravely, ‘That’s what I was afraid of, right from the beginning. You’re telling us it’s the solar radiation itself that’s got this modulation on top of it. Granted you haven’t gone crazy and cooked the numbers that’s certainly what it looks like.’

‘What does it look like?’ I asked.

Clementi turned on me. ‘It looks as if the Sun is emitting a sharply directed beam of infra-red radiation. The modulation was due to our rocket cutting across the interference fringes.’

‘But how the hell can the Sun be emitting a directed beam? It’s impossible,’ burst out one of the men.

‘If you’d asked me an hour ago I’d have said it was impossible. But the facts are clear. It’s preposterous and outrageous but it must be true.’

I could see John too was beginning to feel tired. He yawned and stretched himself and said, ‘Well, at least there’s something to be done.’