October the First Is Too Late

Chapter Three: Intermezzo

Birthmarks and suchlike, ‘marks prodigious’ as the old wizard of Stratford had it, aren’t quite the stuff of polite conversation. Back at school I would not have had the least inhibition. Now it took some effort.

‘Hey, John, didn’t you have a birthmark in the middle of your back?’

‘Yes, of course. What of it?’

‘Well, it isn’t there any more.’

‘Of course it’s there.’

‘I assure you it isn’t.’

‘Must be the strong sunshine. There’s no contrast out here.’

We made our way to the throat of the valley. There was an amazing tangle of great boulders. Threading our way through them we came to easy slopes of grass that led down into Glencoe itself. When we were back in camp I put the kettle on for the much needed cup of tea.

John said, ‘You’d better check that mark.’

I had been right. There wasn’t the least trace of it. Foolishly, I said, ‘You haven’t had it removed or anything?’

‘Of course I haven’t.’

John made no further comment. His face was knit in a tense expression, one I had seen often enough before when he was engaged on some awkward problem. I knew better than to ask him to explain. He scribbled on a big scratch pad as we drank our tea.

I left him at it and drove down the valley to the sea. I took the left fork towards Port Appin. I didn’t quite know what to make of John and his troubles so I put them out of my mind as best I could. I began wondering about the possibilities of a sea symphony. It was certainly an idea but perhaps not a very good one. There is of course great beauty and drama in the sea. Yet the subject is unattractively amorphous, far removed from human problems. In a way it seemed just an escape formula, an excuse for a display of flashing orchestral effects. I doubted whether there was much more scope in this direction.

It was half past six when I returned to the van. John was still figuring. I poured both of us a generous woof of a drink. By the time we were through it I said we’d better be off to the hotel at Ballachulish unless he was keen to cook the dinner.

‘Let’s go then. I want to use the phone.’

I hadn’t expected the hotel to be so full. With mild apprehension I asked if they could manage dinner for the two of us. A woman said she would see and would we like a drink in the meantime? We had the drink and the woman came back. Yes, they could manage dinner but we’d have to wait until about a quarter past eight.

‘I’ll do my phoning now,’ grunted John when she’d gone.

He left me in a milling crowd, apparently talking for the most part about their experiences on the road. There seemed not the slightest appreciation of the magic of a wonderful day spent in one of the most beautiful places on Earth. At half past seven somebody started bashing away at a gong. All but three or four of the company drifted out of the bar. There was an upright piano along one side of the room. I opened the lid and fingered the keys in an idle fashion. ‘Do you play?’ asked a middle-aged woman. For answer I pulled up a chair and settled into a number from one of the latest shows. The piano was of the honky-tonk variety which I never can resist. It was gloriously out of tune. I meandered through two or three numbers and they loved it. The woman’s husband, or so I took him to be, said, ‘Have a drink?’ I asked for half a pint of bitter. I was sipping it, making polite conversation, when John returned. I could judge nothing from his face.

At last our turn for dinner came round, none too soon, for I was hungry. We were put at a table by ourselves.

‘Any idea of what you want to do tomorrow?’ I asked.

‘I’m afraid we’ll have to call it off, Dick. But don’t let me drag you back to London.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Not explicitly. How are you fixed?’

‘In what way?’

‘Have you any engagements, ones it would be difficult to break?’

‘Not really. Why?’

‘I’ll have to go back to the States. If you’re free I’d like you to come along.’

I laughed. My bank manager was just going to love the suggestion. ‘What would I use for money?’

‘There’s no problem. You travel on contract.’

We closed the subject at this point until we were back in the van. Then John began, ‘I suppose I’d better tell you a bit of what’s going on. It won’t make much sense I’m afraid.’

I put a pile of clothing under my pillow, to make a backrest as I stretched out on my bunk. My legs were beginning to stiffen up.

‘I suppose you’ve followed the general outline of the things that have been turning up in space research?’

‘Yes, more or less, so far as it’s possible from newspaper reports.’

‘One of the aims of the space programme is to take a look at the outside world in unfamiliar parts of the spectrum.’

‘You mean things like X-rays and gamma rays?’

‘That’s right. But of course X-rays and gamma rays are at the high frequency end. There’s a lot of stuff in the far infra-red, stuff that gets absorbed in our own atmosphere just like the X-rays do. I’m talking now about wavelengths roughly a hundred times less than the shortest radio waves.’

‘What’s the point—curiosity?’

‘It started that way. The first idea was to pick up radiation from the Sun, to check that it had the intensity everybody expected it to have.’

‘Did it?’

‘Within a reasonable margin of accuracy. It wasn’t something to hold a press conference about. Yet interesting, technically. That was all, or nearly all.’

‘It doesn’t sound as if it would make the girls swoon.’

‘What was odd though was that some of the electronics, not in this experiment itself you understand, but electronics connected with other things that were going on, went badly wrong. It seemed as if they were suffering from pick-up troubles. Naturally there was a hell of an inquest about it. Nothing sensible could be found. All the circumstantial evidence pointed to a modulation in the region of a hundred megacycles, a modulation on the current output from the new infra-red experiment. On the face of it this seemed impossible. Well, to cut it short, the lads just had time to modify the gadgetry before the next shot went up. The circumstantial evidence unfortunately turned out to be right. There was a modulation at nearly a hundred megacycles.’

‘Could it have been a pick-up as well?’

‘Everybody felt it had to be. Well, the inquest grew now to major proportions. It was still going on when I left the States. I’m not involved myself very directly with this stuff. It happens the chap in charge of the experiment is a friend of mine. The last thing I heard was that they had a proof it wasn’t the Sun itself, at least they thought so. They thought they’d demonstrated it had come from the rocket. Yet nobody had any real idea of why or how.’

‘You think it might be the Sun after all?’

I knew how John’s mind worked, at any rate psychologically. I had a pretty good notion this was his opinion.

‘I don’t know—yet. Back at the hotel I put a call through to this friend. I couldn’t get him personally but I got one of his chaps. They’re going to ring back with some information I need tomorrow morning. Then I’ll be in a much better position to say.’

I lay awake that night for a long time. It astonished me how easily John had been able to fall asleep. I could hear him breathing deeply and quite regularly as if there was nothing in the world to worry about. I had a general idea of what he had told me. Yet for the life of me I couldn’t see its relevance to the disturbing incidents of the last three days.

The following morning John went back to the hotel. It was half past ten by the time he came back.

‘We’ll have lunch at twelve. There’s a plane from Glasgow to London at three o’clock. We should have time to catch it.’

‘How about the car and the caravan?’

‘We’ll take the car to Glasgow. I’ve made arrangements for the van to be collected from here.’

‘What else?’

‘Can you manage the midday plane to New York on Friday?’

This would give me three days to put my affairs to rights in London. It wouldn’t be easy but I could make it. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Good, I’m going to put in an hour’s calculation.’

John worked quickly and keenly. I could see it was nothing but algebra and arithmetic. As I watched I was struck by the difference between the mathematician and the musician. When I had worked myself with a similar intensity a few weeks ago, back in Cornwall, I had been in a kind of trance. There was nothing trance-like about John. With a swoop like an eagle he came to a stop. I didn’t need to ask him if it had turned out successfully. So much was obvious. Nor did I ask him what it meant.

‘Satisfied?’

‘Yes.’ He sat for a minute and then added, ‘Funny.’

‘How?’

‘The conclusion. I have demonstrated the correctness of a hunch—at the expense of an appalling conclusion. Oddly enough it seems more satisfactory this way round, better than being wrong and having a sensible, straightforward answer. It shows the important thing is to know your reasoning powers work properly. Where they lead you is really unimportant, which I suppose is why human beings are able to achieve completely new things. Basically, it’s why we’re no longer swinging by our tails from trees.’

That was all I got out of him.

The journey back to London was uneventful. We parted at the air terminal, each to make his own arrangements. We didn’t meet again until an hour before the plane to New York was due to depart on the Friday morning.

The intervening days were busy enough for me. Actually I must admit that I was quite glad to get out of London. Frankly, I had got my personal affairs into something of a tangle. I managed to track down Alex Hamilton, not an easy exercise. I asked him to keep an eye on my place, to use it if he wanted. I told him a little of my difficulties, lest in occupying my simple apartments he should find himself assailed by too many girls on too many sides. This sent him into another of his prolonged fits of silent laughter. He asked me if I had any spare unwanted cash to lend him. I said emphatically I had not.

We grew mellow in the transatlantic plane after a couple of cocktails. The hours slipped away and John and I soon found ourselves through American immigration and customs.

We took a taxi from Kennedy airport to an hotel whose name I have forgotten. It was somewhere mid-town. At dinner that night, which we ate in a nearby restaurant, I at last got round to asking John what his plans were. He answered:

‘We’re going on to California as soon as I’m through the things I must do here. It’ll probably take about three days. I think it’s simpler if I work it out alone. Do you think you can keep yourself happy for a day or two?’

I said I had no doubt I could find plenty to do. He went on:

‘I’m going to turn in pretty early tonight. I find it’s a good idea to take the change of clock in at least a couple of bites.’

It may seem strange that until then I had no idea of exactly where we were going. It is my practice in life to take as little account of times and schedules as I can. I like to be as little tied down by commitments. Surprises are the spice of life. Surprises rarely come to those busy fellows who are always consulting their engagement book. As I got into bed that night I had no idea what I was going to do in the next two or three days. It turned out they were quite uneventful. For one thing I felt tired, more exactly, drained of energy, I suppose by the five-hour shift in the clock.

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.’

‘There’s a hell of a lot to be done.’

‘I can’t see any point in having a directed beam of radiation—and this must be fantastically directional—unless it’s used for transmitting information.’

‘By whom, for God’s sake?’

‘How the devil should I know. The thing to do next is to look for some intrinsic form of modulation. We’ve got to filter out this effect of the interference fringes. Then we must look for some genuine source modulation.’

Quite spontaneously everybody began to consume strong drinks at a very rapid rate. In spite of their comparative reticence, John’s disclosures, simple as they might be, had produced a profound sense of shock. I didn’t understand what had been said with any great clarity so I suppose things weren’t as sharp to me as they were to the others. Yet I gathered that someone, or something, was using the Sun as a signalling device.