the outer ring, plaited like a woman’s braid; the middle ring, brightest and most interesting to him; and the inner ring, dim and transparent.
There. He found it. He marveled at its beauty as he always did. The night was so dark and clear that Saturn seemed particularly sharp and spectacular.
Helen Jackson was speaking earnestly to somebody about the superiority of the equatorial telescope mounting with a clock drive over an altazimuth mounting. He stayed out of the discussion since he had made his own mounting, a simple Dobsonian, and he knew it was too modest to mention.
A gust of wind blew his hair, and he could feel his ears stiffening with cold. He should have worn a hat. His fingers too, tightening on the scope, felt almost frozen. But he was happy, happier than he had been in a long time. The night sky in San Francisco had been foggy, or hazy when not foggy, and this was the first night since he had moved to his father’s apartment that the sky had been so clear and bright.
Was that a Terby White Spot on the middle ring of Saturn? Yes, he thought it was. Quickly he checked his watch—1:53. Then he looked again. Yes, it was still there.
“There’s a Terby White Spot on the B ring of Saturn,” he called out, and some of the members quickly turned their scopes to check.
“Yes, there it is,” Helen Jackson cried. “Very clear. What time did you catch it?”
“One fifty-three,” he answered proudly as the group joined him in exclamations of admiration.
There was so much to look at tonight—the bright yellow star, Capella; the cluster of the Pleiades; the big constellation of Taurus with its red eye; and then, far, far, far off in the heavens, the faint spot of the Andromeda galaxy, like a little smudge, over two million light-years away—another galaxy like our own, another place with planets, suns, meteors, and maybe people standing on a mountain with telescopes pointed at our galaxy, and thinking about that tiny spot that they could barely find in the lenses of their telescopes.
Mark straightened up and took a deep breath of the cold air. He felt dizzy, felt himself suddenly a part of the movement in space, in time, in something beyond his own comprehension. Here was our own planet, circling the sun, and our own moon, circling our planet. Here were other planets circling the sun with their own moons circling them. And then our sun, and other stars moving too, circling the center of our own galaxy, as out there in the Andromeda galaxy and in all the other unknown galaxies, everything and everybody circling, endlessly circling.
How small he was, Mark thought, and unimportant in the whirling enormity of space. It was frightening to be so small and helpless, and heading ... he didn’t know where ... in circles that never met.
Dr. Ridler was laughing. “Pegasus really does look like a horse,” she was saying, “but not one you’d want to bet on in the Kentucky Derby.”
Somebody laughed, and Mark turned back to his telescope, moving it in the direction of Pegasus. Yes, it was frightening to be such a small and unimportant speck in this whirling, endlessly circling universe—but wasn’t he lucky that he was?
* * * *
The phone was ringing. It penetrated his dream, and he turned over on the other side, pulled his blanket over his head, and went on dreaming.
Later, when he woke up and made his way into the kitchen, he found his father reading the Sunday paper over a cup of coffee. The clock above the refrigerator said ten-thirty. His father looked up and grinned at him.
“Late night?” he asked.
“Very late!” Mark said, grinning back. “I didn’t get home until after four.”
“Man,” said his father, “I hope it was worthwhile.”
“It sure was.” Mark dropped a couple of pieces of bread into the toaster, and took a container of milk out of the refrigerator.
His father continued to grin. “I hope somebody’s talking to you about taking care of yourself.”
Mark felt his ears
There. He found it. He marveled at its beauty as he always did. The night was so dark and clear that Saturn seemed particularly sharp and spectacular.
Helen Jackson was speaking earnestly to somebody about the superiority of the equatorial telescope mounting with a clock drive over an altazimuth mounting. He stayed out of the discussion since he had made his own mounting, a simple Dobsonian, and he knew it was too modest to mention.
A gust of wind blew his hair, and he could feel his ears stiffening with cold. He should have worn a hat. His fingers too, tightening on the scope, felt almost frozen. But he was happy, happier than he had been in a long time. The night sky in San Francisco had been foggy, or hazy when not foggy, and this was the first night since he had moved to his father’s apartment that the sky had been so clear and bright.
Was that a Terby White Spot on the middle ring of Saturn? Yes, he thought it was. Quickly he checked his watch—1:53. Then he looked again. Yes, it was still there.
“There’s a Terby White Spot on the B ring of Saturn,” he called out, and some of the members quickly turned their scopes to check.
“Yes, there it is,” Helen Jackson cried. “Very clear. What time did you catch it?”
“One fifty-three,” he answered proudly as the group joined him in exclamations of admiration.
There was so much to look at tonight—the bright yellow star, Capella; the cluster of the Pleiades; the big constellation of Taurus with its red eye; and then, far, far, far off in the heavens, the faint spot of the Andromeda galaxy, like a little smudge, over two million light-years away—another galaxy like our own, another place with planets, suns, meteors, and maybe people standing on a mountain with telescopes pointed at our galaxy, and thinking about that tiny spot that they could barely find in the lenses of their telescopes.
Mark straightened up and took a deep breath of the cold air. He felt dizzy, felt himself suddenly a part of the movement in space, in time, in something beyond his own comprehension. Here was our own planet, circling the sun, and our own moon, circling our planet. Here were other planets circling the sun with their own moons circling them. And then our sun, and other stars moving too, circling the center of our own galaxy, as out there in the Andromeda galaxy and in all the other unknown galaxies, everything and everybody circling, endlessly circling.
How small he was, Mark thought, and unimportant in the whirling enormity of space. It was frightening to be so small and helpless, and heading ... he didn’t know where ... in circles that never met.
Dr. Ridler was laughing. “Pegasus really does look like a horse,” she was saying, “but not one you’d want to bet on in the Kentucky Derby.”
Somebody laughed, and Mark turned back to his telescope, moving it in the direction of Pegasus. Yes, it was frightening to be such a small and unimportant speck in this whirling, endlessly circling universe—but wasn’t he lucky that he was?
* * * *
The phone was ringing. It penetrated his dream, and he turned over on the other side, pulled his blanket over his head, and went on dreaming.
Later, when he woke up and made his way into the kitchen, he found his father reading the Sunday paper over a cup of coffee. The clock above the refrigerator said ten-thirty. His father looked up and grinned at him.
“Late night?” he asked.
“Very late!” Mark said, grinning back. “I didn’t get home until after four.”
“Man,” said his father, “I hope it was worthwhile.”
“It sure was.” Mark dropped a couple of pieces of bread into the toaster, and took a container of milk out of the refrigerator.
His father continued to grin. “I hope somebody’s talking to you about taking care of yourself.”
Mark felt his ears
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