Eye to Eye: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective by Don Pendleton Page A

from the rest of
humanity. The silence seemed absolute, pure and pristine, and the
darkness unmarred by human presence. Which, I guess, is why this
mountaintop was chosen as the site for the eye on the universe.
    Twice in recent moments,
the "eye" thing had streaked my reflective processes. And I
thought, then, of the last thing said to me by Greg Souza, just as
the real nuttiness was beginning: just in case, eye on the sky.
Remember, eye on the sky."
    Which, I had thought at the
moment, meant not a hell of a lot in this present arena. Every
observatory was an "eye on the sky" and every astronomer had one.
Unless, I was now thinking, "eye on the sky" was a code phrase for
some sort of operation involving the disappearance of Isaac
Donaldson, some sort of intelligence operation. There was no
mistaking the implication that Souza was providing a clue to his
own death or disappearance, should either occur—a pointer of some
kind toward those responsible.
    Whatever, I could not help thinking that
this mountaintop, so perfect for an eye on the sky, was also a
perfect setting for skulduggery.
    It is, as the crow flies, no more than
thirty miles from the sea, fifty miles from the heart of San Diego,
a hundred miles from the L.A. Civic Center—yet isolated in
primitive splendor, a remote island of almost pure nature arising
at the edge of the greatest population density west of New York
City.
    I was enveloped in the feeling that only the
Maserati and I were afloat in this world, immersed in the dark
silence which was broken only by the hum of a well-timed engine and
the well-defined cone of light from the headlamps, an almost
vertigo-like feeling as I went on toward the unseen peak of the
mountain. But all of that changed in an instant; the roadway curved
and dipped, the horizon instantly elevated beyond screening trees
as I emerged from the shadowed terrain, and far ahead—maybe five
miles ahead—shining in the moonlight, the hand of man reappeared in
the form of a tremendous dome dominating the skyline. It could only
be, and it was, the 200-inch Hale telescope, gleaming white in the
light of the moon and strangely reminiscent of a Trojan helmet.
    I am going to give you
here some facts I later looked up regarding this astonishing
structure. A telescope is sized by the diameter of its reflector;
200 inches or seventeen feet is the diameter of the tube itself,
which is also sixty feet long. The main mirror weighs fourteen
tons, the entire moveable assembly more than 500 tons, yet all
balanced and supported so smoothly that a 1/12-hp motor can turn
it. This entire apparatus is enclosed within the dome; the entire
"budding," then, moves along an east-west axis while the telescopic
barrel, inside the dome, moves on a north-south axis.
    It is an impressive sight, especially in
that first glimpse and in context with the setting; I was certainly
impressed. I stopped the car again and sat there for several
seconds just sort of getting the lay of the land and the feel of
the moment. The shutters of the dome were closed. They are emplaced
vertically, of course, to accommodate the north-south alignment,
and are responsible for the Trojan helmet appearance. Closed
shutters meant, I presumed, no activity inside; and, indeed, at
that distance, I could discern no evidence of any activity whatever
on that peak.
    I decided on a quiet arrival, making the
final approach without lights and at creep speed. The periphery was
fenced—chainlink topped with barbed wire—and appropriately
identified as Cal-Tech property. The place is open to the public
during the day but now the visitors' gate was closed and locked.
Another gate, obviously for staff use, was unlocked and partially
open—just wide enough for a car to pass—so I ventured on
inside.
    Actually the big dome is one of five domes
at Palomar, ranging from an eighteen-inch up to the big one,
scattered about the mountaintop over a fairly wide area. I had no
idea how much area was actually