don't know. One guess: there's a terrific burst somewhere else on the moon.
Total flame-out at Soviet base—all their rocket fuel going."
"Wouldn't make that much light, Yo. Still, maybe Ambartsumian has invented a twenty-moon-power flare."
"Atomic limelight?" Johannsen laughed bleakly. "Dufresne's just made Guess Three: All the stars back of us have novaed."
"That might do it," Don agreed. "But, Yo, what's that spot in the Atlantic?"
The spot he referred to was a bright yellow and purple highlight on the pallid waters.
Richard Hillary pulled the shade beside his seat against the low, stabbing morning sun and settled back comfortably as the London clipper gathered speed on the way to Bath.
It was a pleasant contrast to the ratty little bus that had carried him from Portishead to Bristol. At last he felt his sickishness begin to moderate, as though his guts, madly convulsed an hour ago, were settling into a smooth coil.
And see what only one night with a beery Welsh poet does to one's mental images, he thought wryly. Snakes in my belly indeed! No more of that for a long while now.
Dai Davies had been particularly boisterous at parting, loudly chanting fragments of a "Farewell to Mona" he'd been alcoholically extemporizing. The fragments had been full of horrid neologisms such as "moondark" and "manshine," and, to cap that, "girl glow"; and Richard's relief at getting rid of Dai was genuine and profound. It didn't even bother him, at least for the moment, that the bus driver had the wireless turned on softly, inflicting the half dozen passengers with American neojazz, pretentious as the Republican Party.
He gave a silent but heartfelt sigh. Yes, no more Dai for a while now, no more science fiction, no more moon. Yes, particularly no more moon.
The wireless said, "We interrupt this program to relay to you a puzzling news flash from the United States."
Chapter Eight
Hunter and Doc were jabbering together as they watched the Wanderer. Doc's bald dome had a weird magenta glow as Hunter's shaggy head and bearded face momentarily cut him off from the golden half of the body in the sky.
Paul, suddenly flooded by a strange, reckless energy, sprang up on the platform beside them and said loudly: "Look here, I've got some inside information on star photos showing areas of twist that completely confirm what you—"
"Shut up! I've got no time to listen to the crackpot claims of you saucer bugs," Doc roared at him, not unkindly, and instantly went on: "Ross, I'll grant you that if that thing is as far away as the moon, then it's as big as the earth. Has to be. But—"
"Provided it's a sphere," Hunter put in sharply. "Could be flat like a plate."
"Sure, provided it's a sphere. But that's a natural, sane assumption, don't you think?
I was going to say that if it's only a thousand miles up, then it's only—" he shut his eyes for two seconds—"thirty miles across. You follow me?"
"Sure," Hunter told him. "Similar triangles and eight thousand miles divided by 250."
Doc nodded so violently he almost lost his glasses and had to grab at them to steady them. "And if it's only a hundred miles up—that's still high enough for it to give a general illumination, though not from reflected sunlight—"
"Then it's only three miles' across," Hunter finished for him.
"Yes," Paul agreed loudly, "but in that case it'll be moving in a ninety-minute orbit.
That's four degrees a minute—enough so we'll notice it pretty quickly, even without stars to judge it by."
"You're absolutely right," Doc said, turning to him now as if Paul were an old colleague. "Four degrees is as long as Orion's Belt. We'll see that much movement pretty fast."
"But how do you know it's in any kind of orbit?" Hunter asked. "How do we know anything like that?"
"It's just another natural, sane assumption," Doc told him, rather bitterly and roaring a little. "Like we assume the thing's reflecting sunlight. Wherever it came from, it's in space now, so we
Total flame-out at Soviet base—all their rocket fuel going."
"Wouldn't make that much light, Yo. Still, maybe Ambartsumian has invented a twenty-moon-power flare."
"Atomic limelight?" Johannsen laughed bleakly. "Dufresne's just made Guess Three: All the stars back of us have novaed."
"That might do it," Don agreed. "But, Yo, what's that spot in the Atlantic?"
The spot he referred to was a bright yellow and purple highlight on the pallid waters.
Richard Hillary pulled the shade beside his seat against the low, stabbing morning sun and settled back comfortably as the London clipper gathered speed on the way to Bath.
It was a pleasant contrast to the ratty little bus that had carried him from Portishead to Bristol. At last he felt his sickishness begin to moderate, as though his guts, madly convulsed an hour ago, were settling into a smooth coil.
And see what only one night with a beery Welsh poet does to one's mental images, he thought wryly. Snakes in my belly indeed! No more of that for a long while now.
Dai Davies had been particularly boisterous at parting, loudly chanting fragments of a "Farewell to Mona" he'd been alcoholically extemporizing. The fragments had been full of horrid neologisms such as "moondark" and "manshine," and, to cap that, "girl glow"; and Richard's relief at getting rid of Dai was genuine and profound. It didn't even bother him, at least for the moment, that the bus driver had the wireless turned on softly, inflicting the half dozen passengers with American neojazz, pretentious as the Republican Party.
He gave a silent but heartfelt sigh. Yes, no more Dai for a while now, no more science fiction, no more moon. Yes, particularly no more moon.
The wireless said, "We interrupt this program to relay to you a puzzling news flash from the United States."
Chapter Eight
Hunter and Doc were jabbering together as they watched the Wanderer. Doc's bald dome had a weird magenta glow as Hunter's shaggy head and bearded face momentarily cut him off from the golden half of the body in the sky.
Paul, suddenly flooded by a strange, reckless energy, sprang up on the platform beside them and said loudly: "Look here, I've got some inside information on star photos showing areas of twist that completely confirm what you—"
"Shut up! I've got no time to listen to the crackpot claims of you saucer bugs," Doc roared at him, not unkindly, and instantly went on: "Ross, I'll grant you that if that thing is as far away as the moon, then it's as big as the earth. Has to be. But—"
"Provided it's a sphere," Hunter put in sharply. "Could be flat like a plate."
"Sure, provided it's a sphere. But that's a natural, sane assumption, don't you think?
I was going to say that if it's only a thousand miles up, then it's only—" he shut his eyes for two seconds—"thirty miles across. You follow me?"
"Sure," Hunter told him. "Similar triangles and eight thousand miles divided by 250."
Doc nodded so violently he almost lost his glasses and had to grab at them to steady them. "And if it's only a hundred miles up—that's still high enough for it to give a general illumination, though not from reflected sunlight—"
"Then it's only three miles' across," Hunter finished for him.
"Yes," Paul agreed loudly, "but in that case it'll be moving in a ninety-minute orbit.
That's four degrees a minute—enough so we'll notice it pretty quickly, even without stars to judge it by."
"You're absolutely right," Doc said, turning to him now as if Paul were an old colleague. "Four degrees is as long as Orion's Belt. We'll see that much movement pretty fast."
"But how do you know it's in any kind of orbit?" Hunter asked. "How do we know anything like that?"
"It's just another natural, sane assumption," Doc told him, rather bitterly and roaring a little. "Like we assume the thing's reflecting sunlight. Wherever it came from, it's in space now, so we
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