Man Who Sold the Moon / Orphans of the Sky Read online

  Pinero smiled benignly. “I understand. You want to know how long you will live in order to make the best possible provision for the youngster. Quite wise. Do you both want readings, or just yourself?”

  The girl answered, “Both of us, we think.”

  Pinero beamed at her. “Quite so. I agree. Your reading presents certain technical difficulties at this time, but I can give you some information now, and more after your baby arrives. Now come into my laboratory, my dears, and we’ll commence.” He rang for their case histories, then showed them into his workshop. “Mrs. Hartley first, please. If you will go behind that screen and remove your shoes and your outer clothing, please. Remember, I am an old man, whom you are consulting as you would a physician.”

  He turned away and made some minor adjustments of his apparatus. Ed nodded to his wife, who slipped behind the screen and reappeared almost at once, clothed in two wisps of silk. Pinero glanced up, noted her fresh young prettiness and her touching shyness.

  “This way, my dear. First we must weigh you. There. Now take your place on the stand. This electrode in your mouth. No, Ed, you mustn’t touch her while she is in the circuit. It won’t take a minute. Remain quiet.”

  He dove under the machine’s hood and the dials sprang into life. Very shortly he came out with a perturbed look on his face. “Ed, did you touch her?”

  “No, Doctor.” Pinero ducked back again, remained a little longer. When he came out this time, he told the girl to get down and dress. He turned to her husband.

  “Ed, make yourself ready.”

  “What’s Betty’s reading, Doctor?”

  “There is a little difficulty. I want to test you first.”

  When he came out from taking the youth’s reading, his face was more troubled than ever. Ed inquired as to his trouble. Pinero shrugged his shoulders, and brought a smile to his lips.

  “Nothing to concern you, my boy. A little mechanical misadjustment, I think. But I shan’t be able to give you two your readings today. I shall need to overhaul my machine. Can you come back tomorrow?”

  “Why, I think so. Say, I’m sorry about your machine. I hope it isn’t serious.”

  “It isn’t, I’m sure. Will you come back into my office, and visit for a bit?”

  “Thank you, Doctor. You are very kind.”

  “But Ed, I’ve got to meet Ellen.”

  Pinero turned the full force of his personality on her. “Won’t you grant me a few moments, my dear young lady? I am old and like the sparkle of young folk’s company. I get very little of it. Please.” He nudged them gently into his office, and seated them. Then he ordered lemonade and cookies sent in, offered them cigarettes, and lit a cigar.

  Forty minutes later, Ed listened entranced, while Betty was quite evidently acutely nervous and anxious to leave, as the doctor spun out a story concerning his adventures as a young man in Tierra del Fuego. When the doctor stopped to relight his cigar, she stood up.

  “Doctor, we really must leave. Couldn’t we hear the rest tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow? There will not be time tomorrow.”

  “But you haven’t time today either. Your secretary has rung five times.”

  “Couldn’t you spare me just a few more minutes?”

  “I really can’t today, Doctor. I have an appointment. There is someone waiting for me.”

  “There is no way to induce you?”

  “I’m afraid not. Come, Ed.”

  After they had gone, the doctor stepped to the window and stared out over the city. Presently he picked out two tiny figures as they left the office building. He watched them hurry to the corner, wait for the lights to change, then start across the street. When they were part-way across, there came the scream of a siren. The two little figures hesitated, started back, stopped, and turned. Then the car was upon them. As the car slammed to a stop, they showed up from beneath it, no longer two figures, but simply a limp unorganized heap of clothing.

  Presently the doctor turned away from the window. Then he picked up his phone, and spoke to his secretary.

  “Cancel my appointments for the rest of the day . . . No . . . No one . . . I don’t care; cancel them.”

  Then he sat down in his chair. His cigar went out. Long after dark he held it, still unlighted.

  Pinero sat down at his dining table and contemplated the gourmet’s luncheon spread before him. He had ordered this meal with particular care, and had come home a little early in order to enjoy it fully.

  Somewhat later he let a few drops of fiori d’Alpini roll around his tongue and trickle down his throat. The heavy fragrant syrup warmed his mouth, and reminded him of the little mountain flowers for which it was named. He sighed. It had been a good meal, an exquisite meal and had justified the exotic liqueur. His musing was interrupted by a disturbance at the front door. The voice of his elderly maidservant was raised in remonstrance. A heavy male voice interrupted her. The commotion moved down the hall and the dining room door was pushed open.

  “Madonna! Non si puo entrare! The Master is eating!”

  “Never mind, Angela. I have time to see these gentlemen. You may go.” Pinero faced the surly faced spokesman of the intruders. “You have business with me, yes?”

  “You bet we have. Decent people have had enough of your damned nonsense.”

  “And so?”

  The caller did not answer at once. A smaller dapper individual moved out from behind him and faced Pinero.

  “We might as well begin.” The chairman of the committee placed a key in the lock-box and opened it. “Wenzell, will you help me pick out today’s envelopes?” He was interrupted by a touch on his arm.

  “Dr. Baird, you are wanted on the telephone.”

  “Very well. Bring the instrument here.”

  When it was fetched he placed the receiver to his ear. “Hello . . . Yes, speaking . . . What? . . . No, we have heard nothing . . . Destroyed the machine, you say . . . Dead! How? . . . No! No statement. None at all . . . Call me later . . .”

  He slammed the instrument down and pushed it from him.

  “What’s up?—Who’s dead now?”

  Baird held up one hand. “Quiet, gentlemen, please! Pinero was murdered a few moments ago at his home.”

  “Murdered?”

  “That isn’t all. About the same time vandals broke into his office and smashed his apparatus.”

  No one spoke at first. The committee members glanced around at each other. No one seemed anxious to be the first to comment.

  Finally one spoke up. “Get it out.”

  “Get what out?”

  “Pinero’s envelope. It’s in there, too. I’ve seen it.”

  Baird located it and slowly tore it open. He unfolded the single sheet of paper, and scanned it.

  “Well? Out with it!”

  “One-thirteen p.m.—today.”

  They took this in silence.

  Their dynamic calm was broken by a member across the table from Baird reaching for the lock-box. Baird interposed a hand.

  “What do you want?”

  “My prediction—it’s in there—we’re all in there.”

  “Yes, yes. We’re all in here. Let’s have them.”

  Baird placed both hands over the box. He held the eye of the man opposite him but did not speak. He licked his lips. The corner of his mouth twitched. His hand shook. Still he did not speak. The man opposite relaxed back into his chair.

  “You’re right, of course,” he said.

  “Bring me that wastebasket.” Baird’s voice was low and strained but steady.

  He accepted it and dumped the litter on the rug. He placed the tin basket on the table before him. He tore half a dozen envelopes across, set a match to them, and dropped them in the basket. Then he started tearing a double handful at a time, and fed the fire steadily. The smoke made him cough, and tears ran out of his smarting eyes. Someone got up and opened a window. When he was through, he pushed the basket away from him, looked down, and spoke.

 
“I’m afraid I’ve ruined this tabletop.”

  “Let There Be Light”

  Archibald Douglas, Sc.D., Ph.D., B.S., read the telegram with unconcealed annoyance.

  “ARRIVING CITY LATE TODAY STOP DESIRE CONFERENCE COLD LIGHT YOUR LABORATORY TEN PM (signed) Dr. M.L. MARTIN”

  He was, was he? He did, did he? What did he think this lab was, a hotel? And did Martin think that his time was at the disposal of any Joe Doakes who had the price of a telegram? He had framed in his mind an urbanely discouraging reply when he noticed that the message had been filed at a midwestern airport. Very well, let him arrive. Douglas had no intention of meeting him.

  Nevertheless, his natural curiosity caused him to take down his copy of Who’s Who in Science, and look up the offender. There it was: Martin. M.L., biochemist and ecologist, P.D.Q., X.Y.Z., N.R.A., C.I.O.—enough degrees for six men. Hmmm—director Guggenheim Orinoco Fauna Survey, Author: Co-Lateral Symbiosis of the Boll Weevil, and so on, through three inches of fine print. The old boy seemed to be a heavyweight.

  A little later Douglas surveyed himself in the mirror of the laboratory washroom. He took off a dirty laboratory smock, removed a comb from his vest pocket, and put a careful polish on his sleek black hair. An elaborately tailored checked jacket, a snap-brim hat and he was ready for the street. He fingered the pale scar that stenciled the dark skin of one cheek. Not bad, he thought, in spite of the scar. If it weren’t for the broken nose he would look O.K.

  The restaurant where he dined alone was only partly filled. It wouldn’t become lively until after the theatres were out, but Douglas appreciated the hot swing band and the good food. Toward the end of his meal, a young woman walked past his table and sat down, facing him, one table away. He sized her up with care. Pretty fancy! Figure like a dancer, lots of corn-colored hair, nice complexion, and great big soft eyes. Rather dumb pan, but what could you expect?

  He decided to invite her over for a drink. If things shaped up, Dr. Martin could go to the devil. He scribbled a note on the back of a menu, and signaled the waiter.

  “Who is she, Leo? One of the entertainers?”

  “No, m’sieur. I have not seen her before.”

  Douglas relaxed, and waited for results. He knew the come-hither look when he saw it, and he was sure of the outcome. The girl read his note and glanced over at him with a little smile. He returned it with interest. She borrowed a pencil from the waiter, and wrote on the menu. Presently Leo handed it to him.

  “Sorry,”—it read— “and thanks for the kind offer, but I am otherwise engaged.”

  Douglas paid his bill, and returned to the laboratory.

  His laboratory was located on the top floor of his father’s factory. He left the outer door open and the elevator down in anticipation of Doctor Martin’s arrival, then he busied himself by trying to locate the cause of an irritating vibration in his centrifuge. Just at ten o’clock he heard the whir of the elevator. He reached the outer door of his office just as his visitor arrived.

  Facing him was the honey-colored babe he had tried to pick up in the restaurant.

  He was immediately indignant. “How did you get here? Follow me?”

  She froze up at once. “I have an appointment with Doctor Douglas. Please tell him that I am here.”

  “The devil you have. What kind of a game is this?”

  She controlled herself, but her face showed the effort. “I think Doctor Douglas is the best judge of that. Tell him I’m here—at once.”

  “You’re looking at him. I’m Doctor Douglas.”

  “You! I don’t believe it. You look more like a—a gangster.”

  “I am, nevertheless. Now cut out the clowning, sister, and tell me what the racket is. What’s your name?”

  “I am Doctor M.L. Martin.”

  He looked completely astounded, then bellowed his amusement. “No foolin’? You wouldn’t kid your country cousin, would you? Come in, doc, come in.”

  She followed him, suspicious as a strange dog, ready to fight at any provocation. She accepted a chair, then addressed him again. “Are you really Doctor Douglas?”

  He grinned at her. “In the flesh—and I can prove it. How about you? I still think this is some kind of a badger game.”

  She froze up again. “What do you want—my birth certificate?”

  “You probably murdered Dr. Martin in the elevator, and stuffed the old boy’s body down the shaft.”

  She arose, gathered up her gloves and purse, and prepared to leave. “I came fifteen hundred miles for this meeting. I am sorry I bothered. Good evening, Doctor Douglas.”

  He was instantly soothing. “Aw, don’t get sore—I was just needling you. It just tickled me that the distinguished Doctor Martin should look so much like Marilyn Monroe. Now sit back down”—he gently disengaged her hands from her gloves—“and let me buy you that drink you turned down earlier.”

  She hesitated, still determined to be angry, then her natural good nature came to his aid, and she relaxed. “O.K., Butch.”

  “That’s better. What’ll it be: Scotch or bourbon?”

  “Make mine bourbon—and not too much water.”

  By the time the drinks were fixed and cigarettes lighted the tension was lifted. “Tell me,” he began, “to what do I owe this visit? I don’t know anything about biology.”

  She blew a smoke ring and poked a carmine fingernail through it. “You remember that article you had in the April Physical Review? The one about cold light, and possible ways of achieving it?”

  He nodded. “Electroluminescence vs. Chemiluminescence: not much in that to interest a biologist.”

  “Nevertheless, I’ve been working on the same problem.”

  “From what angle?”

  “I’ve been trying to find out how a lightning bug does the trick. I saw some gaudy ones down in South America, and it got me to thinking.”

  “Hmm—maybe you got something. What have you found out?”

  “Not much that wasn’t already known. As you probably know, the firefly is an almost incredibly efficient source of light—at least 96 percent efficient. Now how efficient would you say the ordinary commercial tungsten-filament incandescent lamp is?”

  “Not over two percent at best.”

  “That’s fair enough. And a stupid little beetle does fifty times as well without turning a hair. We don’t look so hot, do we?”

  “Not very,” he acknowledged. “Go on about the bug.”

  “Well, the firefly has in his tummy an active organic compound—very complex—called luciferin. When this oxidizes in the presence of a catalyst, luciferase, the entire energy of oxidation is converted into green light—no heat. Reduce it with hydrogen and it’s ready to go again. I’ve learned how to do it in the laboratory.”

  “What! Congratulations! You don’t need me. I can close up shop.”

  “Not so fast. It isn’t commercially feasible, it takes too much gear to make it work, it’s too messy, and I can’t get an intense light. Now I came to see you to see if we might combine forces, pool our information, and work out something practical.”

  Three weeks later at four in the morning Doctor M.L. Martin—Mary Lou to her friends—was frying an egg over a bunsen burner. She was dressed in a long rubber shop apron over shorts and a sweater. Her long corn-colored hair hung in loose ripples. The expanse of shapely leg made her look like something out of a cheesecake magazine.

  She turned to where Douglas lay sprawled, a wretched exhausted heap, in a big arm chair. “Listen, Ape, the percolator seems to have burnt out. Shall I make the coffee in the fractional distillator?”

  “I thought you had snake venom in it.”

  “So I have. I’ll rinse it out.”

  “Yikes, woman! Don’t you care what chances you take with yourself?—or with me?”

  “Pooh—snake venom wouldn’t hurt you even if you did drink it—unless that rotgut you drink has given your stomach ulcers. Soup’s on!”

  She chucked aside the apron, sat
down and crossed her legs.

  “Mary Lou, why don’t you wear some clothes around the shop? You arouse my romantic nature.”

  “Nonsense. You haven’t any. Let’s get down to cases. Where do we stand?”

  He ran a hand through his hair and chewed his lip. “Up against a stone wall, I think. Nothing we’ve tried so far seems to offer any promise.”

  “The problem seems to be essentially one of confining radiant energy to the visible band of frequency.”

  “You make it sound so simple, bright eyes.”

  “Stow the sarcasm. That is, nevertheless, where the loss comes in with ordinary electric light. The filament is white hot, maybe two percent of the power is turned into light, the rest goes into infrared and ultra-violet.”

  “So beautiful. So true.”

  “Pay attention, you big ape. I know you’re tired, but listen to mama. There should be some way of sharply tuning the wave length. How about the way they do it in radio?”

  He perked up a little. “Wouldn’t apply to the case. Even if you could manage to work out an inductance-capacitance circuit with a natural resonant frequency within the visual band, it would require too much gear for each lighting unit, and if it got out of tune, it wouldn’t give any light at all.”

  “Is that the only way frequency is controlled?”

  “Yes—well, practically. Some transmitting stations, especially amateurs, use a specially cut quartz crystal that has a natural frequency of its own to control wave length.”

  “Then why can’t we cut a crystal that would have a natural frequency in the octave of visible light?”

  He sat up very straight. “Great Scott, kid!—I think you’ve hit it.”

  He got up, and strode up and down, talking as he went.

  “They use ordinary quartz crystal for the usual frequencies, and tourmaline for shortwave broadcasting. The frequency of vibration depends directly on the way the crystal is cut. There is a simple formula—” He stopped, and took down a thick India paper handbook. “Hmm—yes, here it is. For quartz, every millimeter of thickness of the crystal gives one hundred meters of wave length. Frequency is, of course, the reciprocal of wavelength. Tourmaline has a similar formula for shorter wavelengths.”