SUNNY day of late summer was ending. The light wind which at noon had ruffled the surface of Lake Constance was ceasing, and the last dying waves were splashing on the shore.CHAPTER II
Uncle Sam
SUNNY day of late summer was ending. The light wind which at noon had ruffled the surface of Lake Constance was ceasing, and the last dying waves were splashing on the shore.
Far out on the lake shone in the rays of the evening sun the dazzling white sails of a little yacht. It seemed motionless. The main boom swung back and forth at random, the foresail hung down limp, and the tiny current of air could not even keep up the pennant at the mast-head.
The steersman attentively viewed the horizon and the little white clouds that swam over the Alps, glowing in the sun.
“After sundown there may be a breeze again,” he said to his companion; “we now can only choose between waiting and rowing. What do you think, Uncle Sam?”
“I think,” replied the latter, “that we have time to wait. If the evening breeze fails us, we have at worst lost a couple of hours— or gained them, my boy I Such a splendid evening calls for enjoyment.”
The helmsman rose, secured the tiller and sheet, and made himself comfortable on the forward deck.
‘”Just see what a festive cloak the mountains have put on to receive me. Truly, old Zugspitse yonder is blushing for joy that old Sam has returned. Lad, how beautiful our home is!”
“It is true, Uncle. But can all this still impress you, a man who has hunted in the jungles, meditated beside the Ganges, and frozen in Tibet. Can. our poor little Zugspitze still seem striking to you who have seen Mount Everest rise into space?”
Uncle Sam slowly and thoughtfully filled and lighted one of his pipes, which he always carried with him in large numbers, projecting from all his coat pockets. Then he inhaled deeply, so that there was a gurgling within the beloved pipe; he blew a mighty cloud of smoke into the air and said, as soon as this busy occupation gave him time:
“Everywhere in the world there are beautiful and noble things, Gus. Yet it is always a matter of the relation in which you stand to them. See, this Everest you spoke of: you look at it and at the same time you realize that it is the highest point on earth—it is unfortunate that this is known—you reflect about the nine thousand meters, reckon and consider—puzzle your memory over all the trifles you had in school concerning this marvel of a mountain—and by the time you have successfully digested all this, you have travelled on. And you have not even become acquainted with the proud king who sits at his record height and with cool graciousness waves farewell to you from afar.
“But our Alpine range here, with yonder the abrupt descent of Zugspitse and across the lake Pfanderhugelchen: these are no record-seekers, only dear old friends whom I well know. Isn’t that so, old fellows? You still remember your old Samuel Finkle!”
In youthful exuberance the man of fifty waved his hat in greeting to the mountains of his home.
“See,” he went on, “it is so with everything. There is nothing in the world of which one can absolutely say that it is good, it is beautiful. It is always a question of good and beautiful for whom— that is it.”
Reflectively he spat into the water in a great arc.
“As long as your dear sister was still alive, I never thought of leaving our Alps. But when she fell at the Wettersteinwand—well, you know all about it—when we had buried her, then I cursed the mountains; I could no longer bear to look at them, and I went to India to the jungles. But that is long ago, and I have pardoned the mountains for not watching over her better.”
Then both lay silent, close together on the slightly rocking deck, listening to the lapping of the tiny waves on the side of the boat and letting their glances sweep into the greyish blue infinity.
August Korf, the famous chief engineer of the national airport in Friederichshafen, pressed his uncle’s hand sympathetically. In reality the little man beside him, all dried up by the tropic sun, was not his uncle but his brother-in-law, and Dr. Samuel Finkle owed his position as “uncle” only to their noticeable difference in age.
“Uncle Sam,” said Korf after a while, “better dead than—than lost!”
“What! You, also?” In surprise the old traveler looked up.
“No, no, Uncle! It was only an idea!” protested Korf.
A Question of Astronomy
THE sun had set. The sky was growing darker, and in the southeast Mars already glowed with its reddish light. Venus, the evening star, pierced the golden yellow glow of the western horizon; gradually the two Dippers lit their torches, and the “W” of Cassiopeia rivaled in splendor the sparkling starry cross of the Swan.
“Gone and carried away!” the engineer broke the stillness. “The evening breeze is not yet stirring!”
“That’s the mischief of it!” said Uncle Sam in comical excitement. “You claim to conquer the universe and you cannot even conjure up a little bit of ridiculous terrestrial wind, which we need for the trip home.”
Korf smiled. “Perhaps it is easier to rule space, the absolute nothingness, with its rigid laws, than the ‘ridiculous terrestrial wind,’ which is dependent on a thousand influences. In space it is calculation alone that conquers.”
“Are you so sure of this? Do you think that chance is entirely excluded in the universe?”
“What is chance? Is there really chance, or is it not in the last analysis a phenomenon the laws of which at present still escape our knowledge? Surely it can safely be assumed that the possibility of un-calculable phenomena is reduced to a minimum, so that (strange as it may seem) human knowledge controls space better than it does numerous phenomena on our little earth.”
“But this minimum may suffice to shatter all your plans.” Dr. Finkle energetically drew at his pipe. “How closely defined are the limits of our life! A change in temperature of a few degrees is sufficient to cause death. On the tiny layer between the glowing center of the earth and heatless nothingness of space live man, beast, and plant; it is merely chance which has left exactly this space for the possibility of life. It is a trifling fact on which our life is based, and only an equally trifling impulse is needed (for which your ‘minimum’ easily leaves room enough), in order to destroy it—to blow out with a breath an insignificant little human being who rashly seeks to leave Mother Earth.”
“Granted, Uncle Sam! Just such an opinion was once expressed by the city council of Nuremberg, when the first railroad to Fiirth was to be built, yet today the express trains speed from Paris to Stamboul.
“Shall I stop because of this minimum in the possibilities of failure? Shall I destroy my invention, because it perhaps is not yet perfect? Shall I withhold from mankind a considerable advance in knowledge, because it may perhaps lead to disappointment?”
“Gus, you misunderstand me. Believe me, I admire you and your work, which I hope you will soon show me. But I doubt whether this constant advance in external knowledge is a blessing for mankind. Do you believe that motorists and aviators of the twentieth century are happier than the subjects of Frederick the Great, for whom a journey from Brandenburg to Cassel was an event prepared months in advance—a real experience? Who has such experiences today? Will not external knowledge celebrate its triumph at the cost of inner knowledge—and then shall we have gained anything? I dread outspreading civilization, if it destroys concentrated culture.”
Korf did not reply, and for a while old Sam was also silent, knocking the ashes from his pipe on the side of the boat.
“Do you believe that man-like beings inhabit the stars?” he then asked very suddenly.
“Hardly; that is, I do not know. On the seven known planets conditions prevail which exclude the existence of living albuminous cells. The only planet whose temperature and atmosphere offer any possibility of vegetation and accordingly of life is Venus. But all investigations and observations indicate that no rational beings live even there. And of the planetary systems of the so-called fixed stars we know nothing or practically nothing.”
“I will tell you something, Gus. You engineers and scientists are extremely clever persons, but somewhere in each of your brains is a gap. You can calculate until a person gets dazed, but thinking is something that you cannot do.”
“You are exceedingly complimentary, dear Uncle!” said Korf with a laugh.
“Well, please give me a single valid reason—valid, you understand—why among all the millions of worlds the little clump we call earth should alone be selected to have the heritage of life and reason! Well?”
Samuel Finkle did not seem to expect an answer. Rolling over on his side, he took from his trousers pocket a new matchbox, twirling it in his fingers, which resulted in splitting a joint of the box. He continued his remarks:
“It is megalomania to believe that! At least now, after science has robbed our earth of its ancient position as the motionless center of the universe and has assigned it the modest place of a planet circling about the sun.”
“Of course you do not venture to disturb the eminent position of the sun, do you?” said Korf, amused by his uncle’s zeal.
^Of course the sun must revolve about some central star or other, in my opinion Sirius, and the latter again about something more central, and so forth.”
“Then you do grant a certain order of rank, Uncle. Central, more central, still more central, most central of all...”
“With you mathematicians a fellow cannot speak a sensible word. Are you trying to make a fool of old Sam?”
“No, Uncle.” Korf became serious. ‘’But one thing is certain: the earth does not revolve around the sun, any more than the moon revolves around the earth. It only seems so.”
“It only seems so?” Uncle Sam’s pipe had almost fallen from his mouth in his surprise. “Do you know, Gus, things cannot so easily amaze an old globe trotter like me, but I am exceedingly amazed that you should mock your good uncle this way!”
Having spoken, he rolled over on his side, evidently hurt and firmly resolved to regard the conversation as closed.
“Just think a bit. Uncle; you can do it better than I! Where would your theory be with regard to the equality of the stars and consequently the rational beings living on them, if you allow the sun the rank of a central star? I only want to confirm and supplement your theory. The universe is more democratic than you think.”
Already old Sam broke his resolution and condescended to call back over his shoulder: “What the devil does the earth revolve around, if not the sun? Are you accusing old Kepler of lying?”
“Around a point, Uncle; around the same point as the sun Itself, around the common center of gravity, which on account of the immense mass of the sun lies so near its center that we may well pardon this slight error and calmly pass over it. Won’t you be kind enough to turn back again?”
“Then I am right, am I not?” said Sam, making a half-turn.
“Surely, Uncle! On other heavenly bodies there may well be rational beings. But as long as it is not proved, we must leave the question to philosophers and novelists. But look! The evening breeze is coming!”
Quickly he released the tiller and sheet. On the greenish black surface of the lake appeared bright trembling streaks, coming nearer and nearer, precursors of the expected breeze. In a few seconds it reached the yacht, inflating the canvas and making the loosely napping jib crack like a whip.
“There, Uncle Sam, this will be a speedy return trip. Look out, I am going to tack!”
The bow cut through the waves, casting up the spray; the wind sang in the shrouds; before the lake sank into complete darkness, the yacht was rocking at its buoy.
Bluff or Reality?
IN the pure sea air of California, at a considerable height above sea level, stands the great Lick astronomical observatory enjoying, more than any other, especially favorable conditions for the observation of the northern sky. The dustless air permits the use of such great magnification that the aged observer, Nielson, chose as the special field of his researches the exact study of the surface of the moon. Nielson was also considered the chief authority in the observation of the little planet Mercury, visible only in the uncertain half-light of evening or morning.
On the evening of the sixth of September the aged scientist was startled out of his calm and peaceful contemplation of the magnificent surroundings by an amazing radiogram. Carefully he studied the dispatch, uncertain whether he should regard the message as serious or as a poor jest.
“What do you think of that?” he asked his assistant.
“Suchinow—Suchinow!” replied the latter. “That must be the Russian who caused so much excitement by his work on the conquering of space by means of rocket propulsion. Do you remember, sir? He claimed that he had solved the problem and that he could actually carry out his plans, as soon as he had at his disposal a propulsion material with a latent chemical energy of about 60,000 calories per kilogram. When his experiments at that time always failed, the matter was regarded as mere fantasy. Perhaps he has now really found a sufficient source of energy.”
Shaking his head, the old astronomer reread the telegram:
“September 7, 9.25 P.M. Central European Time, Suchinow moon rocket leaves 45° 16' 40" N. Lat., 24° 34' 30" E. Long., Greenwich. Observations please, Transcosmos, Bucharest.”
“According to our local time that would be tomorrow afternoon at one,” said the assistant. “By day we can hardly see much.”
“Still less at night, if the rocket is not sufficiently illuminated,” answered Nielson. “Do you really believe it at all?”
“It is not impossible. If the Russian has an energy accumulator of sufficient capacity, the matter is hardly to be doubted; spatial navigation has thus far failed only on this one account.”
“Man, do not tempt the gods!” murmured the aged astronomer into his grey beard. Then he said aloud: “Make the necessary preparations and have the observatory ready at any rate by six o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Before that we can hardly expect to make an observation.”
In spite of his great doubt of the success of the enterprise just announced, Nielson spent the night in feverish excitement.
“Shall I live to see it,” he thought, “this marvel of man’s leaving the earth and rashly peeping behind the moon?”
Then there awoke in him the interest of a scientist. who had devoted a whole life to his research. At last mankind was to receive enlightenment and certainty regarding the appearance of the part of the moon which had been hidden from the earth for thousands and millions of years! The fabulous three-sevenths of the surface of the moon, about the nature of which there was no explanation but surmises and hypotheses: very plausible, indeed, but mere hypotheses after all!
The apparently inexplicable mystery was about to be solved, and he—Nielson—need not take the question unanswered to his grave.
That night he did not close his eyes. In excitement he ran back and forth between his study and the giant telescope in the dome. Then he went down the steps of the tower and walked about in the open.
The moon shone in its first quarter through the pure sea air. It seemed to be laughing at the stir which human beings were making about its hidden side.
Nielson became thoughtful. He knew very well the problem of the space ship, which years ago had been widely published in all the papers and had then sunk into oblivion, since there could be no practical solution in view of the lack of a proper fuel. Likewise he did not regard it as impossible to send a shot from the earth; but could a man withstand the fearful initial acceleration? What was the use of a space ship without an observer? The radiogram had given no information on this score.
What if it were only a bad joke which he was taking as something serious?
Slowly the night went by, still more slowly the following morning. It became afternoon. Now, at this very moment, the shot was taking place, provided the news was correct. Nielson could hardly conceal his excitement any longer.
The hours dragged by. On some pretext or other he busied himself in the dome where the assistant, on the movable platform, was sitting in readiness at the eye-piece, constantly observing the eastern sky.
“I see nothing yet, sir?” Evening set in, and still the report of the observer was the same: “I see nothing yet, sir!”
Was it possible that some joker...? But Nielson said to himself that by daylight an observation was scarcely to be expected; the shot naturally could not be very large, and the presumably very high angular velocity must quickly take it from the observer’s field of vision. By night, however, perhaps they could see the rocket with the naked eye, assuming that it radiated a strong light, and could point the telescope accordingly.
Nine o’clock approached.
“We are now in the same relative position to the sun as the starting point of the rocket at the time of the discharge. Now it must be visible, if it is illuminated, provided it was sent at all.” Nielson climbed the ladder to the observation platform, to relieve his assistant. With trembling fingers he turned the eye-piece, to adjust it to his old far-sighted eyes. The mighty tube was almost vertical, for by now the rocket had to appear somewhere near the zenith.
Vainly he scanned the heavens. Time passed; morning approached; nothing!
But wait! A cry of joy escaped the aged scientist. There on the firmament was a glowing streak. In a loud voice he called the assistant.
“Is it visible, sir?” asked the latter hastily.
“We have been swindled, after all!” replied Nielson, disillusioned. A meteor had tricked his fevered imagination. He left the observatory, utterly exhausted.