Grateful for the other man’s diplomacy, Ambrose nodded his head as he unwrapped the cigar which he did not really want. “I’ve got lots of time.”
“Okay.” Collins ignited both cigars and leaned back, causing his chair to creak loudly. “First of all, I wasn’t giving you double-talk about magniluct lenses.”
“I didn’t think you…”
Collins raised a large pink hand, commanding silence. “I’ve got to get the physics over in one burst because it’s all new to me and I only know it up here and not down here.” He tapped his forehead and chest in succession, and began to recite.
“Magniluct is a transparent material with a high density of hydrogen atoms in it. There were reports some time ago that
it might be useful as a kind of super scintillator to detect neutrinos, but as far as I know nobody took much interest in that aspect until Thornton’s Planet came blundering into the Solar System. The planet isn’t radiating on any of the known energy spectra—that’s why you can’t see it in the ordinary way—but it’s pumping out neutrinos in four-pi space. When a neutrino enters a lens of your magniluct glasses, it interacts with protons and produces neutrons and beta-plus particles which excite other atoms in the material and in turn produce emissions in the visible region.
“That’s why you can’t focus the radiation and get a magnified image—the neutrinos go through in a straight line. In fact, it’s only because of forward scattering of particles that you’re able to see that slightly blurry image of the planet at all. How did I do?” Collins looked like a schoolboy seeking praise.
“Very well,” Ambrose said, “especially if particle physics isn’t your field.”
“It isn’t.”
Ambrose decided against mentioning that nucleonics had been his own field in case it became apparent that he knew less than might reasonably have been expected. He tapped the first striated section of ash from his cigar and thought hard about what he had just been told.
“This emission of nothing but neutrinos,” he said slowly. “I take it that was the basis for deciding that Thornton’s Planet is composed of antineutrino matter?”
“So I’m told.”
“Which means it’s a kind of a ghost world. As far as we’re concerned, it almost doesn’t exist.”
“Correct.”
“Just my luck,” Ambrose said with a wry smile. “How am I going to show it in the planetarium?”
“That, I’m pleased to say, is your problem and not mine.” Collins spoke in sympathetic tones which contrasted with the form of words he had chosen. “Would you like to see where the intruder is at present?”
“Please.”
Ambrose sucked gently on his cigar while Collins tapped an instruction into the computer terminal on his desk, calling up an astronomical diagram on the wall screen. As the picture appeared he became aware that the big man was watching him with covert interest, as though hoping for some kind of reaction on Ambrose’s part. Ambrose studied the screen which showed two dotted green lines, designated as the orbits of Jupiter and Mars, sliced across by a solid red line representing the path of Thornton’s Planet. The diagram was pretty well what he had expected to see, and yet there was a wrongness about it…something connected with the mass of data which had just been presented to him…
“This is a corrected plan view, normal to the plane of the ecliptic,” Collins said, his eyes intent on Ambrose’s face. “We’ve been getting positional fixes on the planet by triangula-tion and they’re fairly accurate because we’ve been using the Moon colony as the other end of our baseline. The effective length keeps changing, of course, but…”
“Hold on,” Ambrose snapped, abruptly realising what was wrong with the computer chart. “The red line is curved 1”
“So?”
“Well, an antineutrino world wouldn’t be affected by the sun’s gravity. It should sail right through the Solar System in a dead straight line.”
“You picked up on that one rather quickly,” Collins said. “Congratulations.”
Ambrose derived no pleasure from the compliment. “But what does it mean? The diagram suggests that Thornton’s Planet is being captured by the sun, but—from what we know about the planet—there’s no way that could happen. Are they sure it is an antineutrino world?”
Collins hesitated. “If there are any doubts on that score, they’ll be resolved in a few months’ time.”
“You sound pretty sure about that,” Ambrose said. “How can you be so certain?”
“It’s quite simple,” Collins said soberly. “As far as we can determine at this stage, there’s every chance that Thornton’s Planet is going to pass right through the Earth.”
Chapter Two
On the morning of March 25, 1993, Gilbert Snook-the human neutrino—was sitting in a bar, quietly enjoying a cigarette and a suitably chill gin-and-water. He was a lean man of medium height, with black crew-cut hair and neat, hard features. The unusually crisp definition of his muscles, even those around his mouth, suggested physical power, but otherwise his appearance was unremarkable.
His sense of contentment derived from a combination of factors, one of them being that he was having his first day of idleness in two weeks. In the daytime temperatures of the lower Arabian Peninsula the maintenance of light aircraft was an occupation which induced a fine appreciation of luxuries such as merely being cool. Inside the metal shell of a plane the heat was unbearable—metal surfaces had to be covered with rags to stop them inflicting burns, and engine oil thinned out so much that experienced mechanics threw away manufacturers’ viscosity recommendations and chose lubricants which would have behaved like treacle in normal circumstances.
The working conditions in Malaq discouraged most foreign technicians from staying long, but they suited Snook’s temperament. It was one of several statelets which had been formed after the break-up of the ancient Sultanate of Oman, and the principal attraction to Snook was that it contained only about two people per square kilometre. The mental pressures he disliked in densely populated areas were virtually absent in Malaq. It was even possible for him to avoid newspapers, fax sheets and broadcasts. All that was required of him was his assistance in keeping the ruler’s small fleet of military transports and ageing jet fighters in an airworthy condition, in return for which he was accommodated in the country’s only hotel and given a generous tax-free salary. Habitually, he sent most of the money to a bank in his native Ontario.
The day had begun well for Snook. He had awakened fresh from a long sleep, enjoyed a western-style breakfast, drifted in
the swimming pool for a couple of hours, and now was having a pre-lunch drink. The airfield and native township, five kilometres away, were hidden behind a low headland, making it easy for Snook to convince himself there was nothing in the whole world but the hotel, the broad blue ocean, and the scimitars of white sand curving away on each side of the bay. From time to time he thought about the date he had that evening with Eva, an interpreter with a German engineering consultancy in the town, but for the moment he was concentrating on becoming mildly and happily drunk.