Standard Candles
The observatory was warm in the mist. Light spilled out of the administrative windows on the second floor, and played against the moving trees at the edge of the parking lot.
Carlisle was driving too fast, kicking up gravel, alternately flooring and releasing the pedal. He was impatient with the long uphill climb. The wipers sloshed back and forth, and the branches shut off the sky.
There would be a short staff tonight, because of the overcast. But he didn't care about viewing conditions: the Andromeda galaxy could have been blazing overhead, flooding the mountains with light, an d he would not have been more excited.
His printouts had worked their way out of his inside jacket pocket. He pushed them back down, affectionately. The numbers were gorgeous, and they flowed through him, and warmed him. My God, how he loved blue stars.
The road went up and up, and at last he bounced out of the forest and rolled into the parking lot. He jerked to a stop beside Boddiker's van and was out of the car, not caring about the cold drizzle, not stopping to lock up. He climbed the three concrete stairs at the front of the building, caught his breath, and went inside.
Toni Linden was standing by the coffee machine. He waved the printout at her and said "I've got it—"and kept going.
Lowenthal was not in his office, so Carlisle went hunting for him and found him down in the lower level control room arguing with Boddiker. Boddiker's thin features were in their negative mode, and the little red spot that always showed up on his crinkled skull when he got excited was glowing. His voice was high and he was jabbing his index finger at the Director. Carlisle didn't know what it was about, and didn't care. He did not back out of the room as a respectful young postdoc should have, didn't even wait for them to recognize him, but simply excused himself and shouldered into the conversation. "I think we've got a new standard candle," he said.
Judy had also been part of that night. He'd known her only three weeks, but he had already fallen victim to every familiar romantic symptom: his voice betrayed him in her presence, she completely dominated his thoughts, and the knowledge that she was seeing other men drove him wild. He had even come to accept the improbable notion that a higher power had designed events to bring them together. All he needed to do was find a way to hold onto her.
Even now, fifteen years later, she could jack up his pulse. He'd been right: Judy Bollinger had been worth any effort. Unfortunately, he had only recently come to understand what that really meant.
She had blue eyes that he could never quite see the bottom of. A trim jogger's body. And a smile that was once again troubling his nights. Carlisle, returning to the observatory for the last time, considered the varieties of that resonant gaze.
In their early days, she had worn her auburn hair short. Judy was about average size, but because Carlisle was tall she had to reach for him, and she had a trick of standing on her toes, stretching toward him and holding her mouth up to be kissed, funneling everything she had into her lips.
On that night of nights, when he had so much to celebrate, he had hesitated to call her. It was, after all, late on a weekday evening, and he was still treating her carefully, anxious to do nothing that might damage the relationship. Don't be overeager. Patience counts, whether one is measuring the distances between stars. Or pursuing a beautiful woman.
But it was an opportunity to impress her.
He had used the phone in the conference center.
"Hugh?" She sounded pleased to hear his voice, and his spirits soared.
"I'm at Kitchener," he said. "Things are happening." His tone had undoubtedly been self-important.
But she chose not to notice. "What is it?"
"Judy, I've had a major breakthrough. I've found a standard candle."
"Are you sure?" She had sounded delighted, as if she knew what a standard candle was.
"I thought we might celebrate."
"I'm on my way. Wait for me."
And she was gone before he could explain he was thinking about Saturday.
He parked in the slot marked DIRECTOR, got his empty cartons out of the trunk, and paused before letting himself into the building. The mountaintop was still. He had stood out here that night, watching her lights come up the access road. (The road was dark now, cold and untraveled, save for the contractors who came in the daylight to remove everything that was of value.) Her white two-door Ford came out of the trees right there, and she'd parked over by the reserved spaces, under the security lights at the supply entrance.
The security lights were out now. For good. The Foundation had started closing down Kitchener's operations two years ago. Much of the action had gone to the southern hemisphere, where there was less light and pollution and a richer field for investigation. Carlisle supported the action, had even dissuaded Lowenthal from campaigning against the vote.
But it had cost him. Many of his old acquaintances, some whom he'd counted as friends, no longer talked to him. Furthermore, he would be going back to the classroom. His dreams of greatness were probably over.
He unlocked the door, let himself in, and turned the lights on. The well in which the eighty-inch Cassegrain reflector had rested was shadowy and cold.
"How far can you see with it?" she had asked. She was wearing a yellow sweater thrown over her shoulders. Odd that, after so long he would remember the details.
It was a naive question. "To the edge of the universe," he'd answered. That was not quite true, of course. They could see as far as the Red Limit, which was the farthest point from which light has had time to reach Earth since the creation.
He had supervised the removal of the telescope only the week before. It was on its way to Kitt Peak, where it would become a backup.
Judy had stood beside him, in this doorway, barely rising to his shoulder. But her physical presence had been overpowering.
She taught history at Franklin High School, which was now a shopping center. She knew damned little science, and less cosmology, but she seemed perpetually interested in what Carlisle was doing. Her father was a policeman, and she was a product of public schools and state universities, not blessed with life's advantages as he had been. She talked about wanting to write the definitive history of the McCarthy era. Everything hadn't come out yet, she'd said. His links with Hoover. Deals with Nixon. During all the years he knew her, she was gathering materials, and planning the book. Sometimes she read extracts to him. Carlisle, who had always found the social sciences boring, got caught up in the narrative. He was often appalled that government officials could have acted with such perfidy, and she told him more than once that she loved him because he had retained the ability to be outraged. "Don't ever lose it," she warned.
They were watching Boddiker, who was in the observer's cage. "He's our cluster specialist. What they're doing now is hoping the sky will clear. It won't. But if it does, they'll take pictures toward the galactic interior, so they can compare optical results with x-rays. Over there is the imaging center." Babble, babble. He winced now to think of it, but it all seemed to charm her, and she'd squeezed his hand when she thought no one was looking.
Lowenthal was gone a long time. Carlisle wasn't worried: he knew he was right; he had checked his results carefully. So he suggested they go celebrate.
"Isn't that bad luck? Before you get confirmation?"
"Maybe. But in the meantime, I get an evening with you. Worth whatever comes of it."
They took both cars and went down the mountain to Spike's. Spike's was a quiet bar back in the trees off Observatory Road, about a mile from the foot of the mountain. It was favored by the staff at Kitchener and the science department at UEI because management catered to them, hosted their frequent celebrations and parties, and made it a point to treat them like VIP's.