CHAPTER FOUR
THE METEOR
There were fireworks on the evening after the great pyrotechnic tower was capped by the dome-shaped life compartment; the assembly of the space vehicle was complete. Bronwyn watched the fiery celebration with her usual gloomy foreboding, thinking that the spectacularly-erupting rockets were perhaps in fact doleful harbingers of a coming catastrophe, the disastrous nature of which would be all too obviously personal. Lit from all sides by the flashing, multicolored explosions, the hundred-foot-tall hexagonal prism looked translucent, like a looming crystal of quartz, too massive and monumental to ever be capable of leaving the earth, at the same time too ethereal to be dangerous. Yet, she knew all too well that the rocket was more than capable, were all of its tubes to explode simultaneously (something she had been assured was impossible more times than she cared to count, an assurance she doubted more with each earnest repetition), of fearful devastation.
She was watching the display from the window of the small apartment she had fitted up for herself in one of the corner turrets of the Academy, a kind of cozy oriel that had been used as a lumber room until the princess had reclaimed it. It was not only a home away from home (And just where is this home I’m supposed to be away from?), it was where she spent three or four or sometimes even five days out of every week. The semicircular chamber was untidily filled with tottering stacks of books, piles of clothing, clean and dirty, trunks and wardrobes, with barely enough room for the folding camp bed she had requisitioned from the palace barracks. For all essential purposes, she no longer lived in the palace. Most of her meals were consumed in the small cafeteria maintained in the ground floor of the Academy, in the company of the scientists. She enjoyed sitting at a table where a dozen men and women were zealously discussing a dozen different topics in an exhilirating if incomprehensible potpourri.
Since returning to Londeac from Tamlaght, she had seen little of her uncle, King Felix. The elderly man was more ill than ever, she knew, but she suspected that the real reason he avoided unnecessary or prolonged contact with his niece was embarrassment for having allowed the Church to coerce him into betraying her to her enemies. She knew that he had been given little choice in the matter and did not particularly hold his actions against him, although evidently Felix thought that she had some cause to. She was little bothered by the matter, since Felix saw that she was provided for extravagantly (whether this kindness was engendered by thoughtfulness or guilt was of little moment to her) and she had in any case always found conversation with her ailing uncle tedious, he now was almost completely engulfed in throbbing, hissing, pumping machinery, and did not particularly miss it.
She had not originally intended to remain so long in Toth. When she and Gyven had first arrived, the intention was simply to take the least amount of time that was necessary to regroup her resources before setting out on a rather nebulously planned world tour. Gyven, however, had found one distraction after another, as already mentioned above, each one discouraging him from encouraging their departure. Delay after delay had allowed first weeks then months to slip by like jellyfish through a net. And as each month went by, she had grown increasingly comfortable and settled and, she feared, increasingly comfortable with Gyven’s absences. She found herself resenting her complacency at the same time feeling a peculiar satisfaction she had never before experienced. She was not so unperceptive as to not realize that a great deal of her wanderlust had been dissipated, if not eradicated, by her adventures of the previous two or three years. Yet while much of the passion may have been satiated, there still remained a restlessness and unfulfillment, an uneasy discontent that made her sulky, petulant and dreamy.
She was growing increasingly resentful of the comfort and protection she was enjoying; the longer she remained in Toth, the more secure she felt and the more perversely disgruntled she was with that security.
This past year was not at all what she had originally had in mind.
She leaned on the sill of the open window, her legs folded under her on the rumpled sheets of her bed, her sharp, pensive face alive with the flickering rocketlight, her russet hair sparkling like incandescent steel wool. But the liveliness was an illusion temporarily lent to her immobile features and slack limbs by the moving, flickering lights. When the last of the rockets spent themselves and the last spark dribbled like a bright tear down the sky’s dusky cheek, she too faded into the murky half-light like a chilling ember, no more substantial than any of the hundred other vague shadows that filled the room. Her pallid form was a pale phosphorescence, like a self-luminous denizen of an unplumbed abyss electrochemically proclaiming its loneliness. She had removed her clothing against the heavy, sultry air, and was coiled bonelessly on the bed like one of the colorless snakes or eels that inhabit gloomy and lightless caverns. She had withdrawn like a shy reptile into her own gloomy and lightless cavern, and had shed color, ambition, impetuosity, desire, passion and appetite just as the weary blindworm shrugs off its outgrown and useless skin.
Professor Wittenoom was promoting an immediate departure for his rocket and his advisors were agreeing with him. Bronwyn glanced at the horizon, where a golden glow silhouetting the trees bordering the park heralded the rise of the doomed little moon. The minuscule disk rose rapidly, its auriferous light flickering wanly through the tangles of leaves and limbs, like golden fingers unwilling to relinquish their hold upon the earth, until it launched itself into the clear sky above like another of the professor’s rockets. Its color quickly faded to its usual soft, creamy hue. Accompanying its rise, like a fanfare, were the sparkling streaks of the meteors that perversely announced not only the moon’s appearance but its impending disappearance. After the woosh and crackling of the rockets, the silence of the aeroliths was uncanny. The princess kept a pair of powerful binoculars on a table beside her bed and she now reached for them. Bracing her elbows against the sill, she quickly found the moon. Its ivory disk filled more than half of her field of view. It was in a fat gibbous phase, halfway between quarter and crescent. The dark part was not really dark at all, she could see, but was instead a silvery grey, illuminated by light reflected from its sister moon (still below the horizon) and to a lesser degree the earth. There were only soft smudges on the sunlit surface but the terminator was sawtoothed with detail. She knew from both maps and photographs that this detail was in reality a chaos of tiny craters and craggy mountains. She suddenly felt that she was no longer looking up at the moon but rather that she was looking down upon it, that she was like a bird hovering above the luminous surface, that the merest push against her bed would be enough to precipitate a 350,000-mile fall, no doubt to eventually create but one more anonymous crater. How big a hole, she wondered, would a 145-pound mass excavate, arriving at terminal velocity? She would have to ask someone to make the calculation.
This last thought recalled the one great tragedy of the past year, the one serious blemish on the face of the Project. One of the rocket scientists, Doctor W. Pavel Sale, had become obsessed with the prospect of flying by reaction propulsion. Against all of the cautionary advice of his associates, he had constructed a complicated device that was to be attached to his back by means of a heavy leather harness. Sale envisioned whole aerial armies equipped with his invention. Unlike the rockets that were to form the bulk of the spaceship, which combined the safety, reliability and simplicity of solid fuels, Doctor Sale’s rocket was based upon an entirely new and not very well tested principle: liquid fuels. In addition to the beautifully turned metal nozzle that protruded from beneath a maze of copper and steel plumbing were two large, spherical aluminum tanks, each the size of a medicine ball. In these the inventor planned to place the two hypergolic liquids that, upon combining, would instantly ignite and burn with enormous violence. The inventor argued that his system allowed for far greater exhaust velocities than possible with solid fuels (which the princess knew would allow the new rocket system to attain far greater accelerations) but the rocket could also be throttled and even turned off and reignited, two advantages impossible with solid fuels. Against this, his colleagues pointed to the increased complexity, to say nothing of the inherent danger of the chemicals involved, which burned upon mutual contact.
Bronwyn remembered the day on which was to occur the doctor’s trial flight. He had gone to the middle of the great field in which the big rocket was now standing but which at that time was still empty. The day was a beautiful one in early winter, the atmosphere as clear as a vacuum. Dressed entirely in heavily-padded leather, hard leather helmet and goggles, the scientist had two or three of his skeptical friends, who even at this last moment were still trying to dissuade the stubborn inventor, help him attach the rocket to his back. With a last attempt at dissuasion, they backed off to what they hoped was a prudent distance, among the several score others who had abandoned their work to witness their colleague’s pioneering ascent.
Doctor Sale pulled his goggles down over his face, clumsily pivoted once, to make certain that everyone was safely clear, reached to one side and then the other to twiddle with the valves that were located there, placed his hands on the master controls that were mounted on a panel that hung from his chest, gave these a gentle twist, then crouched slightly as a wisp of yellowish vapor began to drift from the gleaming nozzle. This was almost instantly replaced by a burst of yellowish flame and a gout of black smoke. A dull roar reached Bronwyn’s ears, a sound entirely out of proportion to the size of the flame. The inventor adjusted his valves and the flame narrowed to an almost invisible blue tongue, like a glass knifeblade glinting in the sun. Beneath the exhaust a cloud of dust and shredded grass billowed. The violence seemed out of all proportion to the size of the device. The sound raised in pitch to a dreadful scream and the man lifted slowly from his feet, rising above the obscuring cloud of dust. Cries of astonishment and elation, enhanced by their previous doubts, circled through the crowd. The inventor’s rate of ascent quickly accelerated and, traveling ever faster, he disappeared from sight. All that remained was a thin trail of smoke, rapidly becoming twisted and knotted by the wind, and a pair of shoes in the middle of a circle of scorched lawn.
Bronwyn only learned later what happened. For some reason, Sale never moderated his ever-increasing velocity. Why this happened may never be known. Perhaps his controls froze, perhaps he became afraid to throttle his engine at such a tremendous altitude. Whatever the reason, he apparently continued to accelerate, gaining altitude until his fuel was exhausted. Some of the mathematicians calculated that the inventor described a huge parabola that covered fifty miles or more in horizontal distance and perhaps as much as one hundred and fifty or two hundred miles vertically. A frustrating uncertainty marred their calculations since they had to guess at Sales’ final, or terminal, velocity. In any case, he came plummeting out of the otherwise unremarkable sky that glimmered above the distant village of Clarence-up-the-Grady. The only witnesses to his descent described a kind of prolonged hoot that first attracted their attention, thinking that perhaps it might be some peculiar sort of turkey (a species of these, native to the area, is known for its sometimes startling vocalizations during mating season). They then saw a dark object streak almost vertically from the sky, followed almost immediately by the sound of an explosion and a cloud of dust and débris that billowed above the squat mass of the local church. By the time these witnesses and others, attracted by both the sound and sight of the detonation, arrived there was nothing left to see but a crater where the community churchyard had been. Gravestones were scattered willy nilly like spilled aspirin tablets, and the macabre effect was not at all lost upon the primitively superstitious people.
By the time authorities from Toth and the Academy arrived seepage had already filled the crater with water and a small shrine had been erected at the pond’s edge. Prayers and token sacrifices were being made to the saint who had singled out Clarence-up-the-Grady for his wrathful attention. Since no one was certain which saint it might have been, prayers and offerings were being made to all the testier occupants of the pantheon. Contained within the rustic shrine, carefully sealed in a canning jar, which had its original label changed thus:
, was the sole and mysterious relic that had been discovered after the rubble had been cleared away and all of the known débris accounted for: a small disk of red metal bearing the cabalistic and inexplicable monogram ABFDFW (which Bronwyn of course recognized as the well-known trademark of the Aackly Button Foundry and Drop Forge Works). Most of the villagers, however, including the vicar, were of a mind that this represented the personal talisman of Saint Aughrim Boop-Fite ti of the Fine Weasels. That left a D unaccounted for, but, as the elderly vicar pointed out, some of Musrum’s ways were no doubt meant to remain mysterious to mortals. It was a kind of test, he was certain, though when asked he was not sure what the test was supposed to prove. There was still a great deal of discussion about why Clarence-up-the-Grady had deserved to have a hole punched in its graveyard and the theological debates continued, in fact, for decades and were, ultimately, never resolved and, at last, forgotten.
The mellow moonlight flooded Bronwyn’s apartment like spilled buttermilk, covering every surface with a faint opalescence, as though the room had been transformed into the secret, nacreous chamber of the pensive nautilus. Within it, Bronwyn’s body was a pale nimbus, like the noctilucent clouds that hover like ghosts in the midnight sky, like the ashen, meandering stream of the galaxy, like the ignis fatuus that insinuates itself within the bottomless tangles of the haunted forest, a languid, lonely phantom.
The professor informed the princess at breakfast the following morning that the date for the launch was finally set.
“And when would that be?” she asked.
“Scarcely soon enough,” he replied. “All of the engine’s results predict that the final disintegration is imminent.”
“How imminent?”
“A week, two weeks, perhaps.”
“So soon?” she asked, not a little surprised. “When are you proposing to leave, then? I had supposed that ‘soon’ meant, well, I don’t know . . . but you must be talking about . . . ”
“The day after tomorrow, at 3:15:42.5 in the morning, exactly.”
She found herself unable to complete her breakfast, which now looked as cold, congealed and lifeless as, well, the surface of the moon.
At his insistence, Bronwyn followed Wittenoom to the park to inspect the just-completed life compartment.
A scaffolding had been erected around the silvery tower, which now resembled more than ever a farmer’s silo. A steam winch operating a precarious lift carried them nearly to the summit, where Bronwyn found one of the small round manholes open. With its heavy, plug-like cover swung aside it looked a good deal like an open bank vault. She crawled inside and stood upright in the garishly lit interior. She turned to see the professor’s gangly body emerging through the port, like toothpaste extruding from a tube.
“It’s a little cozy in here,” she observed, correctly if not a little overkindly.
She was standing on a steel-mesh floor in a cramped, circular chamber. It reminded Brownyn of the pictures she had seen of the interiors of the ice houses that inhabitants of the far north built. A complicated-looking central column rose from the deck to the domed roof. Radiating from this were three reclined couches, filling much of the space between the column and the doubly-curving wall. Flanking the couches were complex controls, switches, dials and levers. Just above the heads of the couches was a wide vertical panel of the same mesh that covered the floor, forming a band that circled the chamber. Beneath her feet, through the interstices, Bronwyn could see a mass of boxes, spheres, packages, cartons, cylinders and other semi-identifiable paraphernalia. The brilliant light came from a cluster of electric lamps suspended from the central column. The circular ports in the walls and nose were at the moment dark, covered by the outer carapace which would protect the life compartment from air friction during the takeoff.
“There’s not much room in here,” the princess commented.
“It’ll be different once we are on our way,” replied the professor. “As soon as the rockets cease firing, we shall all be in a state of free fall . . . ”
“Free fall? I don’t much like the sound of that.”
“Well, I don’t know if I can explain it clearly since it’s a little outside my field, but the gist of it is that we’ll be weightless.”
“Because we’ll be beyond the earth’s gravity.”
“No, I don’t think that’s exactly the reason. But in any case, instead of being limited to the relatively small two-dimensional space of the floor, we will be able to utilize the three-dimensional space of the cabin’s volume.”
“You mean we’ll all be floating around in here, like . . . -like fish? I don’t know . . . “ Bronwyn thought back queasily to her few, usually disastrous, sea voyages and how little she had enjoyed those experiences.
“We have no idea how it’ll affect any of us,” offered Wittenoom. “If it proves to be a problem, we can rotate the compartment, setting it spinning on its axis. This will create a kind of artificial gravity and then this grill around the wall will become our floor and ‘up’ will be in the direction of the control column.”
Bronwyn looked around the interior, trying to imagine such weird upheavals in orientation and felt her stomach walls wobble in wary anticipation. I don’t know about this, she wavered. She wrenched her thoughts away from the disturbingly compelling subject of mal de cosmos and back to the professor, who had been meanwhile explaining the operation of the spaceship.
“All of the electrical ignition wires for all thousand-odd individual rockets come up through this central column, which also houses the coelostat (which will allow us to see out in case we have to rotate the ship), and connect with the appropriate controls. All of the firing sequences for the takeoff will be handled automatically, by this timer-switch.”
“Who’s going with us?” she asked. “Everyone in the Academy wants to go. Has the list been narrowed down at all yet?”
“Only a little. Needless to say, many of them only want to go out of sheer curiosity or a sense of adventure, while their scientific specialties are entirely inappropriate: ornithologists, oceanographers, topologists, that sort of thing. Of the remainder, I think that the only fair thing to do is to draw lots, I suppose. Not that that will make everyone happy.”
“Too bad,” she said unsympathetically.
“Not everyone is happy now,” he added, “with the idea that one of the three spaces available is being taken by you.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps it might not be better if a scientist goes in my place . . . ”
“Oh no, no, nonono, not at all!” the professor protested. “The whole idea was, after all, yours in the beginning . . . ”
“It was only a facetious suggestion . . . ”
“ . . . and, of course, without your influence I doubt that the king would have gone so far with our financing, which has gone so unfortunately beyond the original budget. For that, if for no other reason, you have as much right as anyone else to go. And we mustn’t underestimate or underappreciate the support we have gotten from the public! It seems that it is of the opinion that the lovely young princess is going to be the sole passenger. If you dropped out, the Academy would be stormed!”
“You exaggerate.”
“There would be delay, without doubt, and we cannot allow even a moment’s delay. No, no, I won’t hear of your not going.”
“All right, all right, forget it,” the princess replied a little testily and the professor looked at her sharply.
“My dear young friend,” he said, “whatever has been the matter with you lately?”
“I’ve been fine.”
“I must disagree,” he said kindly, sitting down on the edge of the one of the couches. “Although psychiatry could not be further removed from my field, there’s no mystery that something is troubling you. Your emotions are simply too transparent. Is it Gyven?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” She sat on the opposite couch, placed her elbows on her knees and cupped her chin in the palms of her hands. “I really don’t know, Professor; I’ve felt so . . . lost lately, so confused, so useless. I’ve been walking around in a fog, not knowing what to do, what I’m doing or what I’m going to do. Nor even what questions to ask. Nothing seems to really interest me; at the same time, I’m restless and bored.”
“And you miss Gyven?”
“Of course I do. No, I take that back. I’m not even sure of that any more. Do you know, I haven’t even thought much about him these last few days? Maybe not even for the last few weeks. I don’t remember how much I was thinking of him even when he was here and I don’t know if I feel bad about it. Is that wrong?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps it wouldn’t be if you had someone else to think about.”
“But wouldn’t that be more wrong? I still love Gyven and even if I didn’t, I still care about him very much. He’s done nothing intentionally to hurt me . . . ”
“Except to ignore you?”
“Well, yes, but I don’t think that he meant that to hurt me.”
“Look here, Princess,” Wittenoom said, his long body folding onto the couch next to her like a carpenter’s rule, “may I tell you what I think?”
“Of course you can.”
“I believe that you may have outgrown Gyven. He was exactly what you needed at the time you needed him. And he helped you become much of what you are, but in doing so he also changed you, and in changing you he made himself obsolete. Gyven was like the training wheels on the bicycle of your life.”
“But it seems so unfair to him! It’s as though I’ve used him and am tossing him aside.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t think that the situation is anything at all as calculatingly cold-blooded as that. No. You haven’t cold-heartedly cast him to the wayside, you have only weaned yourself from your need for Gyven, which of course doesn’t mean that you don’t need somebody. Everyone does. Even a misanthrope at least needs someone if only to have someone to hate. It is a rare and fortunate individual who discovers just one, single person who fills all of their needs all of their life.”
“Have you?”
“I did once.”
“I’m sorry!” said Bronwyn, instantly contrite, “I didn’t mean to . . .”
“No, it’s all right. I may not be a very good example, I don’t know. My . . . person . . . was so overflowing of everything that I ever needed that even though she’s been gone for many, many years she still continues to satisfy and help me.” For the briefest moment, the text of the only love poem he had ever written passed blurrily before the professor’s myopic eyes . . .
O sweet agglomeration of cells
In whom a summary beauty dwells,
O rarer much are you to me
Than globule animalculæ!
Come, come, be mine, and we will tread
Where tortuous fungi never spread.
Then will the fever of our bliss
Destroy bacilli in our kiss.
. . . as though he were seeing the meticulously-scrivened paper itself. His Great Love had never replied and, in fact, he had never seen her since.
“Anyway, it’s unfair to yourself to be compared with me,” he continued as he squeezed his eyes to clear his vision. “We’re a generation apart, if for no other reason. My time of change, of mutability, of uncertainty and doubt is long past. You are still in the midst of your plasticity, like a blob of molten glass just removed from the furnace. Who knows what that blob will become? A work of art? A pane of window glass? A paperweight? The lens of a telescope? It depends not entirely upon the quality of the glass itself, but also upon the artisan into whose hands it falls. You are still very much potentiality. You still need the influences of other people, different people, as many different people as possible, as your needs evolve and you yourself as a result become different. You have the advantage over the inanimate and mindless blob of molten glass in being able to pick and choose your artisans. But you must not fear that you are being selfish or exploitative. As all of these people touch your life and help to mold it, so you too alter theirs. You are just obeying something like the First Law of Thermodynamics, or perhaps the Law of Conservation of Momentum. Something like that. Gyven is no more the same man you first met, or even the man he was six months ago, than you are the same woman he first knew. Remember, he had become an almost mindless, colorless, inhuman creature under the dubious care of the Kobolds. Look at him now! You have not so much grown away from him as the both of you may have simply grown apart, rebounding like a pair of colliding masses, with altered energy and direction, each taking something from the other. You’ve done nothing more than become two distinct personalities. Perhaps you were never destined to grow into one being. But if that’s so, then it’s as good for him as it is for you.
“It’s possible, too,” he added by way of consolation, “that Gyven is going through metamorphoses of his own and he is receding from you faster than you are receding from him. And it’s even possible, if human development can be subjected to the laws of celestial mechanics, that your orbits will again intersect, like the shards of a shattered asteroid or disintegrated comet.”
“I suppose you may be right,” said Bronwyn, perversely unwilling to mitigate her misery or guilt. “But what if Gyven doesn’t return before we leave? What if he comes back and discovers that I’m gone . . . that I’m not even on the planet any longer?”
“You could leave him a note.”
When the scientist and the princess returned to the Academy, the former discovered a heavy parcel awaiting him at the concierge’s desk. He signed the form offered by the impatiently waiting delivery boy while Bronwyn struggled to carry the package into Wittenoom’s office. It was a small cube, wrapped in brown paper and coarse twine, scarcely eight inches on each side, but, as the princess set it onto the desk with a thump, she remarked on its disproportionate mass.
“It must weigh fifty pounds!” she said, as the professor entered, closing the door behind him. “Where’s it from?” he asked and she examined the stamps, cancellations and seals that plastered almost every one of the cube’s three hundred and eighty-four square inches of surface. “Great Musrum!” she exclaimed, “it’s from the Londeacan consulate in Spondula!”
“Spondula? The Spondula in Ibraila? What could possibly be in it? Who could it be from?”
While the professor speculated, Bronwyn bent her energies more practically. She snipped the heavy twine with a scissors and tore away the paper, of which there were two or three individual layers.
“I hate people who wrap packages like this. If they didn’t want us to get it open, why did they send it in the first place?”
“Why, it’s from Professor Melnikov!” exclaimed Wittenoom, who had been examining the discarded wrapping. “Whatever is he sending me anything for? He’s an archeologist, which is not my field at all, to say nothing of the fact that the man has been out of touch with the Academy for a year, off in the midst of deserts looking for lost cities and whatnot. Haven’t been able to read his reports: they’re boring as hell, as you might imagine. Dry as dust, in fact! Ha! Ha!”
“Haha, yourself,” replied the princess. “Look at this!” She had pulled a little tissue-wrapped object from the center of its nest of excelsior. It was evidently massive, in spite of its small size, vaguely cubical and scarcely four inches on a side, and she had to use both hands to lift it from the box. She dropped it with a thud to the tabletop and, tearing the tissue away, revealed a dully-gleaming yellow lump.
“Is it what it looks like?” she asked.
“It looks like gold.”
“I think that it is gold. What else is that color and weighs so much?”
“Nothing that I can think of. What are we supposed to make of this? It’s very nice of Professor Melnikov to send this to me, but it seems a little extravagant for someone I scarcely know.”
“Perhaps there’s a letter or note.” She dug around in the excelsior and did finally excavate a dirty little envelope bearing the Academy’s seal and Professor Wittenoom’s name inscribed in a spiky, scrawling hand. She handed it to him and he tore it open, pulling from it a small card.
“What does it say?” she asked, craning her neck to see over his arm.
“Not much, I’m afraid. I recall Melnikov as being somewhat taciturn, a recollection whose accuracy this note upholds.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“What does it say?”
“Ah! Yes. Hmm. Only this: ‘My dear Wittenoom,’ he begins with characteristic informality, I see, ‘My dear Wittenoom, Thought that you and your gang of halfwits might be able to make something of this. Found in fresh crater not far from where I’m excavating, near Musrumforsaken village of Wa-Wa-something-or-other. Apparently secondary fall accompanying much larger meteorite that fell about hundred miles further east. Didn’t see impact, but heard and saw dust cloud. Have no idea why gold would be dropping out of the sky, but for Musrum’s and my own sake I daren’t let any of the primitives here think that’s what’s happening, as you may or may not be able to imagine. Use it as paperweight or, more likely, fund more of those harebrained crackpots of yours. Sincerely, R. R. Melnikov.’”
“No wonder it weighs fifty pounds,” commented the princess, “It really is gold.”
“I’ve never heard of golden meteorites before,” replied the professor, “but then, meteoritics is somewhat out of my field.”
“People would go out of their minds if they thought that gold was falling out of the sky!”
“It’d certainly be dangerous. You’ve seen for yourself how massive the element is. That small specimen alone could destroy a house if it struck at the speed of the average aerolith!”
“You know, a thought has just occured to me.”
“What might that be, my dear?”
“You’ve told me that the breakup of the little moon is causing an increase in meteor showers?”
“Yes?”
“What if this meteor that fell in Ibraila is one of those meteors? One of the pieces of the little moon?”
“It may very well be. In fact, it’s most likely.”
“Well, then, if that’s so, or if it’s even possible, why, wouldn’t that mean that the moon itself is made of gold?”