From the Ocean from teh Stars (55 page)

☆
OUT OF THE SUN

I
f you have only lived on Earth, you have never seen
the sun. Of course, we could not look at it directly, but only through dense
filters that cut its rays down to endurable brilliance. It hung there forever
above the low, jagged hills to the west of the Observatory, neither rising nor setting, yet moving around a small circle in the sky during the eighty-
eight-day year of our little world. For it is not quite true to say that
Mercury keeps the same face always turned toward the sun; it wobbles
slightly on its axis, and there is a narrow twilight belt which knows such
terrestrial commonplaces as dawn and sunset.

We were on the edge of the twilight zone, so that we could take
advantage of the cool shadows yet could keep the sun under continuous
surveillance as it hovered there above the hills. It was a full-time job
for fifty astronomers and other assorted scientists; when we've kept it
up for a hundred years or so, we may know something about the small
star that brought life to Earth.

There wasn't a single band of solar radiation that someone at the Observatory had not made a life's study and was watching like a hawk.
From the far X rays to the longest of radio waves, we had set our traps
and snares; as soon as the sun thought of something new, we were ready
for it. So we imagined. . . .

The sun's flaming heart beats in a slow, eleven-year rhythm, and we
were near the peak of the cycle. Two of the greatest spots ever recorded—
each of them large enough to swallow a hundred Earths—had drifted
across the disk like great black funnels piercing deeply into the turbulent
outer layers of the sun. They were black, of course, only by contrast with
the brilliance all around them; even their dark, cool cores were hotter and brighter than an electric arc. We had just watched the second of them
disappear around the edge of the disk, wondering if it would survive to reappear two weeks later, when something blew up on the equator.

It was not too spectacular at first, partly because it was almost exactly beneath us—at the precise center of the sun's disk—and so was merged into all the activity around it. If it had been near the edge of the sun, and thus projected against the background of space, it would have been truly awe-inspiring.

Imagine the simultaneous explosion of a million H-bombs. You can't? Nor can anyone else—but that was the sort of thing we were watching climb up toward us at hundreds of miles a second, straight out of the sun's spinning equator. At first it formed a narrow jet, but it was quickly frayed around the edges by the magnetic and gravitational forces that were fighting against it. The central core kept right on, and it was soon obvious that it had escaped from the sun completely and was headed out into space—with us as its first target.

Though this had happened half a dozen times before, it was always exciting. It meant that we could capture some of the very substance of the sun as it went hurtling past in a great cloud of electrified gas. There was no danger; by the time it reached us it would be far too tenuous to do any damage, and, indeed, it would take sensitive instruments to detect it at all.

One of those instruments was the Observatory's radar, which was in continual use to map the invisible ionized layers that surround the sun for millions of miles. This was my department; as soon as there was any hope of picking up the oncoming cloud against the solar background, I aimed my giant radio mirror toward it.

It came in sharp and clear on the long-range screen—a vast, luminous island still moving outward from the sun at hundreds of miles a second. At this distance it was impossible to see its finer details, for my radar waves were taking minutes to make the round trip and to bring me back the information they were presenting on the screen. Even at its speed of not far short of a million miles an hour, it would be almost two days before the escaping prominence reached the orbit of Mercury and swept past us toward the outer planets. But neither Venus nor Earth would record its passing, for they were nowhere near its line of flight.

The hours drifted by; the sun had settled down after the immense convulsion that had shot so many millions of tons of its substance into space, never to return. The aftermath of that eruption was now a slowly twisting and turning cloud a hundred times the size of Earth, and soon it would be close enough for the short-range radar to reveal its finer structure.

Despite all the years I have been in the business, it still gives me a thrill to watch that line of hght paint its picture on the screen as it spins

in synchronism with the narrow beam of radio waves from the transmitter.
I sometimes think of myself as a blind man exploring the space around
him with a stick that may be a hundred million miles in length. For man
is truly blind to the things I study; these great clouds of ionized gas moving
far out from the sun are completely invisible to the eye and even to the most sensitive of photographic plates. They are ghosts that briefly haunt
the solar system during the few hours of their existence; if they did not
reflect our radar waves or disturb our magnetometers, we should never
know that they were there.

The picture on the screen looked not unlike a photograph of a spiral
nebula, for as the cloud slowly rotated it trailed ragged arms of gas for
ten thousand miles around it. Or it might have been a terrestrial hurricane
that I was watching from above as it spun through the atmosphere of
Earth. The internal structure was extremely complicated, and was changing minute by minute beneath the action of forces which we have never
fully understood. Rivers of fire were flowing in curious paths under what
could only be the influence of electric fields; but why were they appearing
from nowhere and disappearing again as if matter was being created and
destroyed? And what were those gleaming nodules, larger than the moon,
that were being swept along like boulders before a flood?

Now it was less than a million miles away; it would be upon us in
little more than an hour. The automatic cameras were recording every
complete sweep of the radar scan, storing up evidence which was to keep
us arguing for years. The magnetic disturbance riding ahead of the cloud
had already reached us; indeed, there was hardly an instrument in the
Observatory that was not reacting in some way to the onrushing ap
parition.

I switched to the short-range scanner, and the image of the cloud expanded so enormously that only its central portion was on the screen.
At the same time I began to change frequency, tuning across the spectrum
to differentiate among the various levels. The shorter the wave length,
the farther you can penetrate into a layer of ionized gas; by this technique I hoped to get a kind of X-ray picture of the cloud's interior.

It seemed to change before my eyes as I sliced down through the
tenuous outer envelope with its trailing arms, and approached the denser
core. "Denser," of course, was a purely relative word; by terrestrial
standards even its most closely packed regions were still a fairly good vacuum. I had almost reached the limit of my frequency band, and could
shorten the wave length no farther, when I noticed the curious, tight little echo not far from the center of the screen.

It was oval, and much more sharp-edged than the knots of gas we

had watched adrift in the cloud's fiery streams. Even in that first glimpse,
I knew that here was something very strange and outside all previous
records of solar phenomena. I watched it for a dozen scans of the radar beam, then called my assistant away from the radio-spectrograph, with
which he was analyzing the velocities of the swirling gas as it spun toward
us.

"Look, Don," I asked him, "have you ever seen anything like that?"

"No," he answered after a careful examination. "What holds it to
gether? It hasn't changed its shape for the last two minutes."

"That's what puzzles me. Whatever it is, it should have started to break up by now, with all that disturbance going on around it. But it
seems as stable as ever."

"How big would you say it is?"

I switched on the calibration grid and took a quick reading.

"It's about five hundred miles long, and half that in width."

"Is this the largest picture you can get?"

"I'm afraid so. We'll have to wait until it's closer before we can see
what makes it tick."

Don gave a nervous little laugh.

"This is crazy," he said, "but do you know something? I feel as if I'm looking at an amoeba under a microscope."

I did not answer; for, with what I can only describe as a sensation of
intellectual vertigo, exactly the same thought had entered my mind.

We forgot about the rest of the cloud, but luckily the automatic
cameras kept up their work and no important observations were lost.
From now on we had eyes only for that sharp-edged lens of gas that was growing minute by minute as it raced toward us. When it was no farther
away than is the moon from Earth, it began to show the first signs of
its internal structure, revealing a curious mottled appearance that was
never quite the same on two successive sweeps of the scanner.

By now, half the Observatory staff had joined us in the radar room,
yet there was complete silence as the oncoming enigma grew swiftly
across the screen. It was coming straight toward us; in a few minutes it
would hit Mercury somewhere in the center of the daylight side, and that would be the end of it—whatever it was. From the moment we obtained
our first really detailed view until the screen became blank again could not
have been more than five minutes; for every one of us, that five minutes
will haunt us all our lives.

We were looking at what seemed to be a translucent oval, its interior laced with a network of almost invisible lines. Where the lines crossed
there appeared to be tiny, pulsing nodes of light; we could never be

quite sure of their existence because the radar took almost a minute to
paint the complete picture on the screen—and beween each sweep the
object moved several thousand miles. There was no doubt, however, that
the network itself existed; the cameras settled any arguments about that.

So strong was the impression that we were looking at a solid object that I took a few moments off from the radar screen and hastily focused
one of the optical telescopes on the sky. Of course, there was nothing
to be seen—no sign of anything silhouetted against the sun's pock-marked
disk. This was a case where vision failed completely and only the electrical
senses of the radar were of any use. The thing that was coming toward us
out of the sun was as transparent as air—and far more tenuous.

As those last moments ebbed away, I am quite sure that every one
of us had reached the same conclusion—and was waiting for someone to
say it first. What we were seeing was impossible, yet the evidence was
there before our eyes. We were looking at life, where no life could ex
ist. . . .

The eruption had hurled the thing out of its normal environment, deep down in the flaming atmosphere of the sun. It was a miracle that
it had survived its journey through space; already it must be dying, as
the forces that controlled its huge, invisible body lost their hold over the
electrified gas which was the only substance it possessed.

Today, now that I have run through those films a hundred times, the
idea no longer seems so strange to me. For what is life but organized
energy? Does it matter
what
form that energy takes—whether it is chemi
cal, as we know it on Earth, or purely electrical, as it seemed to be
here? Only the pattern is important; the substance itself is of no signifi
cance. But at the time I did not think of this; I was conscious only of a
vast and overwhelming wonder as I watched this creature of the sun live
out the final moments of its existence.

Was it intelligent? Could it understand the strange doom that had
befallen it? There are a thousand such questions that may never be
answered. It is hard to see how a creature born in the fires of the sun
itself could know anything of the external universe, or could even sense
the existence of something as unutterably cold as rigid nongaseous matter.
The living island that was falling upon us from space could never have
conceived, however intelligent it might be, of the world it was so swiftly
approaching.

Now it filled our sky—and perhaps, in those last few seconds, it knew
that something strange was ahead of it. It may have sensed the far-flung
magnetic field of Mercury, or felt the tug of our little world's gravitational
pull. For it had begun to change; the luminous lines that must have been