CHAPTER XXII

Whether or not Cameron would speak to Coverly after their last interview was highly questionable; but it appeared to be Coverly’s only chance and he decided to take it, moved mostly by his indignation at the capriciousness of the security officers who could confuse his old cousin’s eccentricities with national security. He flew to Washington that night and went to Room 763 in the morning. His temporary security clearance served and he had no trouble getting in. There were very few spectators. Cameron came in at another door at quarter after ten and went directly to the witness stand. He was carrying what appeared to be a violin case. The chairman began to question him at once and Coverly admired the quality of his composure and the density of his eyebrows.

“Dr. Cameron?”

“Yes, sir.” His voice was much the best in the room; the most commanding, the most virile.

“Are you familiar with the name Bracciani?”

“I have answered this question before. My answer is on record.”

“The records of previous hearings have nothing to do with us today. I have requested the records of earlier hearings but my colleagues have refused them. Are you familiar with the name Bracciani?”

“I see no reason why I should come to Washington repeatedly to answer the same questions,” the doctor said.

“You are familiar with the name Bracciani?”

“Yes.”

“In what connection?”

“Bracciani was my name. It was changed to Cameron by Judge Southerland in Cleveland, Ohio, in 1932.”

“Bracciani was your father’s name?”

“Yes.”

“Your father was an immigrant?”

“All of this is known to you.”

“I have already told you, Dr. Cameron, that my colleagues have withheld the records of earlier hearings.”

“My father was an immigrant.”

“Was there anything in his past that would have encouraged you to disown his name?”

“My father was an excellent man.”

“If there was nothing embarrassing, disloyal or subversive in your father’s past, why did you feel obliged to disown his name?”

“I changed my name,” the doctor said, “for a variety of reasons. It was difficult to spell, it was difficult to pronounce, it was difficult to identify myself efficiently. I also changed my name because there are some parts of this country and some people who still suspect anything foreign. A foreign name is inefficient. I changed my name as in going from one country to another one changes one’s currency.”

A second senator was recognized; a younger man. “Isn’t it true, Dr. Cameron,” he asked, “that you are opposed to any investigation beyond our own solar system and that you have refused money, cooperation and technical assistance to anyone who has challenged your opinions?”

“I am not interested in interstellar travel,” he said quietly, “if that’s what you meant to ask me. The idea is absurd and my opinion is based on fundamental properties such as time, acceleration, power, mass and energy. However, I would like to make it clear that I do not assume our civilization to be the one intelligent civilization in the universe.” That fleeting smile passed over his face, a jewel of forced and insincere patience, and he leaned forward a little in his chair. “I feel that life and intelligence will have developed at about the same speed as on earth wherever the proper surroundings and the needed time have been provided. Present data—and these are extremely limited—suggest that life may have developed on the planets of about six percent of all stars. I feel myself that the spectrum of light reflected from the dark areas of Mars shows characteristics that prove the presence of plant life. As I’ve said, I think the possibilities of interstellar travel absurd; but interstellar communication is something else again.

“The number of civilizations with whom we might possibly communicate depends upon six factors. One: The rate at which stars like our sun are being formed. Two: The fraction of such stars that have planets. Three: The fraction of such planets that can sustain life. Four: The fraction of livable planets upon which life has arisen. Five: The fraction of the latter that have produced beings with a technology adequate for interstellar communication. Six: The longevity of this high technology. About one in three million stars has the probability of a civilization in orbit. However, this could still mean millions of such civilizations within our galaxy alone and, as you gentlemen all know, there are billions of galaxies.” The hypocritical smile again passed over his face. Gas? Coverly wondered. “It seems unlikely to me,” he went on, “that technologies would develop on a planet covered with water. Some of my colleagues are enthusiastic about the intelligence of the dolphin but it seems to me that the dolphin is not likely to develop an interest in interstellar space.” He waited for the hesitant and scattered laughter to abate. “The twenty-one-centimeter band—that is, one thousand four hundred and twenty megacycles—emitted by the colliding atoms of hydrogen throughout space has produced some interesting signals, especially from Tau Ceti, but I am very skeptical about their coherence. I do believe that scientists in every advanced civilization will have discovered that the energy value of each unit or quantum of radiation, whether in the form of light or radio waves, equals its frequency times a value known to us, and perhaps to some of you, as Planck’s Constant.

“Optical masers appear to be our most promising means of interstellar communication.” Now he was deep in his classroom manner and nothing would stop him until he had inflicted on them all the tedium, excitement and pain of a lecture period. “The optical version of these masers can produce a beam of light so intense and narrow that, if transmitted from the earth, it would illuminate a small portion of the moon.” Again there was the fleeting, the sugary smile. “Extraneous wavelengths are eliminated so that unlike most light beams this one is pure enough to be modulated for voice transmission. A maser system could be detected with our present technology if it were transmitting from a solar system ten light years away. We must study the spectra of light from nearby stars for emission lines of peculiar sharpness and strength. This would be unmistakable evidence of maser transmissions from a planet orbiting that star. The light signals would be elaborately coded. In the case of a system one thousand light years away it would take two thousand years to ask a question and receive an answer. A superior civilization would load its signal beam with vast amounts of information. A highly advanced civilization, having triumphed over hunger, disease and war, would naturally turn its energies into the search for other worlds. However, a highly advanced civilization might take another direction.” Here his voice so grated with censoriousness and reproach that it woke two senators who were dozing. “A highly advanced civilization might well destroy itself with luxury, alcoholism, sexual license, sloth, greed and corruption. I feel that our own civilization is seriously threatened by biological and mental degeneration.

“But to get back to your original question.” He used the smile this time to indicate a change of scenery; they were in another part of the forest. “The earth-moon system extends its influence for a considerable distance into space. The earth’s gravity, magnetism and reflected radiation have no appreciable influence. At the climax of the sunspot cycle the sun erupts, putting clouds of gas into space. Magnetic storms of great violence usually break out on earth a day or so later. But the nature of interplanetary space is absolutely unknown. We know nothing about the shape, composition and magnetic characteristics of the clouds from the sun. We don’t even know whether they follow a spiraling or a direct path. Mapping the solar system is virtually impossible because of the uncertainty as to the precise distance between the planets and the sun.”

“Dr. Cameron?” Another senator had been recognized.

“Yes.”

“We have some sworn testimony here on the subject of what some of your colleagues have described as an ungovernable temper. Dr. Pewters testified that on August 14th, during a discussion of the feasibility of moon travel, you tore down the Venetian blinds in his office and stamped on them.” Cameron smiled indulgently. “Hugh Tompkins, an enlisted man and a driver from the motor pool, claims that when he was delayed, through no fault of his own, in reaching your office, you slapped him several times in the face, ripped the buttons off his uniform and used obscene language. Miss Helen Eckert, a stewardess for Pan-American Airlines, states that when your flight from Europe was forced to land in Chicago rather than in New York you created such a disturbance that you seriously threatened the safety of the flight. Dr. Winslow Turner states that during a symposium on interstellar travel you threw a heavy glass ashtray at him, cutting his face severely. There is a deposition here, from the doctor who stitched up the cut.”

“I plead guilty to all these offenses,” the doctor said charmingly.

“Dr. Cameron?” asked another senator.

“Yes.”

“Critics of your administration at Talifer state that you have neither terminated, suspended nor reduced experiments that have so far cost the government six hundred million dollars and that appear to be fruitless. They state that a total of four hundred and seventeen million has been spent on abortive missiles and another fifty-six million on inoperative tracking experiments. They state that your administration has been characterized by mismanagement, waste and duplication.”

“I don’t, in this instance, know what you mean by fruitless, abortive and inoperative, Senator,” Cameron said. “Talifer is an experimental station and our work cannot be reduced to linear mathematics. All my decisions, viewed in the full light of all factors, seem to me to have been proper at the time and I assume full responsibility for them all.”

“Dr. Cameron?” The next senator to be recognized was a stout man and seemed oddly shy for a politician.

“Yes.”

“My question is perhaps not germane, it involves my constituents, indeed it involves their well-being, their health, but as you know the microbes that breed in missile fuel have been traced to an outbreak of respiratory disease in the vicinity of Talifer.”

“I beg your pardon, Senator, but there is absolutely no scientific proof tracing these microbes to the unfortunate outbreak of respiratory disease. No scientific proof at all. We do know that microbes breed in the fuel—a fungus of the genus Loremendrum that produces airborne spores and special mutants. These are no more significant than the microbes that breed in gasoline, kerosene and jet fuel. In volumes so large a concentration of contaminants can quickly become a troublesome amount of residue.”

“Dr. Cameron?” One saw this time an old man, slim and with the extraordinary pallor of an uncommonly long life span. Indeed, he seemed more dead than alive. At a little distance his shaking hands appeared to be bone. He wore a piped vest and a well-cut suit and had the stance of a dandy, a dandy’s air of self-esteem. His nose was enormous and purple and hooked to the bridge was a pince-nez from which depended a long, black ribbon. His voice was not feeble but he spoke with that helplessness before emotion of the very old and now and then dried, with a broad linen handkerchief, a trickle of saliva that ran down his chin.

“Yes,” the doctor said.

“I was born in a small town, Dr. Cameron,” the old man said. “I think the difference between this noisy and public world in which we now live and the world I remember is quite real, quite real.” There was an embarrassing pause as he seemed to wait for his heart to pump enough blood for his brain to carry on. “Men of my age, I know, are inclined to think sentimentally of the past and yet even after discounting these deplorable sentiments I think I can find much in the past that is genuinely praiseworthy. However . . .” He seemed again to have forgotten what he planned to say; seemed again to be waiting for the blood to rise. “However, I have lived through five wars, all of them bloody, crushing, costly and unjust, and I think inescapable, but in spite of this evidence of man’s inability to live peacefully with his kind I do hope that the world, with all its manifest imperfections, will be preserved.” He dried his cheeks with his handkerchief. “I am told that you are famous, that you are great, that you are esteemed and honored everywhere and I respect your honors unequivocally but at the same time I find in your thinking some narrowness, some unwillingness, I should say, to acknowledge those simple ties that bind us to one another and to the gardens of the earth.” He dried his tears again and his old shoulders shook with a sob. “We possess Promethean powers but don’t we lack the awe, the humility, that primitive man brought to the sacred fire? Isn’t this a time for uncommon awe, supreme humility? If I should have to make some final statement, and I shall very soon for I am nearing the end of my journey, it would be in the nature of a thanksgiving for stout-hearted friends, lovely women, blue skies, the bread and wine of life. Please don’t destroy the earth, Dr. Cameron,” he sobbed. “Oh, please, please don’t destroy the earth.”

Cameron courteously overlooked this outburst and the questioning went on.

“Is it true, Dr. Cameron, that you believe in the inevitability of hydrogen warfare?”

“Yes.”

“Would you give us an estimate of the number of survivors?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. It would be the roughest guesswork. I think there will be a substantial number of survivors.”

“In the case of reverses, Dr. Cameron, would you be in favor of destroying the planet?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I would. If we cannot survive, then we are entitled to destroy the planet.”

“Who would decide that we had reached the ultimate point of survival?”

“I do not know.”

The old man, having dried his tears, was up on his feet again. “Dr. Cameron, Dr. Cameron,” he asked, “don’t you think that there might be some bond of warmth amongst the peoples of the earth that has been underestimated?”

“Some what?” Cameron was not discourteous, but he was dry.

“Some bond of human warmth,” the old man said.

“Men and women,” the doctor said, “are chemical entities, easily assessable, easily altered by the artificial increase or elimination of chromosomal structures, much more predictable, much more malleable, than some plant life and in many cases much less interesting.”

“Is it true, Dr. Cameron,” the old man went on, “that your reading is confined to Western Romances?”

“I think I read as much as most men of my generation,” the doctor replied. “I sometimes go to the movies. I watch television.”

“But isn’t it true, Dr. Cameron,” the old man asked, “that the humanities have not been a part of your education?”

“You are talking to a musician,” the doctor said.

“Did I understand you to say that you’re a musician?”

“Yes, Senator. I am a violinist. You seem to have suggested that my lack of familiarity in the humanities would account for my cool-headedness about the demolition of the planet. This is not true. I love music and music is surely one of the most exalted of the arts.”

“Did I understand you to say that you play the violin?”

“Yes, Senator, I play the violin.”

He opened the violin case, took out an instrument, which he rosined and tuned, and played a Bach air. It was a simple piece of beginner’s music and he played it no better than any child but when he finished there was a round of applause. He put the violin away.

“Thank you, Dr. Cameron, thank you.” It was the old man who was once more on his feet. “Your music was charming and reminded me of a reverie I often enjoy when some man from another planet who has seen our earth says to his friends: ‘Come, come, let us rush to the earth. It is shaped like an egg, covered with fertile seas and continents, warmed and lighted by the sun. It has churches of indescribable beauty raised to gods that have never been seen, cities whose distant roofs and smokestacks will make your heart leap, auditoriums in which people listen to music of the most serious import and thousands of museums where man’s drive to celebrate life is recorded and preserved. Oh, let us rush to see this world! They have invented musical instruments to stir the finest aspirations. They have invented games to catch the hearts of the young. They have invented ceremonies to exalt the love of men and women. Oh, let us rush to see this world!’” He sat down.

“Dr. Cameron?” It was the voice of a senator who had just come in. “You have a son?”

“I had a son,” the doctor said. There was a splendid edge to his voice.

“You mean to say that your son is dead?”

“My son is in a hospital. He is an incurable invalid.”

“What is the nature of his illness?”

“He is suffering from a glandular deficiency.”

“What is the name of the hospital?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Is it the Pennsylvania State Hospital for the Insane?”

The doctor colored, he seemed touched. He was on the defensive for a moment. Then he rallied.

“I don’t recall.”

“In discussing your son’s illness has the subject of your treatment of him ever arisen?”

“All the discussions of my son’s illness,” the doctor said forcefully, “have unfortunately been confined to psychiatrists. These discussions are not sympathetic to me because psychiatry is not a science. My son is suffering from a glandular deficiency and no idle investigation of his past life will alter this fact.”

“Do you recall an incident when your son was four years old and you punished him with a cane?”

“I don’t recall any specific incident. I probably punished the boy.”

“You admit to punishing the boy?”

“Of course. My life is highly disciplined. I cannot tolerate a hint of disobedience or unreliability in my organization, my associates or myself. My life, my work, involving the security of the planet, would have been impossible if I had relaxed this point of view.”

“Is it true that you beat him so cruelly with a cane that he had to be taken to the hospital and kept there for two weeks?”

“As I have said, my life is highly disciplined. If I should relax my disciplines I would expect to be punished. I treat those around me in the same way.”

He replied with dignity but the damage had been done.

“Dr. Cameron,” the senator asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you ever remember employing a housekeeper named Mildred Henning?”

“That’s a difficult question.” He put a hand to his eyes. “I may have employed this woman.”

“Mrs. Henning, will you please come in.”

An old, white-haired woman dressed in mourning came through the door and when the formalities of recognition had been established she was asked to testify. Her voice was cracked and faint. “I worked for him six years in California,” she said, “and toward the end I just stayed on to try and protect the boy, Philip. He was always after him. Sometimes it seemed like he wanted to kill him.”

“Mrs. Henning, will you please describe the incident you mentioned to us earlier.”

“Yes. I have the dates here. I had to call the county health officer and so I have the dates. It was the nineteenth of May. He, the doctor, left some change, some silver, on his bureau and the boy helped himself to a twenty-five-cent piece. You couldn’t blame him. He never had a penny for himself. When the doctor came home that night he counted his money, he was very methodical. When he seen that he was short some he asked the boy if he took it. Well, he was a good, honest boy and he owned right up to it. So then the doctor took him to his room, the boy had a room at the back of the house and there was a closet and he told him to go into the closet. Then he went into the bathroom and got him a glass of water and he gave him the water and then he locked the closet door. This was about quarter to seven. I didn’t say anything because I wanted to help the boy and I knew if I opened my big mouth it would only make things worse for the boy. So I served the doctor his dinner with a straight face and then I listened and I waited but I didn’t go near the closet where the poor boy was locked in the dark. So then I went to the closet in my bare feet and I whispered to him but he was crying so, he was so miserable that he couldn’t do anything but sob and I told him not to worry, that I was going to lie down there on the floor by the closet and stay all night and I did. I lay there until dawn and then I whispered good-bye to him and I went down and cooked the breakfast. Well, the doctor went to the site at eight and then I tried to unlock the door but it was a good strong lock and none of the keys in the house would open it and still the poor boy was crying so that he couldn’t speak hardly and he had drunk his water and had nothing to eat and there was no way of getting any water or food in to him. So when my housework was done I got a chair and sat by the door and talked with him until half-past six when the doctor come home and I thought he’d let the boy out then but he didn’t go near the back of the house and ate his supper just as if nothing was wrong. Well, then I waited, I waited until he started to get ready for bed and then I called the police. He told me to get out of the house, he told me I was fired and when the police come he tried to get them to throw me out but I got the policeman to open the closet and the poor little fellow—oh, he was so sick—come out but I had to go although it broke my heart to leave him alone and I never saw the doctor again until today.”

“Do you recall this incident, Dr. Cameron?”

“Do you suppose, with my responsibilities, that I can afford to entertain such recollections?”

“You don’t recall punishing the boy?”

“If I punished him I only meant to teach him right from wrong.” His voice still had its edge, still soared, but he took no one with him.

“You don’t recall locking your son in a closet for two days with nothing to eat or drink?”

“I gave him water.”

“Then you do recall the incident?”

“I only wanted to teach him right from wrong.”

“Do you visit your son?”

“From time to time.” Something was carrying him on, some energy. He smiled.

“Do you remember the last time you visited him?”

“I can’t recall.”

“Would it have been ten years ago?”

“I can’t recall.”

“Would you recognize your son?”

“Of course.”

“Daddy, Daddy.”

The man who spoke from the open door seemed older than his father. His hair was white; his face was swollen. He was crying and he crossed the hearing room, knelt where his father sat, awkwardly for he was not a child, and put his head on the doctor’s knee. “Daddy,” he cried, “oh, Daddy. It’s raining.”

“Yes, dear.” It was the most eloquent thing he had said. He no longer saw the hearing room or his persecutors. He seemed immersed in some human, some intensely human balance of love and misgiving as if the feelings were a storm with a circumference and an eye and he was in the stillness of the eye. “It’s raining, Daddy,” the man said. “Stay with me. Don’t go out in the rain. Stay with me just once. They tell me you’ve hurt me but I don’t believe them. I love you, Daddy. I’ll always love you, Daddy. I write you all the time, Daddy, but you never answer my letters. Why don’t you answer my letters, Daddy? Why don’t you ever answer my letters?”

“I don’t answer your letters because I’m ashamed of them,” the doctor said hoarsely but not as if he spoke to someone childish or insane but to an equal, his son. “I send you everything you need. I sent you some nice stationery but you write me on wrapping paper, you write me on laundry lists, you even write me on toilet paper.” His voice rose in anger and rang off the marble walls. “How in hell do you expect me to answer letters when you write them on toilet paper? I’m ashamed to receive them, I’m ashamed to see them. They remind me of everything in life I detest.”

“Daddy, Daddy,” the man cried.

“We’ll go now, Philip. We have to go.” There was an attendant with him. The attendant took his patient by the arm.

“No, I want to stay with Daddy. It’s raining and I want to stay with Daddy.”

“Come along, Philip.”

“Daddy, Daddy,” he cried, all the way to the door, and when it closed he could still be heard as Mrs. Henning must have heard his voice in the closet so many years ago.

“I move,” the old man said, “that we propose, if that lies within our power, a suspension of Dr. Cameron’s security clearance.” The proposal seemed to be within their power. The motion was passed and the meeting was adjourned. Cameron remained in the witness chair and Coverly went out with the others.