“And the Sun as the centre of all things? With the Earth orbiting it?”
“If the Earth truly orbited the Sun, as Copernicus claimed, then the stars above would reflect this motion. Over the course of a year, each one would seem to move in a small path in the sky. A star at right angles to the zodiac would trace out a circle. One in the zodiacal plane would be seen to move backwards and forwards in a straight line. At intermediate celestial latitudes the stars would trace out ellipses. No such motion can be seen. Therefore the Earth cannot possibly be orbiting the Sun.”
“What of the hypothesis that the stars are like the Sun? That they are not confined to a sphere but scattered through infinite space?”
“If this were so, the stars would be at different distances from us. In that case the parallax effect which I have described would result in the constellations changing shape over the course of a year. They clearly do not. The Bear, Cassiopeia and Orion are unchanging in the sky. The eye and the mind are thus in harmony with the sacred teachings. The outermost limits of the World are set by the crystalline sphere in which the stars are embedded.”
“What then is your opinion of the structure of the World?”
“The structure of the Universe reaches its most perfect description in the
Summa Theologica
of Thomas Aquinas. The greatest imperfection exists here on Earth. But when we die, the souls of the blessed travel upwards through the heavenly spheres, each sphere of heaven being more perfect than
the one before. Heaven, and God, with Christ at His right hand, lies beyond the sphere of fixed stars described by Aristotle. Three orders of angels exist here on Earth, three in the intermediate region, and three in the outermost heaven.”
Another cardinal, Mattucci, asked: “But are the complicated wanderings of the planets over the sky not best explained by the heliocentric doctrine? Do they not account for the retrograde motion of Mars as an optical illusion caused by an overtaking Earth? And is the system of Ptolemy not inferior in this respect?”
The professor said, “I cannot deny that in calculating the positions of the planets the Ptolemaic system is complicated. But even as a mathematical contrivance, the Copernican system works poorly. Copernicus created it on the basis of only a handful of observations. Further, my studies reveal that those observations are not reliable. Many of them have been corrupted by frequent copying from Ptolemy. The latter’s records are a mighty river to Copernicus’s trickling stream. The worst aspect of the Copernican hypothesis is the introduction of a moving centre for the Earth’s orbit, a completely arbitrary device whose sole purpose is to save the hypothesis.”
Mattucci persisted: “But the system is improved, is it not, by the invention of Johann Kepler that the planets move in ovals?”
“Have I a friend in court?” Vincenzo whispered.
Marcello wrinkled his nose sceptically.
The professor said, “That postulate can be made, but only as a computational device, not as a description of reality. Ellipses lack the appeal of circular symmetry. They destroy the harmony of the spheres. And for the planets to pursue these shapes, Kepler postulates the existence of occult forces proceeding from the Sun whereas, of course, the stars and planets are moved by angels.”
The Cardinal Mattucci leaned back to show that he was finished with the questioning. Terremoto took it up. “Doctor
Paolicci, apart from the deficiencies of the heliocentric doctrine, which you have so clearly described, do your eyes and mind give you positive reasons for adhering to the Ptolemaic system?”
Paolicci allowed himself a brief, sly glance at Vincenzo. “It follows logically from the rational nature of the Creator. It cannot be denied that a rational, omnipotent Creator will build a perfect Universe. Of course the Prince of Darkness then induced the Fall from Grace, which is an imperfection, but that exploits the weakness of Man and does not affect the structure of the Universe. Only one object has perfect symmetry, in the three dimensions of length, breadth and height which we inhabit. That is a sphere. A perfect Universe built by a rational Creator must therefore be spherical. And only one type of motion is natural in a spherical universe, and that is circular motion. Otherwise the symmetry would be broken. That is why, of logical necessity, planetary motion must comprise circles, and circles upon circles.”
“You do not, then, accept the Bruno hypothesis that the Universe is infinite?”
“An infinite Universe is unthinkable.”
“And the plurality of worlds? Men on Bruno’s planets?”
“Such could not have been descended from Adam, nor could they obtain Christ’s redemption.”
Cardinal Borghese took up the questioning. He looked at the prisoner and his lawyer with open hostility before turning to the professor. “Doctor, you have told us that no contradiction is possible between science and faith.”
“No Christian can believe otherwise.”
“And if a contradiction were to arise?”
“Eminence, with respect, since no such contradiction is possible, your question is without meaning.”
“An apparent contradiction, then?”
“Since actual contradiction is impossible, the appearance of it can only arise in the mind of the Turk, or the Jew, or the heretic.”
Borghese turned to the notary. “Let it be recorded that Vincenzo is neither a Turk nor a Jew.”
A succession of witnesses from universities in Bologna, Pisa, Naples and Venice was then summoned, all saying much the same thing. By midday the room was becoming hot and stifling, and the court was adjourned for four hours.
In the apartment, the young advocate flopped on to the same settee which the Grand Duke’s secretary had occupied the previous week. “You have an impressive list of enemies,” he said.
Vincenzo gestured with open palms. “Academics are prone to jealousies. And much is at stake. But I also have many supporters.”
“Unfortunately, Father, your supporters dare not support you in court, while your enemies appear to have gained the ear of Boniface. Why else would you be on trial?” Marcello reached for an apple in a bowl and started to toss it playfully in the air. “Your old friend Fracastoro—the acquaintance of Foscarini.”
“Yes?”
“He is refusing to testify on your behalf, even on the matter of your piety and character. My courier tells me the man is terrified.”
“Have I no friends?” Vincenzo asked in despair.
“Perhaps one. The Cardinal Terremoto was told of your predicament with regard to witnesses. At once he instituted a diligent search and has at last found someone willing to testify to your character. I did not find your friend’s name.”
“Thank God for a small blessing. But it seems I will have to make the scientific case myself.”
The advocate took a bite at the apple. “A case which has already been rejected by this same Congregation when Galileo tried to make it a few years ago. Confess to error, Vincenzo. The alternatives are too horrible even to mention.”
“Can I retract the truth, my son?” Vincenzo headed for a small bedroom off the apartment. The advocate put the apple
core in the fruit bowl, loosened the belt around his stomach and stretched out on the couch.
The court convened again in the late afternoon. A clerk awakened them and led the old astronomer and his lawyer down the stairs and along the corridors.
There was only one witness. A small, stooped man in priest’s habit, with a hooked nose and dark, blotchy skin, hurried into the room. Vincenzo turned to Marcello Rossi in alarm. “Grandami!” he whispered. “What is that man doing here?”
“He is your character witness.”
“What? But this man is my sworn enemy. He hates me. Who has done this to me?”
“Terremoto.”
At that moment, Vincenzo knew he was doomed.
Then it reached them.
The two generals and the civilian watched from the comfort of their brown leather armchairs as the combat crew frantically checked through their systems, mag tapes spinning and a babble of messages flooding in. The winking red lights had vanished from the map. The lists of refuelling points and aircraft aloft reappeared. The Blackjacks were almost home. The MiGs were far out over the Sea of Japan. The Kola peninsula was deserted. Winton was cool, Pino was grey and sweaty. Hooper, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, noted with disapproval that someone was hyperventilating.
A telephone rang, the pink one. Wallis observed his own hand trembling as he picked it up.
General Cannon was looking down, telephone to his ear. “Put me on loudspeaker.” Wallis pressed a button and the general’s voice boomed round the room. “April Fool,” it said.
“Sir?” said Wallis, looking up at his commanding officer. Mortified, Wallis found that his voice was as shaky as his hand.
“Somebody just stamped on the mountain. Roof sheared clean off and fell on you. You’re dead, son.”
“General Cannon, what was that?”
“Martians,” the voice boomed.
“Men from Mars?” Incredulously. The combat crew, to a man, stared up at the general.
“Affirmative.”
“Sir, Martians aren’t allowed. They’re not in SIOP.”
“Foggy, how do you know there are no little green men out there? We wanted to test how the system reacted to something crazy and the only way was to spring it on you. Operation Martian Scenario. Y’all did just fine. We have you on home movies and it’s a whole lot of use to us upstairs. You and your crew’ll have a full debriefing at the end of this shift. Then maybe you’ll want to get drunk.”
Wallis was aware of the eyes of his combat crew on him. In the confines of the steel office, the rage, fear and bewilderment were tangible. He took a deep breath and a chance with his career. “General Cannon, sir, with respect. Damn you to hell.”
There was an electric silence. Then a deep, genie laugh echoed round the office. “Son, I’m already there.”
“Doctor Sacheverell, your assessment?” Cannon asked.
“I’ll need to run a few Monte Carlo simulations. But at a first guess I’d say prompt casualties two hundred million. Dead that is,” said the civilian. “Two sugars, please.”
“Nice one,” said Cannon, pouring coffee. “You’ve solved the population explosion.”
“We’d be looking for a few survivors in freak conditions,” Sacheverell continued. “People down mines, stuff like that. Material devastation with this scenario is quite severe though. Maybe cities reduced to dust or rubble over fifty per cent of mainland USA.”
Hooper and Sacheverell might have come from different planets. Whereas Sacheverell was thin and stooped, Hooper, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, was almost as wide as he was tall. Where Sacheverell had a greasy complexion, Hooper had a deeply wrinkled, tanned face. Where the astronomer had a shock of vertical red hair and a headband, the soldier’s hair was short, white and fine. Where Sacheverell dressed like a
basic slob, with an untidy grey suit and garish red tie on a turquoise shirt, the soldier was immaculate. And where Sacheverell was stirring coffee, Hooper banged a fist angrily. Coffee spilled into the saucers. “Almighty Christ, am I supposed to believe this? Rubble?
Dust?
”
“And there’s no question of any industrial or political infrastructure surviving,” Sacheverell added, hastily picking up cup and saucer.
“Cool it, Sam. Doctor, talk about the C-cubed systems,” Cannon said.
“With this particular scenario, they collapse. But it is a bit way out and in general I can’t be sure. I’d have to get into some heavy analysis on ionospheric plasmas and I don’t have time for that.” Nor the competence, Sacheverell added to himself. “I guess you have to expect a big electromagnetic pulse over most of the country.”
“This is pure crap,” Hooper said, flipping through the pages of Sacheverell’s hastily constructed scenario. “Our command systems are nuclear hard.” In a flash of inspiration, Judy Whaler had laid the report out like a film script, fictitious descriptions of fireball impacts linked together with phrases of the “Meanwhile in San Diego” type. Appended to the Hollywood scenario, and bearing as much resemblance to it as Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde, was a spartan appendix written in the measured language of science, liberally sprinkled with equations, tables, ifs and buts. The CJCS, Sacheverell noticed, was sticking to the film script.
“Not hard enough,” Sacheverell said. “A successful Russian first strike only delivers five thousand megatons, most of that near the ground. For all we know there’s a million megatons on the way in. Even at one per cent efficiency, that’s like a million amps under a potential of a million volts flowing overhead for ten seconds.”
Cannon stirred his coffee thoughtfully. “That would melt your fillings, Sam.”
Hooper shook his head angrily, as if rejecting the whole
concept. “PARCS and PAVE PAWS would have picked your asteroid up on the way in.”
Sacheverell shook his head too. “Your radar software filters out signals with long delay times, so you only pick up stuff very near the Earth. It wouldn’t have shown up on the radars until the last minute.”
“So? We’ll re-programme.”
“You could, at the risk of swamping the computers with small space junk. Even so military radars have a limited range. By the time they detected the asteroid it would be a couple of hours from impact, far too late to stop it. Anyway, you have practically nothing covering the southern sky.”
Cannon said, “Look, Sam, anything we got into the air would get its wings ripped off even if we were C-cubed operational. This applies to TACAMO as much as Bomber Command. I can’t even guarantee we could contact Mitchell’s Trident fleet in time.”
“Let me get this right,” said Hooper, bewildered. “Are you seriously telling me that if this thing hits we’re wiped out and we can’t hit back?”
“Mitchell’s fleet would mostly survive,” said Cannon, “but so what? The point is, the thing would just be a great natural disaster. You heard Wallis on the phoney NORAD circuit: there was no attack, no enemy, nobody to hit back at.”
The Chairman, JCS, stood up. He walked over to the window and looked out through the Venetian blinds. The rasp of a Prowler penetrated the triple glazing and the room trembled, very slightly. He turned, his back to the window.