The Man Who Rocked the Earth | Page 5

and
replacement has already been let. The famous monument was a present from the Khedive
of Egypt to the United States, and formerly stood in Alexandria. The late William H.
Vanderbilt defrayed the expense of transporting it to this country.
Bill Hood read this with scant interest. The Giants had knocked the Braves' pitcher out of
the box, and an earthquake seemed a small matter. His mind did not once revert to the
mysterious message from Pax the day before. He was thinking of something far more
important.
"Say, Nellie," he demanded, tossing aside the paper impatiently, "ain't those waffles
ready yet?"

III
On that same evening, Thursday, July 22d, two astronomers attached to the Naval
Observatory sat in the half darkness of the meridian-circle room watching the firmament
sweep slowly across the aperture of the giant lens. The chamber was as quiet as the grave,
the two men rarely speaking as they noted their observations. Paris might be taken, Berlin
be razed, London put to the torch; a million human beings might be blown into eternity,
or the shrieks of mangled creatures lying in heaps before pellet-strewn barbed-wire
entanglements rend the summer night; great battleships of the line might plunge to the
bottom, carrying their crews with them; and the dead of two continents rot unburied--yet
unmoved the stars would pursue their nightly march across the heavens, cruel day would
follow pitiless night, and the careless earth follow its accustomed orbit as though the race
were not writhing in its death agony. Gazing into the infinity of space human existence
seemed but the scum upon a rainpool, human warfare but the frenzy of insectivora.
Unmindful of the starving hordes of Paris and Berlin, of plague-swept Russia, or of the
drowned thousands of the North Baltic Fleet, these two men calmly studied the
procession of the stars--the onward bore of the universe through space, and the spectra of
newborn or dying worlds.
It was a suffocatingly hot night and their foreheads reeked with sweat. Dim shapes on the
walls of the room indicated what by day was a tangle of clockwork and recording
instruments, connected by electricity with various buttons and switches upon the table.
The brother of the big clock in the wireless operating room hung nearby, its face
illuminated by a tiny electric lamp, showing the hour to be eleven-fifty. Occasionally the

younger man made a remark in a low tone, and the elder wrote something on a card.
"The 'seeing' is poor to-night," said Evarts, the younger man. "The upper air is full of
striae and, though it seems like a clear night, everything looks dim--a volcanic haze
probably. Perhaps the Aleutian Islands are in eruption again."
"Very likely," answered Thornton, the elder astronomer. "The shocks this afternoon
would indicate something of the sort."
"Curious performance of the magnetic needle. They say it held due east for several
minutes," continued Evarts, hoping to engage his senior in conversation--almost an
impossibility, as he well knew.
Thornton did not reply. He was carefully observing the infinitesimal approach of a certain
star to the meridian line, marked by a thread across the circle's aperture. When that point
of light should cross the thread it would be midnight, and July 22, 1916, would be gone
forever. Every midnight the indicating stars crossed the thread exactly on time, each night
a trifle earlier than the night before by a definite and calculable amount, due to the march
of the earth around the sun. So they had crossed the lines in every observatory since
clocks and telescopes had been invented. Heretofore, no matter what cataclysm of nature
had occurred, the star had always crossed the line not a second too soon or a second too
late, but exactly on time. It was the one positively predictable thing, foretellable for ten or
for ten thousand years by a simple mathematical calculation. It was surer than death or
the tax-man. It was absolute.
Thornton was a reserved man of few words--impersonal, methodical, serious. He spent
many nights there with Evarts, hardly exchanging a phrase with him, and then only on
some matter immediately concerned with their work. Evarts could dimly see his long,
grave profile bending over his eyepiece, shrouded in the heavy shadows across the table.
He felt a great respect, even tenderness, for this taciturn, high-principled, devoted
scientist. He had never seen him excited, hardly ever aroused. He was a man of figures,
whose only passion seemed to be the "music of the spheres."
A long silence followed, during which Thornton seemed to bend more intently than ever
over his eyepiece. The hand of the big clock slipped gradually to midnight.
"There's something wrong with the clock," said Thornton suddenly, and his voice
sounded curiously dry, almost unnatural. "Telephone to the equatorial room