Free Silas Timberman by Howard Fast

and old Dr. Lazarus Meyers, who had worked with Lowell and had been involved in the famous controversy as to whether the lines on the planet Mars were canals and whether there was life on Mars. That had been a good night, a special night with Myra, the two of them walking hand in hand until darkness fell and the lights began to blink on in the sky, and then going along the walk behind the Main Building to the little hillock on which the observatory was perched. It was not much of an observatory compared to some of the newer big ones around the country, but to Silas and Myra, who had never seen any other, its dome was large and impressive, and to Brian it would be even larger and more amazing. Amsterdam had been waiting for them, and as he took them inside, into the deeper darkness, he held his finger to his lips. The old man, Meyers, was taking a sight on Venus as it rose up above the horizon, and he was crochety in the silence he demanded when he worked at the instrument; so there was no other sound than the faint whir of the machinery that moved the telescope and the breathing of the men who stood around. Gradually, Silas’ eyes became used to the darkness, and he was able to make out the figures of the others, the white beard of Meyers, in the diffused starlight that came through the opening at the top of the dome.
    Then, when his own turn came, eternity opened up before him. That was only five years ago, but until then in all his life he had never looked into a telescope, and he was not prepared for the starry glory that appeared; he was not prepared for his motion into it, for the manner in which it absorbed him and enfolded him, enlarged him and dwindled him, so that his soul soared out only to be crushed back upon itself, himself a measureless mite in all the vastness. Myra must have experienced something of the same emotion, for when she turned away from the instrument, she went to him and held him—
    Afterwards, Myra talked with old Meyers. He liked her. She told him about the children, the two girls and the little boy who was then a year old. “What you saw through this machine,” Meyers said, “he will see it better. With his plain eyes. He and his whole generation—they will travel among the stars.”
    â€œDo you believe that? Do you really believe that?” Silas asked.
    â€œI don’t say things I don’t believe.”
    â€œAnd men will be like gods,” Myra whispered.
    â€œIf there are men,” Meyers had said. “That is the more difficult problem, my dear. If there are men.”
    And now, five years later, Brian was saying, “When will Uncle Ike take me there? When?”
    Brian stayed outside. He became a jet plane, a rocket plane, a space ship, until he soared off to chase a bird. The girls were in the livingroom, watching a television program. Silas walked through into the kitchen, where Myra was delicately and efficiently making canapes. She gave him her cheek to kiss.
    â€œHello, Si. How are you?”
    â€œI don’t know. I’ve got to think about it for a while. What are they for—cocktails?”
    â€œYes, don’t you remember? It gives me a chance to dispose of the Lundfests for a while without killing a whole evening.”
    â€œYet we’ll have to have them for dinner sooner or later.”
    â€œI like to put things off—you can’t tell what will happen. Anyway, I asked Larry Kaplin and his wife—”
    â€œEd doesn’t like them.”
    â€œI know, and I asked Bob and Susan Allen, because Joan Lundfest pines for youth and Susan thinks highly of you and she’s quite pretty.”
    â€œOf all the damn things!”
    â€œOf course. And now tell me about you. I looked for you in the free period this afternoon.”
    â€œI was with Anthony C. Cabot, president of this great university.”
    â€œAnd what did he want?”
    Silas told her, sitting on a kitchen chair, puffing at his pipe,