Seveneves. Neal Stephenson
Читать онлайн книгу.
seemed to go a long way, and if the pundits didn’t cut him off too soon he was frequently able to work in a plea for more government support of science. For members of the general public might not care about Wolf-Rayet stars in the Quintuplet Cluster, but they definitely saw why having hot rocks fall on one’s head was a good thing to avoid.
He always called it the breakup of the moon. Not the explosion. The term began to gain traction on Twitter, with hashtag #BUM. Whatever you called it, it was an infinitely bigger deal than a single meteor strike. So it seemed to demand more explanation. But there was no way to explain it, yet. Meteors were easy: space was full of rocks too small and dark to be seen through telescopes, and some of them snagged on the atmosphere and fell to ground. But the breakup of the moon could not have been caused by any normal astronomical phenomenon. So Doc Dubois—who spent most of the next week on camera—got out in front of that issue at every chance, always leading with a frank statement that neither he nor any other astronomer knew the cause. That was the pitch, straight down the middle. Then he added the spin: This is absolutely fascinating. It is, as a matter of fact, the most fascinating scientific event in human history. It looks scary and upsetting, but the fact is that no one has been killed by it, save for a few drivers who swerved off roads, or rear-ended stopped traffic, while rubbernecking.
At A+0.4.16 (four days and sixteen hours after the breakup of the moon), he had to amend “no one has been killed” when a meteorite, almost certainly a chunk of moon rock, entered the atmosphere over Peru, shattered windows along a twenty-mile track, and smashed into a farmstead, obliterating a small family.
But the message remained the same: let’s look at this as a scientific phenomenon and start with what we know. His friend was a video streaming site called astronomicalbodiesformerlyknownasthemoon .com, which kept a high-resolution feed of the rubble cloud running around the clock. As soon as possible in the interview, Doc Dubois would get that up on the screen and then begin making observations about the cloud. Because making observations calmed people down. The moon had broken up into seven large pieces, which inevitably became known as the Seven Sisters, and an uncountable number of smaller ones. Gradually the big ones acquired names. Doc Dubois was responsible for many of these. He gave them descriptive names that wouldn’t scare people. It wouldn’t do to call them Nemesis or Thor or Grond. So instead it was Potatohead, Mr. Spinny, Acorn, Peach Pit, Scoop, Big Boy, and Kidney Bean. Doc Dubois would point those out and then draw attention to the way they moved. This was governed entirely by Newtonian mechanics. Each piece of the moon attracted every other piece more or less strongly depending on its mass and its distance. It could be simulated on a computer quite easily. The whole rubble cloud was gravitationally bound. Any shrapnel fast enough to escape had done so already. The rest was drifting around in a loose huddle of rocks. Sometimes they banged into one another. Eventually they would stick together and the moon would begin to re-form.
Or at least that was the theory until the star party that they threw in the middle of the Caltech campus at A+0.7.0, exactly one week after the event.
Normally they held the star parties up in the hills, where the seeing was better, but seeing giant rocks close to the Earth was so easy that there was no need to go to the trouble of driving up into the mountains. It would have undercut the purpose of the event, which was to get as many members of the general public as possible out in a parklike atmosphere to peer through telescopes and make observations. The Beckman Mall was lined with yellow school buses, interspersed here and there with vans from local and network television, their masts deployed so that they could relay live video downtown. Their reporters stood in pools of light, using as backdrop an open green strewn with telescopes of various types and sizes. Little seven-card decks were handed out, each card depicting a different fragment of the moon from various angles and identifying it by its name. Kids were given the assignment to identify each of the rocks through the eyepiece of a telescope, check it off on a homework sheet, and write down an observation about it. Most of the scopes, obviously, were pointed at the Seven Sisters, but one contingent was looking at a darker part of the sky with binoculars or just their naked eyes, expecting to see meteorites. By Day 7, several hundred of these had entered the atmosphere. Or at least, several hundred large enough to be noticed. Most had burned up before hitting the ground. There had been about a score of incidents in which they drew arc-light trails across the sky, illuminating the ground below with freaky bluish radiance and producing huge sonic booms. Half a dozen had struck the ground, doing greater or lesser amounts of damage. The death toll, though, was still far beneath the statistical ground clutter of shark attacks and lightning strikes.
The evening went fine. Doob, who had raised three children to adulthood, had figured out a long time ago that any event largely organized by elementary school teachers was likely to come off extremely well from a logistical and crowd-control standpoint. So he was able to relax and be Doc, autographing Seven Sisters cards for kids and occasionally slipping into Dr. Harris mode for a discussion with a fellow astronomer.
As he wandered about the place, he had three different chance encounters with the same elementary school teacher, one Ms. Hinojosa, and fell in love with her. This was unusual. He had not been in love with anyone in twelve years. He had been divorced for nine. He found it nearly as shocking in its own way as the breakup of the moon. He tried to deal with it in the same way: by making scientific observations of the phenomenon. His working hypothesis was that the breakup of the moon had made Doob young again, exfoliating layers of emotional callus from his soul and leaving a pink shiny impressionable heart just waiting to be colonized by the first appealing woman who came along.
He was talking to Amelia—for that, as it turned out, was her first name—when a buzz moved slowly over the quad, like a gentle breeze, and caused everyone to look up.
Two of the larger pieces—Scoop and Kidney Bean—were headed right for each other. It would not be the first such collision. They happened all the time. But seeing two big chunks heading right for each other with high closing velocity was unusual, and promised a good show. Doob tried to quiet an unsettled feeling in his chest, which might have been caused by what was happening with Amelia, or by the natural trepidation that any sane person would feel upon seeing two enormous pieces of rock getting ready to smash into each other directly overhead. The good news was that people were beginning to treat the evolution of the swarm as a kind of spectator sport, to see it as fascinating and fun, not terrifying.
Scoop’s sharper edge slammed into the divot that gave Kidney Bean its name and split it in half. It all happened, of course, in quiet super-slow motion.
“And then there were eight!” Amelia said. Instinctively she had turned away from Doob and toward her brood of twenty-two students. “What just happened to Kidney Bean?” she was asking, in that teacherly way, scanning for upraised hands, looking for a kid to call on. “Can anyone tell me?”
The kids were silent and vaguely sick looking.
Amelia held up her Kidney Bean card and tore it in half.
Dr. Harris was walking toward his car. His phone rang, so startling him that he almost swerved into a school bus. What was wrong with him? His scalp was tingling, and he realized it was his hairs trying to stand up on his head. He checked the screen of the phone and saw that the call was from a colleague in Manchester. He declined to answer it and found himself looking at a new contact that he had been creating for Amelia: a snapshot of her face, just a silhouette in profile against a bank of TV lights, and her phone number. He tapped the Done button.
He had felt that tingling in the scalp once before, on a safari in Tanzania, and had turned around to see that he was being watched, interestedly, by a group of hyenas. The thing that had scared him hadn’t been the hyenas themselves. Those, and even more dangerous animals, were all over the place. Rather, it was the sudden awareness that he had let his guard down, that he had been focusing his attention on the wrong thing while the real danger had been circling around behind him.
He had wasted a week on the fascinating scientific puzzle of “What blew up the moon?”
That had been a mistake.