He sat upright, hands on knees, elbows cocked outward and let a freezing formality settle over him. “So you wonder about the function of menial science in an investigation such as this, Dr. Cimon. Suppose I told you that the end of the first settlement might possibly be explained on a simple, psychological basis.”
“It wouldn’t impress me. A psychologist is a man who can explain anything and prove nothing.” Cimon smirked like a man who had made an epigram and was proud of it.
Sheffield ignored it. He said, “Let me go into a little detail. In what way is Junior different from every one of the eighty-three thousand inhabited worlds?”
“Our information is as yet incomplete. I cannot say.”
“Oh, cobber-vital s. You had the necessary information before you ever came here. Junior has two suns.”
“Well, of course.” But the astrophysicist allowed a trace of discomfiture to enter his expression.
“Colored suns, mind you. Colored suns. Do you know what that means? It means that a human being yourself or myself, standing in the full glare of the two suns, would cast two shadows. One blue-green, one red-orange. The length of each would naturally vary with the time of day. Have you taken the trouble to verify the color distribution in those shadows? The what-do-you-call-em—reflection spectrum?”
“I presume,” said Cimon, loftily, “they’d be-about the same as the radiation spectra of the suns. What are you getting at?”
“You should check. Wouldn’t the air absorb some wave-lengths? And the vegetation? What’s left? And take Junior’s moon, Sister. I’ve been watching it in the last few nights. It’s in colors, too, and the colors change position.”
“Well, of course. It runs through its phases independently with each sun.”