“What, in your opinion, is a possible cause, any possible cause, of the stellar movements of the last night or two?”
He tabulated the results.
“I wish I knew.” —Geo. F. Stubbs, Tripp Observatory, Long Island.
“Somebody or something is crazy, and I hope it’s me—I mean I.” —Henry Collister McAdams, Lloyd Observatory, Boston.
“What’s happening is impossible. There can’t be any cause.” —Letton Tischauer Tinney, Burgoyne Observatory, Albuquerque.
“I’m looking for an expert on astrology. Know one?” —Patrick R. Whitaker, Lucas Observatory, Vermont.
Sadly studying this tabulation, which had cost him $187.35, including tax, to obtain, Editor Wangren signed a voucher to cover the long distance calls and then dropped his tabulation into the wastebasket. He telephoned his regular space-rates writer on scientific subjects.
“Can you give me a series of articles—two-three thousand words each—on all this astronomical excitement?”
“Sure,” said the writer. “But what excitement?” It transpired that he’d just got back from a fishing trip and had neither read a newspaper nor happened to look up at the sky. But he wrote the articles. He even got sex appeal into them through illustrations, by using ancient star-charts, showing the constellations in deshabille, by reproducing certain famous paintings, such as “The Origin of the Milky Way,” and by using a photograph of a girl in a bathing suit sighting a hand telescope, presumably at one of the errant stars. Circulation of The Chicago Blade increased by 21.7 percent.
It was five o’clock again in the office of the Cole Observatory, just twenty-four and a quarter hours after the beginning of all the commotion. Roger Phlutter—yes, we’re back to him again—woke up suddenly when a hand was placed on his shoulder.