was closer to the sun than we are,” I had remarked one day to Zutell, my assistant at the office, “but I’ll bet the old war-planet is getting pretty well cooled off by now.”
Zutell looked at me with a peculiar expression which I haven’t forgotten to this day.
“Mars closer to the sun than Earth?” he ejaculated. “Why, man alive, didn’t you know Mars’s’ orbit is more remote from the sun than ours?”
His manner was extraordinarily convincing, and inwardly I was mortified at my ignorance.
“It is not!” I declared stubbornly, then added weakly, “Anyhow, what difference does it make?”
His glance of amused condescension stung my pride, and from that time on his already too sufficient self-confidence increased. In his presence I seemed to be suffering from an inferiority complex. I laid the entire blame for my loss of self-confidence upon the truant Mars, and secretly wished the ruddy planet all kinds of bad luck.
But to return to the breakfast table. My wife, Vera, poured me a second cup of coffee and remarked sweetly, “The Zutells are coming over this morning, since it is a holiday, dear, to listen to the radio and see in the new televisio. You know President Bedford is to address the nation from the newly completed capitol building, which will be seen for the first time in the televisio. If you like, I’ll ask the Mardens, too. You seem to like them so much.”
“Hang it all,” I said irritably, “can’t you leave the Zutells out of it? Ed’s forever rubbing in something about Jupiter or Venus, now that Mars is gone. He’s an insufferable bore!”
“Why, Jim,” cried Vera, half laughing, “as sure as fate I do believe you’re jealous, just because—”
“Jealous!” I burst out. “Jealous of him? Why, I can show him cards and spades—”
“I know you can. That’s just it,” laughed Vera; “that’s just why it’s so funny to have you care because you didn’t know about Mars. It’s much more important that you know more about cost-accounting than Ed does.”
Vera was right, as usual, and I rewarded her with a kiss, just as Junior screamed that Archie Zutell was coming across the lawn to play with him and Eleanor.
“Well, you kids clear out of here,” I said, “and play outside if we grown-ups are expected to see anything of the president and hear his address, and Jimmy, don’t let Archie put anything over on you. Stick up for your rights.”
I imagined Vera smiled a little indulgently, and I didn’t like it.
“Well, at any rate,” I said, “I do like young Marden and his bride. There’s a fellow that really is an astronomer, but he never shoots off his mouth about it in inappropriate places.”
Truth was, Marden held a high college degree in astronomy and taught the subject in our local college. Just across the street from our residence, which faced the beautiful campus, stood the observatory on a picturesque elevation. Many summer evenings since my deplorable error in regard to Mars I had visited the observatory with Oscar Marden and learned much that was interesting about the starry host.
The breakfast dishes cleared away, Vera and I seated ourselves at our televisio that worked in combination with the radio. It was the envy of the neighborhood, there being but three others in the entire town that could compare with it. There was yet half an hour before the president’s address was scheduled to commence. We turned on the electricity. Vice-president Ellsworth was speaking. We gazed into the great oval mirror and saw that he was in the private office of his own residence. A door opened behind him and a tall man entered the room, lifted his hand in dignified salutation, and smiled at his unseen spectators. Then in clear resonant tones he began addressing his invisible audience in a preliminary talk preceding the one to be delivered from the new capitol steps.
At this point the Mardens and Zutells arrived, and after exchange of a few pleasantries, were comfortably seated pending the main address of the morning.
“Citizens of the Republic of the United Americas,” began President Bedford.
I reached for the dials, and with a slight manipulation the man’s voice was as clear as if he talked with us in the room. I turned another dial, and the hazy outlines were cleared, bringing the tall, manly form into correct perspective. Behind him rose the massive columns of the new capitol building in Central America.
The address, an exceptionally inspiring one, continued while the six of us in our midwestern town were seeing and hearing with millions of others throughout the country, a man thousands of miles away. The day had commenced cloudy, but ere long the sun was shining with dazzling splendor. Meanwhile the president continued to speak in simple but eloquent style of the future of our great republic. So engrossed were we six, and undoubtedly millions of others upon two continents, to say nothing of the scattered radio audience throughout the world, that for some time we had failed to notice the decreasing light. Mrs. Zutell had been the first to make the casual remark that it was clouding up again, but a rather curt acknowledgment of her comment on the part of the rest of us had discouraged further attempts at conversation.
Not long afterward the front door burst open and the three children rushed in, making all attempts of the elders to listen to the address futile.
“Mamma, it is getting darker and colder,” exclaimed Eleanor. “We want our wraps on.”
“Put on the light!” cried Jimmy, suiting the action to the word.
With the flood of light any growing apprehension that we may have felt diminished, but as we looked through the windows we noticed that outside it was dusk though the time was but 10:00 a.m.
Our faces looked strangely drawn and haggard, but it was the expression on young Marden’s face that caught and held my attention. I believe as I review those dreadful times in my mind, that Oscar Marden knew then what ailed this old world of ours, but he said not a word at that time.
We turned our faces to the televisio again and were amazed at the scene which was there presented. President Bedford had ceased speaking and was engaged in earnest conversation with other men who had joined him. The growing darkness outside the capitol made it difficult to distinguish our leader’s figure among the others, who in ever-growing numbers thronged the steps of the great edifice. Presently the president again turned to the invisible millions seated behind their radios and televisios, and spoke. His voice was calm, as befitted the leader of so great a nation, but it was fraught with an emotion that did not escape observing watchers and listeners.
“Tune in your instruments to Paris,” said the great man. “The noted astronomer, La Rue, has something of importance to tell us. Do this at once,” he added, and his voice took on a somewhat sterner quality.
I arose somewhat shakily, and fumbled futilely with the dials.
“Put on more speed there, Griffin,” said Marden.
It was the first time I had ever heard him speak in any other than a courteous manner, and I realized he was greatly perturbed. I fumbled awhile longer until Ed Zutell spoke up.
“Can I help you, Jim?” he asked.
“Only by shutting up and staying that way,” I growled, at the same time giving a vicious twist to the stubborn long-distance dial.
In a little while I had it: Paris,
