look up. There was a thin cloud overhead, just the right thickness to act something like a piece of smoked glass. She could look directly at the sun through it, examine the disk with her naked eye.
But it wasn’t a disk any longer. Cetis Gamma was a bulging, irregularly shaped thing twice its normal size. As she looked, it grew larger still.
Out on the ninth planet, Rhadampsicus was absorbed in his contemplation of Cetis Gamma. With nothing to interfere with his scanning, he could follow the developments perfectly. There had been first one gigantic prominence, then two, which separated to opposite sides of its equator. Then two other prominences began to grow between them.
For two full days, the new prominences grew, and then split, so that the sun came to have the appearance of a ball of fire surrounded by a ring of blue-white incandescence.
Then came instability. Flame geysers spouting hundreds of thousands of miles into emptiness ceased to keep their formation. They turned north and south from the equatorial line. The outline of the sun became irregular. It ceased to be round in profile, and even the appearance of a ring around it vanished. It looked—though this would never have occurred to Rhadampsicus—very much like a fiercely glowing gigantic potato. Its evolution of heat went up incredibly. It much more than doubled its rate of radiation.
Rhadampsicus watched each detail of the flare-up with fascinated attention. Nodalictha dutifully watched with him. But she could not maintain her interest in so purely scientific a phenomenon.
When a thin streamer of pure blue-white jetted upward from the sun’s pole, attaining a speed of six hundred and ninety-two miles per second, Rhadampsicus turned to her with enthusiasm.
“Exactly in the pattern of a flare-up according to Dhokis’ theory!” he exclaimed. “I have always thought he was more nearly right than the modernists. Radiation pressure can build up in a closed system such as the interior of a sun. It can equal the gravitational constant. And obviously it would break loose at the pole.”
Then he saw that Nodalictha’s manner was one of distress. He was instantly concerned.
“What’s the matter, darling?” he asked anxiously. “I didn’t mean to neglect you, my precious one!”
Nodalictha did something that would have scared a human being out of a year’s growth, but was actually the equivalent of an unhappy, stifled sob.
“I am a beast!” said Rhadampsicus penitently. “I’ve kept you here, in boredom, while I enjoyed myself watching this sun do tricks. I’m truly sorry, Nodalictha. We will go on at once. I shouldn’t have asked you to—”
But Nodalictha said unhappily, “It isn’t you, Rhadampsicus. It’s me! While you’ve been watching the star, I’ve amused myself watching those quaint little creatures on the second planet. I’ve thought of them as—well, as pets. I’ve grown fond of them. It was absurd of me—”
“Oh, but it is wonderful of you,” said Rhadampsicus tenderly. “I love you all the more for it, my darling. But why are you unhappy about them? I made sure they had food and energy.”
“They’re going to be burned up!” wailed Nodalictha, “and they’re so cute!”
Rhadampsicus blinked his eyes—all sixteen of them. Then he said self-accusingly, “My dear, I should have thought of that. Of course this is only a flare-up, darling....” Then he made an impatient gesture. “I see! You would rather think of them as happy, in their little way, than as burned to tiny crisps.”
He considered, scanning the second planet with the normal anxiety of a bridegroom to do anything that would remove a cloud from his bride’s lovely sixteen eyes.
Night fell on Cetopolis, and with it came some slight alleviation of the dreadfulness that had begun that afternoon. The air was furnacelike in heat and dryness. There was the smell of smoke everywhere. The stars were faint and red and ominous, seen through the smoke that overlay everything. So far, to be sure, breathing was possible. It was even possible to be comfortable in an air-conditioned room. But this was only the beginning.
Lon and Cathy sat together on the porch of his house, after sundown. The other colonists had gone away to their own homes. When the crack of doom has visibly begun, men do queer things. In Cetopolis some undoubtedly got drunk, or tried to. But there were farmers who would spend this last night looking at their drooping crops, trying to persuade themselves that if Cetis Gamma only went back to normal before sunrise, the crops might yet be saved. But none of them expected it.
Off to the south there was an angry reddish glare in the sky. That was vegetation on the desert there, burning. It grew thick as jungle in the rainy season, and dried out to pure dessication in dry weather. It had caught fire of itself from the sun’s glare in late afternoon. Great clouds of acrid smoke rose from it to the stars.
Beyond the horizon to the west there was destruction.
Lon and Cathy sat close together. She hadn’t even asked to be taken back to Cetopolis, as convention would have required. The sun was growing hotter still while it sank below the horizon. It was expanding in fits and starts as new writhing spouts of stuff from its interior burst the bonds of gravity. Blazing magma flung upward in an unthinkable eruption. The sun had been three times normal size when it set.
Lon was no astronomer, but plainly the end of life on the inner planets of Cetis Gamma was at hand.
Cetis Gamma might, he considered, be in the process of becoming a nova. Certainly beyond the horizon there was even more terrible heat than had struck the human colony before sundown. Even if the sun did not explode, even if it was only as fiercely blazing as at its setting, they would die within hours after sunrise. If it increased in brightness, by daybreak its first rays would be death itself. When dawn came, the very first direct beams would set the shiver trees alight on the hilltops, and as it rose the fires would go down into the valleys. This house would smoke and writhe and melt; the air would become flame, and the planet’s surface would glow red-hot as it turned into the sunshine.
“It’s going to be—all right, Lon,” Cathy said unconvincedly. “It’s just something happening that’ll be over in a little while. But—in case it isn’t—we might as well be together. Don’t you think so?”
Lon put his arm comfortingly around her. He felt a very strong impulse to lie. He could pretend to vast wisdom and tell her the sun’s behavior was this or that, and never lasted more than a few hours, but she’d know he lied. They could spend their last hours trying to deceive each other out of pure affection. But they’d know it was deceit.
“D-don’t you think so?” insisted Cathy faintly.
He said gently, “No, Cathy, and neither do you. This is the finish. It would’ve been a lot nicer to go on living, the two of us. We’d have had long, long years to be together. We’d have had kids, and they’d have grown up, and we’d have had—a lot of things. But now I’m afraid we won’t.”
He tried to smile at her, but it hurt. He thought passionately that he would gladly submit himself to be burned in the slowest and most excruciating manner if only she could be saved from it. But he couldn’t do anything.
Cathy gulped. “I-I’m afraid so, too, Lon,” she said in a small voice. “But it’s nice we met each other, anyhow. Now we know we love each other. I don’t like the idea of dying, but I’m glad we knew we loved each other before it happened.”
Lon’s hands
