Shipyards on Saturn
He screws the burning knees of the two most abominable devils into the brass pipe. He tugs the strings. The rafters groan. The skylight is wide open and Saturn rolls into view.
If all the windmills in the region broke simultaneously, the sea would saturate the land. Many fleeing mistresses would have to float away, or back. And even if they clung to bobbing furniture, there would be no bread to feed them.
He positions the telescope delicately. The planet pours into the instrument. He can make out details on the surface. There are no seas, rivers or canals. But there are smudges which must be mountain ranges.
Something else too. Quite clearly defined.
“Shipyards?” he cries. “On Saturn?”
And then a little later: “What use are shipyards on a world without water? It’s senseless! Absurd!”
Be that as it may, they are there. It’s not a mistake. Those are cranes, seen from above, and the hulls of massive ships, galleons. And forests of masts ready to be slotted into decks, and miles of cloth for billowing sails, and towering pyramids of barrels, probably containing tar or nails or supplies for long voyages, or exotic goods for export. Saturnian pepper, jade, gunpowder, lutes, shoes, wigs and playing cards. Who knows? He can’t see any workers. Either it’s their day off or else they aren’t giants.
He can’t grasp the significance of this discovery. He retreats from the telescope and changes eyes. It takes a minute for this new eye to adjust to its task. It is only rarely asked to confirm the observations of its twin. But no, the warehouses and piles of planks are still there. They do exist. Shipyards on Saturn.
“But there is no water!” he wails to himself.
It is a problem to sleep on, but not alone. He must find a new mistress.
The light from Saturn has been travelling across unimaginable distances to reach his eye. How did it manage that trick? Did it arrive as ripples or particles? The wave theory or the corpuscular theory? Neither option has been worked on yet, by him or his rivals. But they will be. He is an expert on reflection and refraction. Venetian glass, Iceland crystals, fairytale slippers. He understands the inner workings of them all. Soon his musings on the subject will become solid mathematical analysis and neat diagrams. A little later, these in turn will be neglected, almost forgotten. Later still, rediscovered and revalued, highly. But none of these theories, wavelike or particulate, really explain how light gets into a head behind closed eyes. In dreams.
He is sitting at his desk, writing to Pascal. Despite his obsession with Saturn, he doesn’t wish to snub his friends. While he scribbles, his new mistress sweeps all around him. The windmill is looking very clean these days. Indeed, it is nearly done. He drops the quill, rubs the cramp from his wrist, the glee from his heart.
“I always knew that beings like mankind must exist on other worlds, for else they would be unreasonable. The worlds, I mean, not the beings. Every planet must teem with life, otherwise our Earth would have too much the advantage of them, in being the only part of the universe that could boast of such a creature so far above, not only plants and trees, but all animals whatsoever.”
He watches for the beginnings of a pout. One day he may study what happens when a potential pout becomes a kinetic pout. But she is using her broom on his mouth at this moment, muffling his words. So there is no need for her to regard him with superstitious dread. He leans back in his chair and an idea sits on his mind, as if ready to write a few lines of its own at the desk of miracles.
An attempt to communicate with the inhabitants of Saturn! To let them know that here too, on Earth, are living, thinking beings. But how can this enterprise be implemented?
“Giant bonfires in the North African desert!” he shouts. “Or fields of wheat in Russia, planted in geometric shapes. Some sort of universal code. What do you think, Greta?”
And because she is slow to answer, he adds: “Hurry up! Which is the best way of signalling to Saturn?”
The broom hasn’t quite hit the floor before she is out of the door. He sighs. What do women have against astronomy? Is it supposed to be part of their charm? He prefers it when they play the guitar.
