Observing Companion

by M. Barlow Pepin

(Published in Viewpoints, Astronomy magazine, July 1992)

I

t is a crystal clear evening in October. The setting crescent moon is rock-steady on the horizon, with a distinctive bluish earthshine. Conditions at our club's new observing site are definitely worth the 30-mile drive. It is a good night to search for elusive objects with my new telescope. The 7-inch refractor is a hound dog for faint targets. After setting up and talking about observing with others, I spend a few hours immersed in searching for globular clusters and planetary nebulae.

When the southern Milky Way has finally set, leaving the constellation Cygnus still high overhead, I slew the telescope northeast into Perseus, finding some faint galaxies worth exploring. It is a crisp evening, turning colder by the minute. A hot cup of coffee would be good right now. I feel my head sinking, but am pulled back to awareness by a voice from the darkness. A new member of the club is standing behind me, carrying a fluorescent lantern with red cellophane taped over it. The thing puts out about 1,000 candlepower and leaks white light all over the place.

''Pretty good seeing tonight, yeah? Can I borrow the eyepiece you told me about to look at Saturn before it sets?"

"Sure buddy. Anything. Just turn off that lantern."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry." The searchlight is switched off. The spectre departs, clutching my eyepiece. My night vision is gone. I can't see my hand in front of my face. I am waiting for my eyes to adapt to the dark, still dwelling on the probable fate of my expensive eyepiece, when another voice from the darkness asks,

''What are you looking at?"

And just when I thought I was set for a peaceful night of solo stargazing...

"Nothing special. You can take a look."

The newcomer brushes by me. My night vision is slowly returning. I can barely make out a figure dressed in white.

"So how do I look at something?" She asks. Her voice has an unusual accent.

"Just look into the eyepiece, right here." I switch on my red penlight. As she bends down to the eyepiece, the faint cone of light illuminates a pristine profile. A thin, golden belt gleams at the waist of her white shift. On a chilly night like this, she is wearing sandals. Definitely not an experienced observer.

"Everything is swimming in a fog!"

"The telescope must not be in focus for you. Just turn this knob very slowly until the stars get as small as possible."

"Oh, now it gives a very good view! It looks like two tiny clouds dancing among the stars."

"You are right. It's two galaxies in the constellation Perseus. They are clouds of stars, like the Milky Way."

"Yes, I know about the Milky Way – I didn't know there were others, though. I have never looked into this kind of magic glass."

This makes me laugh, "Well, they are good optics, but I don't think it is magic."

She steps away from the telescope in the darkness, tangling her foot in the power cord. I reach out to keep her from falling and she catches my wrist. Her fingers are cold. I can feel her shivering

"Excuse me, I am so clumsy," she apologizes.

"You must be really cold."

"Brrr, yes! I should have worn my winter cape."

"Here, put on my jacket if you like. This sweater is warm enough for me." I hold up the jacket and she quickly puts in on.

"Thank you. That's much better."

"Are you alone?" I ask her.

"Yes, I couldn't talk any of my sisters into coming down."

"Big family?"

"Father, mother, and six younger sisters. Not very exciting. My father is strict, so I don't leave very often. Will you show me some more things in the sky?"

I check to see that my telescope is still polar aligned.

She asks, "What are you looking at?"

“I have to point this little telescope at the North Star so I can find other objects more easily in the larger telescope." I then give the standard star party tour. She seems very impressed by the Andromeda Galaxy. The new telescope is performing fantastically. We can see the dark stretch of Andromeda's dust lane. Impossibly, some of the galaxy's stars even seem resolved. We wander for a long time through the star clusters of Auriga. The globular cluster M15 is almost on the horizon, but still glows like a scoop of diamond chips. It is an exceptional night for observing. The seeing is great, and I have never noticed such complete transparency.

It is time for a break. I pour coffee from my thermos into two styrofoam cups and hand her one. My eyes are so adapted to the dark that the white cups seem to glow.

"Thank you," she says sipping her coffee. "This drink is bitter, but good. That northern star, Polaris you called it? It seems higher in the sky than I remember."

"You must be from the South somewhere, it would be lower from there. I notice that you have an accent. Where are you from anyway?"

"Greece. But I haven't been there in a long time. I haven't look up at the sky in a long while either." She puts her cup on the grass and goes back to the telescope. It is still tracking the Orion Nebula as the constellation rises higher. Sitting motionless at the eyepiece, she starts singing in a soft voice. The Greek words sound strange, the tune unlike any I have ever heard before.

"What's that?"

"It is a song about the sky my father taught me. It goes, 'Orion is still, he hunts no more in the forests of Boeotia."

The hours pass unnoticed. After finding everything I can think of, my companion still asks for more and more objects. We waste about ten minutes looking for the elusive Rosette Nebula in Monoceros. She tosses her head and laughs. The merry sound echoes across the field. I sense heads turning at the other telescopes.

"Well, I don't need to see everything, but I want to see one more thing in the sky."

"What do you want to see?"

"That little cloudy star cluster over there."

"Okay. That's the Pleiades." I swing the dew-covered telescope over to the west. As I frame the cluster in the finder, she whispers,

"Notice anything?"

"What do you mean?"

"I want you to look very carefully in your finding telescope. Do you notice anything ... different?"

I force myself to concentrate on the view in the finder, on the sparkling star cluster I have observed a hundred times. She's right. Something is different. The Pleiades are out of shape. One of the 4th-magnitude stars is gone! The occultation of a bright Pleiad would have been publicized. We would all be watching, waiting for it. I hastily check the finder. There is nothing blocking the lenses. Six bright stars stare back at me. I look up. The difference is obvious, even to the naked eye.

"You are right! But how could a girl like you notice that? You said you hardly ever look at the sky. I have got to let somebody else know about this!" I start to yell for another observer to confirm the incredible event. Then I feel her hand on my shoulder.

"Stop. Please don't tell anyone! And please don't call me girl. My name is Maia, and I'm much older than you are. Besides, I said I hardly ever look up at the sky. I look down from it all of the time."

Suddenly, a fragment of mythology from a star guide leaps into my mind: Maia, the oldest of the Pleiades, the most beautiful daughter of Atlas. But what...? A sense of unreality creeps over me, and I feel my brain start to go supernova. Maia senses my panic. She touches my shoulder reassuringly.

"Don't worry," she whispers. "I can go back up, before anyone notices, or believes what they are seeing. My sisters will be worried, though. I have got to go now. I will come back to see you again, after dark sometime."

A cold blast of wind comes out of nowhere, stinging my eyes. The telescope rattles on its mount. There is a drumming, rushing sound, like doves taking off. Then silence.

When I open my eyes, I'm sitting on the ground. Maia is gone. It is cold. Trying to shake off the feeling of shock, I get up and line my telescope up with the little group of stars sinking in the west. My hands are shaking. Seven bright stars sparkle in the eyepiece; nothing unusual. One of them flickers slightly. What a dream.

As I look away I see my jacket lying on the grass. There is something bright resting on it. I pick it up. A slender, braided golden belt gleams in my hand. I stare at the Pleiades until dawn washes its light away. The old constellations continue their eternal motion as pale light slowly grows in the east.