Originally published in Corporate Catharsis: The Work From Home Edition (Water Dragon Press)
Extracts from the logbook of Mt. Watford Observatory, February 2012
February 18:
Wind: 65 km/h. Conditions: light flurries and blowing snow, moon 11% illuminated. Too much snow to open the dome and it’s possibly frozen shut anyway.
Personal notes: Nearly got blown off the mountain walking between dorm & telescope. Took some calibration data but it’s frustrating not to be observing! On the other hand, I can go to bed before dawn. And it’s so quiet. No one else on the mountain, no city TV or radio. The zombie apocalypse could be happening down in town and I’d never notice.
Observing like this is just about a thing of the past. I’m keeping these notes and copying in my texts with Julia so we can show our future grandchildren what Ye Olde Days were all about.
Julia: Miss u
Marko: Miss you too. Sorry we had to miss Valentines but I’ll make it up to you when I get back.
Julia: Not your fault, my stupid schedule. Love you <3
Marko: Wish you could see the view up here, so beautiful. The snow is like a fluffy blanket over everything. So quiet my ears are ringing.
Julia: Remind me again: why can’t u just run telescope from home?
Marko: This place is kind of an antique — still useful but there’s not enough money to upgrade it to remote operations. So: observe all night, sleep most of the day. Boring but peaceful.
Julia: Sounds amazing
Marko: Kinda lonely. Although if I get the last of my thesis data, I should be able to find an asteroid I can name after you.
Julia: Really?
Marko: Yup. If it ever stops snowing that is
Julia: fingers crossed. Night M
Marko: Night. Love you <3
February 19:
Wind: 40 km/h. Conditions: scattered clouds, periods of flurries, moon 6% illuminated. Conditions at sunset were looking optimistic so I opened the dome and started twilight calibrations. Maintenance note: dome shutter squeals, needs lubrication. Exposure log: on-sky for calibration observations only.
Personal notes: Managed to get a few standard stars before the clouds rolled in from the west. Baited by sucker holes, gave up around midnight. Argh. No getting the thesis done without the remaining data. Without a finished thesis, no following Julia to wherever she matches for her residency. Being away for a week is one thing, but I can’t imagine being apart for months or years.
Marko: Hey sweetie!
Marko: Julia?
Julia: ??
Marko: Oh shit, forgot about the time. Sorry for waking you
Julia: NP. How goes.
Marko: A bit better but still cloudy. Go back to sleep. Love you.
Julia: Luv u 2
February 20:
Wind: 35 km/h. Conditions: mostly clear, moon 2% illuminated. Lost about 2.5 hours when the telescope stopped tracking. Fixed by rebooting telescope control system FOUR TIMES. Dome shutter still squeaking. Exposure log: complete calibration dataset, about half of the survey area covered.
Personal notes: Finally on the sky! What a relief, even if I did end up wasting a lot of time with the TCS. Would be nice to let J know, but I don’t want to wake her up again..
Julia: Better weather tonight?
Marko: Thanks, yeah, mostly clear and finally getting some decent data. Should be some new asteroids in there.
Marko: You’re still up? R u on night shift now? Sorry, hard to keep track.
Julia: Can’t talk now
Marko: Everything OK?
Julia: ED is crazy. Full moon?
Marko: Um, that was 10 days ago. Trust me, I’m an astronomer.
Julia: We’re busy that’s all I can say
Marko: Talk later. Get some sleep. Love you.
Julia: You too
February 21:
Wind: 75 km/h. Conditions: clear, new moon. Dome closed per wind limits.
Personal notes: Just about finished analyzing data from last night. Some near-Earth asteroid candidates, but need confirmation of non-sidereal motion from 2 more nights. Maddening to have perfectly clear skies, no moonlight, AND BE SITTING HERE WITH THE DOME CLOSED. I’d go outside to stargaze but it’s so windy I might not be able to reopen the door.
Julia: You awake?
Marko: Yeah I’m here. Too windy to observe but hoping it’ll die down.
Julia: Getting worried
Marko: Not really - still have a couple nights to go. Can still get the data I need
Julia: No I’m getting worried
Marko: Are you OK? Sweetie, what’s up?
Julia: Many pts w/ resp symptoms, many staff out sick
Marko: Oh no, like 2004 with SARS?
Julia: Maybe worse
Marko: J, you need to take care of yourself! Did you get some sleep?
Julia: Few hours
Marko: That’s not enough
Julia: I know
Julia: How is it up there
Marko: Lonely. I miss you.
Julia: Make sure you get some sleep
Marko: Look who’s talking
Julia: I know
Marko: Try to rest, OK? I worry about you when I’m not there to tuck you in after the long night shifts.
Julia: I’ll be ok. Love you
Marko: You too. <3
February 22:
Wind: 40 km/h. Conditions: high cirrus, moon 1% illuminated. Minor issue with the camera control software, lost a few exposures when they didn’t save to disk. Fixed, as always, by rebooting everything. About 30 min lost. Exposure log: complete calibration dataset, most of the survey area covered.
Personal notes: so neat to hear the deep rumble of the dome as it turns overhead, like being in the hold of a spaceship or something. Reassuring somehow. Reassuring is good, because I’m starting to feel nervous again about getting enough data — only 3 nights left in this run. And nervous in an entirely different direction, thinking about how to propose to Julia. Is that too old-fashioned and cringey? I can’t imagine being without her. I just want us to spend the rest of our lives together.
Julia: Hi love, did u get a good sleep?
Marko: Not bad. Tough when the wind was so noisy. Thanks for asking. You?
Julia: No time
Marko: Covering shifts again?
Julia: Yeah
Marko: More flu patients?
Julia: So many
Marko: Can’t they call anyone else in?
Julia: They’re trying
Marko: You’re feeling ok though? Right?
Julia: Coughing a bit. Just tired
Marko: Sweetheart, you have to take care of yourself.
Marko: Can’t look after patients if you’re sick!
Marko: Julia?
Julia: Sorry, quick consult
Julia: How’s your thing going
Marko: Please don’t try to change the subject. Promise me you’ll rest. Someone else can look after the patients.
Julia: There isn’t anyone else
Marko: It’s that bad?
Julia: Idk. Feels like it
Marko: Stay safe, promise me.
Julia: Trying
Marko: Please, take care of yourself. Ily.
Julia: Ily too. Gotta go
February 23:
Wind: 30 km/h. Conditions: scattered clouds, moon 3% illuminated. Not quite photometric but close enough. The camera dewar’s cryo-pump is making different noises from before, something like squee-oo, squee-oo. Maintenance crew please take a look next week. Exposure log: running the full survey imaging sequence.
Personal notes: Data from the two good nights so far show hints of 7 small bodies that don’t match anything in the database. Plus 47 re-discoveries. Reported positions to minor planet center. Orbits are still pretty uncertain: one of the new ones looks like it might have quite a close approach to Earth in about 90 years.
Julia: How much food do you have up there?
Marko: Maybe a week’s worth still. I always bring extra. Why?
Julia: I think you should stay longer
Marko: Why?
Julia: Safer up there
Marko: What do you mean?
Julia: This flu is different, people aren’t getting better
Julia: You haven’t seen the news?
Marko: No, mostly working or trying to sleep
Julia: I get that
Julia: It’s bad tho
Marko: ARE YOU OK??
Julia: Just tired
Marko: I have one more night, but I could make the round trip tomorrow: come down to look after you, then come back up.
Julia: NO PLS DON’T
Julia: That road is dangerous. I’m probably overreacting, just tired
Julia: Helps to know you’re safe up there so please stay
Marko: OK. You’re scaring me a bit though.
Julia: I’m scared too
Marko: Just hang on. I love you.
Julia: love you too
February 24:
Wind: 45 km/h. Conditions: very thin cirrus, moon 7% illuminated. Running the full survey imaging sequence. Crow flew into the dome around 0200. Lost about half an hour chasing it out. Probably left some droppings, will check later.
Personal notes: Too tired to analyze data. Checked the emergency supplies: water, generator fuel, heating oil (what is this, the 19th century?) tanks all full. Medical supplies recently updated. Can’t find the emergency food stores but I’ve been eating too much anyway. Why did I buy so many snacks?
Next week’s observer didn’t bother to come up the usual night early, no wonder given the weather. Maintenance crew was due today and they haven’t shown up either. Haven’t been able to get hold of Julia -- not answering her phone or texts. Probably (hopefully!) that means she’s finally getting some sleep. Those hospital shifts are awful, especially in flu season.
February 25:
Wind: 25 km/h. Conditions: patchy cirrus, moon 13% illuminated. Definitely non-photometric but still worth observing. Full calibration set, quadrupled exposure times to reach necessary depth. Seeing: decent at about 0.8 arcsec. Refilled camera dewar, note that N2 tank is down to about 10%.
Personal notes: After cleaning out the bird poop, lots of time to analyze the last 2 nights’ data. The potential Earth-crossing asteroid is getting interesting but the orbit uncertainty is still pretty high.
Next week’s observer still hasn’t shown so decided I might as well keep observing. The mountain’s Internet link keeps going down and then coming back up. No one’s answering the phone at the base camp office. This is getting really lonely. Now I kind of wish the crow would come back. Getting more worried about Julia. I know she hates it when I fuss over her, but why isn’t she responding?
Marko: Did you get some rest?
Marko: Julia? Are you OK?
Marko: Please answer, love. I’m worried about you.
February 26:
Wind: 30 km/h. Conditions: clear, moon 20% illuminated. Excellent transparency and seeing (about 0.65 arcsec!) Two run-throughs of the full survey sequence plus
additional imaging to follow up the object of interest from 23 Feb.
Personal notes: this morning I couldn’t sleep. Mountain Internet is still down. Decided to drive down to base camp to see what was going on. The upper road was okay although it seemed like it hadn’t been plowed since last week. Base camp buildings also locked and apparently empty. Weird: there’s always someone puttering around there, even on weekends. I almost headed into town to check on Julia. She’s probably back at the hospital though, and she did ask me to stay here. If I show up she’ll just be mad.
Drove back up and had a 2-hr nap, then spent some time analyzing the combined data, including last night’s, and holy shit. That Earth-crosser? (Screw it, I’m calling it “Bob”.) With the revised orbit, Bob’s minimum distance is now down to 1000 km. Now we’re talking about a substantial collision risk. I need better-calibrated photometry and a better albedo measurement to get the size, but at a first estimate, the thing is about 2 km across.
When conditions are right at sunset, sometimes you can see across the valley and tell whether the dome is open at the 4-meter on Cactus Peak. I forgot to check at sunset, but there was no answer when I phoned their landline number at about 1930 or when I tried again just after midnight. Julia’s still not responding either. I tried her pager, landline, email, everything I could think of. Hospital numbers all constantly busy. I’m gonna go down to town in the morning to find out what’s going on.
February 27:
Wind: 35 km/h. Conditions: high cirrus, moon 28% illuminated. Seeing 0.8 arcsec. Checked Cactus Peak 4-meter with binoculars at sunset; their dome is closed. Repeating last night’s observation sequence.
Personal notes: dammit, slept way later than I planned, didn’t wake up until almost sunset. Endless observatory safety briefings have beaten into my head that the mountain road is too treacherous to drive alone in the dark. Julia would kill me if she found out I’d done it.
Still observing because I don’t know what else to do. Running the orbit pipeline with last night’s data included. HOLY MURGATROYD. Now the 95% confidence interval for Bob’s closest approach has it colliding with Earth. The most likely collision is 90 years from now but I can’t rule out 15 years either.
Found an old radio stashed in the workshop and the only thing I could pick up was a Mexican AM station. Lots of talking, even faster than usual, and the voice didn’t sound like a professional announcer. Even with my lousy Spanish, I was pretty sure I got ‘influenza’ and ‘quarantine’ and ‘help’. The room spun and I felt faint.
I left the observing sequence running and walked out to the edge of the road where it drops off. My tennis shoes squeaked in the slush and my feet started to go numb. Ninety years from now, the world was going to end. The signs from the last few days, that I’d been trying not to think about, implied that my world might have already ended. Julia, gone. Our future, wiped out. I thought about just letting myself fall.
Panic clenched my stomach and a gust of wind made me shiver. Automatically I looked up at the sky to gauge the seeing and guess what the clouds might do. Jupiter and Venus shone high on the ecliptic. The western sky was clearing out and I imagined I could see M31 setting even though there was no way my eyes were dark-adapted enough. Were anyone else’s eyes on the sky right now? Or was everyone who was left just huddling inside, trying to make sense of what had happened? I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I might be the only person alive who knew about Bob’s appointment with Earth in a few decades. That was a reason to keep going, to at least get the word out.
I shuffled back inside to push through the emptiness until dawn. While the telescope hummed and the dome rumbled, I assembled the critical information about Bob’s orbit and the collision prediction. In the back seat of my car was a Christmas present from my brother — a ream of the expensive, acid-free paper that the university library insists on for printed copies of theses. I used it to print a hundred copies of the critical data, and wrote out another twenty copies by hand with the most permanent writing implement I could find. By the time I finished, the sky was lightening, my writing hand ached and I was woozy from the Sharpie ink. I stepped outside and breathed the mountain air, whole body shaking.
February 28:
Wind and sky conditions: irritatingly perfect. And what did it matter? To think that ten days ago, my biggest concern had been whether I’d get enough data to finish the last paper of my thesis. No need to worry about my thesis defense any more. I safed the telescope and turned everything off except the cooling system. There was enough liquid nitrogen and generator fuel to keep it going for at least a couple of weeks.
Tackling the mountain road after being awake for eighteen hours wasn’t the best idea, but I had to find Julia, had to know what had happened. The road turned out to be an easy drive, still deserted, as was the base camp. The same couldn’t be said for the highway, crammed with cars heading out of town. I didn’t look too closely at their insides: on the valley floor it gets hot enough, even this time of year.
I couldn’t pretend the bodies weren’t there once I got into town. The smell alone was enough that I barely managed to pull over before losing my breakfast. More bodies than I ever wanted to see, if fewer than I’d expected. Most seemed strangely peaceful, as if they’d just dropped in place where they were. The carrion eaters had clearly gotten to some; flocks of vultures circled in the thermals over the largest parking lots.
Chaos reigned at every hospital access road and entrance: I had to leave the car on a side street and walk the last few blocks. Here things didn’t look so peaceful. There were bodies everywhere, some in small groups, some with dark stains beneath them on the baking asphalt. The stench was overwhelming. I heaved bile and spit.
My heart rose at the familiar sight of Julia’s red mountain bike in the same corner of the bike cage where she always locked up. Something on the bike flapped in the slight breeze. Getting closer, I found an 8.5x11 sheet of paper tied to the top tube, my name in slightly shaky capital letters blurred by droplet stains.
_Marko,
If you’re reading this, hopefully you stayed away long enough to wait out the incubation period. Best we can tell, it’s only about 36 hours, so you’ll likely be safe. Please maintain as much distance as you can from other people for now.
It all happened so fast. I wish I’d had a chance to say goodbye. If we had to be separated, at least it happened while we were both doing what we loved. You might think that your passion was less important but that’s not true: just keeping people alive isn’t worth a lot if they can’t also look at the stars.
Keep dreaming. I love you.
Julia_
Stomach hollow, head pounding, I sank to my knees on the scorching pavement. My throat was dry and I could only choke out a few sobs while holding the note close to my face. I hoped that Julia’s perfume might somehow still linger, but the only scents were disinfectant and death. I imagined Julia coming out to place the note, knowing we’d never see each other again. She would never have thought to get on her bike and get away while she still could. She’d have dried her tears and gone back to doing what she could, what she loved.
February 29
Wind: 20 km/h. Conditions: a sparkling blue day that looks like a good night, moon 41% illuminated. The half-lit sphere winks gently at me as I turn off the highway and head east toward the observatory. I glance down at Julia’s note and blink back tears.
A leap year seems precipitous: extra time, like I seem to have been given in this life. I think I’ve figured out what to do with it, for now.
There must be other survivors around somewhere. I’m not ready to look for them, or to be around other people, just yet. I deposited copies of my info sheet somewhere out of the sun at every location I could think of: museum, water-treatment plant, city hall, Air Force base. I’ve loaded up on supplies and I’m going back to the telescope. There’s still work to be done on Bob’s trajectory and I might be the only person who can do it right now.
I’ll keep people alive the only way I know how. Maybe someday there’ll be time for dreaming too.