7
observatory. But neither of them could tell me, then or later, the precise nature
of astronomical prospection, what observations needed to be made, or how.
In answer to my hesitancy and questions they promised to provide me with
an unpublished report written by Professor Redman, Director of the
Cambridge Observatory, who had just spent a month in Tenerife. All this gave
me the misguided impression that the matter should be straightforward.
In the autumn of 1960 two further possibilities of employment presented
themselves: a naval post involving magnetic mines, and the setting up and
running of a control laboratory for the copper industry. For the first time I
became aware that making any choice involved rejecting other opportunities
leaving aside a disquieting infinitude of further possibilities.
The choice involving magnetic mines was not difficult to turn down; much
more painful was saying no to the economically attractive control laboratory
post. Even at that time there was much talk of Spain’s joining the Common
Market, and the copper sector of our country had opted to prepare for such
an eventuality. The industry was looking for a physicist capable of establishing
and running a quality control laboratory while also being prepared to take on
the engineering establishment in order to achieve ‘European quality’ for its
copper. This was explained to me by Professor Durán, who held the Chair of
Optics (I was his assistant) and second-in-command of the Nuclear Energy
Council. The offer was: 12,000 pesetas per month (72 euros) on signing of the
contract, a year’s apprenticeship in the United States and Germany with an
honorarium of 24,000 pesetas (144 euros), and, on returning to Spain, that
same salary, plus a house and car in Asturias.
The Teide Observatory offer amounted to a two-year contract, 4500 pesetas a month (27 euros), living at 2400 metres above sea level, and being stationed at the Izaña Meteorological Observatory of the Air Force (in Spain
meteorology was still under military control at the time). After some haggling, they agreed to pay me 500 pesetas (3 euros) more with the added condition that my future wife assist me in my tasks.
The copper option would clearly have been the sensible choice to make:
quite apart from such a high salary, it would have meant foreign travel (every
ambitious Spanish graduate’s dream) and new horizons. But I feared that,
after the first few years, the job would settle down to being an office boss in
charge of subalterns to carry out systematic analyses of copper samples, signing certifications, and being at endless loggerheads with stick-in-the-mud
production engineers. Not a very enticing prospect. Even worse would have
been having to give up my dream of becoming a research worker.
The Canarian option was not at all clear. What exactly had to be done and
what future lay in store for an observatory that existed only on paper in the
1 Perhaps It All Began with an Eclipse (1959–1961)
observatory. But neither of them could tell me, then or later, the precise nature
of astronomical prospection, what observations needed to be made, or how.
In answer to my hesitancy and questions they promised to provide me with
an unpublished report written by Professor Redman, Director of the
Cambridge Observatory, who had just spent a month in Tenerife. All this gave
me the misguided impression that the matter should be straightforward.
In the autumn of 1960 two further possibilities of employment presented
themselves: a naval post involving magnetic mines, and the setting up and
running of a control laboratory for the copper industry. For the first time I
became aware that making any choice involved rejecting other opportunities
leaving aside a disquieting infinitude of further possibilities.
The choice involving magnetic mines was not difficult to turn down; much
more painful was saying no to the economically attractive control laboratory
post. Even at that time there was much talk of Spain’s joining the Common
Market, and the copper sector of our country had opted to prepare for such
an eventuality. The industry was looking for a physicist capable of establishing
and running a quality control laboratory while also being prepared to take on
the engineering establishment in order to achieve ‘European quality’ for its
copper. This was explained to me by Professor Durán, who held the Chair of
Optics (I was his assistant) and second-in-command of the Nuclear Energy
Council. The offer was: 12,000 pesetas per month (72 euros) on signing of the
contract, a year’s apprenticeship in the United States and Germany with an
honorarium of 24,000 pesetas (144 euros), and, on returning to Spain, that
same salary, plus a house and car in Asturias.
The Teide Observatory offer amounted to a two-year contract, 4500 pesetas a month (27 euros), living at 2400 metres above sea level, and being stationed at the Izaña Meteorological Observatory of the Air Force (in Spain
meteorology was still under military control at the time). After some haggling, they agreed to pay me 500 pesetas (3 euros) more with the added condition that my future wife assist me in my tasks.
The copper option would clearly have been the sensible choice to make:
quite apart from such a high salary, it would have meant foreign travel (every
ambitious Spanish graduate’s dream) and new horizons. But I feared that,
after the first few years, the job would settle down to being an office boss in
charge of subalterns to carry out systematic analyses of copper samples, signing certifications, and being at endless loggerheads with stick-in-the-mud
production engineers. Not a very enticing prospect. Even worse would have
been having to give up my dream of becoming a research worker.
The Canarian option was not at all clear. What exactly had to be done and
what future lay in store for an observatory that existed only on paper in the
1 Perhaps It All Began with an Eclipse (1959–1961)