by Ben Bova
“So?”
“The periodic table of the elements!” I shouted into his ear. “That’s the key!”
Rizzo shook his head. “I thought of that two days ago. No soap. In the first place, the list that starts each message isn’t always the same. It’s the same length, all right, but the numbers change. In the second place, it always begins with 100000. I looked up the atomic weight of hydrogen—it’s 1.008 something.”
That stopped me for a moment. But then something clicked into place in my mind.
Why is the hydrogen weight 1.008?” Before Rizzo could answer, I went on, “For two reasons. The system we use arbitrarily rates oxygen as 16-even. Right? All the other weights are calculated from oxygen’s. And we also give the average weight of an element, counting all its isotopes. Our weight for hydrogen also includes an adjustment for tiny amounts of deuterium and tritium. Right? Well, suppose they have a system that rates hydrogen as a flat one: 1.00000. Doesn’t that make sense?”
“You’re getting punchy,” Rizzo grumbled. “What about the isotopes? How can they expect us to handle decimal points if they don’t tell us about them . . . mental telepathy? What about . . .”
“Stop arguing and start calculating,” I snapped. “Change that list of numbers to agree with our periodic table. Change 1.00000 to 1.008-whatever-it-is and tackle the next few elements. The decimals shouldn’t be so hard to figure out.”
Rizzo grumbled to himself, but started working out the calculations. I stepped over to the dome’s microspool library and found an elementary physics text. Within a few minutes, Rizzo had some numbers and I had the periodic table focused on the microspool reading machine.
“Nothing,” Rizzo said, leaning over my shoulder and looking at the screen. “They don’t match at all.”
“Try another list. They’re not all the same.”
He shrugged and returned to his desk. After a while he called out, “their second number is 3.97123; it works out to 4.003-something.”
It checked! “Good. That’s helium. What about the next one, lithium?”
“That’s 6.940.”
“Right!”
Rizzo went to work furiously after that. I pushed a chair to the desk and began working up from the end of the list. It all checked out, from hydrogen to a few elements beyond the artificial ones that had been created in the laboratories here on Earth.
“That’s it,” I said. “That’s the key. That’s our Rosetta Stone . . . the periodic table.”
Rizzo stared at the scribbled numbers and jumble of papers. “I bet I know what the other lists are . . . the ones that don’t make sense.”
“Oh?”
“There are other ways to identify the elements . . . vibration resonances, quantum wavelengths . . . somebody named Lewis came out a couple years ago with a Quantum Periodic Table . .
“They’re covering all the possibilities. There are messages for many different levels of understanding. We just decoded the simplest one.”
“Yeah.”
I noticed that as he spoke, Rizzo’s hand—still tightly clutching the pencil—was trembling and white with tension.
“Well?”
Rizzo licked his lips. “Let’s get to work.”
We were like two men possessed. Eating, sleeping, even talking was ignored completely as we waded through the hundreds of sheets of paper. We could decode only a small percentage of them, but they still represented many hours of communication. The sheets that we couldn’t decode, we suspected, were repetitions of the same message that we were working on.
We lost all concept of time. We must have slept, more than once, but I simply don’t remember. All I can recall is thousands of numbers, row upon row, sheet after sheet of numbers . . . and my pencil scratching symbols of the various chemical elements over them until my hand was so cramped I could no longer open the fingers.
The message consisted of a long series of formulas; that much was certain. But, without punctuation, with no knowledge of the symbols that denote even such simple things as “plus” or “equals” or “yields,” it took us more weeks of hard work to unravel the sense of each equation. And even then, there was more to the message than met the eye:
“Just what the hell are they driving at?’’ Rizzo wondered aloud. His face had changed: it was thinner, hollow-eyed, weary, covered with a scraggly beard.
“Then you think there’s a meaning behind all these equations, too ?”
He nodded. “It’s a message, not just a contact. They’re going to an awful lot of trouble to beam out this message, and they’re repeating it every seven hours. They haven’t added anything new in the weeks we’ve been watching.”
“I wonder how many years or centuries they’ve been sending out this message, waiting for someone to pick it up, looking for someone to answer them.”
“Maybe we should call Washington . . .”
“No!”
Rizzo grinned. “Afraid of breaking radio silence?”
“Hell no. I just want to wait until we’re relieved, so we can make this announcement in person. I’m not going to let some old wheezer in Washington get credit for this. . . . Besides, I want to know just what they’re trying to tell us.”
It was agonizing, painstaking work. Most of the formulas meant nothing to either one of us. We had to ransack the dome’s meager library of microspools to piece them together. They started simply enough—basic chemical combinations: carbon and two oxygens yield CO2; two hydrogens and oxygen give water. A primer . . . not of words, but of equations.
The equations became steadily longer and more complex. Then, abruptly, they simplified, only to begin a new deepening, simplify again, and finally become very complicated just at the end. The last few lines were obviously repetitious.
Gradually, their meaning became clear to us.
The first set of equations started off with simple, naturally-occurring energy yielding formulas. The oxidation of cellulose (we found the formula for that in an organic chemistry text left behind by one of the dome’s previous occupants), which probably referred to the burning of plants and vegetation. A string of formulas that had groupings in them that I dimly recognized as amino acids—no doubt something to do with digesting food. There were many others, including a few that Rizzo claimed had the expression for chlorophyll in them.
“Naturally-occurring, energy- yielding reactions,” Rizzo summarized. “They’re probably trying to describe the biological setup on their planet.”
It seemed an inspired guess.
The second set of equations again began with simple formulas. The cellulose-burning reaction appeared again, but this time it was followed by equations dealing with the oxidation of hydrocarbons: coil and oil burning? A long series of equations that bore repeatedly the symbols for many different metals came up next, followed by more on hydrocarbons, and then a string of formulas that we couldn’t decipher at all.
This time it was my guess: “These look like energy-yielding reactions, too. At least in the beginning. But they don’t seem to be naturally occurring types. Then comes a long story about metals. They’re trying to tell us the history of their technological development—burning wood, coal and eventually oil; smelting metals . . . they’re showing us how they developed their technology.”
The final set of equations began with an ominous simplicity: a short series of very brief symbols that had the net result of four hydrogen atoms building into a helium atom. Nuclear fusion.
“That’s the proton-proton reaction,” I explained to Rizzo. “The type of fusion that goes on in the Sun.”
The next series of equations spelled out the more complex carbon-nitrogen cycle of nuclear fusion, which was probably the primary energy source of their own Cepheid variable star. Then came a long series of equations that we couldn’t decode in detail, but the symbols for uranium and plutonium, and some of the heavier elements, kept cropping up.
Then came one line that told us the whole story: the lithium-hydride equation
—nuclear fusion bombs.
The equations went on to more complex reactions, formulas that no man on Earth had ever seen before. They were showing us the summation of their knowledge, and they had obviously been dealing with nuclear energies for much longer than we have on Earth.
But interspersed among the new equations, they repeated a set of formulas that always began with the lithium hydride fusion reaction. The message ended in a way that wrenched my stomach: the fusion bomb reaction and its cohorts were repeated ten straight times.
I’m not sure of what day it was on the calendar, but the clock on the master control console said it well past eleven.
Rizzo rubbed a weary hand across his eyes. “Well, what do you think?”
“It’s pretty obvious,” I said. “They have the bombs. They’ve had them for quite some time. They must have a lot of other weapons, too—more . . . advanced. They’re trying to tell us their history with the equations. First they depended on natural sources of energy, plants and animals; then they developed artificial energy sources and built up a technology; finally they discovered nuclear energy.”
“How long do you think they’ve had the bombs ?”
“Hard to tell. A generation . . . a century. What difference does it make? They have them. They probably thought, at first, that they could learn to live with them . . but imagine what it must be like to have those weapons at your fingertips . . . for a century. Forever. Now they’re so scared of them that they’re beaming their whole history out into space, looking for someone to tell them how to live with the bombs, how to avoid using them.”
“You could be wrong,” Rizzo said. “They could be boasting about their arsenal.”
“Why? For what reason? No . . . the way they keep repeating those last equations. They’re pleading for help.
Rizzo turned to the oscilloscope. It was flickering again. “Think it’s the same thing?”
“No doubt. You’re taping it anyway, aren’t you ?”
“Yeah, sure. Automatically.” Suddenly, in mid-flight, the signal winked off. The pulsations didn’t simply smooth out into a steady line, as they had before. The screen simply went dead.
“That’s funny,” Rizzo said, puzzled. He checked the oscilloscope. “Nothing wrong here. Something must’ve happened to the telescope.”
Suddenly I knew what had happened. “Take the spectrometer off and turn on the image-amplifier,” I told him.
I knew what we would see. I knew why the oscilloscope beam had suddenly gone off scale. And the knowledge was making me sick.
Rizzo removed the spectrometer set-up and flicked the switch that energized the image- amplifier’s viewscreen.
“Holy God!”
The dome was flooded with light. The star had exploded.
“They had the bombs all right,” I heard myself saying. “And they couldn’t prevent themselves from using them. And they had a lot more, too. Enough to push their star past its natural limits.”
Rizzo’s face was etched in the harsh light.
“I’ve gotta get out of here,” he muttered, looking all around the cramped dome. “I’ve gotta get back to my wife and find someplace where it’s safe . .
“Someplace?” I asked, staring at the screen “Where?”
THE MAN WHO SAW GUNGA DIN THIRTY TIMES
I’ve seen the movie Gunga Din more than thirty times, and I have the feeling that unless you’ve seen the film often enough, or recently enough, to remember it well, this story may not hit you as hard as it could. But it says something to me about the Zarathustrian dichotomy between the Forces of Light and the Forces of Darkness, a conflict that was very much in evidence when you worked for a military-oriented research laboratory during the strife-torn Sixties.
Nosing the car through the growling traffic down Memorial Drive, autos clustered thick and sullen as Bombay thieves, the Charles River looking clear in the morning sunlight, the golden dome of the Capitol sparkling up on Beacon Hill, the sky a perfect Indian blue.
The temple of gold.
—What?—
Charlie’s a perfect Higgenbottom type: capable in a limited way, self-centered, basically stupid.
The golden temple, I repeat.
—Oh, the Capitol. It’s a wonder the goddam politicians haven’t stolen that yet—
A Fiat bulging with bearded Harvard Square types cuts in front of us. I hit the brakes and Charlie lurches and grumbles—goddam hippies. They oughtta get a job—
They’re in the morning traffic. Maybe they have jobs.
—Yeah. Undercutting some guy who’s been working twenty years and has a family to support—
It was on the Late Show again last night, did you see it?
—See what?—
Gunga Din. The movie. Cary Grant. Doug Fairbanks, Jr., Victor McLaglen. . .
—What? They have that on again?—
It’s the best movie Hollywood ever made. It has everything: golden temple, elephants, cavalry charges, real heroes. They don’t make movies like that any more. Can’t.
—They must have it on the Late Show every week—
No, it’s been months since they showed it. I check TV Guide every week to make sure.
Charlie looks a little surprised, startled. Just like Higgenbottom when Cary Grant dropped that kilted Scottie corporal out the window.
I’ll bet I’ve seen that movie thirty times, at least. I know every line of it, just about. They cut it terribly on television. Next time there’s a Cary Grant film festival in New York I’m going down to see it. All of it. Without cuts.
Charlie says nothing.
We inch along, crawling down the Drive as slowly as the waterboy himself. I can see him, old Sam Jaffe all blacked over, heavy goatskin waterbag pulling one shoulder down, twisting his whole skinny body. White turban, white breechcloth. Staggering down the grassy walk alongside the Drive, keeping pace with us. If they made the movie now, they’d have to use a real Negro for the part. Or an Indian. For the guru’s part, too. No Eduardo Cianelli.
We turn off at the lab. There are guards at the gates and more guards standing around in the parking lot. The lab building is white and square and looming, like Army headquarters—an oasis of science and civilization in the midst of the Cambridge slum jungles.
Even in uniform the guards look sloppy. They ought to take more pride in themselves. We drive past them slowly, like the colonel reviewing the regiment. The regimental band is playing Bonnie Charlie. The wind is coming down crisply off the mountains, making all the pennants flutter.
—Stockholders’ meeting today. They’re worried about some of these student protesters kicking up a rumpus.—
McLaglen would straighten them out. That’s what they need, a tough sergeant major.
This time Charlie really looks sour.—McLaglen! You’d better come back into the real world. It’s going to be a long day.—
For you, I say to myself. Accountant, paper shuffler. Money juggler. The stockholders will be after you. Not me. They don’t care what I do, as long as it makes money. They don’t care who it kills, as long as it works right and puts numbers in the right columns of your balance sheets.
The air-conditioning in my office howls like a wind tunnel. It’s too cold. Be nice to have one of those big lazy fans up on the ceiling.
—Got a minute?—
Come on in, Elmer. What’s the matter, something go wrong downstairs?
—Naw, the lab’s fine. Everything almost set up for the final series. Just got to calibrate the spectrometer.—
But something’s bothering you.
—I was wondering if I could have some time off to attend the stockholders’ meeting—
Today? I didn’t know you were a stockholder.
—Five shares.—
He’s black. He’s always seemed like a good lab technician, a reasonable man. But could he be one of them?
—I never been to a stockholders’ meeting.—
Oh sure. You can go. But. . . we’re not allowed to
talk about PMD. Understand?
—Yeah, I know.—
Not that it’s anything we’re ashamed of—military security.
—Yeah I know.—
Good military form. Good regimental attitude. We’ve got to stand together against the darkness.
Elmer nods as he leaves, but I don’t think he really understands. When the time comes, when the Thugees rise in rebellion, which side will he join?
I wonder how I’d look in uniform? With one of those stiff collars and a sergeant’s stripes on my sleeves. I’m about as tall as Grant, almost. Don’t have his shoulders, though. And this flabby middle—ought to exercise more.
Through my office window I can see the world’s ugliest water tower, one of Cambridge’s distinguishing landmarks. Mountains, that’s what should be out there. The solid rock walls of the Himalayas. And the temple of gold is tucked in them somewhere. Pure gold! Din was telling the truth. It’s all gold. And I’m stuck here, like Cary Grant in the stockade. Get me out of here, Din. Get me out.
—Please, sahib, don’t take away bugle. Bugle only joy for poor bhisti.—
He only wants to be one of us. Wants to be a soldier, like the rest of us. A bugler. McLaglen would laugh at him. Fairbanks would be sympathetic. Let him keep the bugle. He’s going to need it.
—Tonight, when everyone sleeping. I go back to temple.—
Not now, Din. Not now. Got some soldiering to do. Down in the lab. Test out the new batch of PMD. A soldier’s got to do his duty.
The phone. Don’t answer it. It’s only some civilian who wants to make trouble. Leave it ringing and get down to the lab. Wife, sister, mother, they’re all alike. Yes, I’m a man, but I’m a soldier first. You don’t want a man, you want a coward who’d run out on his friends. Well, that’s not me and never was. . . No, wait—that’s Fairbanks’ speech. He’s Ballantine. And who was the girl? Olivia de Haviland or her sister?
The halls are crawling with stockholders. Fat and old. Civilians. Visiting the frontier, inspecting the troops. We’re the only thing standing between you and the darkness, but you don’t know it. Or if you do, you wouldn’t dare admit it.
