by Joe Haldeman
We were talking in the galley. Dargo had come in to get a drink and listened silently for a minute.
"You're too anthropomorphic with them," she said. "I wouldn't be quick to assign them human motivation."
"You do have to wonder," Joan said. "Where would their altruism come from? In humans and some animals there's survival value in regarding the safety of the group over the individual's—but they don't have any natural enemies to band together against."
"Maybe they did have, in their prehistory," Terry said. "Their home planet might be full of predators."
"For which they would be ill prepared," said Dargo. "No natural armor, delicate hands with no claws."
"Unimpressive teeth, too," I said. "Something like humans." Dargo gave me a weary look.
"Both Red and Green are adamant, insisting they didn't evolve," Joan said. "That the Others created them ab initio."
"A lot of Americans still believe that of the human race," I said. "With only one Other, a lot more recent than the Martians’ master race."
It was interesting that otherwise the Martians didn't have anything like religion. Some of them studied human religions with intense curiosity, but so far none had expressed a desire to convert.
From my own skepticism I could see why religion would face an uphill battle trying to win converts among Martians. They were a race with no other races to fear, no concept of wealth or even ownership, no real family, and sex as impersonal as a trip down to the gene shop. Which of the Ten Commandments could they break?
And yet they seemed so weirdly human in so many ways. That was partly our seeing them through a human-colored filter, interpreting their actions and statements in anthropomorphic ways—give the devil her due—a fallacy long familiar to students of anthropology and animal behavior.
But we actually had changed them profoundly, if indirectly, in a human direction, over the past couple of hundred years. Red didn't think there were any Martians left alive who could remember life before the radio machines started talking. And although at first they couldn't understand the noises coming from them, individuals like Fly-in-Amber recorded them all. The noises were obviously important, and resembled speech.
There wasn't a single Rosetta Stone for understanding human language, but two things combined to make it possible. One was television, which allowed them to connect words with objects, and the other was SETI, the twentieth-century Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence, where scientists tried to communicate with aliens via binary-coded radio signals that started with simple arithmetic and moved up through mathematics, physics, and astronomy, and finally into biology, and human affairs.
The translation was easier for the Martians than it would be for someone farther away—they not only got the messages, but they could watch TV programs explaining about the messages in English.
We talked with Red about that. Maybe the Others had been listening to us, too, but if they were far away they'd be years behind the Martians in understanding us. He didn't think so, and gave a reasonable relativistic argument—if they were light-years away, traveling close to the speed of light, then as they approached the solar system, the information would pile up in an increasingly concentrated way, and of course by the time they got here, they'd be totally caught up. Assuming they were infinitely smart.
It turned out otherwise.
3
Speaking in Tongues
When Jagrudi took my rosebud Franz off to Mars, along with Terry and Joan and another twenty-three, she was also carrying a cargo of special interest to Paul, an experimental drug called Primo-L. If it worked, it could revolutionize space travel, as well as other aspects of modern life: it was an antidote to radiation poisoning, at least from the low-dose, long-term kind of exposure that grounded space pilots and killed people who lived too close to places like the ruins of Kolkata.
They wouldn't let him just take it, since there would be years of human trials before it could be approved. He volunteered to be one of the "lab rats," but they turned him down, since he wouldn't be taking it under clinically controlled conditions. They'd only sent it along in case an emergency arose that required him to drive the shuttle, if the other two pilots were unavailable.
It happened. A few months later, in November, Jagrudi was out on the surface, working on the Tsiolkovski prior to launch, and a piece flew off a power tool and ripped open her helmet. They got an emergency patch on it and had her down in the clinic in a few minutes, but she had pulmonary embolisms and both her eyes were damaged. She might be all right in a couple of months, but that was way past the launch window. The third pilot was in the Schiaparelli, four months out, so Paul got the job.
It was a course of ten shots over two weeks, and he admitted they caused a little nausea and dizziness, but said it went away after the tenth, so he took off with his payload of three Martians and a bunch of stuff from their city.
Scientists couldn't wait to get their hands on the Martian hovercraft and the communication sphere that had connected them to Earth. But those engineering marvels paled in significance compared to something the Martians didn't even know they were bringing.
* * * *
The engineering team came up three weeks before rendezvous, two of them joining us on the Mars side—a married couple who would eventually emigrate to Mars—and seven who joined the permanent party on Earth side.
Our couple, Elias and Fiona Goldstein, were practically bouncing off the walls with infectious enthusiasm. Only a little older than me, they both had fresh doctorates in mechanical engineering and systems theory, tailored for this mysterious job—analyzing self-repairing machines that had worked for centuries or millennia with no obvious source of power. Would they even work this far from Mars? If they didn't, Elias and Fiona were prepared to continue their investigations in the field, which is to say the Martians’ city.
They'd brought miniature tennis rackets and rubber balls with them, and we improvised a kind of anarchic racketball game up in Exercise A, scheduling it while no one was on the machines. It was great to work up a sweat doing something, rather than sitting there in VR, pedaling or rowing.
Of course, my own favorite way of working up a sweat was only weeks away and never far from my thoughts.
Planning for our reunion was fun. I had seven months and quite a bit of money, with a good salary and no living expenses.
Shipping nonessential goods on the Space Elevator came to about two hundred dollars per kilogram, and I tried to spend it wisely. I ordered fine sheets and pillows from Egypt, caviar from the Persian coalition, and wine from France. I could have bought it directly from the Hilton, but found that I could have more and better wine if I managed it myself. I wound up buying a mixed case of vintage Bordeaux, of which I took half, the other six bottles going to Oz and Joan, who in turn sold two to Meryl and Moonboy.
As the Tsiolkovski approached, there of course was less and less time delay, messaging, and Paul and I were able to converse almost in real time. We coordinated our schedules and made half-hour "dates" every day, just chatting, catching up on each other's lives over the past two years. I have to admit that his obvious eagerness to talk was a relief. A lot could happen during two years, but a lot more could happen to him—one of the few single young men on the planet.
He had admitted to a fling with Jag, which was about as surprising as gravity. But it didn't really work, partly because she was having reservations about living on Mars, which was rather less exciting than her native Seattle. If the quarantine was lifted before radiation kept her out of space, she probably would exercise her option to go back to the ground, the next time she returned to Earth orbit.
Paul was committed to Mars; it had been his planet since he signed up eight years ago. To him, the place where I lived was a suburb of Mars, though it happened to orbit another planet. That was my own attitude, though in my case it was more resignation than affirmation.
* * * *
I knew I wouldn't be able to just drag him off the sh
ip and down to my room—but the look he gave me when he stepped out of the airlock said that was on his mind, too. But he had to supervise the unloading and disposition of his cargo, which took two hours, with Dargo breathing down his neck. Then say hello to Red and Green and get Fly-in-Amber and Sunrise established in the Martian quarters, and meet the new members of the Mars-side human team.
Dargo offered to introduce him to the people on Earth side, but he pled fatigue and let me guide him by the elbow on a tour of Mars side, which got as far as my room.
He didn't show any sign of fatigue over the next half hour, though at first he sweetly suppressed his own urgency to attend to mine. I did have the impression that it had been all carefully rehearsed in his mind, but what else was he going to do for seven months, locked up with a couple of Martians?
It was much better for me, for whatever reasons, than aboard the John Carter or in his shared room in the colony. My own territory, I guess, with my own lock on the door. Egyptian sheets and pillowcases didn't hurt.
The wine bottles had corks made of actual cork, which I should have foreseen. I quickly dressed and slipped down to the galley unobserved—almost everybody being over in the Martian environment with the new arrivals—and got a thin-bladed knife that served the purpose.
We had time for a half a glass of wine each and a shared cracker heaped with caviar. Sitting on the bed just looking at one another with goofy expressions, and the phone squawked.
It was the loud, penetrating emergency signal. I got it untangled from my pile of clothes and punched NO VISION.
Dargo's face, pale. "One of the new Martians is having some kind of seizure, in Mars side B. You'd better get over here. Bring Collins ... if you can find him," she added with no inflection.
We dressed hurriedly. "Were either of them sick on the way over?"
He shook his head. "Who's ever seen one sick? How could you tell?"
Mars side B was a conference room with Martian-city normal temperature and humidity, a little cold and dry for comfort. The wall was a three-dimensional representation of the Martians’ city from above, as seen from the curving ramp that led to the surface. The floor was a soft incongruous gray Astroturf, chosen by Red.
Four humans and two Martians were bunched around Fly-in-Amber, who was lying on the floor, twitching. It was an unnatural sight, even for people used to seeing Martians, since they didn't lie down to rest. I remembered seeing a picture of a cow that some pranksters had tipped over on its side; he looked as odd as that.
"How did he get like that?" I asked Red.
"I've never seen it before, except as a joke." He was sort of kneeling, bending one of Fly-in-Amber's legs. "It looked as if his two legs suddenly collapsed, and the other pair, at the same time, pushed hard, as if jumping." He said something in Martian, loudly, but Fly-in-Amber didn't respond.
"It isn't some kind of odd joke?" Oz asked. "A practical joke?"
"I don't think so. It's childish. Fly-in-Amber is too stiff for that. Dignified." Red faced Paul. "Did he act strangely during the crossing?"
"Forgive me, Red," Paul said, "but to me you all act strange, all the time."
He made his little buzz sound. "You should talk, Two-legs. I mean, did his behavior or conversation suddenly change?"
"He talked a lot more during the last couple of days, approaching Earth. But we were all excited, ready to get off the ship."
"Of course. You were eager to mate with Carmen. Did that happen yet?"
I had to smile. "It was fine, Red."
"That's good. Green has gone to Mars C, to send a message to the other healers at home. She'd never seen this either."
"Nor have I," said Sunrise, who was the same saffron color as Fly-in-Amber. "And I don't forget."
Red swiveled to regard him. "This is not something I would forget, either."
"Should we pull him back upright?" I asked.
"Not yet," Red and Sunrise said at the same time. "Wait until we hear from—"
Fly-in-Amber started talking, a quiet uninflected warble. Sunrise moved close to listen.
"Is this being recorded?" Paul said.
"Of course," Dargo Solingen snapped.
Red gestured at Sunrise. "Not really necessary. He'll have it all."
"What is he saying?" I asked.
"It sounds like nonsense to me." Red shook his head, ponderously, a gesture that he'd learned to copy from us. "Perhaps code? I've never heard anything like it."
"I have," Sunrise said. "Not me directly, but one of the first rememberers."
"Do you know—did he know what it was?" Oz said.
"No. Or if he did, that part is lost. It was a long time ago."
"Before the meteorite?" I asked. "Before 4,000 ares ago?"
"Oh, long before. Long, long. One of the first."
"Can you make any sense of it?"
"No, not yet. But it doesn't seem ... it isn't random. He is saying something."
Fly-in-Amber stopped with a noise like a sneeze. Then a long monotone, like a sung sigh. Sunrise said something in Martian, and after a pause Fly-in-Amber answered a couple of halting syllables.
He started to rise but hesitated. Red and Sunrise helped him to his feet, Red chattering away. He answered, obviously faltering. Red made an odd fluting sound I didn't think I'd heard before. "Can you tell them in English?"
Fly-in-Amber stepped around to face us. "I don't know what happened. Red says I fell down and spoke nonsense while my body shook.
"To me, I was blind, but I felt the floor." He gingerly patted his right arms with his main left hand. "Along here, that was strange. And I smelled things that have no name. At least that I've never smelled. And I felt cold, colder than home. Colder than Mars, outside.
"But I don't remember talking. Red says I talked and talked. I heard something, but it didn't make any sense."
"Maybe you heard what you were saying to us?" Sunrise said.
"No, it wasn't words; nothing like words. It was like a machine sound, but it was like music, too, human music. A musical machine?"
Dargo played back part of it. "Doesn't sound very musical."
Fly-in-Amber tilted his head back, as if searching the ceiling and walls with potato eyes. "I mean something like ‘feeling.’ When you say music has feeling."
"You mean emotion?" Oz said.
"Not really. I understand that you humans have emotions when events or thoughts cause chemical changes in your blood. In your brains. We are similar, as you know. This is not ... not that real?"
He swiveled toward me. "It's like when Carmen tried to tell me, at 20:17 last Sagan 20th, how she felt while reading the score of Beethoven's Eroica symphony. That seeing the dots on the screen made your brain remember the sound, and the feeling that the sound caused, even though you weren't hearing anything. Do you remember that?"
"I guess." If you say so, Dr. Memory.
"It was that kind of, what would you say, distance? What you said about reading the score was that it was like a diagram of an emotion, an emotional state, but one you didn't have a word for."
I did remember. "That's right. You can call it ‘joy’ or ‘hope’ or something, but nothing really precise."
"So if someone couldn't read music and didn't know anything about how music is written down, still, they might see the score and recognize patterns, symmetries, as having beauty, or at least significance, without connecting them to sound at all."
"I've seen something like that," Oz said. "A system of notation that dancers use to record a performance. There's no way you could tell what it was without knowing. But there was symmetry and motion in it. I guess you could say it had intrinsic beauty."
"Lebanotation," Red said. "I saw it on the cube."
Green had come back and listened silently for a minute. She let out a burst of rapid-fire French and then paused. "Fascinating. Save it for later. Fly-in-Amber is ill. I must take him away and look at him."
Red said something in Martian and she answered with a short
noise that I recognized as affirmation. She put a pair of arms around her patient and led him off to their living quarters.
Red watched her go and made a human shrug. "She is the doctor, in a way. But I doubt that there is any treatment for this."
"She talked to Mars," I said, and checked my watch tattoo. "She might have heard by—" She came rushing immediately back, warbling and rasping at Red.
"She says the same thing has happened on Mars, evidently at the same time. Most of the memory family fell down and started talking this nonsense."
"It was temps du Mars 09:19 when it happened there. Seventeen Earth minutes after Fly-in-Amber."
"As if they caught it from him," I said.
"Or it came from Earth," Paul said.
"Or outer space" Red gestured down the hall. "Anywhere out there."
4
Puzzles
The memory family had seventy eight members, less than one percent of the total Martian population. They were oddballs, but curiously uniform in their eccentricity. In human terms, they were vain, scolding, obsessive, and humorless. The other Martians enjoyed a whole class of jokes about them and didn't take them too seriously, since history was not a traditionally useful pursuit. And then this odd thing happened.
In less than an hour, it became obvious that "odd" only began to describe it.
The people in New Mars would have decoded it soon, but they were beaten to the punch by a Chilean researcher, who idly fed a recording of the data through a reverse SETI algorithm—a program that looked for patterns like the ones we had been sending out for more than a century, trying to contact intelligent life elsewhere in the universe.
The dot-and-dash digital message was slightly obscured because it was mixed into a far more complex one, like a radio signal that carried both amplitude and frequency modulation. Filtering out the frequency modulation gave an unambiguous pattern of dots and dashes. There were 551 of them, and the same pattern was repeated ten times.
