After questioning the puzzled young woman about the contents of the chocolate cake, he moved to take up a knife and commenced slicing with gusto.
As he had ever since he had moved up to the farm Erickson enjoyed every bite of supper. What was not grown on the farm came from similar small truck farms nearby. Insofar as he had been able to determine, none of them were supervised by machines. Everything was done by hand, from the raising of farm animals to the picking of fresh fruits and vegetables. Meanwhile he was gradually amassing a small mountain of evidence to support his contention that the machines over which man had given dominion of the bulk of the planet’s food supply were, slowly and gradually through the use of subtly modified additives, making profound adjustments to the human condition.
It was only by chance that he found out the collective down the valley was adding xanthan gum sourced from outside to their “home-made” salad dressings.
“They have to,” a distressed Callie told him when he confronted her with his discovery, “or it wouldn’t pour properly and none of the tourists who support farms like these would buy it. Why? What’s wrong with that, Dr. Erickson?”
“It’s just that,” he was aware he was looking around wildly, “it’s a polysaccharide derived from a bacterium, Xanthomonas campestris. Bacteria can be re-engineered to produce specific results that are ancillary to without inhibiting the original intended purpose of the biosynthesis.”
“What results?” Much as she liked and respected Dr. Erickson, she was keeping her distance.
“I don’t know.” His tone was solemn. “But I intend to find out.”
He did not. Though he ingested no more of the suspect salad dressing from the culpable farm downstream, his desire to analyze its products waned. Life was comfortable at the farm. He found that just as Moritz had surmised, he enjoyed being free of the pressures of the university, of the need to constantly prepare papers for publication, and of any lingering desire to foist what were patently untenable notions of a mechanical conspiracy on a public that would likely disbelieve his conclusions no matter how sound the research on which they might be based.
When some frozen yoghurt was brought in from a neighboring “organic” commercial farm he allowed himself to eat as much of it as he wanted, even though a protesting part of him knew it contained a minimal amount of carrageenan that had been, after all, only slightly modified from the original seaweed. The transportation robot that drew it forth from within its own freezing depths gladly dished out all he could eat. Very soon Erickson was content.
Even if a desperate but steadily fading part of him did not want to be.
11
Our Specialty Is Xenogeology
From the time of Hugo Gersback’s Amazing Stories, science-fiction is replete with tales of bold space explorers encountering the detritus of alien civilizations, or solitary space scouts encountering mysterious artifacts. Sometimes such discoveries lead to unexpected riches, sometimes to disaster, occasionally to encounters with ancient alien civilizations. In every instance, it seems that the intrepid explorers must decide what to do with their discovery. Appropriate it, blow it up, confront it, pass the decision along to a higher authority: the options appear endless.
There is only one option that never seems to be chosen.…
* * *
They found the artifact by accident.
They were leaving Timos IV, where a preliminary robotic scouting report noting the presence of non-synthesizable rare earth deposits which had upon closer inspection shown themselves to be fiscally unjustifiable, and were making preparations for the next jump. Had they not chosen to depart the Timos system along the plane of the ecliptic, they would have missed the artifact. Had their wide-arc scanner not been directed at the system’s outermost planet at just the right moment, they would have missed the artifact. And had Bannerjee not decided to make a quick check of the last downloaded scanner files prior to their ship engaging jump, they most surely would have missed the artifact. But they did, it did, and he did, and so …
“I may have something interesting.”
Cooper looked over from her station. “You’d better have something interesting. I don’t like recalibrating a jump.”
Sasmita made a rude noise. “The ship does the recalibrating. You’re just another meatbag backup, like the rest of us.”For someone so petite, Sasmita was positively bursting with sarcasm.
“Quiet.” Oldman, who wasn’t, swung around to peer across the projection-filled control room. “What is it, BJ?”
“It’s big, and the quick spectrographic scan is a bundle of interesting contradictions.”
“Like for instance, it’s maybe more than just rock or water ice?” Despite her initial disdain, Cooper was now mildly intrigued.
“There’s a lot of metal.” Bannerjee’s deft fingers sorted through floating projections like a card sharp in a history hotel.
Sasmita shrugged. “Nickel-iron asteroid?”
Bannerjee continued working without looking at her. “No nickel. No iron. Lot of combinations that are new to me. Could be alloys. Sophisticated alloys.” He had everyone’s attention now. “Exotic ceramics and glass states. No plastics that I can find. And it’s very, very big.” He froze a virtual, read the resultant number.
Oldman let out a long whistle. “Better go have a look.”
Up close it was immediately apparent that the artifact was a synthetic construct. Whether it was a ship or not they could not tell. The gigantic jumble of dark projections, spheres, arches, and rhomboidal flows had no recognizable bow, stern, or middle. It hung in orbit above Timos IX, silent, brooding, and immense, an alien enigma of vast dimensions replete with a hundred unspoken possibilities.
“So,” Sasmita finally said into the silence, “when do we go in?” She and her companions watched Oldman, waiting on the commander’s decision.
“We have to go in.” Cooper was quietly emphatic in her support of the other woman.
“That is self-evident,” Bannerjee added.
“Nothing is self-evident,” Oldman finally said. “There are four of us. Our specialty is xenogeology. Not first contact.”
“You mean first contract.” Sasmita indicated the projection that showed the artifact. “So far humankind has made contact with only two other sentient species, both lower on the intelligence scale than ourselves, neither having anything to offer other than reassurance that we are not alone in the big starry backyard. Here we’ve finally got something whose builders might very well have advanced beyond us. It looks abandoned. No telling what we might be able to bring back. I’m tempted to open up a preliminary patent file right now.”
Oldman frowned at her. “The owners might not take kindly to visitors making off with souvenirs.”
“What owners?” Of the same mind as her crewmate, Cooper gestured at the hovering projection. “Whatever that thing is, it’s dead. I’m not reading enough energy to power a stylus. You know how this will work if we don’t take a look. We’ll make a report, government will get all over it, the grateful company will give us a month’s paid vacation, the media floats will momentarily be full of our individual images, and that will be it.” She nodded at Sasmita. “Let’s at least see what we can find, first. If there’s nothing we can pick up, nothing portable that might be worth claiming, then the government crabs can scuttle all over it to their hearts’ content.”
Outnumbered but never outvoted, Oldman considered. Eventually, the temptation was too much even for him. “All right. We go in, look around, make recordings, see what we can ascertain. If it’s full of alien doubloons, I suppose they’d have some collector value and that wouldn’t be anything that would cause the xenologists to hyperventilate. Suit up.”
Initially they were afraid they wouldn’t be able to find an opening. Oldman was about to order them back when Bannerjee happened to pass in front of a smooth section of what appeared to be solid olivine only to have it iris open. His sharp intake of breath caused everyone else to look
in his direction and then to mosey over.
Beyond the now revealed opening, a corridor stretched inward. It had a flat floor, an arched ceiling, and walls that appeared to have been fashioned from a single continuous pour rather than having been seamed or welded. As they stared inward, light brightened within the corridor, though there were no visible appliances.
Now that the opportunity they had discussed had actually presented itself, Cooper found herself suddenly hesitant. She looked at Oldman. “We still go in?”
Before she had finished her query, Sasmita was already moving down the corridor. Rather than call her back, Oldman followed, as did Bannerjee and, eventually, Cooper.
The deeper they went, the stronger was the pull of internal artificial gravity. Soon they were walking instead of floating. Oldman slowed their advance as the pull became greater than Earth-normal. But when the increase ceased, he indicated they could push on. Walking now took a bit of an effort, but not a threatening one.
After a considerable hike, the corridor opened into a dimly-lit chamber with a soaring, domed ceiling. Elephant-size bubbles, opaque and rose-colored, bounced slowly against the ceiling. Each time they made contact, a portion of the dome emitted a brief but brilliant silent flash. The visitors worked their suits’ instruments, and it was Bannerjee who spoke first.
“It’s an ozone generator of some kind. The ceiling material is permeable and there are static charges involved, but I don’t see how it works. Or why.”
Sasmita’s response was characteristically mercenary. “Anyone got any idea what the market might be for an alien ozone generator?”
“I’m more interested in what the ozone is used for.” Oldman was studying the several new, larger corridors that ran off in different directions from the one they had just traversed. Knowing that if necessary their suits could provide them with nourishment and drink for several days, he was not concerned about spending some sleep time within the artifact. “I’d still like to find out if we’re inside a ship, a cargo container, a museum, or what. Also some clue as to what the builders were like.”
“More walking. I’m up for it,” Sasmita declared. “As long as there’s no further increase in the gravity. Feels like walking in mud as it is.”
The gravitational drag did not increase as they made their way deeper into the artifact. Before long, the new corridor opened into another chamber. This one was filled with hundreds of floating, steel-gray ovoids. Each was enveloped in a pale green light. None made contact with another. They varied in size from no bigger than an egg to some large enough to contain one of the rose-colored ozone-generating spheres.
Sasmita immediately reached for one that was about half her size, only to have Bannerjee grab her arm. She shook him off and shot him a warning look.
“We came to look for stuff. Here it is.”
“To ‘look,’” Bannerjee reminded her. “Not necessarily touch.” He was passing his hand scanner over the gleaming mass. “Locus of supporting energy field appears to emanate from the surface of the object itself. It’s omnipresent and shows no source point. Interior is unreadable.”
“Maybe we should—” Before Cooper could finish, Sasmita had reached for the object a second time. Intent on his instrumentation, this time Bannerjee was unable to react quickly enough to intercept her. Nor did Oldman’s warning shout cause her to pause.
Her gloved hand made contact with the pale energy field, at which point it began to dissipate. The last hint of green glow winked out at precisely the same time as the ovoid touched down on the floor. The commander was not pleased and said so.
“We can’t just go grabbing and playing with everything we encounter, Alee.” He indicated their surroundings. “This isn’t an entertainment venue.”
She grinned up at him. “How do you know? For all we know, that might be exactly what it is.”
“Why am I not amused, then?” Cooper muttered.
Reaching down, Sasmita touched the ovoid. When a seam suddenly and unexpectedly appeared along the top, she stepped back in momentary alarm. Like the two halves of an egg, the ovoid opened up. The walls of the gray container were scarcely thicker than a sheet of paper, though plainly far stronger. When nothing more happened, the quartet of explorers cautiously advanced.
Lying within the now open ovoid was an irregular construct of bright yellow marked with black inscriptions and maroon highlights. The vivid colors were in striking contrast to everything they had seen thus far. Sasmita looked at Oldman, who looked at Bannerjee, who shrugged. The commander nodded at Sasmita before taking the precaution of retreating several steps. So did Cooper and Bannerjee.
Their companion made a face at them. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“You’re the one who wants to get rich off alien relics,” Cooper told her. “So—go ahead.” She nodded toward the revealed relic.
Thus challenged, the smaller woman had no choice but to pick up the now exposed whatever-it-was. Bending, she gingerly lifted it with two hands. It was solid but not heavy. The black inscriptions, if that’s what they were, held no more meaning for her than the tea leaves left at the bottom of a cup. She ran a forefinger along the side of a twisting tube, the material of her suit preventing her from receiving any tactile response. One finger slid across one of the maroon-hued bands.
In response, the object began to reform itself. Startled, she dropped it and retreated. A moment later the thing put out a single tubular leg and straightened. Pouring from a small curved orifice, a dark liquid began to fill a conical portion of the device. As in the chamber of the giant rose-tinted bubbles, there was no noise. When the conical container was full, it detached itself from the rest of the mechanism and floated over to Sasmita, coming to a halt a few centimeters from her left hand.
At once awed and wary, Cooper gestured at the hovering vessel. “It’s a coffee-maker. Have a sip.”
Sasmita eyed the floating cone uncertainly. “It could also be a synthesized machine lubricant, a propulsive fuel, a liquid explosive, or an industrial solvent.”
“Whatever it is, it’s waiting for you to do something,” Bannerjee pointed out. Moving closer, he tentatively extended the business end of his scanner. The results were informative.
“The liquid is organic in nature, though the combination of amino acids and other components is new to the catalog.”
“Well, that resolves it, then,” she snapped at him. “It means it could be a synthesized lubricant, a fuel, an explosive, or an industrial solvent. Thanks for that.”
“Or it could be coffee,” Cooper murmured thoughtfully. “Alien coffee.”
The conical container, finding itself ignored, returned to its point of origin and locked itself back in place on its home device. The dark liquid remained in the cone.
Turning, a speculative Oldman indicated a larger ovoid. “Let’s try another. That one there, since the only apparent distinguishing trait here seems to be size.” When Sasmita stepped forward, he put out a hand. “No, I’ll do it. A test to ensure that these things aren’t tuning to a single individual’s heartbeat, or something.” If only we had a xenobiologist on board, he thought. But no; they were all rock people. Rocks and minerals and metals.
He felt nothing through the suit as he pushed his right hand into the enveloping energy field. Gratifyingly, the procedure initiated by Sasmita was repeated. The field faded like a dispersing green fog and as it did, the ovoid within lowered gently to the ground, split, and opened.
Within lay several dozen grungy, brown, blanket-sized, furry rugs. Oldman and his companions leaned close for a better look.
Four of the rugs rose into the air and came undulating toward them.
As they batted wildly at the swarm, a strange feeling of contentment came over Oldman. Looking around, he saw that arms were being lowered as his companions responded similarly to the proximity of the rug-things. Half compliant, half resistant, he found himself relaxing. Settling itself on his shoulders his rug gently attached itself to his
back by means he could neither see nor feel. The intervening presence of the suit did not matter.
What did matter was that he suddenly felt wonderful. Better than at any time since the start of the voyage. Whether the rugs generated some kind of beneficent field, or penetrated his suit with a gas, or injected something into him via a technique he could not imagine, didn’t matter either. He felt great.
So did the rest of the crew. Sasmita was positively buoyant.
“I don’t know about the coffee-fuel-explosive machine, but these things …” and she reached back to finger one edge of the rug that had chosen her, “could generate income several times the cost of the voyage.”
“Doesn’t seem to be doing any harm,” Cooper observed guardedly.
Bannerjee nodded. “Quite the contrary. I don’t know how these things are doing this, but I am glad that they are.” He flexed his right hand. “My arthritis is gone, too.” He started toward another ovoid. “This is a room full of marvels.”
“The marvels will have to wait.” Much as he wanted to see what was in the next ovoid, and the next, and the one after that, Oldman knew it was incumbent on him to keep the others focused. “We can come back here. We still need to find out if we’re on a ship or some other kind of apparatus, and hopefully where it may have originated.”
They argued with him, but not vociferously. The commander was right, as he usually was. But all were careful to note the location of the room full of wonderful objects on their own individual instrumentation.
Chosen at random, another corridor led to a chamber that, as Cooper put it, looked like it was badly in need of a haircut. The same dim, sourceless light revealed an endless field of tightly packed-together four-meter-high jet black strands. There did not appear to be a path through them to the other side of the chamber. Unlike previous rooms, this one boasted a domed ceiling of softly pulsing, fluctuating colors. When Oldman put out a hand to touch the nearest of the black strands, each of which was exactly the same diameter as its neighbor, it flexed and moaned. He drew his fingers back sharply.
The Flavors of Other Worlds Page 15
