The Listeners
Page 21
“Everything?” MacDonald said. “From the beginning?”
Olsen swept a wrinkled hand at the walls of computer. “It's all there, every word, and a world of information besides. Everything anyone ever recorded about other worlds or languages or communication or cryptography. ‘Who knows,’ your father said, ‘where imagination interfaces with reality?’ He was a great one for ‘who knowses.’ We had a running joke: ‘Pardon me,’ someone would say, ‘while I blow my who nose.’ Mac used to laugh; he said it himself. He was a great man, Mac was. I'm sorry, Bobby—I mean Robert. You get tired of hearing me say things about your father and talking to you as if you were still a boy. You're a man and Mac is dead, and I programmed this for you so you would know what he was like here at the Project, what he did and how he did it.”
The old man no longer seemed to MacDonald like a senile fool. He was old but he was still observant. And what he had done—creating a program that could make sense out of that ocean of unrelated data—should be studied by every computer scientist.
“That was your father during his first real crisis,” Olsen said, “when your mother attempted suicide and your father almost quit the Project.”
MacDonald sat quite still, listening to voices from his past.
“You can listen as long as you wish,” Olsen said. “When you've heard all you want to hear just push the button.”
MacDonald did not notice him leave. He was listening to the voice of his father: “A man must believe sufficiently in himself—or in his cause—that he persists in spite of disappointments and the inexorable metronome of the years.”
And another voice, a dry, skeptic's voice, that said, “Hope and faith keep this Project going—”
His father said, “And scientific probability.”
“That's another name for faith. And after more than fifty years even scientific probability becomes more than a little improbable....”
“Fifty years is but the flicker of an eyelash on God's face.”
“Fifty years is a man's working life. It has been most of your life. I don't expect you to give it up without a struggle, but it won't do any good. Are you going to cooperate with me or fight me?”
And then, after a bit, the babble-babel of voices like a multitude talking simultaneously, earnestly, confused....
“The sound of the infinite,” his father said.
And then another babble, only this one was recognizable and familiar now—the fragments from the radio programs of the Thirties which had been the first interstellar signals picked up, which Capella had rebroadcast as a way of calling attention to the Message it was trying to send, which had been used so effectively on radio and television to build support for the Project....
“We are not alone,” a voice said.
The voice of the skeptic now sounded uncertain. “What could they have said to us?”
“We'll find out,” his father said.
Time and voices passed in the half-dark room, and MacDonald heard a deep voice say, “It takes all this to read one small Message? For the faithful it requires only a believing heart.”
His father said, “Our faith requires that all data and results can be duplicated by anyone using the same equipment and techniques. And with all the believing hearts in the world, none, I think, has received identical Messages.” Minutes later the deep voice said, “Forgive me for doubting. It is a message from God.”
The scenes from the past, recorded in tiny magnets and electrons, capable of being recalled completely and infinitely from a vast, frozen storehouse, continued pouring from the computer into MacDonald's mind.
Someone said, “Tell me: why do you insist on responding to this message? Isn't it enough that your search has been successful, that you have demonstrated the existence of intelligent life in the universe?”
His father said, “I could give you rationalizations ... but behind all the rationalizations, as you suspect, is the personal motivation. Before our answer could reach Capella I will be dead, but I want my efforts to be rewarded, my convictions to be proved correct, my life to have been meaningful.... I want to leave a legacy to my son and to the world. I am not a poet or a prophet, an artist, a builder, a statesman, or a philanthropist. All I can leave is an open door. An open line to the universe, hope, the prospect of something new, a message to come from an alien world under two strange, distant suns....”
He had a persistent dream—maybe it was a memory rather than a dream—of waking up in a big bed all alone. It was his mother's bed, and she had let him climb into her bed and press himself against her soft warmth, and he had fallen asleep. Now he was awake and alone, and the bed was cold and he was afraid.
He got out of bed in the darkness, carefully, lest he step on something terrible or fall into a bottomless hole, and he ran through the darkness, feeling deserted and afraid, down the hall to the living room, screaming, “Mama-mama-mama!"
A light loomed ahead, a small light holding apart the darkness, and in the light his mother was sitting, watching the door, waiting for his father to come home, and he felt alone.
And he remembered: his father came home and was happy to find them waiting for him, mother and son, and they all were happy....
A voice was saying, “You do us great honor by your presence here, Mr. President.”
Another voice answered, “No, it is Robert MacDonald who did us the honor with his life and work. It is because of him the world is waiting for a reply from the stars, because of him we have this curious mixed sense of liberation and serenity, as if by contact with creatures who are truly alien we have discovered what it means to be truly human.”
A bit later MacDonald heard John White say, “I'm glad you could come, Father.”
And an older version of the same voice, “I told MacDonald he could go ahead with his answer, but I never told him it was the right thing to do. I guess I can tell him now.”
And other voices said like a Greek chorus:
“Remember when Mac had us put a recorder beside the janitor's false teeth because he said they were picking up messages in the night?”
“And the time he married his secretary to a visiting Congressman—”
“And lost the best secretary he ever had—”
“And the time a reporter came to do an exposé on the Project and stayed to become public relations director?”
“And the time....”
“And the time....”
A bit later there was a more formal chorus:
“He deserved a state funeral.”
“In Washington.”
“Or the United Nations building.”
“But he wished to be cremated like his wife, and if it were possible and not too much trouble or too expensive, to have their ashes scattered in space.”
“Of course.”
And someone said:
"When he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun."
The voice of John White again: “I don't think I know your name.”
And a deep old voice: “Jeremiah.”
“I thought you were—”
“Dead? Nonsense. MacDonald is dead. Everyone of my generation is dead. I go on. The Solitarians go on, diminished in numbers, perhaps, but not in spirit and rectitude, and they shall see the one God, the God who created man in his image. But I did not come to talk about the Solitarians but to pay my last respects to MacDonald, who was a good man in his lights, though an atheist, a man of great dreams and great deeds whom even a God-fearing man had to respect, and a man about whom it must be said that he was the servant of God though he knew it not....”
And after it was all over, MacDonald sat in the room with the computer staring into the distance. Once his lips moved:
In freta dum fluvii current, dum montibus umbrae
Lustrabunt co
nvexa, polus dum sidera pascet,
Semper honos nomenque tuum laudesque manebunt.
MacDonald did not hear the door open or shut.
John White said, “The memorial is over, Bob.” And then, more gently, “I'm sorry. You're crying.”
“Yes,” MacDonald said. “And the saddest part of it is that I'm still crying for myself.” He could feel the tears roll down his cheeks, and he couldn't stop them from coming. “I never told him I loved him,” he said. “He never knew that, and I didn't know it until now.”
“He knew,” White said.
“You needn't try to comfort me.”
“He knew, I tell you,” White said.
“One of these days,” MacDonald said, “I may be able to weep for him.” He shoved himself out of the chair.
White held out his hand. “Thanks for coming. Will you think about it? The job?”
MacDonald took his hand this time without reservation. “I'm not quite ready to think about it. Not yet. There's a girl in New York I want to see again, and something else I've got to do. Maybe then I can think about it.”
At the door that led into the corridor, MacDonald turned and looked back at the computer room once more. For a moment, in a distant, shadowed corner, he thought again he saw someone sitting in a chair, someone familiar and ageless, someone composed of memories and old recorded sounds.... And he shook his head, and the vision was gone.
Outside the building the day had turned to night and what had seemed tawdry and tarnished had become magical again in the moonlight—the ear of Earth held aloft to overhear the whispered secrets of the universe, the metal bowl polished to catch the stardust—and MacDonald stood, holding his bicycle, looking at the scene once again with eyes cured of the astigmatisms of growing up, and he knew that he would be coming back. For him the waiting was over, though not perhaps for the world; and he wondered if the world was not so much waiting but adjusting its rhythms to the metronome of a conversation with a ninety-year cycle.
He was, MacDonald thought, on his way to living a life of his own at last. He had come home.
“Robert,” someone said behind him. It was Olsen standing in the lighted doorway. “Did you see him? Did you see him sitting there?”
“Yes,” MacDonald said. “I saw him.”
“He'll be there,” Olsen said, “as long as the Project goes on. He'll be there when the reply comes from Capella. Whenever we need him he'll be there.”
“Yes,” MacDonald said, and turned to go.
“Will you be coming back?” Olsen asked.
“The winds willing,” MacDonald said. “But first I've got to go read some letters.”
Computer Run
Upon a slight conjecture I have ventured on a dangerous journey, and I already behold the foothills of new lands. Those who have the courage to continue the search will set foot upon them....
Immanuel Kant, 1755...
Science and technology have been advanced, in large measure, though not entirely, by the fight for supremacy and by the desire for an easy life. Both these forces tend to destroy if they are not controlled in time: the first one leads to total destruction and the second one leads to biological or mental degeneration....
Sebastian Von Hoerner, 1961...
approximately half the nation's working force are putting in a normal 7.5-hour work day and a 4-day week, with the customary 13 weeks vacation, the united states bureau of labor announced today. about one-fifth of the work force are laboring 10 hours a day, 5, 6, or even 7 days a week, the bureau added. among this 20 per cent are professionals of all kinds—physicians, scientists, writers, teachers, ministers, lawyers, editors, producers and directors, psychologists, and a variety of businessmen at top executive levels....
Spurred by the urgency of her tone, he went crashing outside. He found Molly standing rigid, trying to cram both her fists in her mouth at the same time. And at her feet was a man with silver-gray skin and a broken arm, who mewed at him....
Theodore Sturgeon, 1946...
It may be imagined that a highly developed technological species might use white binary dwarfs scattered around the galaxy as relay stations for heavy long-distance freight transportation....
Freeman J. Dyson, 1963...
Such a society—affluent, humanistic, leisure-oriented, and partly alienated—might be quite stable. It might, in fact, bear some resemblance to some aspects of Greek society (though of course Greek society did not develop primarily because of affluence). We can imagine a situation in which, say, 70 or 80 per cent of people become gentlemen and put a great deal of effort into various types of self-development, though not necessarily the activities which some futurists find most important for a humanistic culture. But one could imagine, for example, a very serious emphasis on sports, on competitive “partner” games (chess, bridge), on music, art, languages, or serious travel, or on the study of science, philosophy, and so on. ...
Herman Kahn and Anthony J. Wiener, 1967...
Fears that the lifetime oftechnological civilization on earth may be quite short are not groundless. However, there is at least the possibility that a resolution of national conflicts would open the way for the continued development of civilization for periods of time commensurate with stellar lifetimes....
J. P. T. Pearman, 1961...
It must be assumed that a highly advanced society would also be stable over very long periods, preserving the records of previous expeditions and waiting patiently for the return of others. According to this hypothesis civilizations throughout the galaxy probably pool their results and avoid duplication. There may be a central galactic information repository where knowledge is assembled, making it far easier for those with access to such information to guess where, in the galaxy, newly intelligent life is about to appear—a problem very difficult for us, with only our own experience on one planet to go by. ...
Carl Sagan, 1963...
imagine all the matter in existence gathered
together
in the center of the universe—
all the meteors
comets
moons
planets
stars
nebulas
the myriad galaxies
all compacted into one giant primordial atom,
one monobloc, massive beyond comprehension,
dense beyond belief...
think of white dwarfs, think of neutron stars,
then multiply by infinity....
the center of the universe? the universe itself.
no light, no energy could leave, none enter.
perhaps two universes, one within the giant egg
with everything
and one outside with all nothing...
distinct, untouchable...
imagine!
are you imagining?
all the matter brought together,
the universe a single, incredible monobloc,
seething with incomprehensible forces and
potentials
for countless eons or for instants
(who measures time in such a universe?),
and then...
bang!
explosion!
beyond explosion!
tearing apart the monobloc, the primordial
atom,
the giant egg hatching with fire and fury,
creating
the galaxies
the nebulas
the suns
the planets
the moons
the comets
the meteors
sending them hurtling in all directions into
space
creating space
creating the expanding universe
creating everything...
imagine!
you can't imagine?
well, then, imagine a universe populated with
stars and
galaxies, a universe forever expanding,
unlimited,
wher
e galaxies flee from each other
the most distant so rapidly
that they reach the speed of light
and disappear from our universe
and we from theirs....
imagine matter being created continuously,
a hydrogen atom popping into existence
here and there,
here
and
there,
perhaps one atom of hydrogen a year
within a space the size of the houston
astrodome,
and out of these atoms,
pulled together by the universal force of
gravitation,
new suns are born.
new galaxies to replace those fled beyond
our perception,
the expanding universe
without end,
without beginning
you can't imagine?
well, perhaps it is all a fantasy....
No doubt many would find thousand-year trips unappealing, but we have no right to impose our tastes on others....
Freeman J. Dyson, 1964...
Spacefaring socieites might send out expeditions about once a year and, hence, the starships would return at about the same rate, some with negative reports on solar systems visited, some with fresh news from some well-known civilizations. The wealth, diversity, and brilliance of this commerce, the exchange of goods and information, of arguments and artifacts, of concepts and conflicts, must continuously sharpen the curiosity and enhance the vitality of the participating societies....
Carl Sagan, 1963...
world population leveled off at approximately six billion persons fifteen years ago and since then has declined by several million, mostly in the heavily urbanized nations, the united nations bureau of population statistics and control announced today in its annual report.
latest item to hit the media stands is a complex offering that blends visual display, odor, music, touch, fiction, and verse into one massive communication about—what else?—communication. the viewer-auditor-sniffer-feeler purchases a black box which has seven buttons on one side. by pressing the seven buttons at random, the v-a-f-s is assailed by what seems at first like an overwhelming variety of sense impressions, but he eventually discovers, if he is lucky, that they add up to more than the miscellaneous parts: there is a communication about communication, with the miscellany communicating not only with the user but among themselves, and the sensitivity of the user increased to the everyday processes by which we inform ourselves about the nature of what is happening around us and the efforts of others to tell us what they want us—or don't want us—to know.