“California. Hat Creek.”
A few moments later, Radioman shook his head.
“Owens Valley.”
“Nope.”
“Goldstone.
“Table Mountain.
“Hamilton, Massachusetts.
“Tuscon, Arizona.”
“You be owing me for the trying on top of the doing,” Radioman said. “That’s fair. North Liberty, Iowa. “Danby, New York.”
“I got real work to do,” Radioman said with a touch of impatience. “You think of one more old friend to try, then you come back another day.” Chandliss rubbed his face with his hands and thought. “Great Britain.”
Radioman cocked his head and raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Haven’t had call for that in six, seven years. Don’t know if that can be done,” he said as he turned back to find out. It was a full five minutes before he turned back. “One-sixty paper or seventy coin. You have it?”
Chandliss nodded.
“Show me.”
Chandliss did.
“Worth it to you?”
“Yes.”
“No guarantees. We make the connection, you get five minutes with whoever.”
“I understand.”
“You want this pretty bad. All right. Where and who?” Chandliss told him. “No such number,” he reported a short time later. They tried three others with the same result, and Chandliss began to despair. He was near the end of his short list, past his close friends and those he knew well enough to trust.
“Eddington,” he said, giving the number. “Laurence Eddington.” Presently Radioman handed Chandliss the microphone and headset and retreated to the far side of the room. Chandliss sighed and settled on the stool. “Eddington?” he said experimentally.
“Yes,” a voice said cautiously, half statement and half question.
“Laurence Eddington, Mullard, 1985?”
The voice demanded, “Who is this?”
For that brief moment, the link—by radio to Boise, light-cable to New York, and undersea cable to Cambridge—cleared up enough for Chandliss to recognize his younger colleague’s voice. “Thank God.” Chandliss breathed noisily. “Larry, this is Allen Chandliss.”
There was such a long pause that Chandliss began to think they had been cut off. “Yes. From where are you calling?” sounded in his headset.
“Idaho.” It sounded incongruous. “Ketchum.”
“Idaho,” Eddington echoed. “It’s been a long time, Chandliss—what have you been doing?”
“The same as always.” The Radioman, across the room but within earshot, troubled Chandliss, and he turned his back to him. He hoped Eddington would catch his allusion.
Eddington did. “You have a dish?” he asked incredulously.
“Nothing fancy.”
Radioman leaned forward and stretched out a hand to pick up Chandliss’s pack from where it lay. Flipping back the flap, he pawed through the bags of nuts and bundles of rabbit jerky in search of suitable payment. A gleam of glass and metal drew his eye, and he pulled back a corner of the wrap that concealed it. His face impassive, he closed the pack and quietly replaced it.
Eddington laughed. “That’s fantastic. We had heard things were quite bad in the colonies. How are you getting away with it?”
“They are, and I’m not,” Chandliss said, glancing back over his shoulder at the Radioman.
“You never were much for long speeches, Allen, but this is extraordinary. I presume you’re taking precautions of some sort? Feel free to doubletalk, there’s no charge for translations.”
“Thank you. Do you still enjoy the same things you did when you were younger? Or know someone who does?”
Eddington grew cautious. “Possibly.”
“Then there’s something—someone—you’ll want to hear about.” Chandliss hesitated; he needed to pass along the celestial coordinates of the source but was afraid to say them too openly. “Her name is Cassiopeia. The best address I have is 105 Right Avenue—”
“Do you mean the right ascension is one hour five minutes?”
“Yes. If you can’t find her, she has a friend named Deke at 54 North—”
“Understood. Declination, fifty-four degrees. Plus, of course. But look, Chandliss—you don’t understand—I can’t simply—”
“You have to get in touch, Larry. Cassiopeia SEH, Larry.” He spelled out the last “name” with deliberate slowness. “You won’t regret it. You have to remember—remember Frank and Carl and the Order of the Dolphin!” His voice rose higher than he had intended.
“You’re saying you’ve detected some sign of intelligent life?”
“Exactly! Exactly! I won’t be jealous—she’s more than I can handle here. I’ll count on you to help. There’s no one left here to care for her, no one. She needs a lot of attention, Larry—a lot of attention.”
Eddington made a staccato noise deep in his throat. “How accurate are those coordinates?” Chandliss forgot where he was for a moment. “As good as they can be with a five-metre dish and no interferometry. Under the circumstances—”
“And what wavelengths?”
“She’s around nineteen.”
Eddington’s sigh was louder than the static. “All right-I don’t know what I can do, but at least there are two of us now that know. How can I reach you?”
“I can be here at this time two weeks from now.” The Radioman was moving toward him, giving him the cutoff signal.
“Ah—”
“That will have to do. Good-bye, Larry. I’m very glad to have talked to you again,” he said, as the Radioman switched off the set.
“That okay?” Chandliss asked. The Radioman checked his watch. “Uh-huh. What was that all about, anyway?”
“Is that part of your fee, the right to listen in?” Chandliss intended it as a humorous comment, but his underlying annoyance at the question came through.
“It was just a friendly inquiry,” Radioman said, his expression anything but friendly. “Of course. And that’s what the call was about—keeping in touch with a friend.”
“Not keeping real good touch, as many numbers as we called.”
“That’s right. It’s hard, these days.”
“And not many people around here keep friends in England, either,” Radioman said as he checked the meter. “This woman, she must be something special. Wha’d you say her name was?”
“Cassiopeia,” Chandliss said, counting out the coins.
“Funny name.”
“Not where she’s from.”
“I suppose not. Yeah, must be something special. Most people come to me got good reason, got somebody dying or sent a child to California or need the government folks in Boise. Must be something special, for you to come so far and spend so much,” Radioman said. “All right—hop on the cycle, and bring the batteries back up.”
He watched as Chandliss clambered awkwardly astride the bike and began to turn the pedals, then shook his head and stepped outside. He returned a few minutes later with Heincke and three other townsmen. Chandliss did not notice them immediately; in fact, he did not look up until Heincke said sharply, “Doctor?”
They waited until he was finished to arrest him.
Chapter 3
* * *
The Convert
Eddington cursed aloud in the darkness of his room, trying to conceive of a more unwanted call than the one he had just received.
He failed.
Had Chandliss known Laurence Eddington better, he could have predicted that his ancient phone number would still be in use. Several generations of Eddingtons had called Crown House home, and though his depleted state had forced Laurence to close the main house and take up residence in the servants’ wing, tradition was upheld.
True, Crown House had rarely been as empty as it was at present. Laurence Eddington lived alone, without benefit of wife (divorced), children (one, with Maggie), or servants (both unaffordable and unnecessary at present). In fact, one would have to go back to t
he Second World War, when the male Eddingtons were in the services—officers all, of course—and the women in the volunteers, to find a comparable time.
Had Chandliss known Laurence Eddington better, however, he would likely not have called him or expected much from the call. For though they had shared the same profession, it had meant entirely different things to them.
A healthy allowance that preceded a healthier inheritance had made young Eddington’s choice of profession uncomplicated. Though the male Eddingtons were expected at some point to take an interest in The Business—as a child, Eddington had clearly understood it should be so written—until then he was free to toy with nearly any interest he might choose. His toy was astronomy.
His experiences with the science promised to get off to a rousing start. A small observatory was built on the grounds, near the gardens, and the finest Celestron telescope arrived from overseas in time for his seventeenth birthday.
Unfortunately, Eddington’s understanding of astronomy had been built on science-fiction movies and popular-magazine reporting on the Voyager planetary spacecraft; having never looked through a telescope before demanding one, he had failed to consider the weather of his home isle. It was less than a month before he quit in frustration, declaring repeatedly that had astronomy been forced to develop in England, it would now be on the verge of discovering Mars and Venus.
Eddington soon learned, however, that the seemingly omnipresent clouds and fog were transparent to most radio frequencies, and promptly took up radio astronomy. Since backyard work was not considered practical, he studied astronomy rather than liberal arts in college, picking up the degree and the experience he would require for a post at a good European observatory. Though his professors and advisor questioned his dedication, no one could seriously fault his work. Eddington graduated cum laude—low for an Eddington, but acceptable—and went directly to the staff of Mullard Radio Observatory as an associate astronomer.
And there stagnated. He had trouble getting instrument time approved for his own projects and was assigned instead to assist visiting astronomers. None of the older staff members sought his opinions, nor were they receptive when he forced his on them. He applied elsewhere, with no luck, and was considering quitting when Mullard closed.
In the span of barely two years, most of the Eddington wealth evaporated. His father had believed in keeping money at work, and much of it was invested overseas—a mine here, an airline there, Argentine ranches, American computer firms—what wasn’t seized went bankrupt. Eddington fell from the ranks of the well-heeled to the just-getting-by, but as an Eddington should, he landed on his feet. His job at the fuel allocation center, securely located within the fences of the former RAF air station at Duxford, south of Cambridge, was as good a post as could be hoped for. It was fairly base work—clerking and “minding the machines”—but it would not suddenly disappear, not so long as the North Sea oil continued to flow. And the long bicycle rides commuting required kept him in good trim.
In other areas, he had been less lucky. His parents had died in the London riots, caught in the streets the day, the hour, the Prime Minister announced the new energy laws—no private motorcars, no home appliances outside the kitchen basics, no broadcasting except Radio One, an hour of sanitized news a day, no lights after eight P.M., and all the rest.
The marriage, which had started two years before the riots when Eddington was bored with his work, lasted five more and produced one child, Penny. He and Maggie parted company with the same attitude and all the emotion which attached to fixing a garment that had regrettably caught on the thorns. Still, Crown House endured; Eddington endured.
But this call—an imposition out of the past, out of the void, out of a life he had not only abandoned but in self-protection denied ever having led. SETI! Who cares, now? What difference does life out there make when life here is so hollow? Why did Chandliss—a self-important Old Timer, one of those he had had to serve under because he was an Eddington, as though his mind wasn’t the equal of any of theirs!—expect him to somehow conjure up an observatory and chase down this spurious signal?
His sleep was troubled, and the night stretched to three times its customary length. It was not the problem so much as the answer he repeatedly came to that disturbed him. Finally, near dawn, realizing that what he needed most was to share his thoughts with someone who knew his past, he crawled out of bed to the telephone.
“Maggie?”
“Hello, Larry,” she said sleepily.
“Meet me for lunch?”
“The Backs—one.”
That done, Eddington slipped into bed for a short but sound hour of sleep.
It was Eddington’s custom when riding through Cambridge to pedal slowly mid change his route often. The city’s thousand-year history showed in its character and face—the King’s College chapel, the Castle Hill earthworks—and Eddington had traveled enough to appreciate the special beauty of his home city. But there was a drizzle falling by one, and Eddington pedaled as fiercely as he dared through the crowded streets, his head bowed.
Neither speed nor posture made any difference. By the time he reached the landscaped gardens known as the Backs, which lined the banks of the river Cam, he was thoroughly chilled and his gray-flecked hair was bright with moisture. The river on his left, the grand edifices of the Old Schools to his right, he coasted and scanned for his wife. She should have arrived before him, as her job at the Cambridgeshire county office lay only a short walk away, across the Bridge of Sighs.
Maggie had captured a sheltered bench facing the river and sat waiting, her lunch bag neatly folded and on her lap. At his approach, she unrolled the top of the bag and retrieved a sandwich. “You’re late,” she said as he sat down beside her.
“Caliper brakes don’t work in the rain. How’s Penny?”
“Penny is fine. Your time is coming up in a few weeks, you know.”
“Is she looking forward to it?”
“Who can tell? She’s become very aloof and spends a lot of time reading. Mysteries, mostly.”
Eddington shook his head. “She should be reading good literature at Claremoor,” he said, naming the girls’ prep the occasional Eddington female had attended.
“Claremoor is part of the past.” Maggie clucked reprovingly. “I thought you’d given up might-have-beens.”
“They come back from time to time. How have you been?”
“Busy. I’ve started to write a little poetry again. Larry, even if I didn’t know you better, this cheery small talk and intimate concern would be obviously out of character. You didn’t call me in the middle of the night for this, I hope. Wasn’t there something special on your mind?”
“Specially annoying. I’m looking for a touch of your impeccable advice,” he said. He told her of Chandliss’s call.
Maggie’s face lit up. “Another world calling! Could it really be? How exciting! It’s just like in the films! Ah—why don’t you sound excited? In shock or it’s worn off or what?”
“Neither. It’s not ‘another world calling,’ at least not yet—it’s just an unexplained signal. You have to understand, when I was at Mullard, all sorts of things would show up on the charts. Thermostats clicking on and off, distant thunderstorms, even the badly tuned motor of the groundskeeper’s Morris. That showed up every evening at 6:05 as he drove home past the dish. It doesn’t take much energy to tickle a good dish, you know. In all the years they were running, all the radio telescopes in the world barely captured the energy liberated by a pin dropping off the table and striking the floor.”
She finished the last few words in chorus with him. “Yes, I remember you telling people that to impress them. Then, you don’t think what this American detected is a message,” she said, disappointed.
“The odds are rather fantastically against it.”
“Ah—but because it hasn’t happened yet, right?—you can’t set any odds. What’s the probability of a non-event?”
“I don’t want to pla
y statistical games,” he said crossly. “Let’s just say I strongly doubt the message-from-space explanation.”
She sat back, her face showing disappointment. “Too bad. We could do with a spot of help. The formula for—isn’t it fusion they’re always talking about?”
Eddington snorted. “The signal must have been traveling several years at least—several hundred, more likely. It’d take that long again just to say hello back. If they were still there.”
“So it won’t be a scintillating conversation. Just knowing there’s someone else there would be important. How are you going to check on it?” she pressed.
“I’m not. There’s no way I can.”
“Couldn’t you go to Milliard and get them to let you use it, just for a while?”
“Do you think the government would approve an Energy Expenditure Request based on a phone call from Idaho?” Maggie frowned. “I suppose not. Wait—isn’t there a big telescope out where you are?”
“It’s just a radio antenna they used for satellite communication.”
“Well, wouldn’t it work?”
“Probably not,” Eddington said. “They look the same, but they don’t necessarily work the same way. I don’t even know what equipment they still have in the control room. They may have stripped everything out when the last SKYNET Comsat failed.”
“Couldn’t you get in and see if you could use it?”
Eddington shook his head. “I’d have to leave my work area, which they’d notice—”
“What about lunch?”
“And the movement of the dish—”
“Maybe the source is in the sky at night.”
“I can’t see it matters enough to take the risk.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t have to sneak—maybe they’d just let you use it.”
“Why are you so excited about this?” She grasped his arm and shook him playfully. “You bloody fart! Don’t you realize what you’re talking about? You make it sound like it’s no more than having new neighbors move in down the road.”
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