Future Games
Page 36
Gita ground the heel of her hand into her forehead. “But isn’t that enough? Can’t we send some geometry of our own?”
“Let’s work on it,” Kurt said. “Tomorrow, when I don’t feel so much like a zombie. Let’s sleep on it. Maybe one of us will have an epiphany.”
If there were no epiphanies to be had in Puerto Rico that night, there was at least a piece of one in British Columbia. It came during the ten o’clock news in a living room in the town of Chilliwack.
The man had half risen from the sofa, mentally already in bed when the story about messages from space caught his attention and the numbers being scrolled out across the screen, his curiosity.
He sat back down.
Four orderly rows of figures later, he reached for a steno pad, flipped to a page devoid of Scrabble scores and wrote the numbers down. In the end, his pad contained thirty rows of eight figures each.
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 103.6, 121.9, 99.1
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 103.6, 134.1, 99.1
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 108.2, 121.9, 107.6
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 96.9, 124.4, 95.7
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 96, 122.5, 96
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 102.2, 111.3, 96.9
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 100.6, 120.4, 100.6
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 103, 125, 103
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 99.1, 121.9, 99.1
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 100.6, 123.7, 100.6
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 100.6, 122.5, 100.6
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 99.7, 123.4, 100.6
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 100.6, 121.9, 100.6
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 100.6, 123.1, 100.6
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 102.1, 121.9, 102.1
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 100.6, 124.4, 100.6
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 100.6, 124.9, 100.6
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 99.1, 123.1, 99.1
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 104.9, 124.4, 99.7
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 100, 121.9, 100
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 105.8, 121.9, 105.8
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 101.5, 121.9, 96.9
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 102.2, 123.1, 105.2
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 101.8, 121.9, 99.1
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 99.1, 123.4, 99.1
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 205.8, 135.6, 106.7
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 102.1, 122.2, 100.6
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 100.6, 124.1, 101.8
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 96, 123.1, 98.1
18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 100.9, 123.4, 99.4
The pattern seemed familiar. Damn familiar. But elusively so.
“Bill? You coming to bed?” Barbara had apparently finished her crossword puzzle.
“In a minute, babe.”
“You’re not writing are you? You know you’re more likely to write crap than cream at this hour of the night.”
She was right, of course. “I’m not writing. I’m watching the news.”
“All right then.” Barbara subsided.
Bill leaned his head toward the TV to catch what the SETI guy was saying about geometrical figures. They thought the old Pioneer 10 spacecraft was speaking to them in geometry. When asked why this was happening, a pretty East Indian woman—a Dr. Mukerjee—said that they thought her deteriorating condition had caused the old space craft to start running some mangled first contact programming.
She smiled (it was a dynamite smile) and said, “I like to think she’s dreaming.”
Bill sat back on the sofa. Now that was one for the books—a dreaming spacecraft. He waited for them to show the geometrical shapes they thought lived in the neat rows and columns of numbers. They didn’t.
Miffed, he hunkered down to do the math himself.
“Bill? Are you sure you’re not writing?”
He flipped the steno pad shut, slid the pencil back into the spiral binding, clicked off the TV, and went to bed.
Peter Grace rubbed the back of his neck absently. “Okay, next time you guys come up with a hare-brained idea I’ll just chalk it up to thinking ‘outside the box’ and go with it.”
Kurt grinned. “Hey, that hare-brained idea got us 240 data points.”
“Don’t rub it in.” Grace shook his head. “You’re an unorthodox son of a bitch, Kurt, but I guess that’s why you’re out here, in the first place.”
“And not at NASA with the real scientists?”
“Didn’t say that; didn’t mean to imply it.” He pushed his glasses back up his nose. “So, what’s our next move?”
Kurt laughed. “What makes you think we’ve got one?”
The steno pad lay on the coffee table in the living room. Bill picked it up on the way to the kitchen, where he pecked his wife on the cheek, poured himself a cup of fresh, hot coffee and sat at the kitchen table to think about geometric figures. By the time Barbara put a plate full of scrambled eggs in front of him and sat down caddy corner, he was doodling lines, circles, squares, and triangles. He studied what he’d done as he shuttled eggs to his mouth.
“What’s that?” Barbara asked.
His mouth full, he rotated the pad so she could see what he was doodling.
She frowned, shrugged, shook her head. “I still don’t know what it is.”
“Well, neither do I, exactly,” Bill said. “These rows of numbers are being sent to Earth by the old Pioneer 10 spacecraft. Problem is, the scientists weren’t expecting her to send anything and they can’t figure out why she’s sending this all of a sudden. They don’t know what it is, either.”
Barbara smiled, puckering the little crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes and firing up her dimples. They were turning to creases now, but he still loved them. “And you think an old writer can figure out what a bunch of NASA brainiacs can’t?”
Bill shook his fork at her, flipping eggs across the table. “Don’t disparage old writers. There is a compendium of knowledge about a great many things in this noodle. Scientists on the other hand, tend to specialize. I just need to figure out which of my many veins of generalized knowledge this pertains to.”
He reached for the pad, glancing as he did at the page full of circle-square-triangles. They were tip-tilted now, standing on end.
He set down his fork. “Son of a bitch.”
“What?” Barbara asked, but he didn’t hear her.
He snagged the pad back and stared at it, caddy-wumpus, then turned to a clean sheet. “We got a ruler, babe?”
“Uh-huh.” She got up, pulled it out of the junk drawer beneath the telephone, and flipped it to him. He caught it without looking up.
After watching him for a moment, Barbara cleared her dishes and left him to his doodles.
“This number appears eight times in the sixth place and nine times in the eighth place—that’s seventeen times altogether.”
Santiago brought his laser pointer to the number 100.6 in the chart projected onto the screen in the conference room. Kurt Costigyan and Gita Mukerjee followed the red beam in the semi-darkness.
“It never occurs in the seventh place,” continued Santiago. “This figure—121.9—occurs nine times in the seventh place, but never occurs in the sixth or eighth. All in all, there seems to be no actual pattern, although in fourteen cases, the number from place six is repeated in place eight. In seven instances, the repeated number is 100.6.”
Kurt rubbed his hands over his face in a gesture of weariness. “I don’t even know what to suggest we send next.”
“So far,” said Gita, “the geometric figures seem to be nested. Circle in square in triangle. What if we add a larger circle that contains all the previous figures?”
“Bring it full circle?” punned Kurt wryly.
“Har-har-har,” said Gita.
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br /> “Okay.” Santiago scrolled through the thirty rows of data. “Which data set do you want to work with?”
“The first one,” Gita suggested. “I’m thinking we calculate the circle so that its diameter is a multiple of the first circle’s diameter. If this is some kind of progressive loop, then we should see another square that is built on a multiple of the first one in some way.”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Santiago. “Let me just rack ’em up. What multiple of 18.9 would you like, ma’am?”
“Oh, how about seven? That ought to clear the points of the triangle.”
Kurt Costigyan had just gotten up to stretch when the phone rang. He picked it up, expecting it to be his wife demanding to know when he intended to come home. It was their admin, Rosa, sounding a bit flustered.
“Doctor, there’s a man calling long distance from British Columbia. He wants to talk to . . . um . . . one of our experts about the messages from Pioneer.”
“Does he say why, in particular?”
“He saw the story on the news the other night and he says he thinks he knows what the message is about.”
“Oh? And what does he think it’s about?”
“He won’t say. He wants to talk to an expert.”
“I guess that would be one of us. Okay, put him on,” Kurt said, reasoning that if he talked to the guy and made him think they took him seriously, he’d be much more likely to go away and stay gone.
“Hello?” The voice sounded dubious, as though the guy suspected he’d been put on hold indefinitely.
“Hello, this is Dr. Costigyan. I’m Director of the Project Quetzalcoatl Signal Detection Group. You . . . you have some information relating to Pioneer 10?”
There was a moment of profound silence, then the caller said, “Look, I know you figure me for a crackpot, and in some ways you’d be right, but I really do have an idea about this message.”
It was Kurt’s turn for thoughtful silence. “All right. What do you think it’s about?”
“If I told you flat out, you’d be sure I was a crackpot. Let me ask you this: what’s it doing now?”
“It’s . . . still sending the same sets of data.”
“Thirty of ’em?”
“Yes.”
“And no more?”
“No more.”
“In the same order every single time?”
Now Kurt was intrigued. Order. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Is that significant?”
“Could be. Have you sent anything back yet—since it started sending the thirty sets, I mean?”
“Not yet. We were just now preparing a response.”
“What were you planning to send?”
“A number that would describe the diameter of a circle that will encompass the entire set of geometric figures.”
“Wrong. That’s not it.”
“No?”
“No. What you need to do is this: take the first set of numbers. The ones you got first, I mean.” He repeated them for good measure. “But either at the beginning of the sequence or at the end, add this: 4, 20, 19, 12.”
“May I ask why?”
“Just testing a theory. What’ve you got to lose, right? The ship’s on her way out—hell, you thought she was gone already, didn’t you? If I’m wrong, you lose a little chatting time. If I’m right . . . ”
“If you’re right—what?”
The caller laughed. “Hell, I don’t know. Damn! I really don’t know.”
“May I ask who this is?”
“My name’s Bill. Bill Kinsella.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Kinsella. If we can’t raise a response with our current approach, maybe we’ll try yours.”
“When?” Kinsella insisted.
“Well, we’ll try our response tonight. And then it will take about twenty-seven hours to see if there’s a response.”
“Twenty-seven hours?”
“She’s one hundred astronomical units out from Earth, Mr. Kinsella. That’s a long—”
“I know how far it is. I read.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“That’s all right. But if you do try my . . . my idea, you let me know what happens. I left my number with your secretary. If I don’t hear in a week, I’ll call back.”
Of course you will, Kurt thought wryly, and rang off.
“Four-twenty-nineteen-twelve? Isn’t that one of those low cost call gimmick numbers?” Gita leaned back in her chair and put her feet up on the conference table.
“Did he say why he thought that would work?” asked Santiago.
“Nope. He was pretty tight-lipped.”
“You’re not really thinking of sending that, are you?”
Kurt shook his head. “We want to keep Pioneer chatting with us. I think our best chance of that is to follow the geometric progression as Gita suggested.”
It made perfect sense to do that, Kurt thought twenty-seven hours later when they received Pioneer’s response. As usual, she paused to receive the data and process it, before sending a return message. This time the pause was longer, as if their response puzzled her, then she continued sending her thirty sets of data as if they’d sent nothing at all. She seemed only to take a very deep breath before taking it, once again, from the top.
Like a teacher dealing with a particularly slow student, Kurt thought, staring across the lab where a screen saver wove multi-colored twists.
“Apparently, that wasn’t what Pioneer was expecting,” said Gita.
“Expecting?” Peter Grace took a sip of his coffee, made a face and added more sugar. “Dr. Mukerjee, Pioneer wasn’t expecting anything. She’s just firing back broken bits of data.”
“What was it you said about us thinking outside the box?” Kurt asked mildly.
“Oh, all right. But be honest, Kurt—isn’t it just as likely that Pioneer changing her message earlier was just coincidence?”
“No.”
“True believer.”
“Jade. Maybe you should get out of space science and into something that requires less imagination—accounting maybe.”
“I hate to interrupt this mutual admiration society,” said Gita, “but what’s our next move? Are we going to send that guy’s message?”
Grace frowned through the steam that lingered above his coffee cup. “What guy? What message?”
“A gentleman from Chilliwack, B.C. saw a news broadcast of our last press conference and called to say he knew what we should send next.”
“Oh really. And that would be?”
“ ‘4, 20, 19, 12,’ ” Kurt said.
“Why?”
“Didn’t give a reason why. Just testing a theory, he said.”
Grace’s brow puckered again. “Is that a date?”
“A date?” Santiago returned blankly.
“I don’t know,” said Kurt. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I suppose it could be. He asked about the order the numbers came in. Wanted to know if the sequences were always in the same order. Maybe this date—if it is a date—has something to do with the order the data is delivered in. Though I can’t imagine what.”
“Hm. And maybe it’s the date his mommy and daddy were abducted by aliens.”
Santiago looked over at Kurt from the Signal Detection console. “You did tell him you’d use his sequence if ours failed. And I’m fresh out of ideas. We might as well send it while we’re trying to come up with something else.”
Grace snorted. “You’re kidding. You’re not going to authorize—”
Kurt smiled, tapped his forehead, and said, “Outside the box, Peter.”
“Do you have any reason to think this might work?”
“None. But Sandy’s right—we might as well send something.”
They sent: 18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 103.6, 121.9, 99.1, 4, 20, 19, 12.
Just over twenty-seven hours later, Pioneer’s return message began with the characteristic pause. Then she started into a sequence: 18.9, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 27.44, 108.2
, 121.9, 107.6, she said. The second sequence. And she added: 4, 20, 19, 12.
“Whoa,” said Santiago, taking in the complete sequence. He glanced up over his shoulder at Kurt Costigyan, colors from the MCSA display patterning the side of his face. “Now what do we do?”
“Now, we give Mr. Kinsella a call back.”
“Well, this is a surprise. I didn’t expect to hear from you. I kind of figured I’d have to nag.” Bill Kinsella raised eyebrows at his wife and mouthed, “It’s them,” across the kitchen table.
“No, Mr. Kinsella,” said the caller, “we tried your sequence of numbers right after . . . well, right after our sequence failed to get Pioneer’s attention.”
When the man from SETI—Dr. Kurt Costigyan, he called himself—hesitated, Bill prompted, “Well, don’t keep me in suspense, Kurt. Did it work?”
After a moment more of hesitation, Costigyan said, “Pioneer returned a second set of numbers, and added the same sequence you gave us to the end of it.”
“Damn. Which set was it?”
“The second set.”
Bill looked at the list of names and numbers he’d scribbled in his steno pad. “Damn,” he said again.
The scientist cleared his throat. “Does that number mean something to you, Mr. Kinsella?”
“Yes sir, it does.”
“May I ask what it means? Some of us thought it might be a date.”
“It is a date. At least, to me, it’s a date. I don’t know what it is to your little robot friend.”
“If you were to . . . What would you send next?”
“Well, the logical thing would be to send the third sequence again and add 4, 23, 19, 14 to the end of it.”
There was a pause before Costigyan asked, “May I ask why that would be logical?”
Bill sighed. This man was going to think he was a lunatic. “Trust me: that date goes with the third sequence of numbers.”
“Mr. Kinsella—”
“I know I’m being cantankerous and mysterious, but if I tell you what I’m thinking, you’ll hang up on me.”
“I won’t, I promise, Mr. Kinsella. I won’t hang up.”
“Call me ‘Bill.’ ”
“I promise I won’t hang up, Bill.”
“Look, try this—send this batch of numbers, and if it comes back with . . . well, with the next logical sequence, I’ll tell you what I think it’s all about.”