Francesa nodded slowly, thinking of how hard life would be for those remaining behind. “But they followed the writings. You told us the writings said good things."
Balestra nodded as well. “The writings, the survival rules, do say many good things. If the so-called chosen ones had spent more time and effort actually following the letter and spirit of those rules, and less time and effort oppressing those who read the rules differently, I would've had a much harder time choosing who to leave."
Francesa's father stared downward. “So, they were judged."
“I guess so.” Balestra shrugged. “But then, sooner or later we all are, aren't we? The important thing to remember is that we never get to judge ourselves. Come on, girl. I want to show you the stars."
Copyright © 2006 John G. Hemry
* * *
THE ALTERNATE VIEW: PREPARING FOR THE DARK AGE
by Jeffery D. Kooistra
The common aphorism notwithstanding, ignorance is not bliss. True, if your beloved is unfaithful, the longer you remain in the dark about it then the longer you may remain in a state of emotional satisfaction, “blissfully unaware” as they say. But when the infidelity is discovered, typically one laments that blissful period with a cry of, “How could I have been so stupid?"
Yet stupidity isn't usually the problem—it's ignorance—in this case, ignorance of what the “signs of infidelity” meant. And it's easy to be ignorant. It can go undiscovered until, like an upthrusted-section of sidewalk, you discover it as you're falling on your face.
No fan of ignorance myself, I've found that it isn't easy to even know what you're ignorant about, let alone ascertain the subtle gradations of that ignorance. So when I get a unique opportunity to become a little less ignorant about something, I take it. This happened recently on a flight home from California.
It was just after Valentine's Day this year, during the stretch of bad weather that struck the upper Midwest and East Coast at that time. Though my flight from LAX to Chicago had been delayed by several hours, my connection to Grand Rapids had also been delayed. I was pleased that I'd still made it in time. When I finally boarded my flight, it turned out that it would still be quite some time before it was able to take off—traffic was severely backed up. Realizing that all I thought I knew about air traffic control had come from TV and movies, I took advantage of the headsets supplied by the airline and listened in on channel nine to the radio chatter between the tower and the planes.
If you want to witness air transportation professionals earning their pay, the time to do it is during stormy weather at one of the world's busiest airports. Particularly when everyone is itching to get out and ain't nobody goin’ nowhere until the weather clears up (even if that weather is a thousand miles away). To my weary ears, it sounded something like this: "8247, pull up to Zebra 21. UA-349, roll out of Charlie Five. 1256, pull up to the pad short of Tango 12, and wait until you hear back from me.” “Tower, what's the latest on the weather in Boston?” “Thunderstorms.” “Detroit?” “Freezing rain. 821, hold there until the Jumbo rolls past, then cross the bridge." This kind of talk, rapid-fire every word of it, went on for hours.
While I was using the headphones, my fellow passengers were getting more and more impatient. The guy next to me said, “There is no reason for us to have to wait this long!” “Yeah!” someone seconded.
But I knew better. Sure there's a reason. There are twenty planes in front of us. Some of them are going to have bad weather move in at their destination before they get up to the runway. We can't just roll over them.
Being “in the loop” via the headset made me much more patient than I would have been otherwise. Had I not put on the headphones, I would have been bitching like the other passengers. But I was appalled by the depth of my prior ignorance about what the conditions were like for the pilots and the tower crew. Despite having flown across the country many times, as familiar as I'd thought I'd become with airplanes and airports, I'd had no grasp of what the people in charge of getting me safely from here to there have to deal with.
In the end, the freezing rain moved out of Grand Rapids and the flight home was essentially uneventful. The bitching came to an end, replaced by cheering when we landed. Those cheering the loudest were still blissfully unaware of the details of quite why it was we landed six hours late.
* * * *
I'm depressed.
I told you the plane story so I could discuss the discouraging nature of a particular brand of ignorance that currently infects the USA. I bring it up here in Analog because you guys appreciate the value of being prepared for the future. But the USA is a country that is not at all ready for the future, nor preparing for it.
It isn't just a matter of ignorance. As I illustrated above, any intelligent person is aware that there is a lot of which he's ignorant. And there have always been, and always will be, people way too ignorant for their own, or anyone else's, good.
But what happens when ignorance becomes acceptable?
I'm not talking about this in the simple, self-esteem enhancing way. “There, there, Johnny, it's okay even if you can't find the Pacific Ocean on the globe.” The problem is that ignorance is becoming acceptable out of a general ignorance of what constitutes ignorance. What is just as bad, the primary tool for eradicating ignorance, that being literacy, is also on the decline.
My depression started last December. My local paper, The Grand Rapids Press, reprinted an article from the Baltimore Sun about the results of a recent literacy study done in the US. The opening sentence reads, “More Americans are getting college degrees than a decade ago, but skills in reading and analyzing data among the well educated have dropped significantly...” Accompanying the article is a graph showing that only 13% of Americans are at a “proficient” prose literacy level. Unfortunately, all proficient means in this context is that they can do “complex activities such as comparing viewpoints in two different editorials.” It doesn't say whether or not they can also contrast and evaluate those editorials.
Yet 100% of those people get to vote (not, fortunately, that they all will).
A piece by Ben Feller, education writer for the AP, in a web article from January 19, 2006, discussed the same study. He pointed out that, “The results cut across three types of literacy: analyzing news stories and other prose, understanding documents and having math skills needed for checkbooks or restaurant tips.” Most dispiriting to me, however, is this: “The survey examined college and university students nearing the end of their degree programs. The students did the worst on matters involving math, according to the study."
This doesn't upset me because they did poorly in math—I used to teach math and I expect those skills to be at the bottom. The upset came with another Ben Feller piece that appeared in the Press on February 19, 2006. The title was “What Crisis? Parents, pupils content with math, science.” These two quotes pretty well sum up the article: “(B)oth topics are important, but ‘most parents are saying you're better off going to school for something there's a big need for.'” Also: “Nationwide, a new poll shows, most parents are content with the science and math education their children get—a starkly different view than that held by national leaders.” Along with the article was a sidebar (attributed to “Public Agenda") in which surveys show: “Most parents believe their children are taking enough math and science, while 45 percent of students feel a career in these subjects would make them unhappy."
In other words, despite the critical need for better math and science education, parents disagree. They agree that math and science are important, but think their kids are better off pursuing “something there's a big need for.” Don't they get it? The reason there is a concern about inadequate math/science education is because there is a “big need for” people proficient in those subjects. Despite the current state of national despair over low math ability, parents say the problem isn't in their district—their kids take enough math and science. (Right. And a survey of my fellow passengers woul
d have concluded there was no reason the plane couldn't take off.)
Alarmed and disheartened as I was by these articles, what finally spurred me to write this one was an opinion piece by Richard Cohen of the Washington Post writers group. It appeared in the February 18 issue of the Press under the title, “Life Without Algebra.” Therein, Cohen tells us of the plight of Gabriela, a student who dropped out of high school in LA because she couldn't pass algebra despite being in her seventh try. He is concerned that, since LA began requiring the passing of a year of algebra and a year of geometry in order to graduate, young lives are being ruined. He says in his column (without citing a source) that more kids drop out because of algebra than any other subject. You almost get the feeling from him that, if it weren't for algebra, these dropouts would all be on the honor roll, passing SATs and getting ready for college.
Cohen admits his bias on the matter. He failed algebra himself, and only passed it the second time via “divine intervention.” The bulk of his column is aimed at Gabriela, telling her that there is life after algebra, and that she'll never need to know it, and that she'll never miss it. Such has been his experience.
Unfortunately, he doesn't stop there. He goes on to tell Gabriela that algebra doesn't teach reasoning, but that writing “is the highest form of reasoning.” His proof of this assertion “is all the people in my high school who were whizzes at math but did not know a thing about history and could not write a readable English sentence.” He names no names nor explains how it is he, as a high school student, would have known how well the math whizzes were doing in History or English composition.
Being able to both write and do algebra, I can't help but notice the lack of the quantitative in Cohen's thinking. How many whizzes are you talking about, Mr. Cohen? Is it a representative sample? Do you know what a representative sample is? I know you don't know what a sampling error of plus or minus 3 percentage points means (the error cited in the survey discussed above) because in your column you said you can't do percentages.
Indeed, Cohen has missed the one thing that algebra and mathematics teach better than any other subject: that being that there are right answers and there are wrong answers, and how you feel about those answers will never, ever, make a difference to what they are. Regardless of how much better your life would be if the answer were different, or how certain you are that the answer really should be something other than what it is, the right answers and the wrong ones will remain just that.
* * * *
Like I said, I'm depressed. As readers of this magazine know as well or better than most, a twenty-first-century civilization not only cannot advance without adequate literacy, both verbal and mathematical—it cannot survive. A civilization not preparing for the future is surely preparing for a Dark Age. I see a country full of my fellow plane passengers, certain of how things are and what should be done. Yet ignorant, and complacent in that ignorance, about how things really are, and about what really can, and should, be done.
Maybe I'm being too alarmist. Maybe my fellow passengers did understand things better than I'm giving them credit for. Maybe the parents who think their kids are already getting an adequate math education will decide they should check and make sure of it. Maybe Richard Cohen will learn how to use the quadratic equation. But I doubt it.
What do you guys think?
Copyright © 2006 Jeffery D. Kooistra
* * *
IN TIMES TO COME
Robert J. Sawyer, as you've probably noticed by now, has a way of taking familiar ideas, looking at them from new angles and in greater depth than almost anybody before him, and tying them together to create extraordinarily fresh and thought-provoking stories. The latest example is his novel Rollback, which we'll be serializing in four parts beginning in our next issue (October). We've all seen lots of stories about rejuvenation and lots of stories about the search for extraterrestrial intelligence, but how often have you thought about how the two might be connected? Well, consider these questions: Who could maintain interest in a very long, slow conversation long enough to go anywhere with it? What would be worth talking about under such conditions? If rejuvenation is very, very expensive, as it probably will be at least initially, what would motivate anybody to pay for it? What would it really be like—and what if it doesn't work the same for everybody? Sawyer's answers to those, and the many others they stir up, will guarantee you a thoroughly engaging story, and acquaintance with some of the most memorable people you'll ever meet.
Richard A. Lovett's fact article examines what we can learn from the devastating Sumatran earthquakes (you may know them better from their side effects, called tsunamis) of 2004-5. He'll also have a story in the issue, as will such notables as Ben Bova (a new tale of Sam Gunn) and Robert J. Howe (a quietly touching story of a different kind of alien contact, in which the aliens used to be us).
All of which makes for a solidly satisfying issue.
* * *
Probability One: Probably Murder
by Michael F. Flynn
It was a dark and stormy night; and, sure, I know how that sounds; but so it was. Himself watched the door with no little favor, for such nights may be blessing or curse to the Irish Pub. Those who were out in it would seek to get in out of it (and perhaps warm their insides a little), but those already indoors would hesitate to go out for the wee drop.
This seemed a night for staying in. The stools around the oval bar held beside myself only Danny Mulrooney who snored on a stool nearby, to the displeasure of the cash register. For myself, I could hoist Guinness with the best of them, but it was not in me to compensate for all those absent. Beside, I was awaiting only The O Neill, who had tickets to the game. A basketball game at the University might be called many things, but “on account of rain” is not among them. It was no fit night for man nor beast, as the poet once said; but roundball fans fall somewhere in between.
When the door did fly open, however, it was Sam Hourani who came in, and a bit o’ the weather with him. “Something dry,” he told Himself, shaking the rain from his overcoat and hanging it in the corner. “A martini, but just let it peek at the vermouth."
“What brings you by, Sam,” Himself asked, “on a night like this?"
“Business,” said Sam, studying the drink placed before him from several angles.
Now, Sam's business was detective of homicide, so the announcement startled us some and we looked about for a possible corpse, considering, then rejecting, Danny.
The detective lifted his drink; but, though his expression had promised a swift end to it, he only sipped a little before replacing it. “I know a man,” he announced, “who probably committed murder."
“Ah,” said Himself, “but you're not certain. No corpus delecti?"
“Oh, there's corpus enough, poor woman, and it's her husband that did it."
“Did he now? Ah, those are the cruelest sort. How did he do it?"
“She fell down the cellar steps and broke her neck."
“And he pushed her!” I said.
Sam shook his head. “He wasn't in the house at the time."
“What'd he do, then, grease the steps?"
“No, I said he probably committed murder. He was a statistician. So, he insisted she do the laundry and the laundry was in the basement."
Himself crossed his arms. “This will make sense some day, I'm thinking."
“Death by falls is the second greatest cause of death. The probability is...” Sam pulled a notebook from his breast pocket. “...is 56.4908 deaths per million per year.” He looked up. “That's an aggregate figure, of course. For each trip up or down, it's even smaller. But every time he made her do it, it was one more opportunity for a fall."
“But,” protested Himself, “that hardly makes the poor felly a killer!"
“Not by itself. But he also insisted that he drive the car, which meant that she always sat in the right front seat, where the risk is greater. No passenger-side air bag, either. He took her swimming every week
, though he never went in himself, and death by drowning is 14.9236 per million. He insisted she bathe, not shower. That's 1.2439. He encouraged her to smoke. He'd broken the habit, but he told her it made her look sexy and discouraged her sporadic efforts to quit."
The lights blinked and a clap of thunder shook the windows, causing us all to flinch. Even Danny stirred and almost raised his head from the counter top. Detective Hourani smiled a little. “He would have found some excuse to send her on an errand tonight. Death in cataclysmic storms is 0.3506 and lightning is 0.2375 per million."
“Well,” I said, “that may be abusive behavior, but how can you say he murdered her?"
Sam sipped a little more from his martini. “I told you. He's a statistician; works as an insurance actuary, and he knew every single one of those risks, medical and casualty. Kept them in a notebook at home, which is where I got these...” He waved his notebook. “It works this way, you see...” He flipped a page. “The survival rate is one minus the risk. To find the chance of surviving all the risks, you multiply the survival rates."
“So if there are two things that can kill you,” Himself wondered aloud, “say, 10% of the time; then the chance of surviving both is point-nine times point-nine, or 81%."
Sam nodded. “That's it."
“So, then,” said Himself. “This felly—"
“—exposed his wife to as many risk factors as he could, every day. Sure thing, she'd probably survive any one of them; but she'd probably not survive all of them. That'd be 0.9999435092 times 0.9999850764 times 0.9999996494 and on and on. Multiple trips up and down the stairs with a laundry basket; multiple trips in the car; two or three packs a day of cigarettes ... Chances of long-term survival dropped exponentially. Oh, the guy killed her, all right. He was patient. He worked the numbers. He saw me reading his notebook and he smirked at me, the damned bastard. That's when I knew. That smirk. He couldn't just be clever. He had to know that I knew how clever he was."
Analog SFF, September 2006 Page 11
