Each type of processing clearly has such dramatic advantages over the other that I can easily imagine that, just as much of our current communication and entertainment equipment involves both digital and analog processing, an increasing amount of our future technology will combine digital, analog, and neural-net methods. This may well lead to capabilities that none of the approaches could achieve on its own.
And I can't help wondering—and challenging science fiction writers to consider—whether there might be still other fundamentally different ways of handling information that we haven't even imagined yet. If so, they may lead to some thoroughly surprising developments in more distant future technologies or the products of alien evolution.
* In a long-ago lecture I hear Nobel-winning physicist Leon Cooper compare the brain's storage of memories to the way a hologram stores visual information: if you break a hologram, you can still reconstruct the whole picture from any of the pieces (though with some loss of quality).
Copyright © 2010 Stanley Schmidt
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* * *
Poetry: RONDEL FOR APOLLO 11: HERE MEN FROM THE PLANET EARTH
by Geoffrey A. Landis
Here men from the planet Earth
First set foot upon the Moon
That day we left our Earth's cocoon
And flew beyond our place of birth.
—
Our flight reached apogee, hovered, reversed;
Our trajectory took us home too soon
When, once, men from the planet Earth
Had first set foot upon the Moon.
—
One day we'll prove once more our worth
And launch upon that fiery plume
Our interrupted voyage resume
Again win free of gravity's curse.
—
Here men from the planet Earth
First set foot upon the Moon.
—
—by Geoffrey A. Landis
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* * *
Reader's Department: THE ANALYTICAL LABORATORY
It's time again to thank everyone who voted in our annual poll on the previous year's issues. Your votes help your favorite writers and artists by rewarding them directly and concretely for outstanding work. They help you by giving us a better feel for what you like and don't like—which helps us know what to give you in the future.
We have five categories: novellas, novelettes, short stories, fact articles, and covers. In each category, we asked you to list your three favorite items, in descending order of preference. Each first place vote counts as three points, second place two, and third place one. The total number of points for each item is divided by the maximum it could have received (if everyone had ranked it 1) and multiplied by 10. The result is the score listed below, on a scale of 0 (nobody voted for it) to 10 (everybody ranked it first). In practice, scores run lower in categories with many entries than in those with only a few. For comparison, the number in parentheses at the head of each category is the score every item would have received had all been equally popular.
* * * *
NOVELLAS (3.33)
1. “Where the Winds Are All Asleep,” Michael F. Flynn (4.74)
2. “Doctor Alien,” Rajnar Vajra (4.18)
3. “Gunfight on Farside,” Adam-Troy Castro (3.05)
4. “The Recovery Man's Bargain,” Kristine Kathryn Rusch (2.96)
5. “Failure to Obey,” John G. Hemry (2.49)
* * * *
NOVELETTES (0.80)
1. “Chain,” Stephen L. Burns (1.74)
2 (tie). “But It Does Move,” Harry Turtledove (1.27)
“Cold Words,” Juliette Wade (1.27)
3. “Zheng He and the Dragon,” Dave Creek (1.22)
4. “The Last Resort,” Alec Nevala-Lee (1.13)
* * * *
SHORT STORIES (0.80)
1. “The Universe Beneath Our Feet,” Carl Frederick (2.19)
2. “Solace,” James Van Pelt (1.89)
3. “Foreign Exchange,” Jerry Oltion (1.59)
4. “Attack of the Grub-Eaters,” Richard A. Lovett (1.39)
5. “The Invasion,” H. G. Stratmann (1.11)
* * * *
FACT ARTICLES (1.67)
1. “From Atlantis to Canoe-Eating Trees: Geomythology Comes of Age,” Richard A. Lovett (3.02)
2. “Geology, Geohistory, and ‘Psychohistory': The (Continuing) Debate Between Uniformitarians and Catastrophists,” Richard A. Lovett (2.55)
3. “Plate Tectonics, Goldilocks, and the Late Heavy Bombardment: Why Earth Isn't Mars or Venus,” Richard A. Lovett (2.40)
4. “The Psychology of Space Travel,” Nick Kanas (2.24)
5. “Futuropolis: How NASA Plans to Create a Permanent Presence on the Moon,” Michael Carroll (1.98)
* * * *
COVER (2.00)
1 (tie). January/February (for “Doctor Alien"), by John Allemand (3.04) and October (for “Where the Winds Are All Asleep"), by Bob Eggleton (3.04)
2. November (for To Climb a Flat Mountain), by Vincent Di Fate (2.83)
3. June (for “Futuropolis"), by Michael Carroll (2.46)
4. July/August (for “Seed of Revolution"), by John Allemand (2.25)
* * * *
This year all fiction categories had clear winners, but also strong seconds, one of them a tie between an old favorite and a talented almost-newcomer from whom we hope to see much more. Covers had a tie between two perennial favorites (both for stories that also did well), while the top three fact article slots were all taken by the prolific and popular Richard A. Lovett (who also made a showing in short stories).
Since AnLab votes are so important to encouraging authors and artists to do their best work, and to giving you the kind of magazine you most like to read, we hope to get even more next time. Use our online ballot, e-mail, or “snail mail,” whichever you prefer, but please vote! (Please be careful to vote in the right category, as listed in the annual Index. Sometimes a few votes are wasted by being cast in the wrong category, and those simply can't be counted.
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* * *
Novella: DOCTOR ALIEN'S FIVE EMPTY BOXES
by Rajnar Vajra
"The customer is always right” can lead to some very awkward situations if you're not really clear on who the customer is, what he wants, and why.
You're not the first person in town to ask me what kind of crazy contraption I'm driving these days. But in your case, Pastor, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to tell you the whole story. Never could be completely open about some of it, not even with Sunny; my wife's been through enough. Can you spare the time? In that case, I suppose it never hurts to start off with a bang.
* * * *
If you'd asked me that Wednesday afternoon, I wouldn't have said that everyone in my neighborhood hated my clinic. Aside from you, Sunny merely felt “jittery” about it, or so she claimed; Mrs. Murphy, living directly across the street from the main building, had never uttered a complaint; and our son, Alex, even labeled it “groovy,” a word he'd hijacked from one of the more usual unusual visitors to the institution. Of course, Ember Murphy suffers from multi-infarct dementia, and Alex recently turned eight. And while I'm being candid, an unprofessional condition for someone in my profession, I'd grown a bit sour about the place myself.
Still, I was surprised that anyone felt so strongly about it that they would try to kill me.
I picked myself up off the parking lot pavement, stared at the smoldering remains of my almost brand-new car, and then turned toward Tad, the extraterrestrial still gripping my right arm with a hand longer than my torso. My shoulder hurt and I was breathing hard, but at least I was breathing.
My ET companion, a female1 Vapabond from what I'd come to think of as the wrong side of our galaxy, gazed down at me with her big brown eyes and a grimace that may or may not have been sympathetic. You've never seen a Vapabond? Think double-heig
ht gorilla with two appropriately hairy arms and legs but then add a torso covered in armadillo shell that expands and contracts hugely with every breath, plus a walrus head with three shrunk-down tusks. Throw in size 22 footwear with an improbable resemblance to huaraches as the only articles of clothing and a pungent odor only an elephant might find sexy. That puts you in the ballpark if not quite in the infield.
“How did you know, Tad?” I asked her. At that moment, I was only mildly perturbed. What had happened was too surreal to take seriously. Besides, maybe my first guess had been wrong and some fluke, rather than someone with a grudge, had ignited the car's fuel cells.
“Scent. Explosive,” she said, finally releasing my arm.
Tadehtraulagong was a being of few words, or rather few words at a time. She was supposedly fluent in English and Spanish, but you'd never have guessed; perhaps her jaw structure and tusks made human languages uncomfortable to chew on. When in the mood, Tad acted as a nurse and was the clinic's official security officer. Now she'd added something new to her resume: bodyguard.
Tiny rectangles of safety glass glittered across the parking lot like obese snowflakes. I shook my head, and a few pieces fell out of my hair.
Doors slammed. I looked around and watched neighbors rushing outside, undoubtedly hoping that the clinic had blown up rather than to enjoy the lovely fall afternoon. They must've been terribly disappointed judging by the glowers I was getting. Even sweet old Ember Murphy nearly frowned at me.
I felt a rush of blood to my head along with a rush of fear as the reality of what had just happened began to penetrate my brain fog. It also dawned on me that I was being an ingrate. “You saved my life, Tad. Thank you.”
“Welcome.”
If she hadn't chosen to walk me to the parking lot today, which was hardly her usual practice, my neighbors would have had to find someone other than me to mutter about, and I definitely appreciated her effort. A nice change, since she'd given me three kinds of headaches ever since she joined my staff.
My shoes felt unaccountably warm so I lifted one and found the back heel half worn away. Evidently, friction was the culprit. Now that I knew what to look for, it was easy to spot the long, dual track of black rubber leading from what remained of my car to my present position. All this confirmed my vague impression of what had just happened. My least favorite employee had dragged me backward and twenty yards away from my Volvo Hydro even as I'd pressed the clicker to unlock it. I hadn't even had time to wonder why I was suddenly zooming in reverse before the BOOM.
I waved apologetically at the neighbors, then used my DM to call Sunny and asked her to retrieve our Alex. Naturally, she reminded me that it was my turn to perform that crucial errand, but I explained that my car was out of commission while cleverly skirting the word “fireball.” She gave me her much-put-upon sigh but agreed to go. Incidentally, the first name on my wife's driver's license is “Sonja,” but don't tell her I ratted her out.
When she logged off, the reaction finally hit me full force. If I'd been using an old-fashioned external sat-phone rather than my DM, I would've dropped it. My hands got busy shaking, my legs gave out, and only Tad's renewed grip kept me from falling. That's when I heard the approaching sirens and realized I'd better postpone doing a proper job of falling apart.
An impressive turnout: six police cars, two ambulances, an unmarked black sedan, a fire-truck, and a nanosecond late to the party, a large van containing the city bomb squad. Five uniforms cordoned off the parking lot with green Day-Glo cones and yellow tape. Festive. Another three either engaged in crowd control or took statements from the locals—hard to tell from where I stood. After a paramedic pronounced me unworthy to ride in an ambulance, two grim officials in dark suits interviewed me and tried, unsuccessfully, to interview Tad. One, a Detective Lenz, clearly believed the incident was my fault. Probably a neighbor. He oscillated between glaring at me and staring at the Vapabond as if about to challenge her to a bout of arm-wrestling.
Luckily, the other law minion, Detective Carl Beresch, did most of the questioning and stayed reasonably polite although from the lines on his face I guessed the man was allergic to joy. Our little chat started off awkwardly as we performed a conversational duet that's become so familiar I could do it in my sleep, and probably have.
“Dr. Al Morganson?” he asked, pro forma.
“My friends call me ‘Al.’ Short for Alanso.”
He flicked his eyes toward Tad, then back to me. “No disrespect intended. But you are the man known as ‘Doctor Alien'?”
“'Fraid so.” And how annoying is that, since I'm not exactly an alien here.
“You are the owner and operator of the—” He consulted an item practically considered incunabula since the DM revolution: an actual paper notepad. “—the Morganson Center for Distressed Beings?”
I hadn't chosen that name, and it always made me wince. “Only the operator. A Trader Consortium owns it.”
He failed to jot down that vital, psychiatrist-exonerating fact. “We'll want a list of all your current and past clients, human and . . . otherwise.”
I shrugged. “I've only had one ET client this last month, and she's been here almost since we opened.” Baffling case. “And I'm positive that none of my human—”
“We need to rule out every possibility,” he said smoothly. “That's the routine and it works. It's in your interest to let us do our jobs.”
I gave that a quick chew. “Okay, my receptionist will DM you that list, but you know I can't discuss my patients.”
His eyes, already chilly, went sub-zero. “I'm sure you won't. But can you tell us anything that might point us in a specific direction? Any enemies? What about that one alien client?”
“Ignore that directions. She's not . . . functional. As to enemies, I'm not Dr. Popularity around here, but I can't believe anyone would actually try to murder me.” My voice rang with a lack of sincerity. “Right now, Detective, I'm mostly thinking about my family's safety.”
He bared his teeth, possibly to simulate a smile. “Of course. We'll make sure you and yours are protected until we find the doer.”
But when the smoke cleared, as it were, the only fact anyone could determine was that an “incendiary device” had been rigged to detonate when I unlocked my car. After a damn thorough check, the clinic and its surroundings were declared bomb-free. The news dot com crews appeared just as my ex-car was hauled away on a huge flatbed truck with its own crane, but the interviewing cops herded me away from the cameras, then drove me home. We waited in the cruiser until the bomb squad and a goofy-looking dog had gone through my entire house and its landscaping. I was certainly squeezing good use out of my tax dollars today. My wife and son showed up while we were waiting, and when Sunny heard the truth, she turned pale and kept a grip on both Alex and me that rivaled Tad's.
Three of our new pals with badges kept us company in the house for the next four hours. We served them coffee and Sunny's homemade pastries—not donuts.
The chocolate biskvi were getting scarce when four more armed personnel joined the festivities: two male FBI special agents, Dunn and Miller, who only accepted coffee; and two other officials, Smith and Jones—if I took their word for it—from another collection of three letters, one so esoteric that even God had probably never heard of it. These last two, Smith, a white female, and Jones, the opposite, said little to me at first, asked less, and refused refreshments. Soon, all four agents went into a huddle until Smith broke out to inform me that the quartet wished to interview me immediately. She grudgingly admitted that she was legally compelled to inform me that the upcoming session would be recorded not only by the agents’ DM systems, but also—because what government doesn't love unneeded redundancy?—through speck-cams placed inconspicuously on their persons. All recording features of my own DM unit, she added, had already been temporarily disabled through the electronic power of government mandate. I tested this by sub-vocalizing a recording command and got rewarded with a link-failure
message flashing across my vision. Smith nodded as though she'd also seen the message and expressed her hope that crippling my DM wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience. I promised to withstand the grief of not having videos of the agents to remember them by.
Then Jones, a man who'd evidently botoxed his entire head, demanded I provide a space with privacy for their questioning, and the final four accompanied me to the dining room, where Dunn shut the French doors so that eavesdroppers would have to strain.
We all sat around the glass dining table. Jones handled the inquisition while the others watched me with the focused gaze of portrait painters. I didn't understand the tension in the room, but it worried me.
“Fourteen months ago, Doctor,” Jones began, “NASA spent upwards of a million dollars to shuttle you to the Tsf Trader mother ship in circumlunar orbit at that time. Walk us through how this happened and your experience on the mother ship.”
Was this a test? "Parent Ship, not mother ship. When it comes to sexism, the Tsf don't have any.” Maybe I'd run a test of my own. “Care to know why?”
I pretended his dismissive grunt meant yes. “They evolved as predators on a planet with food resources so scant they had to live in small, isolated groups until they developed enough social skills to raise food animals collectively.” I only knew this because after I'd started working for the Traders, they'd shared some family history. “The evolutionary result is that each Tsf, unless pregnant, changes sex every few of our months, a major survival trait for small groups whose sexual distribution might be so uneven that—”
Analog SFF, July-August 2010 Page 2
