* * * *
The Wilkinson Microwave Anisotropy Probe (WMAP) was launched into a high orbit on June 30, 2001 from a Delta II 7425-10 rocket at Cape Canaveral. It used a lunar gravity-assist to put it in orbit at the L2 point of the Sun-Earth system, 940,000 miles behind the Earth, with the Sun on the other side. It detects CMB in five frequency windows between 23 and 94 GHz within two linear polarization channels. The square root of the observation solid angles of the five frequency windows are 0.88o, 0.66o, 0.51o, 0.35o, and 0.22o, respectively, for the lowest to highest frequency. These small-angle measurements of the CMB allowed mapping of the power at a very small angular scale, where the “ringing” of the early universe shows up.
The WMAP data on the CMB intensity as a function of direction is analyzed into “multipoles,” the frequencies at which the intensity varies as the angle changes. The high frequency components of this analysis have produced very accurate values of the numerical constants that characterize our universe. The lowest frequency multipole, the “dipole” component, tells us how much the CMB is skewed off center by the motion of the detector through the CMB. It measures how fast and in what direction the Earth-Sun system is moving through the radiation, and acts as a sort of universal “speedometer.”
There has been an ongoing problem in understanding the second-lowest frequency multipole, the “quadrupole” component of the CMB radiation. This component characterizes the degree to which the distribution is elongated (positive eccentricity) or squashed in (negative eccentricity) in some spatial direction. The expected value, measured as a temperature variation of the average 2.73 K temperature of the CMB, is DT2=14.5 mK (i.e. micro-kelvin), while the expected value that would be consistent with the other measured multipoles and the standard inflation model of the early universe is DT2=35.4 mK. This discrepancy is called the CMB Quadrupole Puzzle, and it has been troubling astrophysicists and cosmologists ever since the WMAP data was first analyzed.
Recently, Leonardo Campanelli of the University of Ferrara and his colleagues Paolo Cea and Luigi Tedesco at the University of Bari (all in Italy) have provided a possible explanation for the small quadrupole moment of the CMB. They hypothesize that the solution to the CMB Quadrupole Puzzle is that the “surface” from which the CMB was emitted 13 billion years ago was not perfectly spherical, but rather was slightly elongated in one direction, making the early universe slightly spheroidal, with a shape like a watermelon. Their calculations show that this would have the effect of reducing the quadrupole moment of the CMB without affecting the higher frequency moments. They calculate that an “eccentricity” e, the ratio of extra radius in the long direction divided by average radius, of e=0.0067. In other words, the surface that emitted the CMB radiation was about 0.67% larger in one spatial direction than in the other two.
How could this be? In a well-ordered Big Bang, there should be no preferred spatial direction. So how could the universe be slightly larger in one direction? Campanelli and his colleagues provide an answer to this question. The symmetry of the early universe could be broken by the presence of a uniform magnetic field. A universe full for free charged particles would be highly conductive, freezing in the primordial magnetic field, which would diminish as the universe expands. The charged particles of the early universe would move freely in the magnetic field direction, but would be deflected by magnetic forces if they moved in the two directions perpendicular to the field. This would produce a shape asymmetry in the surface from which the CMB was emitted. They also speculated on another mechanism that would create the asymmetry, the presence of a cosmic string, a sort of linear fracture in space, which could produce the observed asymmetry. In any case, if the spheroidal shape of the early universe is actually the solution to the CMB Quadrupole Puzzle, it could have some interesting implications for cosmological calculations, all of which have assumed a spherically symmetric early universe.
This is a science fiction magazine, so let me engage in a bit of SF speculation. I wonder if there is not another answer to the CMB Quadrupole Puzzle. Naïve calculations indicate that our universe should contain a large number of magnetic monopoles (isolated “north” or “south” magnetic charges), yet none of these has ever been seen. The inflationary model of the universe suggests that the number of monopoles was reduced because the monopoles from the Big Bang have a large number of universes in which to end up, not just one. There is even some reason to suspect that each universe contains exactly one magnetic monopole, which is the “nucleating agent” that caused it to “precipitate” from primordial space, like the dust particle at the heart of every raindrop.
So universes may form like bubbles in a freshly opened bottle of beer. If that is so, perhaps they bump together. Perhaps our universe is not spherically symmetric because it was “nudged” by one or more universes next door in the initial stages of its expansion. And if they are that close, perhaps there is a path from one to another.
Copyright © 2007 John G. Cramer
* * * *
AV Columns Online: Electronic reprints of over 120 “The Alternate View” columns by John G. Cramer, previously published in Analog, are available online at: www.npl.washington.edu/av.
Reference:
Ellipsoidal Universe:
“Ellipsoidal Universe Can Solve THE CMB Quadrupole Problem,” I. Campanelli, P. Cea, and L. Tedesco, submitted to Physical Review Letters, September, 2006, preprint astro-ph/0606266.
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
A HIGHER LEVEL OF MISUNDERSTANDING
by CARL FREDERICK
Illustrated by John Allemand
* * * *
Interspecies diplomats may have to take “When in Rome...” a bit beyond what they're used to....
Roger stopped at the snack synth for a Hypercoffee and a candy bar before making his way toward a table at the far end of the lounge. There Duncan Frye, Commissioner of the Angloterran Trade Embassy, sat staring morosely out the window onto the jumble of architectural styles of Free Trade City. A file folder lay open in front of him.
“How did we blow it?” he said as Roger pulled up a chair. “We had everything arranged: premier conference room, sterling silver commemorative pens, personalized notebooks, contracts bound in leather binders, translations in English, Nriln, and Delvan. What more could we have done?”
Roger shook his head.
“I don't understand the Nriln,” said Duncan, gazing down at the hand-written notes in the folder. “They said the meeting was unsuitable. But what the hell was unsuitable about it?”
“I almost think it was a translator problem,” said Roger.
“Translator problem?” Duncan rubbed a hand across his forehead. “They storm off with all their noses in the air. Some translator problem. I had to virtually beg them for another negotiating session.”
Roger looked down at his hands, acutely aware of his inexperience; he was barely out of grad school. As the recently appointed cultural liaison, he was the only one at the embassy who'd attempted to study the Nriln; one of the many planetary cultures promoting their interests in the free-trade zone of planet Delva. And Roger felt he should have an answer. “Maybe it's the food,” he said, softly. “Maybe we're supposed to eat together at these meetings.”
“Maybe,” said Duncan. “We'll see today, won't we?”
Roger hunted for signs of sarcasm in his boss's voice, but knew it was hopeless; the man was a diplomat, skilled at hiding his feelings.
Duncan smiled, broadly but without mirth. “All right. We have another chance. When the Nriln negotiators arrive for lunch, we will treat them like royalty. This time, perfection.” He looked Roger up and down. “For God's sake, straighten your tie.”
Just then, the door to the lounge flew open and a heavy-set man lurched in. He looked quickly around and then glowered at the snack synthesizer.
“Who's that?” said Roger, leaning in toward Duncan. “I thought I knew everybody in the embassy.”
“Maurice.” Du
ncan spoke in a whisper. “A chef on loan from the Francoterran Consolate.”
“Does this mean the food's going to improve around here?”
“Probably not.” Duncan closed his file folder. “I'd asked for him to come and oversee the menu for our Nriln luncheon.”
“A French chef preparing Nriln cuisine? I wouldn't have thought that...”
The chef looked their way. There was murder in his eyes.
“I changed my mind,” said Duncan. “We've had the luncheon catered.”
“Good.” Roger started to unwrap his Zingchocolate bar. “I know what the Nriln eat.”
“Uh oh,” said Duncan. “He's coming our way. Set your translator to French.”
“But he's not wearing a translator.”
“Doesn't need one,” said Duncan. “He speaks good English. He just doesn't usually choose to.”
Duncan and Roger barely had time to put on their translators before Maurice stomped up to the table.
“I have been cruelly insulted,” said Maurice, his anger apparent, even through the synthesized voice of the translator. “I, a blue string chef and a student of the book. It is unconscionable.”
“I don't really know what—” said Duncan.
“You don't know? Ha.” Maurice raised an arm to the ceiling. “You have an official luncheon for Nriln diplomats, and you ... you...” Maurice wrinkled his face as if he'd caught a whiff of something vile. “...you have it catered.” He shook his head. “Catered!” He slapped a hand to his chest as if he were taking an oath. “I, Maurice, a blue string authority on the book and acclaimed as the finest Terran chef on Delva. Catered. How could you? An unforgivable affront.”
“Maurice. My dear Maurice.” Duncan rose and clasped the chef's other hand. Roger suppressed a smile. His boss was smooth.
“I wouldn't dream of offending you,” said Duncan. “And I insisted that we not misuse your highly educated palate by asking you to prepare a meal for aliens. What an abuse of your talent that would be.”
Maurice visibly softened. “Yes. You are correct. It would be an abuse.”
“So, to spare you, we called the Panstellar Specialty Food Boutique. What else could we do?”
Maurice harrumphed.
“You are justifiably famous for your exquisite pastries,” said Duncan. “And I beg you to prepare some for the luncheon. Even if their palates cannot appreciate it, the Nriln cannot fail to be impressed with the artistry of your creations.”
Maurice nodded, apparently mollified. But then he pointed a finger at Roger. “You!”
“Me?” squeaked Roger, suddenly pulled into the fray.
“You drink slop!” Maurice pointed to the coffee cup and then over at the snack synthesizer. “From that!"
“It's not bad, actually.” As soon as the words were out, Roger realized he'd said the wrong thing.
“Not bad!” Maurice steadied himself by leaning on the table. Then he drew himself to his full height. “You have the refinement of a slug.” He threw a glance at the ceiling. “Hypercoffee. InfiniTea. Fabricake. Rocket Chips. What kind of names are those? That's not cuisine. That's not even food.”
Roger felt compelled to rise to the defense of the synth: a device that combined molecules by shape to create flavor, embedding them in a solid matrix for snacks or in water for beverages.
“It's food to me,” said Roger. “You should try it. You might learn something.”
“Learn something? Me? You insolent toad. I'm a chef, not a flavor chemist.”
Roger, taking pleasure in baiting the man, nibbled at the Hypercoffee cup. “Tasty. The cup's edible as well. Reduces trash, you know.”
Maurice's mouth dropped open.
“And it's fat free.” Roger took a bite of his candy bar. “And this Zingchocolate's really good.”
“Barbarian,” Maurice shouted. He turned and strode toward the door. “Why do I even talk to these Angloterrans?” He threw up his hands. “Not even worth the lively wit of the staircase.”
“Barbarian?” Roger watched the man go. “If the chef knew the Nriln's taste in food, he'd die of shock.” He furrowed his brow. “But what was that stuff about the wit of a staircase?”
“An untranslatable Gallic concept, I suppose,” said Duncan. “An idiom, maybe. I don't know.” He took the translator from his ear and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Funny,” he said. “Until I got this French-capable translator, I'd no idea how rude the chef really was.”
Roger took his translator from his ear and stared at it. “Maybe it's just the translator that's rude.” He rolled the little device over in his hand. “Or maybe it's not rudeness at all. He might just be acting the way a French chef should in his culture. And...” Roger bit his lower lip. “And maybe that's what's going on with the Nriln. Maybe we're doing something they consider rude.”
“Any ideas?”
Roger shook his head, but his eyes were on the snack synth; Maurice had just favored it with an obscene gesture. “'Blue string’ clearly meant ‘Cordon Bleu',” said Roger, as he watched the chef charge out of the lounge, “but ‘a student of the book'? Was that a religious reference?”
“Religious?” Duncan chuckled. “Not exactly. Cuisine Galactica: A Compendium of Recipes and Antidotes. A must-have for cross-species chefs.”
“Then he could have prepared the dinner.”
“Maybe. But I wasn't prepared to take the chance.” Duncan stroked his forehead. “Everything has to be perfect.”
“Perfect.” Roger toyed with the translator. “You know,” he said. “If this thing gave me so much trouble just with French, I wonder what I'm missing with Nriln.” He juggled the little device. “I almost wish these new translators didn't work so smoothly. It makes us think we understand what they're saying.”
Duncan gave a snort of a laugh. “You do remember that the old ones couldn't tell the semantic difference between olive oil, corn oil, and baby oil?”
“Yeah,” said Roger. “The Nriln thought we were monsters.” He dropped the translator into his shirt pocket. “But I guess what I'm saying is that I'm not all that worried about understanding their words, but rather about understanding them."
“What's the difference?”
“They're a different species. You might expect them to think about things very differently than we do.”
“I doubt it,” said Duncan. “There's only one universe. And I've found that sentient species are very similar and comprehendible—aside from petty, linguistic misunderstandings, of course.”
“Misunderstandings.” Roger laughed. “Yeah. They thought we ate our gods and when we ran out, we made do with wine and cookies. And then when they discovered we ate other mammals, they were shocked. ‘We Nriln don't eat our own taxonomic order,’ they said. And then...” Roger stopped; Duncan looked far from amused.
“I'd hoped,” said Duncan, evenly, “that as Cultural Liaison, you'd have been able to prevent those misunderstandings.”
Roger stifled a twinge of anger. “Well, here on Delva,” he said, “there are very few Nriln with whom to liaise. I'm sorry that you—”
“No. It's not you, Roger. Nothing personal.” Duncan waved him quiet. “But I've never really found much value in having cultural liaison officers. By the time they're good enough to help, they generally put in for transfer and go off to study some other culture.”
Roger lowered his head and silently catalogued how his cultural knowledge of the Nriln had helped the trade embassy. Yes, he'd discovered the Nriln had no single word for intelligence, didn't even have a single concept covering life. He had indeed found that the Nriln were painfully polite and offended easily, but he'd discovered that too late. Had he not, maybe they'd have avoided the current morass.
A movement outside the window caught Roger's attention. Two Nriln, eyestalks flitting in excitement, were just getting out of a landglider. They carried thin, black cases.
“I think our musicians are here,” said Roger, pointing through the glass.
&
nbsp; Duncan leaned over and peered out. “Kind of short for Nriln, aren't they? They can't be much over five feet tall.”
“Teenagers,” said Roger, “the Nriln equivalent.”
“What?” Duncan plopped heavily back into his chair. “You hired a kid band to play at a critical embassy luncheon?”
“They were the only Nriln musicians I could find. And they said they'd done it before.”
“Teenagers.” Duncan shook his head slowly. “God, what next?” He grabbed his file folder and stood. “I'd better go and check on the preparations.” He glanced at his Wristocrat-400. “Our guests should be here in about an hour.”
Roger took a parting swallow of his Hypercoffee, carefully avoiding the side of the cup that had a bite taken out of it, and then followed Duncan to the door. “You know,” he said, trying to show off his Nriln cultural knowledge, “the premier Nriln delicacy is an animal—well, actually more of a vegetable. But some people think it's sentient—the Nriln don't have a word for sentience. It looks like a carrot with legs.” Duncan walked faster, and Roger hurried to catch up. “And the vegetable makes sounds. The Delvans think it recites poetry, but the Nriln just think it's nonsense words, and you know how the Nriln hate nonsense words.” Duncan trotted down the stairs to the private dining room with Roger close behind. “But geez. An intelligent carrot. It sort of boggles the mind.”
At the foot of the stairs, Duncan swiveled sharply around. “Enough, Roger. Stop.”
Roger grabbed the banister to keep from colliding with his boss. “Sorry.”
“All right, then.” Duncan turned and continued walking.
In the dining room, Duncan went to examine the table settings while Roger padded over and greeted the two musicians.
Analog SFF, May 2007 Page 15
