Jim Baen’s Universe

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Jim Baen’s Universe Page 7

by Edited by Eric Flint


  The crisp he­at fa­ded as he ro­se up the gra­de to the dry pla­te­au, whe­re the Ar­ray sprawls on ra­il­ro­ad li­nes in its long val­ley. Along the Y-sha­ped ra­il li­ne the big dis­hes co­uld crawl, ears cup­ped to­ward the sky, as they re­con­fi­gu­red to best cap­tu­re in the­ir “equ­iva­lent eye” dis­tant ra­di­ating ago­ni­es. The trip thro­ugh fo­ur-la­ne blac­k­top ed­ged with sa­geb­rush to­ok most of a day. When Ralph ar­ri­ved Har­kin had be­en ob­ser­ving a ra­dio ga­laxy for eight ho­urs.

  “Plenty mo­re use­ful than my last six ho­urs,” he sa­id, and Har­kin grin­ned.

  Harkin wo­re je­ans, a red wo­ol shirt and bo­ots and this was not an af­fec­ta­ti­on. Lo­cals des­c­ri­bed most of the as­t­ro­no­mers as “all hat and no cat­tle,” a la­co­nic in­dic­t­ment of fa­ke wes­ter­ners. Har­kin’s fa­ce se­emed to ha­ve be­en crum­p­led up and then partly smo­ot­hed out-the ef­fect of twenty ye­ars out he­re.

  The ra­dio ga­laxy had an odd, con­tor­ted lo­ok. A clo­ud of ra­dio emit­ting elec­t­rons wrap­ped aro­und Har­kin’s tar­get-a bril­li­ant jet. Har­kin was so­met­hing of a bug abo­ut jets, ma­in­ta­ining that they had to be sha­ped by the mag­ne­tic fi­elds they car­ri­ed along. Fi­elds and jets ali­ke all we­re of­f­hand pro­ducts of the twir­ling disk far down in the ga­lac­tic cen­ter. The black ho­les that ca­used all this energy re­le­ase we­re hard to dis­co­ver, tiny and clo­aked in gas. But the jets car­ri­ed out to the uni­ver­se stri­king ad­ver­ti­se­ments, so they we­re the smo­king gun. Tiny gra­ve­yards whe­re mass di­ed had ma­na­ged to scrawl the­ir sig­na­tu­res ac­ross the sky.

  Ralph lo­oked at the long, spindly jet in Har­kin’s ra­dio ima­ges. It was li­ke a black-and-whi­te of an ar­row. The­re was a lot of work he­re. Hot-bright ima­ges from de­ep down in the chur­ning glory of the ga­lac­tic co­re, then the long slow fla­ring as the jet mo­ved abo­ve the ga­lac­tic disk and met the in­ter­ga­lac­tic winds.

  Still, it ada­mantly kept its di­rec­ti­on, tightly ar­ro­wing out in­to the en­ve­lo­ping dark. It stret­c­hed out for many ti­mes the si­ze of its host ga­laxy, an­no­un­cing its pre­sen­ce with bla­ring ra­dio emis­si­on. That ca­me from the spi­ra­ling of high-energy elec­t­rons aro­und mag­ne­tic fi­eld li­nes, Ralph knew, yet he al­ways felt a thrill at the raw ra­dio maps, the swirls and he­li­cal vor­ti­ces big­ger than swarms of stars, self-por­t­ra­its et­c­hed by elec­t­rons ali­ve with the­ir mad ener­gi­es.

  At the very end, whe­re it met the in­ter­ga­lac­tic gas, the jet got brig­h­ter, sa­tu­ra­ting the ima­ges. “It’s tur­ned to­ward us, I fi­gu­re,” Har­kin sa­id. “Bo­un­cing off so­me ob­s­t­ruc­ti­on, may­be a mo­le­cu­lar clo­ud.”

  “Big clo­ud,” Ralph sa­id.

  “Yeah. Dun­no what it co­uld be.”

  Mysteries. Many of them wo­uld ne­ver be sol­ved. In the mur­der of stars, only tat­te­red clu­es sur­vi­ved.

  Harkin was le­an and sharp-no­sed, of sturdy New En­g­land stock. Ralph tho­ught Har­kin lo­oked a lot li­ke the jets he stu­di­ed. His bald he­ad nar­ro­wed to a crest, shi­ning as it ca­ught the over­he­ad flu­ores­cents. Har­kin was al­ways mo­ving from the con­t­rol bo­ards of the gan­ged dis­hes to the com­pu­ter scre­ens whe­re ima­ges shar­pe­ned. Jets mo­ved with the­ir res­t­less ener­gi­es, but all as­t­ro­no­mers got we­re snap­s­hots. Black ho­les spe­wed out the­ir ad­ver­ti­se­ments for aro­und a hun­d­red mil­li­on ye­ars, so Har­kin’s jet was as old as the di­no­sa­urs. To be an as­t­ro­no­mer was to re­ali­ze one’s mayfly na­tu­re.

  “Hope I ha­ven’t got­ten you to co­me all this way for not­hing.” Har­kin bro­ught up on a scre­en the to­tal fi­le on G369.23-0.82.

  He re­cog­ni­zed one ima­ge from the first ob­ser­va­ti­ons a ye­ar be­fo­re, when Fe­ret­ti from Bo­log­na had pic­ked it up in the bac­k­g­ro­und of so­me jet ob­ser­va­ti­ons. Over the last three ye­ars ca­me ot­hers, Andy’s and Ralph’s ex­ten­si­ve maps, po­la­ri­za­ti­on da­ta fi­les, the works. All di­gi­tal; no­body kept much on pa­per an­y­mo­re.

  “Y’see he­re?” An ob­ser­ving sche­du­le she­et. “The ti­mes when G369.23-0.82 is in the sky, I’ve only got three sli­ces when we’re re­con­fi­gu­ring the dis­hes. Each may­be half an ho­ur long.”

  “Damn!” He gri­ma­ced. “Not much.”

  “No.” Har­kin lo­oked a bit she­epish. “When I ma­de that pro­mi­se to you, well, I tho­ught bet­ter of it the next day. But you’d al­re­ady left for yo­ur flight in Ge­ne­va.”

  “ Vin Lo­cal,” Ralph sa­id. “It hit me pretty hard, too.”

  Harkin nod­ded at his fe­et, em­bar­ras­sed. “Uh, okay, so abo­ut G369.23-0.82-“

  “I call it the Bul­let. Easi­er than G369.23-0.82.”

  “Oh ye­ah.” Han­kin shrug­ged. “You sa­id that in Bri­an­con.”

  But what co­uld he do in half ho­ur frag­ments? He was thin­king this thro­ugh when Har­kin as­ked the sa­me qu­es­ti­on.

  “Andy pretty well sho­wed the­re was no pul­sar be­am,” Har­kin sa­id hel­p­ful­ly, “so…?”

  Ralph thum­bed thro­ugh his no­tes. “Can I get go­od cla­rity at the front end? The Bul­let’s bow shock?”

  Harkin sho­ok his he­ad, lo­oking di­sap­po­in­ted. “No way, with so lit­tle ob­ser­ving ti­me. Lo­ok, you sa­id you had so­me out of the box ide­as.”

  Ralph tho­ught fu­ri­o­usly. “How abo­ut the Bul­let’s ta­il, then?”

  Harkin lo­oked do­ub­t­ful, scrib­bled a few num­bers on a yel­low li­ned pad. “No­pe. It’s not that lu­mi­no­us. The wa­ke di­es off pretty fast be­hind. Con­fu­si­on li­mi­ted. You’d get not­hing but no­ise.”

  Ralph po­in­ted. “The­re’s a star we can see at the ed­ge of the Bul­let.”

  Harkin nod­ded. “A fo­reg­ro­und star. Might be use­ful in nar­ro­wing down how far away it is.”

  “The usu­al met­hods say it’s a long way off, may­be hal­f­way ac­ross the ga­laxy.”

  “Um. Okay, le­ave that for la­ter.”

  Ralph se­ar­c­hed his mind. “Andy lo­oked for pul­ses in what ran­ge?” He flip­ped thro­ugh his no­tes from Bri­an­con. “Short ones, yes-and not­hing slo­wer than a ten se­cond pe­ri­od.”

  Harkin nod­ded. “This is a yo­ung ne­ut­ron star. It’ll be spin­ning fast.”

  Ralph ha­ted lo­oking li­ke an ama­te­ur in Har­kin’s eyes, but he held his ga­ze firmly. “May­be. Un­less plo­wing thro­ugh all that gas slows it fas­ter.”

  Harkin ra­ised his eyeb­rows skep­ti­cal­ly. “The Mo­use didn’t slow down. It’s spin­ning at abo­ut a tenth of a se­cond pe­ri­od. Yu­sef-Za­deh and tho­se guys say it’s may­be 25,000 ye­ars old.”

  Twenty- five tho­usand ye­ars was qu­ite yo­ung for a pul­sar. The Mo­use pul­sar was a sphe­re of not­hing but ne­ut­rons, a so­lar mass pac­ked in­to a ball as small as San Fran­cis­co, spin­ning aro­und ten ti­mes a se­cond. In the ra­dio-te­les­co­pe maps that lig­h­t­ho­use be­am ca­me, from a dot at the very tip of a sno­ut, with a bul­ging body right be­hind, and a long, thin ta­il: mo­usy. The Mo­use dis­co­very had set the pa­ra­digm. But just be­ing first didn’t me­an it was typi­cal.

  Ralph set his jaw, flying on in­s­tin­ct-“Let’s see.”

  So in the half ho­urs when the dish te­am, in­s­t­ruc­ted by Har­kin, was sle­wing the big whi­te an­ten­nas aro­und, chug­ging them along the ra­il­ro­ad tracks to new po­si­ti­ons, and get­ting them set for anot­her ho­urs-long ob­ser­va­ti­on-in tho­se wed­ges, Ralph wor­ked fu­ri­o­usly. With Har­kin over­se­e­ing the com­p­lex hand-of­fs, he co­uld com­mand two or three dis­hes. For best use of this squ­e­ezed sche­du­le, he fi­gu­red to ope­ra­te in the me­di­um mic�
�ro­wa­ve band, aro­und 1 or 2 Ghz. They had be­en get­ting so­me in­ter­fe­ren­ce the last few days, Har­kin sa­id, may­be from cell pho­ne traf­fic, even out he­re in the mid­dle of a high de­sert pla­te­au-but that in­ter­fe­ren­ce was down aro­und 1 Ghz, sa­fely far be­low in fre­qu­ency. He ne­ed not worry abo­ut cal­lers rin­ging each ot­her up every few mi­nu­tes and scre­wing up his da­ta.

  He to­ok da­ta ca­re­ful­ly, in a way bi­ased for lo­oking at very long ti­me fluc­tu­ati­ons. In pul­sar the­ory, a ne­ut­ron star was in ad­van­ced old age by the ti­me the pe­ri­od of its ro­ta­ti­on, and so the swe­eping of its lig­h­t­ho­use be­am, was a se­cond long. They har­nes­sed the­ir ro­ta­ti­on to spew out the­ir bla­ring ra­di­ati­on-li­ve fast, die yo­ung. Te­ena­ge ago­ni­es. Only they didn’t le­ave be­a­uti­ful cor­p­ses-they we­re cor­p­ses. Pul­sars sho­uld fa­de away for even slo­wer ra­tes; only a han­d­ful we­re known out in the two or three mi­nu­te zo­ne.

  So this se­arch was pretty ho­pe­less. But it was all he co­uld think of, gi­ven the half ho­ur li­mit.

  He was drag­ging by the ti­me he got his third half ho­ur. The dish te­am was crisp, ef­fi­ci­ent, but the long ob­ser­ving runs bet­we­en his sli­ces got te­di­o­us. So he used the­ir am­p­le com­pu­ting re­so­ur­ces to pro­cess his own da­ta-big fi­les of num­bers that the VLA sof­t­wa­re de­vo­ured as he wat­c­hed the scre­ens. Har­kin’s sof­t­wa­re had frac­tu­red the Bul­let sig­nal in­to bins, lo­oking for struc­tu­re in ti­me. It ca­res­sed every in­co­ming mic­ro­wa­ve, lo­oking for re­pe­ating pat­terns. The com­pu­ters ran for ho­urs.

  Hash, most of it. But then…

  “What’s that?” He po­in­ted to a blip that stuck up in the no­isy fi­eld. The scre­en be­fo­re him and Har­kin was patchy, a bliz­zard of har­mo­nics that met and clas­hed and fa­ded. But as the Bul­let da­ta ran and fil­te­red, a pe­ak per­sis­ted.

  Harkin frow­ned. “So­me pat­tern re­pe­ating in the mic­ro­wa­ves.” He wor­ked the da­ta, pe­ering at shif­ting pat­terns on the scre­en. “Pe­ri­od of…les­see…for­ty-se­ven se­conds. Pretty long for a yo­ung pul­sar.”

  “That’s got to be wrong. Much too long.”

  In as­t­ro­nomy it pa­id to be a skep­tic abo­ut yo­ur work. Ever­y­body wo­uld be re­ady to po­un­ce on an er­ror. Joe We­ber ma­de so­me fal­se de­tec­ti­ons of gra­vi­ta­ti­onal wa­ves, using met­hods he in­ven­ted. His re­pu­ta­ti­on ne­ver fully re­co­ve­red, des­pi­te be­ing a bril­li­ant, ori­gi­nal sci­en­tist.

  Harkin’s fa­ce stif­fe­ned. "I don't ca­re. That's what it is."

  "Got to be wrong.”

  “Damn it, Ralph, I know my own co­des.”

  “Let’s lo­ok hard at this."

  Another few ho­urs sho­wed that it wasn’t wrong.

  “Okay- funny, but it’s re­al.” Ralph tho­ught, rub­bing his eyes. “So let’s lo­ok at the pul­se it­self.”

  Only the­re wasn’t one. The pat­tern didn’t spre­ad over a bro­ad fre­qu­ency band. In­s­te­ad, it was the­re in the 11 gi­ga­Hertz ran­ge, sharp and cle­ar-and no ot­her pe­aks at all.

  “That’s not a pul­sar,” Har­kin sa­id.

  Ralph felt his pul­se qu­ic­ken. “A re­pe­ating brig­h­t­ness. From so­met­hing pe­aking out of the no­ise and co­ming aro­und to our po­int of vi­ew every for­ty-se­ven se­conds.”

  “Damn funny.” Har­kin lo­oked wor­ri­ed. “Ho­pe it’s not a de­fect in the co­des.”

  Ralph hadn’t tho­ught of that. “But the­se are the best fil­ter co­des in the world.”

  Harkin grin­ned, brown fa­ce rum­p­ling li­ke le­at­her. “Mo­re com­p­li­ments li­ke that and you’ll turn my pretty lit­tle he­ad.”

  ****

  So Har­kin spent two ho­urs in de­ep scru­tiny of the VLA da­ta pro­ces­sing sof­t­wa­re-and ca­me up empty. Ralph didn’t mind be­ca­use it ga­ve him to think. He to­ok a bre­ak par­t­way thro­ugh-Har­kin was not the sort to ta­ke bre­aks at all-and wat­c­hed a Cubs ga­me with so­me of the en­gi­ne­ers in the Ope­ra­ti­ons ro­om. They had a dish down for re­pa­irs but it was go­od eno­ugh to tip to­ward the ho­ri­zon and pick up the lo­cal bro­ad­cast from Chi­ca­go. The Cubs we­ren’t on any na­ti­onal ‘cast and two of the guys ca­me from UC, whe­re the C was for Chi­ca­go. The Cubs lost but they did it well, so when he went back Ralph felt re­la­xed. He had al­so had an idea. Or may­be half of one.

  “What if it’s lots big­ger than a ne­ut­ron star?” he as­ked Har­kin, who hadn’t mo­ved from his swi­vel cha­ir in front of the six-sc­re­en dis­p­lay.

  “Then what’s the energy so­ur­ce?”

  “I dun­no. Po­int is, may­be it’s so­met­hing mo­re or­di­nary, but still mo­ving fast.”

  “Like what?”

  “Say, a whi­te dwarf-but a re­al­ly old, de­ad one.”

  “So we can’t see it in the vi­sib­le?” The Hub­ble te­les­co­pe had al­re­ady chec­ked at the Bul­let lo­ca­ti­on and se­en not­hing.

  “Ejected from so­me stel­lar system, mo­ving fast, but not a ne­ut­ron star-may­be?”

  Harkin lo­oked skep­ti­cal. “Um. Ha­ve to think abo­ut it. But…w­hat ma­kes the re­la­ti­vis­tic elec­t­rons, to gi­ve us the mic­ro­wa­ves?”

  That one was har­der to fi­gu­re. El­derly whi­te dwarfs co­uldn’t ma­ke the elec­t­rons, cer­ta­inly. Ralph pa­used and sa­id, “Lo­ok, I don’t know. And I ha­ve to get back to UCI for clas­ses. Can I get so­me mo­re ti­me wed­ged in bet­we­en yo­ur re­con­figs?”

  Harkin lo­oked skep­ti­cal. “I’ll ha­ve to see.”

  “Can you just send the re­sults to me, when you can find so­me ti­me?”

  “You can pro­cess it yo­ur­self?”

  “Give me the sof­t­wa­re and, ye­ah, su­re.”

  Harkin shrug­ged. “That for­ty-se­ven se­cond thing is damn funny. So…okay, I sup­po­se…”

  “Great!” Ralph was ti­red but he at le­ast had his hand in the ga­me. Whe­re­ver it led.

  ****

  Ralph spent ho­urs the next day le­ar­ning the fil­ter co­des, tip-to­e­ing thro­ugh the lab­y­rinth of Har­kin’s met­hods. Many tho­ught Har­kin was the best big-dish ob­ser­ver in the world, pla­ying the elec­t­ro­nics li­ke a vi­olin.

  Harkin was a go­od te­ac­her be­ca­use he did not know how to te­ach. In­s­te­ad he just sho­wed. With it ca­me sto­ri­es and exam­p­les, so­me of them even jokes, and so­me puz­zling un­til Har­kin chan­ged a vi­ewing pa­ra­me­ter or slid a new no­te in­to the song and it all ca­me cle­ar. This way Har­kin sho­wed him how to run the prog­rams, to see the­ir re­sults skep­ti­cal­ly. From the an­gu­lar man he had le­ar­ned to play a ra­dio te­les­co­pe as wi­de as a fo­ot­ball fi­eld li­ke a mu­si­cal in­s­t­ru­ment, to know its qu­irks and de­cep­ti­ons, and to draw from it a truth it did not know. This was sci­en­ce, scru­pu­lo­us and firm, but do­ing it was an art. In the end you had to jus­tify every mo­ve, every con­c­lu­si­on, but the who­le ar­gu­ment slid for­ward on in­tu­iti­on, li­ke an ice cu­be ska­ting on its own melt.

  ****

  “Say, Andy,” Ralph sa­id ca­su­al­ly in­to his cell pho­ne, lo­oking out the big win­dows at New Me­xi­co scrub and the whi­te ra­dio dis­hes cup­ped to­ward the sky. “I’m trying to re­mem­ber if you guys lo­oked at long pe­ri­ods in yo­ur Bul­let da­ta. Re­mem­ber? We tal­ked abo­ut it at Bri­an­con.”

  “Bullet? Oh, G369.23-0.82.”

  “Right, lo­ok, how far out did you go on pe­ri­od?”

  A long pa­use. Ralph tho­ught he co­uld he­ar stre­et no­ise. “Hey, catch you at a bad ti­me?”

  “No, just wal­king down Mass Ave., trying to re­mem­ber. I think we went out to aro­und thirty se­cond pe­ri­ods. D
idn’t see a damn thing.”

  “Oh, gre­at. I’ve be­en lo­oking at the Bul­let aga­in and my pre­li­mi­nary da­ta shows so­met­hing that, well, I tho­ught I’d check with you.”

  “Wow.” Anot­her pa­use. “Uh, how slow?”

  Ralph sa­id ca­uti­o­usly, “Very. Uh, we’re still anal­y­zing the da­ta.”

  “A re­al­ly old pul­sar, then. I didn’t think they co­uld still ra­di­ate when they we­re old.”

  “I didn’t, eit­her. They’re not sup­po­sed to.” Ralph re­min­ded him­self to check with the the­orists.

  “Then no won­der we co­uldn’t find its su­per­no­va rem­nant. That’s fa­ded, or far away.”

  “Funny, isn’t it, that we can pick up such we­ak sig­nals from a pul­sar that’s hal­f­way ac­ross the ga­laxy. Tho­ugh it has be­en get­ting brig­h­ter, I no­ti­ced.”

  Andy so­un­ded puz­zled. “Ye­ah, funny. Brig­h­ter, um. I won­der if it shows up in any ear­li­er sur­vey.”

  “Yeah, well I tho­ught I’d let you know.”

  Andy sa­id slowly, "You know, I may ha­ve glim­p­sed so­met­hing, but will get back to you."

  They ex­c­han­ged a few per­so­nal phra­ses and Ralph sig­ned off.

  Harkin was wor­king the scre­ens but tur­ned with eyeb­rows ra­ised.

  Ralph sa­id, “Bin­go.”

  ****

  As so­on as Ire­ne ca­me in­to the cof­fee shop and they kis­sed in gre­eting, he co­uld see the cu­ri­osity in her eyes. She was stun­ning in her clingy blue dress, whi­le he strut­ted in his natty su­it. He had told her to dress up and she blin­ked ra­pidly, ex­pec­tant. “Whe­re are we go­ing to­night?”

 

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