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Jim Baen’s Universe

Page 8

by Edited by Eric Flint


  He sa­id, not even sit­ting down, “Y’know, the only pla­ce whe­re I can sing and pe­op­le don’t throw rot­ten fru­it at me is church.”

  Irene lo­oked star­t­led. “I didn’t think you we­re re­li­gi­o­us.”

  “Hey, it’s a me­tap­hor. I pay for a pla­ce to dan­ce, too, so-let’s go. To the Ritz.”

  Her eyeb­rows ar­c­hed in sur­p­ri­se. “What an ob­li­que in­vi­ta­ti­on. Put­tin’ on the Ritz?”

  As they dan­ced on the pa­tio over­lo­oking sun­set sur­fers, he pul­led a lo­ose strand of ha­ir asi­de for her, tuc­king it be­hind her ear. She was full of chat­ter abo­ut work. He told her abo­ut his work on the Bul­let and she was ge­nu­inely in­te­res­ted, as­king qu­es­ti­ons. Then she went back to ta­les of her of­fi­ce in­t­ri­gu­es. So­me­ti­mes she se­emed li­ke a wo­man who co­uld sur­vi­ve on gos­sip alo­ne. He let it run down a bit and then sa­id, as the band struck up Be­gin the Be­gu­ine, “I ne­ed mo­re ti­me.”

  She stif­fe­ned. “To con­tem­p­la­te the abyss of the M word?”

  “Yes. I’m hot on the tra­il of so­met­hing.”

  “You didn’t call Herb Lin­z­fi­eld, eit­her, did you.” Not a qu­es­ti­on.

  “No.”

  “Oh, fi­ne.”

  He pul­led back and ga­zed at her lips. Lush, as al­ways, but twis­ted as­kew and scrun­c­hed. He knew the to­ne. Fi­ne. Ye­ah, okay, right. Fi­ne. Go. Le­ave. See. If. I. Ca­re.

  ****

  He set­tled in­to it then, the rhythm: of thic­kets of de­ta­il, and of be­a­uty co­ming at you, unan­no­un­ced. You had to get in­si­de the drum roll of da­ta, he­aring the sof­t­wa­re sympho­ni­es, sha­ped so that hu­man eyes co­uld ma­ke so­me ho­mi­nid sen­se of it. The­se co­lor-co­ded en­c­rus­ta­ti­ons sho­wed what was un­se­e­ab­le by the me­re hu­man eye-the co­lors of the mic­ro­wa­ves. Dry num­bers clo­aked this be­a­uty, hid the fe­ro­ci­o­us glory.

  When you tho­ught abo­ut it, he tho­ught, the wa­ve­lengths they we­re “se­e­ing” with, thro­ugh the enor­mo­us dish eyes, we­re the si­ze of the­ir fin­gers. The wa­ves ca­me os­cil­la­ting ac­ross the blunt light ye­ars, mes­sa­ges out of an­ci­ent ti­me. They slap­ped down on the hard me­tal of a ra­dio dish and ex­ci­ted elec­t­rons that had be­en wa­iting the­re to be in­vi­ted in­to the dan­ce. The bil­li­ons of elec­t­rons trem­b­led and sang and the­ir an­s­we­ring os­cil­la­ti­ons cal­led forth cap­tu­ring ec­ho­es in the cir­cu­its erec­ted by men and wo­men. Mo­re elec­t­rons jo­ined the ri­sing cur­rents, fas­hi­oned by the 0s and 1s of com­pu­ters in­to so­met­hing no one had ever se­en: pic­tu­res for eyes the si­ze of mo­un­ta­ins. The­se vi­si­ons had ne­ver exis­ted in the uni­ver­se. They we­re im­p­li­ed by the wa­ves, but it to­ok in­tel­li­gen­ce to pull them out of the vag­rant siz­zle of ra­dio wa­ves, the pas­sing mic­ro­wa­ve bliz­zard all li­fe li­ved in but had ne­ver se­en. Sto­ri­es, re­al­ly, or so the­ir chim­pan­zee minds ma­de of it all. Snap­s­hots. But fil­ling in the plot was up to them.

  In the long ho­urs he re­ali­zed that, when you nar­row yo­ur se­arch tec­h­ni­qu­es tu­ned to pick up exactly what you’re lo­oking for, the­re’s a dan­ger. The phra­se as­t­ro­no­mers use for that is, “I wo­uldn’t ha­ve se­en it if I hadn’t be­li­eved it.”

  ****

  The pa­per on the as­t­ro-ph web si­te was bri­ef, qu­ick, three pa­ges.

  Ralph sta­red at it, open-mo­ut­hed, for mi­nu­tes. He re­ad it over twi­ce. Then he cal­led Har­kin. “Andy’s gro­up is cla­iming a for­ty-se­ven se­cond pe­ak in the­ir da­ta.”

  “Damn.”

  “He sa­id be­fo­re that they didn’t lo­ok out that far in pe­ri­od.”

  “So he went back and lo­oked aga­in.”

  “This is ste­aling.” Ralph was still re­eling, won­de­ring whe­re to go with this.

  “You can pull a lot out of the no­ise when you know what to lo­ok for.”

  Whoosh- He ex­ha­led, still stun­ned. “Ye­ah, I gu­ess.”

  “He sco­oped us,” Har­kin sa­id flatly.

  “He’s up for te­nu­re.”

  Harkin la­ug­hed dryly. “That’s Har­vard for you.” A long pa­use, then he ras­ped, “But what is the god­damn thing?”

  ****

  The knock on his apar­t­ment do­or to­ok him by sur­p­ri­se. It was Ire­ne, eyes in­tent and mo­uth as­kew. “It’s li­ke I’m off yo­ur ra­dar scre­en in one swift swe­ep.”

  “I’m…”

  “Working. Too much-for what you get.”

  “Y’know,” he ma­na­ged, “art and sci­en­ce aren’t a lot dif­fe­rent. So­me­ti­mes. Ta­kes con­cen­t­ra­ti­on.”

  “Art,” she sa­id, “is an­s­wers to which the­re are no qu­es­ti­ons.”

  He blin­ked. “That so­unds li­ke a qu­ota­ti­on.”

  “No, that was me.”

  “Uh, oh.”

  “So you want a qu­ick slam bam, thank you Sam?”

  “Well, sin­ce you put it that way.”

  An ho­ur la­ter she le­aned up on an el­bow and sa­id, “News.”

  He blin­ked at her sle­epily “Uh…what?”

  “I’m la­te. Two we­eks.”

  “Uh. Oh.” An an­vil out of a cle­ar blue sky.

  “We sho­uld talk abo­ut -“

  “Hoo boy.”

  “- what to do.”

  “Is that unu­su­al for you?” First, get so­me da­ta.

  “One we­ek is tops for me.” She sha­ped her mo­uth in­to an as­to­nis­hed O. “Was.”

  “You we­re using…we we­re…”

  “The pill has a small fa­ilu­re ra­te, but…”

  “Not ze­ro. And you didn’t for­get one?”

  “No.”

  Long si­len­ce. “How do you fe­el abo­ut it?” Al­ways a go­od way to buy ti­me whi­le yo­ur mind swir­led aro­und.

  “I’m thir­ty-two. It’s get­ting to be ti­me.”

  “And then the­re’s us.”

  “Us.” She ga­ve him a long, so­ul­ful lo­ok and flop­ped back down, sta­ring at the ce­iling, blin­king.

  He ven­tu­red, “How do you fe­el abo­ut…”

  “Abortion?”

  She had se­en it co­ming. “Yes.”

  “I’m easy, if it’s ne­ces­sary.” Back up on the el­bow, lo­oking at him “Is it?”

  “Look, I co­uld use so­me ti­me to think abo­ut this.”

  She nod­ded, mo­uth as­lant. “So co­uld I.”

  Ralph had as­ked the Bo­log­na gro­up-th­ro­ugh his old fri­ends, the two Fan­tis-to ta­ke a scan of the lo­ca­ti­on. They put the Ita­li­an ‘sco­pes on the re­gi­on and pro­ces­sed the da­ta and send it by in­ter­net. It was wa­iting the next mor­ning, for­ty-se­ven megs as an zip­ped at­tac­h­ment. He ope­ned the at­tac­h­ment with a skit­te­ring an­xi­ety. The Bo­log­na gro­up was first ra­te, the­ir work so­lid.

  On an in­ter­net vi­su­al pho­ne call he as­ked, “Ro­ber­to, what’s this? It can’t be the obj­ect I’m stud­ying. It’s a mess.”

  On- screen, Ro­ber­to lo­oked puz­zled, fo­re­he­ad cre­ased. “We won­de­red abo­ut that, yes. I can im­p­ro­ve the re­so­lu­ti­on in a few days. We co­uld very well cle­ar up fe­atu­res with mo­re ob­ser­ving ti­me.”

  “Yes, co­uld you? This has got to be wrong.”

  A head- bob. “We will lo­ok aga­in, yes.”

  ****

  Forty- seven se­conds…

  The cha­ir­man kept tal­king but Ralph was lo­oking out his win­dow at the eucal­y­p­tus we­aving in the vag­rant co­as­tal winds. Gos­si­an was lis­ting hur­d­les to me­et be­fo­re Ralph wo­uld be "clo­se to te­nu­re" -two fe­de­ral grants, pla­cing his Ph.D. stu­dents in go­od jobs, mo­re pa­pers. All to get do­ne in a fe
w months. The words ran by, he co­uld he­ar them, but he had go­ne in­to that pla­ce he knew and al­ways wel­co­med, whe­re his own fa­ith dwel­led. The ex­ci­te­ment ca­me up in him, first stir­rings, the in­s­tinct bur­ning, his own in­te­ri­or sta­te of gra­ce. The idea swar­med up in thick his nos­t­rils, he blin­ked-

  “Ralph? You lis­te­ning?”

  “Oh, uh, ye­ah.” But not to you, no.

  ****

  He ca­me in­to the physics bu­il­ding, fol­ding his um­b­rel­la from a pas­sing ra­in storm, dis­t­rac­ted. The­re we­re black um­b­rel­las stac­ked aro­und li­ke a co­vey of drun­ken crows. His cell pho­ne ca­wed.

  Harkin sa­id, “Tho­ught I’d let you know the­re’s not much ti­me I can use co­ming up. The­re’s an ol­der ima­ge, but I ha­ven’t cle­aned it up yet.”

  “I’d ap­pre­ci­ate an­y­t­hing at all.”

  “I can may­be try for a new ima­ge to­mor­row, but I’m pretty damn busy. The­re’s a lit­tle slot of ti­me whi­le the Ar­ray re­con­fi­gu­res.”

  “I sent you the Fan­tis’ map-“

  “Yeah, got­ta be wrong. No so­ur­ce can chan­ge that much so fast.”

  Ralph ag­re­ed but ad­ded, “Uh, but we sho­uld still check. The Fan­tis are very go­od.”

  “If I ha­ve ti­me,” Har­kin sa­id ed­gily.

  ****

  Between clas­ses and com­mit­te­es and the long ho­urs run­ning the fil­ter co­des, he com­p­le­tely for­got abo­ut the­ir din­ner da­te. So at 9 P.M. his of­fi­ce pho­ne rang and it was Ire­ne. He ma­de his apo­lo­gi­es, dis­t­rac­ted, fret­ting. He lo­oked ti­red, her fo­re­he­ad gray and li­ned, and he as­ked, “No…c­han­ge?”

  “No.”

  They sat in si­len­ce and fi­nal­ly he told her abo­ut the Fan­ti map.

  She brig­h­te­ned vi­sibly, glad to ha­ve so­me dis­t­rac­ti­on. “The­se things can chan­ge, can’t they?”

  “Sure, but so fast! They’re big, the who­le ta­il alo­ne is may­be light ye­ars long.”

  “But you sa­id the map is all dif­fe­rent, blur­red.”

  “The who­le obj­ect, yes.”

  “So may­be it’s just a mis­ta­ke?”

  “Could be, but the Fan­tis are re­al­ly go­od…”

  “Could we get to­get­her la­ter?”

  He sig­hed. “I want to lo­ok at this so­me mo­re.” To her si­len­ce he ad­ded mo­re apo­lo­gi­es, en­ding with, “I don’t want to lo­se you.”

  “Then re­mem­ber whe­re you put me.”

  ****

  The night wo­re on.

  Wo­uldn’t ha­ve se­en it if I hadn’t be­li­eved it.

  The er­ror, he saw, might well lie in the­ir as­sum­p­ti­ons. In his.

  It had to be a ru­na­way ne­ut­ron star. It had to be a long way off, hal­f­way ac­ross the ga­laxy. They knew that be­ca­use the fra­ying of the sig­nal sa­id the­re was a lot of plas­ma in the way.

  His as­sum­p­ti­ons, yes. It had to be.

  Perfectly re­aso­nab­le. Per­fectly wrong?

  He had used up a lot of his choppy VLA ti­me stud­ying the ob­long shro­ud of a on­ce-pro­ud star, se­en thro­ugh the ed­ge of the Bul­let. It was fuzzy with the deb­ris of gas it threw off, a dying sun. In turn, he co­uld lo­ok at the ob­s­cu­ra­ti­on-how much the emis­si­on li­nes we­re ab­sor­bed and scat­te­red by in­ter­ve­ning dust, gas and plas­ma. Such tel­lta­les we­re the only re­li­ab­le way to tell if a ra­dio ima­ge ca­me from far away or ne­arby. It was tricky, using such wobbly ima­ges, glim­p­sed thro­ugh an in­ter­s­tel­lar fog.

  What if the­re was a lot mo­re than they tho­ught, of the den­se plas­ma in bet­we­en the­ir big-eyed dis­hes and the obj­ect?

  Then they wo­uld get the dis­tan­ce wrong. Just a li­ke a thick clo­ud bet­we­en you and the sun. Dis­per­sing the ima­ge, blur­ring it be­yond re­cog­ni­ti­on-but the sun was, on the in­ter­s­tel­lar sca­le, still qu­ite clo­se.

  Maybe this thing was ne­arer, much ne­arer.

  Then it wo­uld ha­ve to be sur­ro­un­ded by an unu­su­al­ly den­se plas­ma-the clo­ud of ioni­zed par­tic­les that it ma­de, pus­hing on hard thro­ugh the in­ter­s­tel­lar night. Co­uld it ha­ve ioni­zed much mo­re of the gas it mo­ved thro­ugh, than the usu­al cal­cu­la­ti­ons sa­id? How? Why?

  But what was the god­damn thing?

  ****

  He blin­ked at the di­gi­tal ar­rays he had sum­mo­ned up, thro­ugh a thic­ket of ima­ge and spec­t­ral pro­ces­sors. The blur­red out­li­nes of the old star we­re a few pi­xels, and ne­arby was an old, tat­te­red cur­ve of a su­per­no­va rem­nant-an an­ci­ent sphe­ri­cal tom­b­s­to­ne of a de­ad sun. The li­nes had suf­fe­red a lot of loss on the­ir way thro­ugh the ta­il of the Bul­let. From this he co­uld es­ti­ma­te the to­tal plas­ma den­sity ne­ar the Bul­let it­self.

  Working thro­ugh the cal­cu­la­ti­on, he felt a cold sen­sa­ti­on cre­ep in­to him, ba­nis­hing all bac­k­g­ro­und no­ise. He tur­ned the idea over, fe­eling its sha­pe, pro­bing it. Ex­ci­te­ment ca­me, tin­g­ling but la­ced with ca­uti­on.

  ****

  Andy had sa­id, I won­der if it shows up in any ear­li­er sur­vey.

  So Ralph lo­oked. On an Ita­li­an ra­dio map of the re­gi­on do­ne ele­ven ye­ars be­fo­re the­re was a slight scratch very ne­ar the Bul­let lo­ca­ti­on. But it was fa­int, an or­der of mag­ni­tu­de be­low the lu­mi­no­sity he was se­e­ing now. May­be so­me er­ror in ca­lib­ra­ti­on? But a de­tec­ti­on, yes.

  He had fo­und it be­ca­use it was bright now. Hit­ting a lot of in­ter­s­tel­lar plas­ma, may­be, lig­h­ting up?

  Ralph cal­led Har­kin to fill him in on this and the Fan­ti map, but got an an­s­we­ring mac­hi­ne. He sum­med up bri­efly and went off to te­ach a mec­ha­nics class.

  ****

  Harkin sa­id on his vo­ice­ma­il, “Ralph, I just sent you that map I ma­de two days ago, whi­le I had so­me si­de ti­me on a 4.8 GHz ob­ser­va­ti­on.”

  “Great, thanks!” he cal­led out be­fo­re he re­ali­zed Har­kin co­uldn’t he­ar him. “Is it li­ke the Fan­ti map?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Their work was pretty re­cent.”

  “Yeah, and what I’m sen­ding you is ear­li­er than the­irs. I fi­gu­re they scre­wed up the­ir pro­ces­sing.”

  “They’re pretty ca­re­ful…”

  “This one I’m sen­ding, it su­re lo­oks so­me dif­fe­rent from what we got be­fo­re. Kin­da preg­nant with pos­si­bi­lity.”

  The word, preg­nant, stop­ped him for a he­ar­t­be­at. When his at­ten­ti­on re­tur­ned, Har­kin’s vo­ice was sa­ying, “-I tri­ed that for­ty-se­ven se­cond pe­ri­od fil­ter and it didn’t work. No sig­nal this ti­me. Ran it twi­ce. Don’t know what’s go­ing on he­re.”

  The ema­il at­tac­h­ment map was still mo­re odd.

  Low in de­ta­il, be­ca­use Har­kin had not much ob­ser­ving ti­me, but cle­ar eno­ugh. The Bul­let was fra­yed, lon­ger, with new fe­atu­res. Plun­ging on, the Bul­let was me­eting a fresh en­vi­ron­ment, per­haps.

  But this was from two days ago.

  The Bo­log­na map was only 14 ho­urs old.

  He lo­oked back at the messy Bo­log­na vi­ew and won­de­red how this ol­der pic­tu­re co­uld pos­sibly fit with the 4.8 GHz map. Had the Fan­tis ma­de so­me mis­ta­ke?

  ****

  “Can you get me a snap­s­hot right now?” Ralph as­ked. “It’s im­por­tant.”

  He lis­te­ned to the si­len­ce for a long mo­ment be­fo­re Har­kin sa­id, “I’ve got a long run on right now. Can’t it wa­it?”

  “The Fan­tis at Bo­log­na, they’re stan­ding by that dif­fe­rent lo­oking map. Pretty stran­ge.”

  “Ummm, well…”

  �
�Can you get me just a few mi­nu­tes? May­be in the dow­n­lo­ad in­ter­val-“

  “Hey, buddy, I’ll try, but-“

  “I’ll un­der­s­tand,” but Ralph knew he wo­uldn’t.

  ****

  His ho­me vo­ice­ma­il from Ire­ne sa­id, fast and with ri­sing vo­ice to­ne, “Do on­to ot­hers, right? So, if you’re not that in­to me, I can stop re­tur­ning yo­ur calls, ema­ils-not that the­re are any-and an­y­way, bloc­king is so dod­ge ball in sixth gra­de, right? I’ll ini­ti­ate the pha­se-out, you’ll get the le­ad-fo­oted hint, and that way, you can as­su­me the worst of me and still fe­el go­od abo­ut yo­ur­self. You can think, hey, she’s not over her past. So­ci­al clim­ber. Shal­low bu­si­ness mind. Wor­ka­ho­lic, may­be. Oh, no, that’s you, right? And you’ll ha­ve a won­der­ful imi­ta­ti­on li­fe.”

  A long pa­use, ti­me’s ne­arly up, and she gas­ped, pa­used, then: “Okay, so may­be this isn’t the best idea.”

  He sat, de­er in the he­ad­lights, and pla­yed it over.

  They we­re clo­se, she was won­der­ful, yes.

  He lo­ved her, su­re, and he had al­ways be­li­eved that was all it to­ok.

  But he might not ha­ve a job he­re in­si­de a ye­ar.

  And he co­uldn’t think of an­y­t­hing but the Bul­let.

  While she was won­de­ring if she was go­ing to be a mot­her.

  Though, he re­ali­zed, she had not re­al­ly sa­id what she tho­ught abo­ut it all.

  He had no idea what to say. At a talk last ye­ar abo­ut Ein­s­te­in, the spe­aker qu­oted Ein­s­te­in’s wi­fe’s la­co­nic com­ment, that so­me­ti­mes when the gre­at man was wor­king on a prob­lem he wo­uld not spe­ak to an­yo­ne for days. She had left him, of co­ur­se. But now Ralph co­uld fe­el a cer­ta­in kin­s­hip with that le­gen­dary ge­ni­us. Then he told him­self he was be­ing fa­tu­o­us, equ­ating this ex­pe­ri­en­ce…

 

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