Anomaly

by Peter Cawdron

  Cathy looked a little dubious.

  “Think about bees and wasps,” said Anderson. “Consider how they see flowers glowing in ultra-violet, beyond anything we see. For all we know, the creatures that created the anomaly could be like them, seeing some other portion of the electromagnetic spectrum. A rainbow of colors like this will allow them to understand the limits applicable to us.”

  “Are we certain our alien friends even have eyes?” asked Cathy.

  “Oh, yes,” said Teller. “When the anomaly started to mimic its home world the atmosphere appeared like a shallow sea. Sight would be a crucial evolutionary development in such an environment.”

  “Why?” she asked, not convinced.

  “Well,” replied Anderson. “Evolutionary adaptation is all about exploiting opportunities. The cycle of day to night would give a distinct advantage to any creature that had even the most rudimentary sensitivity to light. It could have started with the most basic sensitivity to sunlight, like feeling the warmth of the sun on your skin as opposed to the cool of the evening, but as that distinction helped an animal forage or survive, it would slowly but surely become refined over numerous generations into a greater sensitivity to light. We've seen the same thing here on Earth, with over twenty different evolutionary paths converging on the formation of the eye.

  “The day-night cycle conveys a specific advantage to sight, allowing animals to detect threats. Predators exploit changing light patterns, so to survive you need good eyesight to see them coming. Or if you're the hunter, you need good eyesight to catch your prey. Either way, that shallow sea is going to favor any organism with sight. And so, given time, you'll have eyes evolve, just like on Earth.”

  “And to reach the stars,” Teller added, “you have to be able to see the stars. From those shallow seas, they would have had their curiosity peaked just as ours was when Galileo first watched moons in orbit around Jupiter. They must have some kind of sight, but it's probably on an entirely different portion of the electromagnetic spectrum to ours.”

  Cathy held the packet of coloring-in pens in her hand, looking at them as she spoke. “So they can see, but they can't necessarily see this? What colors would they see? Red but not green? Or something like that?”

  “There is no red or green,” said Teller. “All the colors we see are artificial; they're constructs of the mind. This beautiful rainbow of colors you see here on these felt-pens is, in reality, different shades of gray.”

  Cathy looked suspiciously at Teller.

  “He's right,” said Anderson. “Color is artificial. Our minds evolved to interpret various frequencies of light as something more than shades because there was an advantage to detecting these subtle hues, but there is no red, no blue, no green, no yellow. Somewhat surprisingly, those that are color-blind see colors for what they really are, without their minds adding that little bit of extra pizzazz to the scene that cries out indigo or violet, red, yellow or blue.”

  “I hate you guys,” said Cathy, with a smile on her face.

  “What?” asked Teller, surprised.

  “You take all the fun out of life.”

  Teller laughed.

  Anderson picked up a child's atlas.

  “Yes, yes,” said Teller, looking over his shoulder at an image of North America, with the continent depicted as a swirling mass of green and brown blending together. The Rockies and the Appalachian mountain ranges were visible, as were the Sierras. On either side of the United States, lay the blue oceans of the Atlantic and the Pacific.

  “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” asked Anderson.

  “I think so,” replied Teller. “This is a nice abstraction. It takes generalized colors, a generalized geographical shape, easily recognizable from orbit, and portrays three-dimensions scaled down into two. If they get it, they'll instinctively understand we use paper as a medium for communication. I like it.”

  “Me too,” said Anderson, closing the book and tossing it in the shopping cart.

  “I thought you said they couldn't see colors?” asked Cathy, a little confused.

  “Oh,” replied Anderson. “They won't see colors as we do, but they'll recognize the wavelengths. And they'll be able to see how we simplify complex concepts, like the variety of colors in the oceans or on land, reducing them to just a few dominant shades, set in stark contrast to each other. They'll realize these distinctions are meaningful to us, and they'll understand why, because they describe the land mass we are on; a land mass they've seen from outer space.”

  “But more importantly,” said Teller. “They'll begin to appreciate how we communicate with each other. How we transmit ideas and concepts from generation to generation.”

  “These things are primers,” said Anderson. “They're signposts, appetizers, setting the direction for what's to come.”

  Teller pulled a dictionary off the shelf. It was intended for children, probably from the ages of 10-12, with large print and broad coverage of common words. “Too much?” He asked.

  “Too much, too soon,” replied Anderson.

  “I was thinking there might be some value in this,” said Teller.

  “How so?” asked Anderson.

  “Well, they're not going to be able to read it, but they'll be able to conduct some kind of meta-analysis on its contents, and that might act as a bit of a Rosetta stone for them.”

  Anderson was quiet.

  “So long as their sight isn't in the x-ray portion of the spectrum, they'll pick up on these markings of black on white and realize that they're not symbols, they're not depictions, like cave paintings. They'll recognize them as language, a means of using a limited set of characters to communicate an unlimited amount of information by reusing recognizable components. Even if their sight is shifted toward x-rays, I think we can safely assume they'll scan anything we give them using the entire electromagnetic spectrum, and so they'll pick up on the deliberate distinctions made by our characters and words.”

  Anderson let out a slight hum in agreement.

  “Look at the structure. The contents are sequential. The word being defined is highlighted in bold. The definitions are indented. Variations on the word are included under the broad definition. They won't understand it, but they'll understand what it is. They'll see the order, the patterns, the structure, and they'll know there's a depth of meaning behind the words.”

  “I like it,” said Anderson. “They're going to see a distinction between a dictionary and an atlas, and it won't be as confusing as exposing them to a novel or a textbook, where the terms and concepts are more contextual. What's more, they'll recognize the same symbols from the atlas, and will see that this book is devoid of images, that it is the words formed by the characters that are important.”

  “But they're not going to understand it,” said Cathy. “They're going to need a point of comparison, a means of translating it, right?”

  “Yes,” said Teller. “But they'll learn the size and sequence of our alphabet; they'll appreciate the range of words we use and something about our grammar. They'll be able to detect conjunctions as opposed to nouns and verbs, simply by the frequency of their use.”

  Anderson pursed his lips together. “It's ambitious.”

  “They're smart,” replied Teller. “They've just traversed fifty million light years to get here. They're going to love something like this, where there's an organized structure surrounding information. They won't understand it, not right away, but it will become a reference point for them as they decipher our mode of communication moving forward.”

  Teller flicked through the dictionary, looking at the words and their definitions, trying to see things from the perspective of an alien.

  “Think about how communication occurs in the animal kingdom,” he added. “Communication is about projecting ideas, either through sound, through visual clues or even the use of pheromones. But in all cases communication is about projecting information. Man is the only animal that uses an intermediary form for communication,
something static that forms a kind of intellectual echo, whether that's a book or text on a computer screen, art hanging in a gallery or a play shown on the television, the principle is the same. The act of capturing communication, storing it and reusing it is a hallmark of intelligence, and I think they'll appreciate that.”

  “Although, for all we know,” replied Anderson, “they may communicate with an entirely different medium, like light. Think about cuttlefish and the beautiful array of colors glistening off their skin as their pigments change in response to their thinking, flashing up blotches and patterns rather than speaking words. Or consider the way spiders communicate by tapping on a web in a kind of primitive Morse code. They could use infrasound, like whales and elephants, low resonate thumps we can barely register but which carries for hundreds of miles. Or they may have electromagnetic sensitivity, like sharks and rays sensing the muscle spasms of their prey. There's a host of possible mediums for communication, but it would be helpful if we can show them where our focus lies, and that's clearly in the audio/visual.”

  Teller enjoyed the speculative discussion, replying, “I think it's safe to say they'd use a variety of senses, just as we do. But sight will definitely be one of them.”

  Anderson shrugged his shoulders, looking at the dictionary, saying, “Can't hurt.”

  Teller dropped the dictionary in the cart.

  Cathy wandered over to the electronics section as the two grown men kept looking at toys and books. It took some time before Teller noticed her slowly wandering up and down the aisles in the distance, looking at music from various recording artists. After a few minutes he joined her. Cathy reminded him of his sister. By ignoring him, she had subtly reminded him that he could become too self-absorbed and distracted in the moment.

  “Who's going to pay for all that stuff?” asked Cathy, looking at the items Teller and Anderson had gathered in their shopping cart.

  “Uncle Sam,” said Anderson. “We'll probably only use a fraction of it. We'll come up with something a bit more robust than a bunch of felt-pens, but it's the principle that's important, the ideas behind all this.”

  Cathy had a hand basket. Teller started helping himself, looking at the contents of her shopping.

  “Do you mind?” she asked.

  “Perfume,” said Teller, squeezing the lid and sniffing at the fine mist that floated in the air. “What a great idea. I hadn't thought about olfactory senses. They'll be able to detect chemicals in suspension. They'll understand the molecular complexities, but I'm not sure how we could communicate what's desirable and what's not.”

  “It wasn't for the alien,” said Cathy dryly, taking the perfume from him.

  “Oh,” replied Teller, feeling a little stupid. “Of course not.”

  Anderson laughed.

  “Music, though,” said Teller, switching gears. “Music is a good idea. There are natural harmonic relationships inherent in the notes of each key, rhythms that correspond to our heart beats, repeated patterns slowly developing in complexity, it's a wonderful way of communicating aesthetics. We should get some instrumental, some music with singing, both male and female. Some modern, some old.”

  Teller looked at one of the thumb-size music discs, reading the list of songs on the reverse side. Cathy ran her hand along a row, knocking one or two of each music album into her basket as she said, “They're not going to care about the artist.”

  “Ah, no. You're right,” replied Teller, seeing a pile of twenty-odd discs in her basket and putting his disc back.

  Cathy dropped a small music player and a set of speakers into the shopping cart Anderson was pushing, saying, “And if they don't like the selection, I'll have them.”

  Cathy was curious about what the men had collected. She pulled out a third-grade mathematics study guide.

  “Mathematics? Really?”

  “Oh,” said Anderson. “This is probably our only rational choice. There's some trigonometry, right-angle triangles, equilateral triangles, stuff like that. It's pretty basic, but it's universal as math transcends language. Our aliens may never have heard of Pythagoras, Newton or Einstein, but they'll recognize their equations.”

  “Does it bother you that there's nothing in there?” asked Cathy, shifting the subject. “Nothing inside the anomaly. I mean, there's just a big empty sac, right?”

  “Yes,” said Teller, feeling like he was admitting to a mistake.

  “So all this speculation,” replied Cathy. “It's based on the assumption that something's going to grow inside the anomaly. But ...”

  “But,” said Anderson, completing her sentence. “Maybe there was never going to be anything inside the anomaly?”

  “Yeah,” said Cathy. “I mean, this thing took us by surprise. It's still taking us by surprise. We may have the wrong expectations of it. Perhaps we want too much.”

  Teller was quiet, as was Anderson.

  “I know you guys want to talk to it, and it's fascinating to hear how all this could potentially unfold, and how the simplest of things, like a packet of felt-pens, could help us bridge the communication gap, but I wonder if we're reading too much into the anomaly.”

  Teller went to say something, but stopped himself. Anderson had the sense of composure to listen.

  “I can't help but wonder if we're too close to this, so close we can't see the anomaly for what it really is. I mean, this thing just appears without warning one day and starts turning our world upside-down. And we've been waiting for this, this is what we want. For hundreds of years we've waited for someone to drop out of the sky, and now, here they are. But maybe all that speculation has blurred our thinking. All those science fiction books and movies have led us astray. Our culture has been shaped by stories of first contact, from Martians invading with heat rays to creatures bursting out of someone's chest.

  “We're obsessed with a desire to find alien life. And there's no doubt this is alien life, but maybe we want too much of it, more than it wants to give. I don't know, but maybe this thing is like the Maytag repairman. Rather than being a flagship, it could be the cable technician of the universe, or the plumber, here to install the alien equivalent of a new shower-head or something.”

  “Hah,” cried Teller, laughing at the thought.

  “You might be right,” said Anderson. “We're assuming a lot. But that's not a bad thing. Science is about proposing ideas and testing their validity. There's nothing wrong with assumptions, so long as they're modified or abandoned as soon as evidence is shown to the contrary.”

  “What he's saying,” said Teller, “is he agrees with you. We are over-excited. We're like kids in a candy store.”

  “Speaking of candy,” said Cathy. “How do you explain this?”

  She dropped the math textbook back in the cart and pulled out a couple of chocolate bars.

  “How are aliens going to relate to chocolate?” she asked. “And dark chocolate at that.”

  Teller grinned. “Oh, these are for us.”

  Chapter 18: Trust

  As they arrived back at the grounds surrounding the UN, Teller looked up at the anomaly. The sphere reached up for hundreds of feet, like a giant bluish marble resting on a New York street, towering over the nearby buildings. He found himself thinking about Cathy's point. There were so many assumptions they were operating on. Perhaps it took someone without a scientific background to see their position for what it was, folly.

  The sac within the anomaly had grown to almost the same size as the anomaly itself, filling most of its volume. Teller could see what they assumed was some kind of umbilical cord snaking out from the center of the anomaly and connecting to the transparent sac wall. Veins appeared to branch out from the cord, weaving their way over the inside surface of the semi-transparent sac. A slight blue tinge marred the view, making it impossible to see all the way through the thickest parts of the sphere, but toward the edges, the outline of the buildings behind the anomaly was apparent.

  The anomaly wasn't what he or anyone else expected w
hen it came to first contact with an intelligent extraterrestrial species. They were all so convinced they'd be conversing with an alien intelligence, they had no other scenarios, and yet the anomaly was empty, a container void of content. It didn't make any sense. Teller racked his mind, wanting an answer, desperate for some kind of meaning, but he had no more ideas. That realization scared him. As much as he didn't want to admit it, knowing what the anomaly would do next gave him a sense of control, or at least the illusion of control. Somehow, it made him feel confident, self-assured. All his bluster in the mall with Anderson and Cathy was a cover, a facade.

  The reality was, he suspected Cathy was right. They wanted the anomaly to be more than it was. When they were swapping elements, he felt so sure, so confident that he knew what was coming. Even though the specifics of the next phase eluded him, he felt sure the alien species would want to communicate at a biological level, but this ... this wasn't part of the plan. They weren't following the path they should, and that unsettled him. All the talk about felt-pens and dictionaries personified where he wanted things to go, and not the reality that surrounded him. The reality was, the anomaly was silent.

  Cathy and Anderson took the bags of shopping over to the research trailer, but Teller excused himself. He wanted a bit of room to think. It was funny, just getting out of the research group for a couple of hours and wandering around the mall had allowed him to distance himself when he got back, making it easier to be honest with himself.

  Teller turned his back on the anomaly and walked away. It was as much a mental act as it was a physical one. Cathy hadn't said it, but the implication was clear. Given time, she would have arrived at the same conclusion he had, that the anomaly flattered their egos, flattered his ego.

  Perhaps the Reverend Stark was right, he thought, recalling the debate in lower New York. Perhaps it was an idol, not in the religious sense of being worshiped as a god, but in the sense of attracting blind admiration. And Cathy knew, she'd seen what it had done to Teller, filling him with an unwarranted sense of overconfidence, yet all the while the world burned. Here they were, grasping at an intelligence thousands, perhaps millions of times more advanced than their own, and what was their response? To act like children. What was the phrase she used? Kids in a candy store? Teller wondered if it was more like rich kids in an exclusive club. They were the cool kids, not willing to share their toys. And so the world burned. Paris was in flames. The streets of Washington DC were barricaded off. Smoke still drifted on the breeze above New York. But they ignored all this, they ignored the protests from the rest of the world, because they were convinced they were sharing, when they were actually teasing everyone else.