The Asteroid

by M R Cates

  Vigola said, “Ms McAnn. Thank you for joining us. I know your sister will be glad you are here.”

  “Thank you,” Debbie said. “I suppose you haven't heard anything more?”

  “No, we haven't. Dr. Hughes, er, your sister has been inside the alien craft about five hours now.”

  “The green men must be very talkative,” Debbie suggested, with a wan smile.

  Madeleine Vigola, whose sense of humor was hard to extract, did crack a little smile. “I suppose so.”

  Debbie asked, “And she can't – Sandy can't – you know, get us any message at all?”

  “I'm afraid not. Her communication system is on the sailboat. It in fact appears to be intact. When she returns to the boat it should be possible to hear her.”

  “Why did you lose contact with her before? Debbie persisted, but without any tone of accusation.

  “Our experts' best guess,” the Chief of Staff said, seemingly having all the time in the word, “is that being near the craft exposed Sandra to the same disturbance that made the image so distorted.”

  “But,” Françoise put in, “would not the disruption of her transmission begin to be worse, you see, as she approached? It did not do so, cutting off very suddenly.”

  Vigola looked at the student for a couple of seconds. “Yes, a good point, Ms Marnier. I will make it to our Washington team. Possibly they did not have all the details needed for their assessment. But if you are correct, Ms Marnier, what would you think might be the source that disrupted Dr. Hughes' microphone?” As she spoke, Vigola indicated that the two should sit. There were several chairs available.

  Françoise mused a moment over the question as she sat. “There is the electromagnetic disturbance that still remains, and makes it important not to have metal, I suppose. Then there is the distortion of images, probably from forces lifting the fragment – the craft – to a position for Sandra to enter. And there is another effect, you see, one we do not understand. Here is my feeling. Could the aliens at that moment – when Sandra arrived – have said something to her? They could have used a kind of speaker – who knows what kind, of course – but it could have been ... well, disruptive, in some way.”

  Vigola considered the idea. “A big noisy speaker, like at a loud concert, covering everything else up? Hmm.”

  “Noisy, yes,” Françoise continued her thought. “A kind of speaker we do not understand, perhaps. But it was also not acoustic. Or not completely acoustic. Her microphone, you see, works from vibrations in the air. As you knew.”

  “I actually didn't know how it worked,” Vigola admitted. “But a flood of noise, however, if it hit her microphone, would drown out her voice.”

  “But it made no noise itself,” Françoise pointed out. “The microphone was quiet. Suddenly. It is very peculiar. I am thinking – considering things Sandra mentioned – that the aliens perhaps did not know they were cutting off her microphone. The light wavelength shift that caused the Morse Code transmitter to not work probably – if these ideas are correct – resulted from some distortions of the space-time field.”

  Vigola said, “That I certainly don't understand.”

  “There is no one, you see, who understands it, Ms Vigola. But suppose a shift – a sudden change – should occur in Sandra's microphone light – light coming from the ship at the end of the long fiber optic cable, to make it change color.”

  “Yes?”

  “The sudden change, coming perhaps from the beginning of talking by the aliens, might move the wavelength of the light very much, causing the detectors to not respond.”

  “I'll have our team in Washington consider that concept, Ms Marnier.”

  “Perhaps, you see, it is just foolish. But we can guess.”

  “Yes we can,” Vigola said. “And that's all we can do at this point.”

  Debbie asked, “Is there a place you would like us to be, Ms Vigola, while waiting for information?”

  “The next room there,” Vigola pointed to the door to her left, “is a lunch room, has a bathroom, and some comfortable seats. I would suggest there. It also has you very close should we hear something.”

  “Just so I understand,” Debbie continued. “The fiber optic cable is still okay, as far as we know?”

  “Yes,” said the Chief of Staff. “They sent some light down it to check.”

  “Ah,” Françoise said suddenly. “The signals now return?”

  “Yes.” Vigola still didn't quite understand the importance of the question.

  “When Sandra's voice was lost,” the French student explained, “the detectors read nothing, not a return signal. The detectors have a filter over them – one which is very difficult to remove, so I have heard – that blocks light that is not the right color, the same color as the source that sent it from the ship. So, you see, if the light went away completely or was only the wrong color, the answer would be the same. No signal. And we saw no signal.”

  Vigola nodded. “Again, I will ask, but it does seem plausible.

  “And perhaps have the filter removed from the difficult place,” Françoise suggested. “It can be arranged to place the filter where the fiber enters the detector, so it can be removed if such a problem comes once more.”

  “Yes, I'll check on that. Thank you, Ms Marnier.”

  At that moment there came a call from Jon Greenberg. His voice came from a small speaker on Vigola's desk.

  “Reporting in, Ms Vigola. No activity.”

  “Thanks, Jon,” she said. “Listen, Sandra's sister and Ms Marnier are with me.” She looked at the two sitting across from her. “Either of you want to ask anything of Jon?”

  Françoise said, a little louder than normal, “Perhaps, Jon, a technician can remove the filter, you see, from in front of the detector from Sandra's microphone. Then maybe find a location that will allow it to be removed easily in the future.”

  Greenberg, having remembered discussing the idea, replied, “So you think it's likely her signal came back wavelength shifted out of range of the detector?”

  “Yes, Jon. The cable itself now, you see, remains intact.”

  “Got you,” he said. “I'll be sure that gets done quickly.”

  “Thank you,” Françoise said, and leaned back a little, having nothing else to mention.

  Debbie spoke out, “I want to thank you – er, Mr. Greenberg, right – for ... well, Sandy – Sandra my sister – thanks for doing all you did.”

  “So you are Debbie, is that right?” asked Greenberg.

  “Debbie, yes.”

  “Dr. Hughes is ... well, you have to know she's pretty amazing.”

  Debbie looked at Françoise. “No doubt,” she said aloud. “But she'd tell you how stupid it was to say such a thing. She doesn't think of herself as amazing at all.”

  Vigola said, “She certainly is a practical-minded person.”

  “Didn't you think this might happen?” Debbie continued. “I mean, that she'd be away from communication and not be able to talk to anyone?”

  Vigola looked across at Debbie. “We had no way to ... to equip her with any communication device. The requirement of no metal was very severe. Your sister mentioned the idea of taking the fiber optic microphone with her if possible, but it apparently was not.”

  “You mean string the fibers right into the craft?”

  “Yes. But the microphone remains in place on the sailboat.”

  “Did she take anything with her?”

  “We believe she took the food and a small personal bag – from analysis of the telescope images.”

  “So she'll be able to eat anyway, while she listens to whatever they are saying.” Debbie's eyes looked pensive. The whole idea of what her sister must be doing was so alien it was hard to conceive of. Turning toward Françoise, Debbie asked, “Did Sandy ever talk about what she thought the aliens wanted?”

  “Oh yes,” the French student nodded. “She thinks that the aliens, you see, want to get information about us, about human beings.”


  “Why? Are we that interesting?”

  Françoise smiled. “Perhaps we are. But Sandra said that because they didn't drop big asteroids down on us – which they could do – and because they did not simply stay out in orbit, there must be a different reason to come.”

  Vigola said, “If we from Earth were to fly to some other planet, I suppose our most important interests would be learning about the aliens. Is that a universal trait, then?”

  “We discussed this many times,” Françoise said. “There is much time, you see, when you are watching telescope images at night. Sandra felt – feels – that curiosity is a kind of necessary characteristic of sentient life.”

  “Necessary?” Debbie asked.

  “Yes. To evolve from a simple to complex kind of intelligence means – how did she say it – at some point that you do not let nature, you see, control the evolving.”

  “Ah,” Vigola nodded. “Taking charge of our own evolution. As is often discussed these days, especially involving our use of genetic therapies in medicine and pre-natal planning.”

  “Yes,” Françoise said. “If intelligence will become very great, you see, it must be involved in making itself so. And curiosity about what might be possible is then necessary. Otherwise, we would become – what is it you say – complacent with ourselves.”

  “Interesting,” Vigola said. “So her working premise is that the aliens must be curious about us, or they wouldn't have come in the first place.”

  “Yes, almost,” Françoise nodded. “Unless, as we speculated might be so, they had to leave their home for some reason. Then they may still be curious, but for a ... you see, another reason. They could be looking for a new home.”

  “God, I hope not,” Debbie muttered. “We don't have room for them.”

  “But still,” Françoise added, “the aliens are apparently very intelligent. We believe they could not be so intelligent unless they were curious by nature.”

  “What,” Debbie asked, “if some other really smart race made these aliens? Maybe they are robots or something?”

  “Yes,” said the French woman. “This is certainly possible. But the original ones – those who made them, you see – would carry the curiosity. And would use the robots who are here, for example, to help satisfy their curiosity.”

  “So, the urge to learn something new,” Vigola suggested, “is a trait of sentience everywhere?”

  “Yes,” Françoise replied simply.

  “Well,” Debbie said, suddenly very earnest, “Sandy is about as curious as they get. She must be one of those smart ones.”

  Françoise turned to her. “Dr. Carl told me there is no one smarter.”

  Debbie suddenly lightened up. “But Sandy won't be passing on those smart genes. She's leaving that up to me. Sure hope I got some of them.”

  Madeleine Vigola, rather surprisingly, said, “I think it is clear, Ms McAnn, that you are a very gifted person as well.”

  “Maybe you can tell Sandy that when she gets back.”

  Debbie and Françoise both laughed.

  Chapter 41

  Six hours is long enough to be difficult for most people to have a good sense of when it has passed. You might estimate six hours and it turn out to be four, or eight, or accidentally, six. When it came to guessing passage of time, Sandra Hughes was like most people. Without a timepiece of any kind and with no access to the outside, any estimate of how long six hours was – much less ten minutes – was a wild guess at best. The truth of her isolation rose to the surface of Sandra's consciousness as she considered the concept of time. The aliens had suggested three days supply of food: she expected that meant they had set a kind of limit on the encounter. She hoped it meant that. Further, they had told her the specific length of time they needed for whatever other business they had. Did they think she would know accurately how long six hours was? Did they correlate the fact that people wore watches and had clocks – a fact they had to know from their observations – with the other fact that internal estimates of time were prone to great variation and could be influenced by countless factors? How could the aliens be that sophisticated? But then how could they learn grammatically perfect English and make it come out of the air around her? Oh, maybe they didn't really care whether she knew what six hours was without a watch. They knew, and that was all that mattered. Or she guessed they knew. She certainly hoped they didn't forget and mix up years with hours. With a swallow of resolution, the astronomer forced herself not to think about her virtual imprisonment in a chamber she had no inkling of an idea of how to get out of. Damn this situation, she thought. They know a lot about me and I'm having to infer what little I might think I know about them!

  And what could they possibly need six hours for? That was very curious to Sandra. Surely they had been anticipating this meeting. This human shows up, they show her inside, then say, oh by the way, I'm going to be busy for six hours. Will check back with you, okay? Sandra was sitting on her bedroll as she considered this, turned so she could see the “funny” reflection of herself only a foot away. The lack of a mirror-flat surface imposed myriads of little changes in her reflection, making her a little different in image than she was in life. A different person. That metaphor hit her. All of us, human or alien, she mused, present an image to others that is different, at least in detail, from our reality. In fact, our vision of ourselves is something like looking at our own image. We don't know ourselves very well, either, and often feel like we're on the outside looking in at our own feelings, ideas, and the like. But then, can it be that our image is just as real as our so-called reality? Because, she figured, reality is in the eye, or brain, of the beholder. If a person is interesting or attractive to you, then, regardless of any objective standard agreed on for interest or attractiveness, that person is attractive. To you. She or he may be generally considered – as Jason would say – “a real dog,” but that is a different kind of real. Your reality is every bit as valid as any other determination.

  What the aliens thought of her, Sandra knew, was what mattered. At least, with respect to what actions the aliens might take. At the same time, she knew that presenting herself as anything different from her normal self would be hard – for her – to pull off. Yes, there were people who could act almost any part, and make it seem like their true personality. She couldn't. Did the aliens sense this about her? She doubted it. Again it was a level of sophistication that only a rare, insightful human could pick up, and then after some experience with the personality involved. Could the aliens possibly understand the idea of pretending, or playing like you had traits you didn't have? Maybe, or maybe not. Couldn't assume they didn't. And who in fact did they think she was speaking for, or representing? Did the aliens think of her as representative of humanity in general? How could they? Their observation of Earth had to make it clear that there are many kinds of human beings. But would their observations really produce that conclusion? The alien factor was hard to quantify. She, Sandra, was an alien. So radically different from them – perhaps – that variations among her kind might be totally invisible. Like identifying a particular ant in a hill of ants by observing the motions and actions of the teeming mass of insects. Damn, are we like insects to them? No, she doubted it. Somehow Sandra felt that the aliens were – by some definition – fascinated by humanity. But if so, why? And if so, what did their fascination consist of? They could be fascinated by almost anything imaginable, even how humans might taste! The possibility made her shudder.

  Sandra got up, went and used the facility that had been provided for her. It actually worked. The toilet without a flushing mechanism turned out to have an automatic water flow that triggered when anything disturbed it. Clever, she thought. They had to know something about human plumbing to come up with that. And speaking of plumbing, she guessed, too, that they knew something about human sexuality. Can't understand humans very well at all without knowing something about sex. Did they know she was female? They had to. Did they know what being a female m
eant, in the sociological sense? Maybe. At some level. All those “I Love Lucy Episodes” had to carry a lot of sexuality information. What was an alien's sex life like? She paused in her thoughts. What are these aliens, anyway?

  Coming back into the main chamber, the astronomer realized she was tired. And well, it was also night, she knew. The adrenalin rush that had kept her going was fading. Thinking about sex life, how could the aliens know they had chosen a human representative that was more like a nun than an average woman? Yes, a nun. Not a Catholic nun, a Scientist nun. No, the sex aspect couldn't be important to them. Very unlikely. Otherwise, why wouldn't they want to talk to both a man and a woman? Don't be so sure, she thought. We really can't know what they want. I have to be prepared for anything whatsoever. Again she shuddered.

  The most nagging of all her thoughts was the speculation as to why she, of all people, had been chosen to meet. There were some logical reasons, she recognized. They had found out where the first observations of the asteroid came from, identified her with those observations, and – maybe for lack of any better ideas – singled her out. Yes, maybe. Or maybe in part. What was really clear to her was the aliens' minimal interest in any human being in political power. Surely they knew about human political systems. Surely they knew that certain groups of oligarchs controlled a lot of life on Earth. Surely they knew, too, that most of society, political and otherwise, revolved around the decisions that males of the species made. Well, they would know that if they understood something about sexuality, but maybe they didn't. Maybe the idea was so foreign to them that it didn't register. But how could they not know that she, Sandra Hughes, was far down on the totem pole of human authority? Yet here she was. There was no way, she figured, that the aliens could possibly know anything in detail about her personality. Yes, they could see her on TV – that must have been where they learned her name and face – but what could they know about her anyway? And any astronomer in the whole goddamned world could have been the first one to see them! Her only meaningful conclusion was that they'd chosen her arbitrarily, and probably on the basis she'd already considered.