by David Brin
“As I feared,” I muttered. “We’re in trouble.”
Senator Green shook his head. “Now you say that? Or do you mean things are even worse than we thought? How do you conclude –”
“Never mind that!” the White House Guy growled. “We want to discuss the third answer.”
“Third answer?”
“The next one. Where the alien offers a few sentences about their space drive. That’s the important one. Our physicists are all in a lather over what it says about vacuum energy and neutralizing inertia. A hundred theories are spouting all over the place, with no idea how to sort them out!”
I shrugged. “Well? What did you expect, detailed blueprints? A few sentences were all I had earned.”
A murmur of disgust greeted the word. Earned. Yet they clearly felt torn, these men and women who were charged with finding a solution to humanity’s worst crisis. I sympathized. But only to a point.
“If you want more hints – maybe even blueprints – I’m sure one Martian or another will sell them to you.”
“Sell them... you mean like the way you bought these answers? Never!”
I felt too fatigued even to shrug again. “If you won’t, then somebody else will, now that there’s a more convenient way to do business with them. Frankly, I think we’ll get a better deal if we do it carefully, in small stages, keeping the price high. Play them off each other...”
“You’re talking about selling these invaders the lives of human beings!” shouted the general.
“In exchange for knowledge we desperately need. Yes. To race through a quarter billion years of catch-up. Call it a reconnaissance with moderate expected losses, General.”
“Why, I never heard anything so monstrously –”
“Pragmatic?” With a sigh, I straightened, pulling my shoulders back. I had to try to get through to these people. If only in order to persuade them to send me a dentist.
“Senator, ladies, gentlemen, we need to ponder our own past. Especially when European sailors and settlers arrived in Africa, Oceania, the Americas. Few native peoples came through first or second contact very well. Many perished. And our differences then were nothing compared with the gaping chasm that separates us from extraterrestrials.
“Who managed best, among our ancestors facing those European strangers? Everyone suffered, but a few did better than average. The Japanese and Thais kept their independence and strove at great cost to catch up. The Cherokee and Iroquois carefully studied white newcomers, learning and borrowing whatever seemed to make sense.
“And yet, in our movies, books and modern myths, it is always the most obstinate tribes who are portrayed as noble, admirable, clinging to every aspect of their old ways, defying the clear need for flexibility, for adaptation. If we follow their example – proudly sticking by our own standards and customs, no matter what – we may nobly follow those tribes into extinction.”
Amid the glowering faces, one woman – an anthropology professor I had met years ago at a conference – spoke in a voice deep with gloom.
“Many of us already reached that conclusion. The debate now is whether it will be better to go extinct, than do as you recommend. What good is surviving, if we pay with our souls?”
I nodded. “Our ancestors must have had similar conversations, in hogans and wigwams, in countless huts and palaces, from Lapland to Australia. It’s an old story. Western civilization was luckier than most. But our luck has run out.
“I’m just glad it’s not my decision. You leaders – and others like you – will make the call. I’ve simply laid out the choice, stark and bare.”
“That you’ve done, sir. Ruthlessly.”
“Judge me later,” I snapped. “When you know all the facts. It’s humanity that matters now. Not individuals, or nations.
“Anyway, do you honestly think you can protect the people on that list? Say you do finally succeed at killing one of these creatures. Won’t that bring more Martians, seeking countless more human lives to atone? Ask Native Americans how well that math added up.”
The glum spell that followed was punctuated by a sound I made sucking at one of my broken teeth. I couldn’t help it, really, though it seemed disrespectful. In fact, part of me felt glad that these people were so unlike the pitiless clichéd authority figures of cinema. Instead, they seemed motivated by the highest values. Human values.
In my own way...
Senator Green spoke again.
“You don’t seem curious about the answer to your third question.”
“Should I be? A technical issue. Thrown in to interest scientists, the military. To show the Martians are so far ahead, they’ll casually trade information we find precious. Like the Dutch, buying Manhattan Island for beads. It may take a great many such answers before we begin to know how little we know.”
“Hm. And you’ve set it up so that now the aliens can trade information with treacherous humans via the internet.”
“As if someone else wouldn’t have done so, within hours. Even if you shut down the Net, that won’t matter. They’ve learned not to offer baubles anymore. Nobody will sell out a neighbor for nuggets and gems that can be seized by police or vigilantes. But how about a new industrial process? Insight to disease? An advanced machine or weapon? I’ve shown that information can be swapped without personal contact, using some personal code words.
“Soon, others will catch on. How to get a few sentences of useful data from creatures who are eons ahead of us. You can’t hide four million people from that kind of temptation. And now that the list is growing longer –”
“Longer,” the general mused. “They add names of those who try to thwart them. Those who help the four million. Is that why you advised us to remove all badges –”
“It’s worse, general. Much worse than that. Haven’t you wondered why they came after just people on that Mars Exploration Rover list?”
Committee members looked at each other before turning back to glare at me. But I only felt the frozen presence on the big screen. Tall, enigmatic, impervious and almost perfect. Optimized so very long ago that its kind craved the warmth of no hearth, nor even atmosphere. So perfect that it made its own food, living in almost pure autonomy, scarcely needing any other.
How jealous I felt.
“What do you mean, worse?” the anthropologist finally asked.
“I mean that they seem not to comprehend how interdependent, cooperative and gregarious humans really are. We’re individually so weak, so soft and frail, that we evolved these tendencies. We aggregate into large groups as a natural part of being what we are. Who we are.”
“So?”
“So, the notion of permanent associations – including nations and states – may be the most alien thing about us, from their Martian point of view. They do know we’re ‘disgustingly’ cooperative. When they examined the MER probe and found four million names, they naturally assumed that it was sent by a great big temporary consortium composed of those who signed the spacecraft –”
“You mean that’s why –”
“– so that’s who they’ve come to kill.”
“So it’s all a mistake! What if we explain these are innocent people. Space fans. Sci fi readers. They aren’t responsible!”
“Then who is responsible, Professor? Who sent Spirit? Who sent Opportunity, and caused the death of fifty demigods?”
“Why, NASA did.”
“With funds provided by – and representing –”
“Representing? Why, the people of the United States of Am....” Her voice trailed off.
This time, the silence stretched on and on. Finally, I turned away. Accompanied by two guards, I retraced my steps, back to the jail cell and my thoughts.
ᚖ
I won’t stay here, of course. They can’t hold me.
Things are moving fast and decisions will be made.
Perhaps they’ll be pragmatic, as the Japanese were during the Meiji era, doing whatever it took to catch up with the W
est as quickly, systematically, and cold-bloodedly as possible. The logic is impeccable, after all. If those on the MER List are doomed anyway, perhaps we can get a best possible deal by doling them out to the aliens slowly, one by one, in exchange for information.
Buying lessons that we need to survive.
Or maybe our leaders will embrace the other course – one praised in legend and film. The noble path taken by so many of our ancestors when they faced similar choices – to go down fighting. Defending our customs and ways. Our fellow citizens. The innocent. Whatever the cost.
There are good arguments for choosing either course. Though judging from those people in the Committee Chamber, I’ll bet on nobility winning over pragmatism.
How ironic that movies nearly always depict generals and statesmen as cold-blooded. Viciously practical. Perfect villains. But everyone in that room had been raised by the same films and legends. Underneath our modern-cynical gloss, most of us are romantics. Generous. Courageous. Capable of great sacrifice for other members of the tribe.
I admire it. Of course. I’m built the same way.
My sacrifice was to disagree. To make sure the other option was available. Maybe they’ll realize it soon.
Anyway. I’m glad it’s not my call.
ᚖ
Ponder, what question would be worth a life to get answered? Would a Martian answer this one?
“If there are other intelligences than our two races, how might I make contact with the next closest race of imperfect beings that might actually become friendly to humans and help us?”
ᚖ
Oh, the Martians aren’t stupid. They operate under different assumptions, true. But soon – especially if we fight – they’ll start to grasp how revoltingly gregarious humans really are. They’ll figure out that ‘laws’ and ‘nations’ aren’t just words that stand for temporary group-contracts, but powerful chains of obligation. Bonds that penetrate our tissue, bone and sinew.
Nor will it stop at the American border. Twenty nations contributed instruments to MER. And when you get down to sub-components...
Will any of us survive, once they realize that all of us are responsible?
As dark night settles through the narrow window of my cell, I squint at shadows, trying for analogies – the straws that a human mind clutches, when trying to fathom the strange. These Martians are like bears, I figure. Powerful, autonomous... needing little from each other or the environment... coming together only for special transactions, like mating. Ultimate libertarians. Damn.
From their perspective we’re like ants, almost hive beings. An unpleasant image for one like me, raised to treasure individuality.
I envy and pity them. No perfect Martian will ever face the conflicts that roil me now. The regrets. Or the poignant satisfaction, knowing I’ll be forgiven.
Somebody had to do what I did. Be the required Judas. Offer a second option, whether or not it’s chosen. The bitter, pragmatic way.
It could only be someone with a number like mine – one hundred and twelve on the list.
ᚖ
Awaiting my turn, I keep hoping one thing.
Get a good price for me.
No handful of beads. Make it something exciting, useful and interesting, like so many of us yearned to see from the space program. The reason we pooled so much human talent and enthusiasm, reaching for those lights that our imperfect eyes and caveman brains could barely make out, twinkling overhead.
If my death – and several million more – will bring us closer to the stars, well okay. I don’t lament signing my name to a roll call of dreamers.
When our human descendants get ‘optimized’, will we turn our backs to the sky, as the Martians have? No way. We won’t abandon curiosity. Or each other.
I hope.
Can’t rest or sleep. I keep looking up, each time there’s a noise beyond the dark window. Waiting for my own monster to come in its patient way, with the appearance – and godlike persistence – of some ageless, avenging angel. Come to spread its dark wings over me and collect my small value in vengeance, before moving on.
No battle this time. They won’t try hard to save me – the soldiers, scientists and politicians charged with protecting humanity’s future. Whichever course they choose – pragmatism or noble resistance – few will mourn my turn, I guess.
No matter.
Just get a good price for me.
Make it something cool.
Story Notes
This creepy “campfire story” was begun the very night that Mars passed closest to Earth in 50,000 years – during the October 2003 ‘planetary opposition.’ It is too late to remove names or add them to MER. But this author invites you, if you dare, to join him in signing on to have your names enrolled aboard the next space probe. Take part by joining The Planetary Society at http://planetary.org
Next comes a little what-if tale about history and destiny. A contemplative piece that ponders whether (or not) a single individual can make a real difference.
A Professor at Harvard
ᚖ
Dear Lilly,
This transcription may be a bit rough. I’m dashing it off quickly for reasons that should soon be obvious.
Exciting news! Still, let me ask that you please don’t speak of this, or let it leak till I’ve had a chance to put my findings in a more academic format.
Since May of 2015, I’ve been engaged to catalogue the Thomas Kuiper Collection, which Harvard acquired in that notorious bidding war a couple of years ago, on eBay. The acclaimed astronomer-philosopher had been amassing trunkloads of documents from the late Sixteenth and early Seventeenth Centuries – individually and in batches – with no apparent pattern, rhyme or reason. Accounts of the Dutch Revolution. Letters from Johannes Kepler. Sailing manifests of ports in southern England. Ledgers and correspondence from the Italian Inquisition. Early documents of Massachusetts Bay Colony and narratives about the establishment of Harvard College.
The last category was what most interested the trustees, so I got to work separating them from the apparent clutter. That is, it seemed clutter, an unrelated jumble... till intriguing patterns began to emerge.
Let me trace the story as was revealed to me, in bits and pieces. It begins with the apprenticeship of a young English boy named Henry Stephens.
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Henry was born to a family of petit-gentry farmers in Kent, during the year 1595. According to parish records, his birth merited noting as mirabilis – he was premature and should have died of the typhus that claimed his mother. But somehow the infant survived.
He arrived during a time of turmoil. Parliament had passed a law that anyone who questioned the Queen’s religious supremacy, or persistently absented himself from Anglican services, should be imprisoned or banished from the country, never to return on pain of death. Henry’s father was a leader among the “puritan” dissenters in one of England’s least tolerant counties. Hence, the family was soon hurrying off to exile, departing by ship for the Dutch city of Leiden.
Leiden, you’ll recall, was already renowned for its brave resistance to the Spanish army of Philip II. As a reward, Prince William of Orange and the Dutch parliament gave the city a choice: freedom from taxes for a hundred years, or the right to establish a university. Leiden chose a university.
Here the Stephens family joined a growing expatriate community – English dissenters, French Huguenots, Jews and others thronging into the cities of Middelburg, Leiden, and Amsterdam. Under the Union of Utrecht, Holland was the first nation to explicitly respect individual political and religious liberty and to recognize the sovereignty of the people, rather than the monarch. (Both the American and French Revolutions specifically referred to this precedent).
Henry was apparently a bright young fellow. Not only did he adjust quickly – growing up multilingual in English, Dutch and Latin – but he showed an early flair for practical arts like smithing and surveying.
The latter profession grew especially prominent
as the Dutch transformed their landscape, sculpting it with dikes and levees, claiming vast acreage from the sea. Overcoming resistance from his traditionalist father, Henry managed to get himself apprenticed to the greatest surveyor of the time, Willebrord Snel van Leeuwen – or Snellius. In that position, Henry would have been involved in a geodetic mapping of Holland – the first great project using triangulation to establish firm lines of location and orientation – applying methods still in use today.
While working for Snellius, Henry apparently audited some courses offered by Willebrord’s father – Professor Rudolphus Snellius – at the University of Leiden. Rudolphus lectured on “Planetarum Theorica et Euclidis Elementa” and evidently was a follower of Copernicus. Meanwhile the son – also authorized to teach astronomy – specialized in the Almagest of Ptolemeus!
The Kuiper Collection contains a lovely little notebook, written in a fine hand – though in rather vulgar Latin – wherein Henry Stephens describes the ongoing intellectual dispute between those two famous Dutch scholars, Snellius elder and younger. Witnessing this intellectual tussle first-hand must have been a treat for Henry, who would have known how few opportunities there were for open discourse in the world beyond Leiden.
ᚖ
But things were just getting interesting. For at the very same moment that a teenage apprentice was tracking amiable family quarrels over heliocentric versus geocentric astronomies, some nearby Dutchman was busy crafting the world’s first telescope.
The actual inventor is unknown – secrecy was a bad habit practiced by many innovators of that time. Till now, the earliest mention was in September 1608, when a man ‘from the low countries’ offered a telescope for sale at the annual Frankfurt fair. It had a convex and a concave lens, offering a magnification of seven. So I felt a rising sense of interest when I read Henry’s excited account of the news, dated six months earlier (!) offering some clues that scholars may find worth pursuing.
Later though. Not today. For you see, I left that trail just as soon as another grew apparent. One far more exciting.
