The Embedding

FIVE

Zwingler sat on the edge of sole’s desk, back to the blank video screen.

“I still find this kind of embarrassing,” the American said after a long silence spent staring at Sole’s feet as though finding something wrong with them. “Fact is, the radio dish run by the Navy down in New Mexico has been picking up some strange traffic lately.”

Sole nodded impatiently—queer enough traffic on hi$ video screen, when his itching fingers could get to turn it on.

“This dish is big, understand—just a shade under three times the size of your own Jodrell Bank. The idea’s… well, to eavesdrop on Russian and Chinese domestic traffic as they’re reflected back from the Moon. Not much signal reflects back, of course, around the order of a billion billionth of a watt if I remember right—still, that’s way over the background noise, so we can use it. When the Moon isn’t up above the horizon, the dish gets used for more routine radio-astronomy projects. A while ago, as it was tracking across the sky it picked up this… well, strange traffic. Strange traffic coming from that part of the sky I should say! The Stone Scissors Paper show of a few months ago, playing backwards.”

“That’s the TV nude auction thing?”

The Victorian passion for naked harems and slave markets found its outlet in stagey ‘masterpieces’ adorning grimy municipal galleries. The Stone Scissors Paper game performed the same sublimatory role for the Media Age with far less ambiguity.

“Right? You know the game—stick out your fist, fingers, or flat of your hand—stone blunts scissors, scissors cuts paper—every time you lose it costs you a piece of clothing, which the studio audience gets to bid for, till the loser has nothing else left, and then…”

“We don’t get to see it over here,” said Sam, a shade regretfully. “Government banned it after Lightpeople protests. Not that I saw much harm in it personally, psychologically speaking you need some sort of safety valve in today’s society… liberates tensions.”

Sole found himself laughing—a hacking kind of sound came out of him like a bout of whooping cough ending on a high-pitched whistle.

“The Great Masturbation Show—our first cultural export!”

Zwingler jerked his hand angrily in the direction of the dark skylight.

“Damn it, Man, from space!”

“Like a used condom washed up on the celestial shore—” tears in Sole’s eyes.

The rubies glared at him chastely.

“It isn’t funny. The show was played over and over again, backwards. By this time of course the dish was locked on to that point in the sky—away from the galactic plane where there’s less background noise or we wouldn’t have picked up anything. You realize it wasn’t an echo effect—the show had gone out months earlier. The thing was being deliberately retransmitted. And backwards just to rub in the point.”

“Sort of electronic buggery, eh?”

“Naturally we checked there were no bugs in the circuits. The SSP Show was exchanged for some baseball game after a few hours—”

“Backwards too?” enquired Sole, for whom this whole confidential briefing was taking on the dimensions of a grotesque farce. Surely it was all a big hoax. Remember the Orson Welles ‘War of the Worlds’ hoax broadcast and the panic that ensued—this must be something along the same lines, only designed by post-Wellesian McLuhanite man as a spoof on his own TV civilization.

“Right. Let me tell you that looked even crazier—at least you could pretend the other folks were putting their clothes on, ‘stead of stripping them off. But the most important difference was this baseball match went out later than the SSP Show by exactly a week and it was followed in turn by a newsreel from a week later still. We decided it was a cute way of tipping us off when they’re getting here.”

“You’re sure it’s a Them’?”

“That’s the problem. Them—or It—could be a robot probe presumably.”

“It’s nothing that you or the Russians have sent out that way? What about the Jupiter Orbiter? The Russian Saturn probe?”

“Wrong direction. Give us some credit, will you. Deep Space Instrumentation Facility monitors every bit of telemetry. Air Force radar keeps an eye on every last bit of tin trash in orbit. We know where everything is, whatever flag it’s flying. This thing isn’t flying any flag.”

“Just flying the nude auction show? What a joke. The stars look down—as voyeurs.”

“Could just be the stars,” Zwingler agreed primly. “Don’t see what else it could be. Frankly.”

“But it’s got to be a robot, Tom!” How desperately Sam sounded like he wanted to believe this version of the facts—cock of his own dunghill here at Haddon how smartly he put himself in the place of humanity, long-time cock of its. “No sane race would squander the time and resources to survey even a fraction of the stars by going there in person, on the off-chance.”

“We’re putting out as much radio traffic today as a fair-sized star so how long do you think it is since the signal strength became noticeable out there? Maybe they heard—and came to see?”

“No, Tom—that would put them within a couple of dozen light years of us, unless they know how to travel faster than light, which is a physical impossibility. It’s just not probable, another civilization so close to us. It’s got to be a robot. Maybe one out of hundreds or thousands sent out goodness knows how long ago. The thing could have been travelling for centuries before it picked up our signals. The fact that it only echoes our own broadcasts instead of sending one of its own proves it’s a drone.”

“Of course,” Sole pointed out, “they’d have no reason to expect you to be looking out for any signals from that particular direction with the sort of sophisticated radio-dish you mention—unless you acknowledged their rebroadcasts. Have you done that—or is everyone sitting on their hands in panic?”

Zwingler nodded.

“In fact we have—we sent a 1271 bit test-panel. But no response—just our own programmes being played back at us, backwards.”

Now that he’d partially absorbed it, the news exhilarated Sole rather than scared him. It seemed to absolve him from his petty worries about Pierre and Eileen and his guilt in the face of Dorothy. His experiments with the children took on a purer, clearer complexion, the sort of exhilarated mood he imagined the realization of the ‘Death of God’ had filled Nietzsche with. Anything was possible in the world where God was dead; likewise with a world about to be visited from the Stars. Then he realized he was using the news as an anaesthetic—and the pain returned.

“How soon is this thing getting here?” fretted Sam.

Zwingler shook his head sadly.

“At the current rate of deceleration—extrapolating from the broadcasts—we reckon on it being in the vicinity of the Moon in five days’ time.”

Sam looked heartsick and Zwingler visibly sympathetic. The rubies circulated consolingly.

“It’s been decided not to release the news.”

“But that’s ridiculous. How do you propose to make that stick? And for God’s sake why?”

“It’s too dangerous to release news of this calibre, Chris, Carl Gustav Jung predicted that the reins might be torn from our hands—metaphorically speaking. We’d be bereft of our dreams as a species—it could kick the legs right out from under us.”

“Or give us a timely kick in the pants?”

“False optimism, Chris. We’re going out to collect it—meet it—whatever. If it’s a robot drone, humanity needn’t be traumatized—not yet awhile, till we’ve got people prepared—maybe not for another hundred years. Naturally the Russians were bound to find out sooner or later so we took them into our confidence. They see our point about discretion, and providing there’s a quid pro quo about information sharing they’ll play along with us. A Russian scientist will be travelling out with our crew to intercept—”

“When?”

“They’re leaving tomorrow night from the Cape. But in case it isn’t a robot—” “It’s got to be, Tom! Be reasonable. The statistical chances.” “In case it isn’t, like I say, is why I’m here.”

Sam nodded sagely—wanting things both ways—for the safety of Mankind, and the greater glory of Haddon.

“We’d like someone from here over in the States in a consultative capacity—”

Concentrating his attention on the blank screen behind Zwingler’s back, Sole thought of Vidya wrenching at the innermost embedded doll.

“Well, Chris?”

So why had Vidya done it?

“Provided you realize there might be nothing in it for you—if this thing turns out to be a robot—and let’s hope to hell it is, in my humble opinion!”

“Why me?” murmured Sole. “I can’t just walk out on the children on the spur of the moment…”

“Chris, come on Chris—think! This is the Big Thing of all time, maybe. Whatever it is, it’s really big. Don’t you want to be involved?”

“Rather a schizophrenic attitude to this thing you’ve got,” Sole temporized (conscious too of this aspect in himself… damn Pierre and his untimely letter!). “You want it and you don’t want it. It’s the Big Thing and the Worst Thing That Can Happen—”

“Of course you can leave Haddon temporarily, Chris, you might be involved in a car smash or something. We’d have to find a stand-in then.”

“Thanks a lot, Sam.”

“What I mean is, Lionel can look after your kids while you’re in the States. You have to go as our representative, Chris—keep the flag flying.”

“May I put it this way?” Zwingler smiled. “Practical alien linguistics could be pretty essential soon.”

“Unless it’s a robot.”

“Well, we still get our old broadcasts back—when I left the States they were sending some vampire movie…

“Maybe our aliens have got a sense of humour—”

Zwingler shook his head.

“Doubt it. They wouldn’t understand the cultural context. Baseball, striptease, vampires—it would all be the same to them. Incidentally, how fit are you?” “Fit?”

“It might involve you being sent into space via the Shuttle, who knows?” Ruby moons ascended, blasted off.

“Pretty big carrot, Chris—get any lazy donkey on the move.”

“Equally there may be nothing in it.”

Behind the American’s back, the blank video screen clamoured for Sole’s attention, Vidya twisting the tiniest doll on tape, inexplicably. Overhead, the neon-framed skylight black with space…

And very high overhead, way out beyond the Moon’s orbit, something—a seed of the stars—returning the electromagnetic refuse of Earth back to Earth, the Coke bottles and condoms of TV culture, the Nude Auction Show, a Vampire movie screened in the wee hours when only muggers and addicts prowl the deserted streets; a sound sweep sweeping down the star lanes, decelerating as it comes…