“I hope to hear from you soon. With best regards, Alain Petit.”
He checked the message. Maybe it was better to fly to Hawaii straight away? That was crazy, his wife would have been right about that. He inserted names and addresses and sent the messages off one after the other. Then he stood up, donned a light jacket, and set out on his evening walk.
April 3, 2074, Maui
Heather closed the metal door behind her. Sunlight overwhelmed her to the point of teary eyes. She held her hand up to her brow. She had forgotten her cap in the car once again, but she couldn’t be bothered to walk back to the parking lot for it. The plastic bag in her hand began to collect condensation after coming out of the refrigerator. Her daughter had prepared a sandwich, wrapped in a paper napkin. That would serve as lunch. She was going to look through the thesis of her postgraduate student, Tetsu. He clearly hadn’t pulled it together yet. She had been poring over his work for three hours and desperately needed a break. There was an air-conditioned common room over at the Pan-STARRS but she wouldn’t go there unless it rained.
Her preferred spot was on the wall in front of the DKIST, with the view out to the north. She crossed the narrow tarmac, scaled the demarcation that felt so primitive compared to the high tech behind her, and let her legs dangle. The breathtaking view never failed to relax her. The sweeping, volcanic landscape in shades of gray and brown had an alien touch, like a landscape on Mars or Mercury, perhaps. Small and large lava blocks were scattered over the hillside, just as the shield volcano Haleakalā had dropped them. In the distance the ocean sometimes shimmered, forming a deep blue backdrop. Today the sea of clouds was close. White and gray fleecy clouds stretched out to the horizon. A fresh wind carried the salty scent of the sea. From 3,000 meters altitude, it seemed like the world was a peaceful place.
She unpacked the sandwich. It was her favorite, lots of European cheese. Her daughter, a vegan, would be disgusted. She was deeply grateful that her daughter had prepared the sandwich anyway. The events two years ago had really turned their lives upside down, but slowly things had been calming down. If it hadn’t been for that black hole out of nowhere she would have been on the successor of the DKIST for some time already, but priorities had been radically changed. At least that near-catastrophic event had produced the nice result of returning her daughter from the distant mainland to the island where she had been born.
The wind freshened up and she shivered. She had worn nothing over her T-shirt and was without sun protection so she couldn’t stay around for long. She was good for a few more minutes though. The clouds showed some movement. Maybe a thunderstorm somewhere down below. Suddenly steps came up from behind and to her right. She tried to guess who it might be. It was two people neatly in sync. That could only be—she turned and yes, it was Steve and José hand in hand walking toward her. The two young men had been an official couple for several years now and still acted as though they had just fallen in love. Heather was a bit envious, although she couldn’t stand Steve at all. She hadn’t yet formed an opinion on José.
“Hi Heather, how’s it going?” asked Steve.
“Good, thanks, and how about you?”
She kept her demeanor professional, hoping they would move along.
“We’re doing great, right José?”
Steve looked at José and cracked a wide smile.
“Yeah, I think so,” replied José.
“Can we sit down for a bit?” asked Steve. No more solitude. “The weather is so refreshing right now,” he added.
“Sure—the wall isn’t mine,” answered Heather.
“Thanks, that’s so kind of you!”
Steve and José sat down. Now they were three, looking out to the north. Conversation died and Heather was glad for that.
“Did you also get that email?” asked Steve after a while. Heather wasn’t sure whether five minutes or fifteen had passed. The skin on her arm felt warm, so it was probably more like fifteen. Where was her head? She needed to get back into the shade. She burned easily, a legacy of her Irish ancestors.
“What email?” she asked back.
“Some Frenchman. Maurice Petit or something like that. He emailed José and me separately. Probably thought it would improve his chances.”
“I didn’t have a chance to check my mail yet. What does he want?”
“He thinks he discovered some lines on the sun. And that we should help him confirm his discovery.”
Heather sighed. Such messages were frequent. People who proved Einstein wrong somewhere and asked her to verify the proof. These people seemed to be writing to thousands of scientists and stealing their time.
“And how does he expect you to help?”
“He’d like access to the original imagery from the last solar probe.”
“Well, at least you won’t need to debunk some alternative quantum theory.”
Steve laughed. “Anyway,” he said, “my time is too precious for something like that. Our time.” He caressed the knee of his friend. The gesture did not appear tender, it bordered on the possessive.
Heather was reminded why she did not like Steve. She stood up. “I am getting pretty red, guys,” she said, pointing to her arm. “See you around.”
“See you later,” replied Steve.
Hopefully not, thought Heather. An electric car honked at her as she crossed the road.
“Sorry!” she called out. Those things were so quiet, she thought, so hard to notice. She continued across the road and disappeared into the lab of the solar telescope.
It was even colder in the lab than it was outside. Tetsuyo had turned up the air conditioning yet again, and he wasn’t even in the lab. She looked at the clock. Her scope time didn’t start for another half hour. She’d relieve her colleague then. She switched off the air conditioning and opened the door, hoping for some warmer air.
Then Heather sat down at her desk. She shifted the picture of her daughter Mariela back to its spot while the computer started up. The janitor had probably moved it. Next to Mariela was an older man, Heather’s ex. He had disappeared two years ago without a word and never contacted her again. Heather had sworn to never look for him.
She had 53 new messages waiting, the perfect way to pass the time until her shift on the sun scope came up. Half of them came from a worldwide mailing list for solar physicists and astronomers. A couple of spams, too, of course. How long, and still humanity hasn’t been able to solve that problem? Heather remembered her grandfather nattering about this pest back in the 2030s. But even quantum cryptography didn’t stop her from getting promotions for breast enlargements. Or the one from a British widow whose husband died in a ‘72 explosion, soliciting help in managing her 7-figure inheritance.
Heather looked down at herself. She was quite comfortable with her breasts. Hips and belly were a different matter. And her bank account would do much better with a million or two more in it.
Then she saw the message that Steve had mentioned. The man was named Alain, not Maurice. His message was very nice, but he clearly was an amateur. She deleted the message and promptly had second thoughts. Shouldn’t she be glad that amateurs were interested in their work? Steve was right though—such correspondence could turn into a real drag. Active amateurs especially—the ones who were so convinced of themselves that they wouldn’t be stopped by evidence to the contrary. She had experienced such a case herself. That man had even taken to calling her at home.
Maurice Petit—she corrected that thought. Alain Petit didn’t seem to be that single-minded. She undeleted the message. It conveyed true interest. She looked up his name. He seemed to have lots of time, helping out with projects that made use of amateurs. He even had the top rank in the sunspot project. She pictured him as a spotty 17-year-old with thick glasses. But maybe she was wrong. His style was pretty mature despite not writing in his first language.
The project lead of the Citizen Science Project had considered his findings irrelevant. Perseverance was considered to be an im
portant asset for every scientist. Shouldn’t she be rewarding him for that? She hesitated. Then she remembered Steve’s haughty remarks. That was why she needed to respond to this Frenchman. She reminded herself not to enter any discussions and just send out the files he had requested. That would not take too long. She entered her credentials on the database, loaded the images, and forwarded them to Alain Petit in several messages.
“Your turn now,” said Tetsuyo. Her colleague closed the door and went straight to the air conditioner. “It’s warm in here, isn’t it?” He turned the dial all the way to the left. A cold stream of air hit Heather’s forehead. Time to get out!
“Okay, I’m heading to the scope. See you tomorrow,” she said as she got up and left the room through the door that Tetsuyo had just come through.
April 4, 2074, Paris
It had worked! He had the files, in duplicate! Alain rubbed his hands in anticipation. A kind astronomer had responded. Heather Marshall. And shortly after her mail came a second one from someone named José Marino. Both wished him good luck with his work and asked him to kindly refrain from further discussion. That was perfect for Alain. He expected the scientists got lots of emails from crazy people who just wasted their time.
He quickly retrieved the attachments. Opening the files was another matter, though. All his apps refused the files. He should have thought of that. The probe cameras obviously had a special file format. Now he was unable to use the original files. Should he ask the two kind astronomers for a pointer? Probably not. He might have more specific questions later. This problem was his own to solve.
He was an engineer, after all. While he had spent his life treating sewage, the basic engineering work process was applicable everywhere. So what was the problem? He had some original files in an unknown format. And he had photos derived from those files. So he was looking for the process that turned the originals into photos. That was a well-defined problem for which there could only be a single solution—very reassuring. He started searching for image-processing algorithms but quickly noticed that the math was too complex for him. He would not be able to find the solution himself. But if someone provided the solution he would be able to verify it by comparison with the photos he already had in hand.
Problem-solving experts abounded on the net. He checked relevant marketplaces and registered on the biggest one. Quickly he typed up his problem and deposited the money he was ready to offer for the solution. He felt generous and invested half his monthly pension. That yielded instant offers. Experts seemed to have been waiting for an offer like that.
Somebody from India wrote back. “Hello Alain, I must tell you honestly that there is a free software product for your problem. It is not easy to use but you will manage. I can do that for you if you like, but the money you offer is far too much for this job.”
Alain was impressed by such honesty. The man was not out to empty his pockets. He decided to give him more than just an hourly wage. He awarded half the promised amount. He could easily do without the money. He didn’t need much anymore.
He sent the material to the Indian. “When joining the component spectral images,” he wrote, “I am mainly interested in the edges of the result. I am told that artefacts can appear. Please check if that can be avoided. Many thanks!”
Alain leaned back after sending the message on its way. It was just before 1 p.m. He had just saved a quarter of his pension so he decided to celebrate by going out for lunch. The bar on the corner offered snacks at noon, prepared by the cook—the wife of the owner. He had always enjoyed a bit of innocent flirting with Geraldine.
The afternoon sun shone into his sitting room. Dust glittered in the rays of light. Alain fetched a moist rag from the kitchen and wiped the big round table. The layer of dust surprised him. Nobody had spent time in this room since his wife had died. He really needed to clean more frequently or he would turn into one of those old men suffocating in their dirt. The good food made him drowsy, and he was not used to a lunchtime glass of red wine anymore. Should he rest for a while? Instead, the computer tickled his curiosity. A quick glance at the screen revealed a new message. The Indian had responded already. Alain sat down. The results were in the attachment, photos just like those he had been checking for the sunspot project. Apparently his hired expert had been successful.
Alain used the loupe to zoom in on the photos. Would he find any lines? He pushed the image back and forth on the screen, squinting in an effort to concentrate. There they were! He had been right, hadn’t he?
He skimmed the text message from India. “I have combined the spectral images as requested. To test the hypothesis of artefact formation, I have used different clipping magnifications than were used before. If the lines are technical issues they would now appear elsewhere. See for yourself.”
Alain excitedly opened an original image, looked for a line and jotted down its coordinates. Then he repeated the process with the corresponding new image. The coordinates were identical. The lines appeared in the same locations. Clearly no artefact involvement. There was something in that location that nobody else had discovered! Alain clutched his chest because his heart was beating so rapidly. If he had a heart attack now, nobody would hear about his discovery. He laughed. The idea was ridiculous. He was over 70 but his heart had never given him any trouble. He just needed to calm himself, and find someone to talk to about his discovery.
April 12, 2074, Paris
Petit. There it was. The name was engraved in a bell plate that must have been screwed to the entrance wall many years ago. Arthur Eigenbrod pressed the button. He was disappointed. Instead of the hoped-for melodic ringtone of olden days, he heard a modern buzz. If there was still a residence standing that had a real old-fashioned doorbell, surely it would have been this ancient apartment block. It had to be at least 250 years old. He leaned on the door and it opened.
He was met by cool air on the other side of the door. April was giving them a preview of the hot Parisian summer ahead, so Arthur was glad for the cooler air, even if it was a bit stale. In the corner there was a pram. A family with a child can afford an apartment in this area? To the right he saw an elevator that looked as old as the house. It sported iron bars instead of a door. He decided to distrust technology and give his body something to do after all the sedentary hours at his editing terminal. Arthur was overweight. There was no overlooking that fact as he wheezed his way up the granite staircase. Fortunately the handrail was sturdy and Petit only lived on the second floor.
He spotted the old man from the previous landing. Monsieur Petit smiled and waved him on. He had to be over 70. He looked a bit dried up. Maybe he was a strong smoker. Arthur conquered the last steps, wiped his hand on his pants, and shook the hand offered by Petit.
“I am glad you found time for me,” said the old man.
In reality, Arthur would have preferred to stay in the office and give the young apprentice important writing tips. Instead, it was his colleague Michel who carried the burden of passing on his knowledge about the W-questions. After all he, Arthur, had lost the wager about which of the two new colleagues in sales would be pregnant first. As a result, he was now working on the assignment the boss had given to his colleague.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Petit. My colleague Lemaire sends his excuses, he had another assignment on short notice.”
“I’m glad you have come.”
He was curious what Petit had used to pressure their boss who had insisted Michel was to make the visit within a week—probably some old favor or a common skeleton in a basement.
“And it is my pleasure,” said Arthur.
The man asked him into his apartment. He feigned taking off his shoes, but Petit signaled him not to, just as expected. Just as well, he thought. On warm days his feet tended to develop their own ‘special aroma.’
“Shall we talk in the living room?” Petit pointed to a large round table with old-fashioned embroidered linen. Two coffee cups and two plates awaited them, along with the pleasant sce
nt of real coffee. This meeting didn’t look to be that bad. The message had sounded much more eccentric—so maybe it was too early to relax.
Petit pulled a chair out from under the table for him. Arthur sat down.
“What was your name again?” inquired his host.
“Eigenbrod, Arthur Eigenbrod.”
“An uncommon name.”
“Indeed.” Arthur sighed. He had been teased about it all through school.
“You probably got teased all the time in…” The old man slapped a hand to his mouth to keep it shut. “Sorry,” he said.
“No problem. You are so right. Did you know that the German word translates to something like individualist?”
“Oh, I could live with that.”
“Me too, Monsieur Petit.”
“That’s okay then.” Alain Petit shuffled toward the kitchen.
Arthur looked around. His wife would say the place missed the hand of a woman. But he had seen old people in worse conditions. He himself only had 15 years to go to be a pensioner and sometimes he wondered how retired life would be.
“Coffee?” asked Petit.
Arthur jumped, as he had not noticed the man approaching. “Yes, please. Neither milk nor sugar.”
“That is how I drink it, too.” Petit served Arthur and then himself and sat down on the other chair.
“Have you lived here for a long time?”
“Since my birth. My grandparents bought this apartment.”
“Congratulations, you must be a millionaire then.”
“If I sell, maybe. Over my dead body.”
Arthur laughed out loud. “I like that. I wish you a long life,” he said.
Silent Sun: Hard Science Fiction Page 3