by Isaac Asimov
The Times was puzzled. “What does he mean, murky? It can’t be raining over much territory on Earth.” Outside, the rain was slowing and bright-blue patches of sky were shining through breaks in the cloud blanket, glittering blue light from the drops that ran down the windows. He tried to think of an explanation. “Maybe they’re trying to land on Venus.” The thought was ridiculous, he knew. The spaceship was following Nathen’s sending beam. It couldn’t miss Earth. “Bud” had to be kidding.
The green light glowed on the set again, and they stopped speaking, waiting for the message to be recorded, slowed, and replayed. The cathode screen came to life suddenly with a picture of the young man sitting at his sending set, his back turned, watching a screen at one side that showed a glimpse of a huge dark plain approaching. As the ship plunged down toward it, the illusion of solidity melted into a boiling turbulence of black clouds. They expanded in an inky swirl, looked huge for an instant, and then blackness swallowed the screen. The young alien swung around to face the camera, speaking a few words as he moved, made the 0 of a smile again, then flipped the switch and the screen went gray.
Nathen’s voice was suddenly toneless and strained. “He said something like break out the drinks, here they come.”
“The atmosphere doesn’t look like that,” the Times said at random, knowing he was saying something too obvious even to think about. “Not Earth’s atmosphere.”
Some people drifted up. “What did they say?”
“Entering the atmosphere, ought to be landing in five or ten minutes,” Nathen told them.
A ripple of heightened excitement ran through the room. Cameramen began adjusting the lens angles again, turning on the mike and checking it, turning on the floodlights. The scientists rose and stood near the window, still talking. The reporters trooped in from the hall and went to the windows to watch for the great event. The three linguists came in, trundling a large wheeled box that was the mechanical translator, supervising while it was hitched into the sound-broadcasting system.
“Landing where?” the Times asked Nathen brutally. “Why don’t you do something?”
“Tell me what to do and I’ll do it,” Nathen said quietly, not moving.
It was not sarcasm. Jacob Luke of the Times looked sideways at the strained whiteness of his face and moderated his tone. “Can’t you contact them?”
“Not while they’re landing.”
“What now?” The Times took out a pack of cigarettes, remembered the rule against smoking, and put it back. “We just wait.” Nathen leaned his elbow on one knee and his chin in his hand.
They waited.
All the people in the room were waiting. There was no more conversation. A bald man of the scientist group was automatically buffing his fingernails over and over and inspecting them without seeing them; another absently polished his glasses, held them up to the light, put them on, and then a moment later took them off and began polishing again. The television crew concentrated on their jobs, moving quietly and efficiently, with perfectionist care, minutely arranging things that did not need to be arranged, checking things that had already been checked.
This was to be one of the great moments of human history, and they were all trying to forget that fact and remain impassive and wrapped up in the problems of their jobs, as good specialists should.
After an interminable age the Times consulted his watch. Three minutes had passed. He tried holding his breath a moment, listening for a distant approaching thunder of jets. There was no sound.
The sun came out from behind the clouds and lit up the field like a great spotlight on an empty stage.
Abruptly, the green light shone on the set again, indicating that a squawk message had been received. The recorder recorded it, slowed it, and fed it back to the speaker. It clicked and the sound was very loud in the still, tense room.
The screen remained gray, but Bud’s voice spoke a few words in the alien language. He stopped, the speaker clicked, and the light went out. When it was plain that nothing more would occur and no announcement was to be made of what was said, the people in the room turned back to the windows and talk picked up again.
Somebody told a joke and laughed alone.
One of the linguists remained turned toward the loudspeaker, then looked at the widening patches of blue sky showing out the window, his expression puzzled. He had understood.
“It’s dark,” the thin Intelligence Department decoder translated, low-voiced, to the man from the Times. “Your atmosphere is thick. That’s precisely what Bud said.”
Another three minutes. The Times caught himself about to light a cigarette and swore silently, blowing the match out and putting the cigarette back into its package. He listened for the sound of the rocket jets. It was time for the landing, yet he heard no blasts.
The green light came on in the transceiver.
Message in.
Instinctively, he came to his feet. Nathen abruptly was standing beside him. Then the message came in the voice he was coming to think of as Bud. It spoke and paused. Suddenly the Times knew.
“We’ve landed.” Nathen whispered the words.
The wind blew across the open spaces of white concrete and damp soil that was the empty airfield, swaying the wet, shiny grass. The people in the room looked out, listening for the roar of jets, looking for the silver bulk of a spaceship in the sky.
Nathen moved, seating himself at the transmitter, switching it on to warm up, checking and balancing dials. Jacob Luke of the Times moved softly to stand behind his right shoulder, hoping he could be useful. Nathen made a half motion of his head, as if to glance back at him, unhooked two of the earphone sets hanging on the side of the tall streamlined box that was the automatic translator, plugged them in, and handed one back over his shoulder to the Times man.
The voice began to come from the speaker again.
Hastily, Jacob Luke fitted the earphones over his ears. He fancied he could hear Bud’s voice tremble. For a moment it was just Bud’s voice speaking the alien language, and then, very distant and clear in his earphones, he heard the recorded voice of the linguist say an English word, then a mechanical click and another clear word in the voice of one of the other translators, then another as the alien’s voice flowed from the loud-speaker, the cool single words barely audible, overlapping and blending like translating thought, skipping unfamiliar words yet quite astonishingly clear.
“Radar shows no buildings or civilization near. The atmosphere around us registers as thick as glue. Tremendous gas pressure, low gravity, no light at all. You didn’t describe it like this. Where are you, Joe? This isn’t some kind of trick, is it?” Bud hesitated, was prompted by a deeper official voice, and jerked out the words.
“If it is a trick, we are ready to repel attack.”
The linguist stood listening. He whitened slowly and beckoned the other linguists over to him and whispered to them.
Joseph Nathen looked at them with unwarranted bitter hostility while he picked up the hand mike, plugging it into the translator. “Joe calling,” he said quietly into it in clear, slow English. “No trick. We don’t know where you are. I am trying to get a direction fix from your signal. Describe your surroundings to us if at all possible.”
Nearby, the floodlights blazed steadily on the television platform, ready for the official welcome of the aliens to Earth. The television channels of the world had been alerted to set aside their scheduled programs for an unscheduled great event. in the long room the people waited, listening for the swelling sound of rocket jets.
This time, after the light came on, there was a long delay. The speaker sputtered and sputtered again, building to a steady scratching through which they could barely hear a dim voice. It came through in a few tinny words and then wavered back to inaudibility. The machine translated in their earphones.
“Tried… seemed… repair…” Suddenly it came in clearly. “Can’t tell if the auxiliary blew, too. Will try it. We might pick you up clearly on the
next try. I have the volume down. Where is the landing port? Repeat. Where is the landing port? Where are you?”
Nathen put down the hand mike and carefully set a dial on the recording box and flipped a switch, speaking over his shoulder. “This sets it to repeat what I said the last time. It keeps repeating.” Then he sat with unnatural stillness, his head still half turned, as if he had suddenly caught a glimpse of answer and was trying with no success whatever to grasp it.
The green warning light cut in, the recording clicked, and the playback of Bud’s face and voice appeared on the screen.
“We heard a few words, Joe, and then the receiver blew again. We’re adjusting a viewing screen to pick up the long waves that go through the murk and convert them to visible light. We’ll be able to see out soon. The engineer says that something is wrong with the stern jets, and the captain has had me broadcast a help call to our nearest space base.” He made the mouth 0 of a grin. “The message won’t reach it for some years. I trust you, Joe, but get us out of here, will you?— They’re buzzing that the screen is finally ready. Hold everything.”
The screen went gray and the green light went off.
The Times considered the lag required for the help call, the speaking and recording of the message just received, the time needed to reconvert a viewing screen.
“They work fast.” He shifted uneasily and added at random, “Something wrong with the time factor. All wrong. They work too fast.”
The green light came on again immediately. Nathen half turned to him, sliding his words hastily into the gap of time as the message was recorded and slowed. “They’re close enough for our transmission power to blow their receiver.”
If it was on Earth, why the darkness around the ship? “Maybe they see in the high ultraviolet—the atmosphere is opaque to that band,” the Times suggested hastily as the speaker began to talk in the young extra-Terrestrial’s voice.
That voice was shaking now. “Stand by for the description.”
They tensed, waiting. The Times brought a map of the state before his mind’s eye.
“A half circle of cliffs around the horizon. A wide muddy lake swarming with swimming things. Huge, strange white foliage all around the ship and incredibly huge, pulpy monsters attacking and eating each other on all sides. We almost landed in the lake, right on the soft edge. The mud can’t hold the ship’s weight, and we’re sinking. The engineer says we might be able to blast free, but the tubes are mud-clogged and might blow up the ship. When can you reach us?”
The Times thought vaguely of the Carboniferous era. Nathen obviously had seen something he had not.
“Where are they?” the Times asked him quietly.
Nathen pointed to the antenna position indicators. The Times let his eyes follow the converging imaginary lines of focus out the window to the sunlit airfield, the empty airfield, the drying concrete and green waving grass where the lines met.
Where the lines met. The spaceship was there!
The fear of something unknown gripped him suddenly.
The spaceship was broadcasting again, “Where are you? Answer if possible! We are sinking! Where are you?”
He saw that Nathen knew. “What is it?” the Times asked hoarsely. “Are they in another dimension or the past or on another world or what?”
Nathen was smiling bitterly, and Jacob Luke remembered that the young man had a friend in that spaceship. “My guess is that they evolved on a high-gravity planet with a thin atmosphere, near a blue-white star. Sure, they see in the ultraviolet range. Our sun is abnormally small and dim and yellow. Our atmosphere is so thick it screens out ultraviolet.” He laughed harshly. “A good joke on us, the weird place we evolved in, the thing it did to us!”
“Where are you?” called the alien spaceship. “Hurry, please! We’re sinking!”
* * * *
The decoder slowed his tumbled, frightened words and looked up into the Times’ face for understanding. “We’ll rescue them,” he said quietly. “You were right about the time factor, right about them moving at a different speed. I misunderstood. This business about squawk coding, speeding for better transmission to counteract beam waver—I was wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“They don’t speed up their broadcasts.”
“They don’t—?”
Suddenly, in his mind’s eye, the Times began to see again the play he had just seen—but the actors were moving at blurring speed, the words jerking out in a fluting, dizzying stream, thoughts and decisions passing with unfollowable rapidity, rippling faces in a twisting blur of expressions, doors slamming wildly, shatteringly, as the actors leaped in and out of the rooms.
No—faster, faster—he wasn’t visualizing it as rapidly as it was, an hour of talk and action in one almost instantaneous “squawk,” a narrow peak of “noise” interfering with a single word in an Earth broadcast! Faster—faster—it was impossible. Matter could not stand such stress—inertia—momentum—abrupt weight.
It was insane. “Why?” he asked. “How?”
Nathen laughed again harshly, reaching for the mike. “Get them out? There isn’t a lake or river within hundreds of miles from here!”
A shiver of unreality went down the Times’ spine. Automatically and inanely, he found himself delving in his pockets for a cigarette while he tried to grasp what had happened. “Where are they, then? Why can’t we see their spaceship?”
Nathen switched the microphone on in a gesture that showed the bitterness of his disappointment.
“We’ll need a magnifying glass for that.”
THE BIG TRIP UP YONDER, by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
Gramps Ford, his chin resting on his hands, his hands on the crook of his cane, was staring irascibly at the five-foot television screen that dominated the room. On the screen, a news commentator was summarizing the day’s happenings. Every thirty seconds or so, Gramps would jab the floor with his cane-tip and shout, “Hell, we did that a hundred years ago!”
Emerald and Lou, coming in from the balcony, where they had been seeking that 2185 A.D. rarity—privacy—were obliged to take seats in the back row, behind Lou’s father and mother, brother and sister-in-law, son and daughter-in-law, grandson and wife, granddaughter and husband, great-grandson and wife, nephew and wife, grandnephew and wife, great-grandniece and husband, great-grandnephew and wife—and, of course, Gramps, who was in front of everybody. All save Gramps, who was somewhat withered and bent, seemed, by pre-anti-gerasone standards, to be about the same age—somewhere in their late twenties or early thirties. Gramps looked older because he had already reached 70 when anti-gerasone was invented. He had not aged in the 102 years since.
“Meanwhile,” the commentator was saying, “Council Bluffs, Iowa, was still threatened by stark tragedy. But 200 weary rescue workers have refused to give up hope, and continue to dig in an effort to save Elbert Haggedorn, 183, who has been wedged for two days in a…”
“I wish he’d get something more cheerful,” Emerald whispered to Lou.
“Silence!” cried Gramps. “Next one shoots off his big bazoo while the TV’s on is gonna find hisself cut off without a dollar—”his voice suddenly softened and sweetened—”when they wave that checkered flag at the Indianapolis Speedway, and old Gramps gets ready for the Big Trip Up Yonder.”
He sniffed sentimentally, while his heirs concentrated desperately on not making the slightest sound. For them, the poignancy of the prospective Big Trip had been dulled somewhat, through having been mentioned by Gramps about once a day for fifty years.
“Dr. Brainard Keyes Bullard,” continued the commentator, “President of Wyandotte College, said in an address tonight that most of the world’s ills can be traced to the fact that Man’s knowledge of himself has not kept pace with his knowledge of the physical world.”
“Hell!” snorted Gramps. “We said that a hundred years ago!”
“In Chicago tonight,” the commentator went on, “a special celebration is taking place in the Chicag
o Lying-in Hospital. The guest of honor is Lowell W. Hitz, age zero. Hitz, born this morning, is the twenty-five-millionth child to be born in the hospital.” The commentator faded, and was replaced on the screen by young Hitz, who squalled furiously.
“Hell!” whispered Lou to Emerald. “We said that a hundred years ago.”
“I heard that!” shouted Gramps. He snapped off the television set and his petrified descendants stared silently at the screen. “You, there, boy—”
“I didn’t mean anything by it, sir,” said Lou, aged 103.
“Get me my will. You know where it is. You kids all know where it is. Fetch, boy!” Gramps snapped his gnarled fingers sharply.
Lou nodded dully and found himself going down the hall, picking his way over bedding to Gramps’ room, the only private room in the Ford apartment. The other rooms were the bathroom, the living room and the wide windowless hallway, which was originally intended to serve as a dining area, and which had a kitchenette in one end. Six mattresses and four sleeping bags were dispersed in the hallway and living room, and the daybed, in the living room, accommodated the eleventh couple, the favorites of the moment.
On Gramps’ bureau was his will, smeared, dog-eared, perforated and blotched with hundreds of additions, deletions, accusations, conditions, warnings, advice and homely philosophy. The document was, Lou reflected, a fifty-year diary, all jammed onto two sheets—a garbled, illegible log of day after day of strife. This day, Lou would be disinherited for the eleventh time, and it would take him perhaps six months of impeccable behavior to regain the promise of a share in the estate. To say nothing of the daybed in the living room for Em and himself.
“Boy!” called Gramps.
“Coming, sir.” Lou hurried back into the living room and handed Gramps the will.
“Pen!” said Gramps.
He was instantly offered eleven pens, one from each couple.
“Not that leaky thing,” he said, brushing Lou’s pen aside. “Ah, there’s a nice one. Good boy, Willy.” He accepted Willy’s pen. That was the tip they had all been waiting for. Willy, then—Lou’s father—was the new favorite.