Fiasco

by Stanisław Lem

  Tempe had read on the subject. The magnetic potentials, focused by remote control, oriented the spins of the atomic nuclei along the lines of force; when the field was switched off, the nuclei gave back the energy imposed on them. Each element of the periodic table then vibrated according to its own resonance. The picture recorded in the receptor was a nuclear portrait in cross section, where sextillions of atoms performed the role of the dots in an ordinary halftone photoengraving. The advantage of high-powered nuclear imaging was its harmlessness for the material objects examined, which included living beings; the disadvantage was that, applying such power, one could not conceal the source of the transmission.

  Following the instructions of the physicists, DEUS filtered the pictures, each layer and section, for SGs of elements that were particularly suited for technological use. This choice was based on an assumption that was not entirely certain—but it was the only one available: the analogy, at least partial, between the Quintan and terrestrial technospheres. And, indeed, deep in the crust of the illuminated globe appeared a vague network of vanadiums, chromiums, and platinums, the platinum group including osmium and iridium. The subsurface threads of copper suggested power lines. SGs of the region affected by the selenoclasm showed chaotic microfoci of devastation, and the cross section of the starlike construct called Medusa resembled rubble and had traces of the uranides.

  Calcium was also found there. For ruins of dwellings there was too little calcium. And the ground showed no sedimentary rock whatever. Hence, the guess that these were the remains of millions of living beings who, before their death, or after it, had been subjected to radioactive contamination, since a high percentage of the calcium was an isotope found only in the skeletons of irradiated vertebrates. For all its cruelty, this discovery (still, of course, not conclusive evidence) offered a glimmer of hope. They had no way of knowing yet whether the population of Quinta was made up of living creatures or, possibly, nonbiological automata: the heirs of an extinct civilization. One could not rule out the grim hypothesis that the arms race, having exterminated life (with perhaps a few remaining souls huddled in shelters or caves), was being carried on by life's mechanical successors.

  This was precisely what Steergard had feared most, from the first encounters, though he kept the fear to himself. He considered possible a course of historical events whereby, over centuries of operations, a living force became replaced by military machines—not only in space, which they had already seen, but also on the planet. War automata, possessing no instinct for self-preservation, designed for suicidal combat, would hardly be amenable to entering into any kind of negotiations with a cosmic intruder. Although command centers, even if totally computerized, still should be guided by self-preservation. Yet if their sole directive was to achieve supremacy through strategic operations, they would not allow themselves to be put into the role of negotiators, either.

  The chance of living beings communicating with living beings, on the other hand, was greater than zero. The optimism that resulted from examining the SGs—through the possible recognition of hecatombs, piles of skeletons, because of the relation of calcium to its isotope—was subdued. It would have been hard to call it a devout wish. While the pilots and the captain were listening to Nakamura, who provided explanations for the critical pictures—with the caution that most of this was just conjecture—the intercom buzzed. The captain lifted the receiver.

  "Steergard here."

  They heard the voice but could not make out the words. When the speaker finished, Steergard did not respond immediately.

  "Very well. Right now? Come on over, then."

  He put down the receiver, turned to them, and said:

  "Arago."

  "Should we leave?" Tempe asked.

  "No. Stay." And added, as if unintentionally, "It won't be a confession.

  The Dominican entered in white, though not in his monk's habit: he had on a long white sweater. That he wore a cross under it was revealed only by the dark string around his neck. Seeing those present, he halted at the door.

  "I didn't realize that the captain was holding council…"

  "Have a seat, Reverend Father. This is not a council. The time for parliamentary procedure and voting is past."

  And, as if that sounded more brusque than he intended, he added:

  "I didn't want this. But the hard facts are not concerned with what I want. Please, everyone, sit."

  They sat, because, although he had delivered this last sentence with a smile, it was an order. The monk had expected a private conversation. Or perhaps he was taken aback by the peremptory ring of Steergard's words. Guessing the reasons for Arago's hesitation, the captain said:

  "C'est le ton qui fait la chanson. But I didn't compose the tune. I tried to play it pianissimo."

  "It ended up being played on the trumpets of Jericho," replied the monk. "But perhaps we can put aside these musical metaphors?"

  "Of course. Let's speak plainly. Rotmont was here an hour ago, and I know the gist of the conversation—the exegesis—no, let's stick with conversation—that DEUS occasioned. It concerned … astrobiology."

  "Not only," said the Dominican.

  "I know. And therefore I ask in what capacity my visitor presents himself to me: physician or papal nuncio?"

  "I am not a nuncio."

  "With the will or without the will of the See of Peter—yes. In partibus infidelium. Or perhaps in partibus daemonis. I say this in reference to the memorable remark, not of the doctor of astrobiology but of Father Arago, on the Eurydice, in Ter Horab's cabin. I was there; I heard and remembered. And now—you have my attention."

  "I see here the same pictures that Rotmont explained to me. DEUS indeed has occasioned my visit."

  "The calcium hypothesis?" asked the captain.

  "Yes. Rotmont inquired whether a line in the spectral analysis of certain points was or was not an isotope of calcium. DEUS could not rule out the possibility."

  "I know the particulars. If those are bones, they're bones in the millions. A mountain of bodies."

  "The critical place is a large complex of buildings, no doubt a Quintan center," said the monk. He seemed paler than usual. "A museum with a radius of fifty miles? Hardly likely. Genocide, then. A cemetery for a murdered nation is not a scene unprecedented in our history. Anyway, the founders of the SETI Project did not have in mind contact with an intelligence upon a battlefield littered with the corpses of the host."

  "The situation is a good deal worse than that," answered Steergard. "No, let me speak. I repeat: something worse took place than a catastrophe brought about by a series of coincidences no one wanted. I did say that the planet might respond to our ultimatum before the deadline but not in signals. The other side, suspicious, could have opted for a counter-offensive. But I did not dream that, with full premeditation, they would pull the cavitated moon down upon themselves. We became mass murderers according to the maxim of a certain Italian heretic: 'Because of excess virtue the forces of hell prevail.'"

  "How am I to understand this?" said Arago, astounded.

  "Using the canons of physics. We announced that we would shatter their Moon as a demonstration of our superiority, and we gave assurances that this sidereal operation would cause them no harm. Having experts in celestial mechanics, they knew that with the smallest investment of energy one could break apart a planet by increasing the gravity at its core. They knew that only an explosion that was focused exactly at the Moon's center of mass would not change the orbit of the resulting fragments. Had they intercepted our sidereals from the solar side of the Moon, or at its front along a tangent to the orbit, the broken pieces would have been driven to a higher orbit. Only the interception of our missiles in the hemisphere facing Quinta could—had to—pull the eccentric product of the cavitation down upon themselves."

  "How can I believe such a thing? You're saying that they wanted to use our help to commit suicide?"

  "I say nothing—the facts speak. Their action, I admit, l
ooks like madness. But a recreation of the cataclysm reveals its logic. We began the selenoclasm at the moment when the Sun was rising over Heparia and setting on Norstralia. The ballistic missiles directed at our sidereals were launched from the part of Heparia that was still behind the terminator—in other words, in the night. They required five hours to reach the perilune and strike our rockets. To keep us from destroying the missiles in time, the Quintans put them into an elliptical orbit, an orbit from which they could drop to the Moon some twelve minutes before the selenoclasm. There is no way around it: their missiles ambushed ours, moving along the ellipse segment farthest from Quinta and closest to the Moon. All attacked our sidereals, which were unshielded because we had not believed such a counteraction possible. I myself thought at first that the catastrophe had been caused by their miscalculation. But an analysis of the sequence of events rules out the chance of error."

  "No. I cannot understand it," said Arago. "Although … one moment … does this mean that one side attempted to direct the blow at the other?"

  "Even that would not have been so bad," said Steergard. "As far as a general headquarters is concerned during a war, any maneuver that discomfits the enemy is worthwhile and appropriate. But because they could not know the power of our sidereals or the time the selenoclasm would begin, or the initial velocity of the splitting masses of the Moon, they had to take into account that the dispersion pattern of the rocks might include their own territory as well. The Reverend Father is surprised? He doesn't believe me? The physica de motibus coelestis is the star witness in this case. Look at the situation from the point of view of the generals of a hundred-year war.

  "A cosmic intruder appears above the battlefield with an olive branch. It wishes to establish friendly relations with the civilization; instead of responding attack for attack, it shows restraint, it remains peaceable. It will not attack? Then it must be made to! Does the population of the planet learn what really happened? Massacred, how can it doubt what its governments tell it: that the intruder is a ruthless, infinitely cruel aggressor? Did not the intruder level cities? And bomb all the continents, shattering the Moon for that purpose? Their own casualties? Blamed on the intruder. If we share the guilt, it is from undue innocence, because we did not foresee such a turn of events. Retreat, after what has happened, would leave the planet in the belief that our expedition was an attempt at murderous invasion. Therefore we do not withdraw, Reverend Father. The stake of the game was high to begin with. They have raised it, forcing us to play on…"

  "Contact at any price?" asked the Dominican in white.

  "At the highest that we can pay. Since I have ruffled our apostolic delegate with the announcement that the time for democracy—voting, shilly-shallying—is past, I think I should explain why, as I assume sole command and therefore sole responsibility for ourselves and for them, I will be taking this game to its conclusion. Shall I explain?"

  "Please do."

  Steergard went over to one of the wall lockers in his cabin, opened it, and said, as he looked for something in the pigeonholes:

  "The thought of a nonlocal war expanded into space occurred to me after the catching of the wrecks behind Juno. And not to me alone. On the principle of primum non nocere, I kept it to myself, so as not to infect the crew with defeatism. It's known from the history of ancient voyages—Columbus's, the polar expeditions—how easily an isolated group of the best people can become a threat to themselves through the influence of an individual, particularly if that individual is one on whom they count, as if he were made of even better stuff than they. Therefore, I discussed this worst possibility only with DEUS. Here are the recordings of those discussions."

  From a small, padded container that resembled a jeweler's box for precious stones he took a few memory crystals and inserted one in the slot of the reproducer.

  His voice filled the room.

  "How are we to establish contact with Quinta if there are blocs there locked in battle for years?"

  "Provide the limits of the n-decisional space. It is strategically incalculable without starting parameters."

  "Assume two, then three antagonists of approximately equal military potential, with the certain destruction of all in the case of heated escalation."

  "The data remain insufficient."

  "Give a minimax evaluation in a non-numerical approximation."

  "The value in approximations is also indeterminate."

  "Nevertheless, give me a stochastically weighted cluster of alternatives."

  "That demands additional assumptions. They will be arbitrary and unsubstantiated."

  "I know. Go ahead."

  "For two antagonists on opposite continents, send two transmitters—in the atmospheric window of the infrared—with point-sharp collimation. Both should have antiradar camouflage and be self-directed at the planet's radio stations. This tactic takes for granted a thing that is open to question—because the antagonists may be not on opposite continents but in mutual possession of the same territory, both horizontally and vertically."

  "In what way?"

  "If, for example, they have entered the atomic phase with great saber-rattling, and each side takes aim at the enemy's population, making it hostage, threatening attack or reprisal. They fortify the means of thrust and parry, and, when saturation occurs, move underground. Their territories may be located far beneath the earth, like interlocking mines at many depths and levels. The same can happen above the atmosphere."

  "Does an expansion of that type make contact impossible?"

  "It rules out the tactic proposed, because with such an arrangement contact will not have separate addressees."

  "Assume that there is no such subterranean colonization, with each side undermining the other."

  "Where is the boundary to be drawn between the antagonists?"

  "The meridian in the center of the ocean."

  "That is simplest, but completely arbitrary."

  "Go ahead."

  "Very well. Assume the sending of probes, the signal emission—the delivery of the mail. And that they have received the codes transmitted and have mastered them. This assumption gives me a minimax fork. Send both sides the identical request for contact, either with a guarantee of neutrality which is genuine, or with a guarantee of exclusive support which is false."

  "You mean, tell each side that we are addressing the other at the same time, or else assure it that we are approaching only it for contact?"

  "Yes."

  "Give the risk weighting of the branches."

  "Honesty yields better chances if the message goes to the wrong address, and poorer chances if the message goes to the wrong address. Falsehood yields more chances if the address is right, and fewer if the address is right."

  "That's a contradiction."

  "Yes. The game-space is not quantifiable minimaximally."

  "Show the reason for the contradiction."

  "A bloc, assured of the exclusivity of contact with us, will be inclined to react positively—on condition that it can itself verify that exclusivity, independently of our communication. If, on the other hand, it learns that the other bloc has intercepted our message, or that—worse—we are playing a two-faced game, the chances of contact will fall to zero. One can also have a negative probability of contact."

  "Negative?"

  "A refusal is zero. I would assign a negative value to an answer that misinforms us."

  "The setting of a trap?"

  "Entirely possible. Here the forks branch factorially. A trap can be set by one side, or by both separately, or by both in a limited, temporary alliance—reasoning that if they call a temporary truce and cooperate to destroy us, or discourage us from contact, they will be running less risk than if they compete for exclusivity of contact with the Hermes."

  "And what about their agreeing to a parallel, separate contact?"

  "In that variant lies a fundamental contradiction. In order to achieve such parallelism, you must as sender guarantee to both sides
our neutrality—convincingly. That is, you must give your word that you will keep your word. But an assertion, when reflexive, cannot assert itself. This is a typical antinomy."

  "Where did you obtain the weightings for the decisional branches?"

  "From your premise that on the planet there are only two players in mutual check. And that they hold to the rule of minimax. The prize of the game for them is the preservation of the status quo ante fuit, and for us, contact by breaking the impasse."

  "Specifically?"

  "It's trivial. I assume two empires, A and B. The optimal variant fork for us: both A and B enter into contact with us, each believing that it holds a monopoly. If either one is not sure of its privileged state—its exclusivity—it will suspect the monopoly. Whereupon, according to the rule of minimax, it will propose to the other a coalition against us, because it does not know the chances of entering into a coalition with us. That is obvious. Knowing their own history, they therefore know their rules of mutual conflict. But the rules of mutual conflict that pertain to us are unknown to them. If we make an offer of alliance to either A or B, it will be suspect. Primo: such an offer made by us to both adversaries is absurd. Secundo: if we choose one side only, we will be supporting it and will thereby antagonize the opposite side, gaining nothing for ourselves but participation in the ongoing struggle. Such a strategy of contact could be adopted only by a civilization of idiots. It is improbable even on the metagalactic scale."

  "Yes. They can temporarily unite against us. What sort of game then results?"

  "A game with indeterminate rules. The rules arise or change according to the course of the play. Therefore it is not known if the reward function will contain positive values. The game, probably, is zero-sum, because none of the players—ourselves included—stands to gain. All will suffer loss."