The Hercules Text

by Jack McDevitt

  A sphere took shape and began to rotate. Well off its surface, four points appeared, bulged, and threw out parallel curved lines, which quickly encircled the sphere. The image acquired shading and angle, giving it depth.

  “My God,” said Harry. “It’s Saturn.”

  “Hardly,” responded Gambini. “But I wonder if their home world has rings.”

  The figure vanished.

  Again the familiar black point became visible. This time it lengthened gradually into a tetrahedronlike figure. It was spidery, and its limbs moved in a fashion that Harry found disconcerting.

  “We think it’s an Althean,” said Gambini.

  Late Monday afternoon, Gambini retired to his quarters in the VIP section in the northwestern corner of the Goddard facility. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to sleep, but the computers were doing the work now, and he wanted to be reasonably alert later.

  He fell into bed with considerable satisfaction and sank toward oblivion with the happy thought that he had achieved his life’s ambition. To how many men was that inestimable blessing given?

  When the phone rang four hours later, he was slow to orient himself. He burrowed deeper into the pillows, listened to the insistent jangling, reached for the instrument, and knocked it over.

  The voice on the other end belonged to Charlie Hoffer. “It’s finished,” he said.

  “The signal?”

  “Yes. The pulsar’s back.”

  Gambini looked at his watch. “Nine fifty-three.”

  “One full orbit,” said Hoffer.

  “They’re consistent. What’s the length?”

  “We haven’t done the calculation.”

  The transmission had been a relatively slow one: 41,279 baud. “Okay,” Gambini said. “Thanks. Let me know if anything changes, Charlie.”

  He punched the numbers into a calculator. It came out to approximately 23.3 million characters.

  MONITOR

  Partial transcript of interview with Baines Rimford, appearing originally in Deep Space, October issue:

  Q. Dr. Rimford, you’ve been quoted as saying that there are a few questions you would especially like to put to God. I wonder if you could tell us what those questions are.

  A. For a start, it would be nice to have a workable GUT.

  Q. You mean a Grand Unified Theory, tying all of the physical laws together.

  A. (Chuckles, suggesting that Deep Space is being somewhat general.) We would settle for knowing how the strong and weak nuclear forces, electromagnetism and gravity, interact. Some people argue that they were once, briefly, a single force.

  Q. When was that?

  A. During the first nanoseconds of the Big Bang. If there was a Big Bang.

  Q. Is there any doubt?

  A. Well, certainly something happened. But the term “Big Bang” has developed certain connotations; it has come to represent a specific theory of how we all got started. There are alternative possibilities: bubbles, a recycling expansion and contraction, even some variants of the steady state that are beginning to come back into vogue.

  Q. I’d like to get back to some of that in a minute. What else would you want explained?

  A. I’d like to know why we have order at all. It amazes me that the universe consists of anything other than cold sludge sliding through the dark.

  Q. I don’t think I understand.

  A. Let’s start with the Big Bang.

  Q. If there was one.

  A. Then call it the initiating mechanism, if you like. In any case, something got the universe going in an expansionary phase. And we have immediately an odd coincidence: the rate of expansion is almost perfectly balanced by gravity, which is trying to pull everything back together. The balance is so exact that, after sixteen billion years, we do not yet know whether the universe is open or closed. Let’s assume that the initiating mechanism was an explosion. Had it been infinitesimally weaker, things would have fallen back into a crunch very quickly. And I mean weaker on the order of an extremely small fraction of a single percent. On the other hand, had it been even a little stronger, the galaxies could not have formed.

  Or let’s look at the strong force that binds the nucleus together. Again, there is no reason that we can see why it should be precisely what it is. Yet, if it were stronger, we’d have neither hydrogen nor water. If it were weaker, we’d have no yellow suns. There are, in fact, damned near an infinity of such coincidences. They have to do with atomic weights and freezing points and quanta and virtually every sort of physical law you can think of. Change any one of a huge number of such constants, throw an extra proton, say, into the helium atom, and you stand an excellent chance of destabilizing the universe. We seem to live in a place that has been carefully designed, against literally cosmic odds, as a home for intelligent life. I’d like to know why that should be.

  —Reprinted in Systemic Epistemology XIV

  7

  THE STOCKY, CLEAN-SHAVEN man stood in the doorway of Harry’s office and appraised its contents with disdain. “Mr. Carmichael?”

  Harry stood up and came around the desk. He wasn’t looking forward to this one. “Yes,” he said, extending his hand.

  The visitor ignored it. “My name is Pappadopoulis,” he said, advancing. “I’m the chairman of the philosophy department at Cambridge.” He was being pointedly modest; he was actually a figure of international reputation.

  Harry detected a faint drumroll. “Please have a seat, Professor Pappadopoulis. What can I do for you?”

  He remained standing. “You can assure me that someone here is aware of the significance of the Hercules transmission.”

  “You need not be concerned,” said Harry amiably.

  “I’m happy to hear it. Unfortunately, the government’s actions don’t bear that out. NASA received the Hercules signal in the early morning of September seventeenth and chose, for whatever reasons, to conceal its existence until Friday, November tenth. Does that not seem a bit irresponsible to you, Mr. Carmichael?”

  “I think that making a premature statement before we were sure of our facts might have been irresponsible. We used our best judgment.”

  “I’m sure you did. And it’s that judgment that is in question.” Pappadopoulis was a heavy man, a proper container, perhaps, for the somber approach to neo-Kantian materialism that had made his reputation in the academic community. His face was set in an attitude of unrelenting hostility, his language was stiff and formal, not unlike the contents of an old book on metaphysics, and his sense of his own worth was stifling. “I’m sadly aware that the same sort of thing is quite likely to happen again should further transmissions be received.” He paused and reacted to something in Harry’s face. “Has something else happened? Are you hiding something now?”

  “We’ve released everything we had,” Harry said.

  “Please don’t try to get by with nonstatements, Mr. Carmichael.” He leaned across Harry’s desk, reflecting bored irritation and, Harry thought, mild distaste. “Is something happening now that the world should be aware of?”

  “No.” Damn Rosenbloom. And the President.

  “I see. Why do I not believe you, Mr. Carmichael?” He lowered himself into a chair. “To your credit, you are a poor liar.” He was breathing heavily from the exertion, and he paused momentarily to gather himself. “Secrecy is a compulsive reflex in this country. It strangles thought, delays scientific progress, and destroys integrity.” He drew the last word out before continuing. “I’d assumed that the only reason the information was released at all was that there was no follow-up transmission. Has a second signal been received?”

  “None of this is getting us anywhere, Professor. I will note your protest and see that the President is made aware of it.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Pappadopoulis gazed at a portrait of Robert H. Goddard on the wall behind Harry’s desk. “He’d be embarrassed by all this, you know.”

  Harry stood up. “Good of you to come by, sir,” he said.

  Pappado
poulis’s eyes bored into him. As a good bureaucrat, Harry thrived on accommodation and compromise. He had little stomach for confrontation that could in no way be productive.

  “What has happened has happened,” Pappadopoulis observed. “My concern now is with the future. Very likely there will be, or already has been, an additional reception. I had intended to ask what your position would be when that occurs. Your position, Mr. Carmichael. Not the government’s. I am sad to say that I probably already have my answer.”

  Harry shifted uncomfortably under his visitor’s surgical vision.

  Pappadopoulis smiled. “I’m happy to see that even a civil servant has a conscience. The people for whom you work, Mr. Carmichael, are interested only in whatever military advantage they can extract from all this. May I suggest that your greater duty is to mankind, and not to a callous employer. Stand up to the bastards!” His voice rose. “You owe it to everyone who’s tried to understand the nature of the world in which we live. And you owe it to yourself.

  “Years from now, when you and I have long since passed from the scene, you could well be remembered for your courage and your contribution. Sit silent, appease your pathetic masters, and I can assure you that oblivion will be the best for which you may hope.” He reached into a vest pocket. “My card, Mr. Carmichael. Don’t hesitate to call if I can be of service. And please be assured that, if need be, I would be happy to stand by your side.”

  “Somebody’s got to talk to the President.” Gambini stirred his coffee and stared stonily across the cafeteria. “He’s only getting one side, the military consideration. He’s up there listening to the Joint Chiefs, and all they can see are the dangers. They’re so goddam shortsighted. Harry, I do not want to become part of a military exercise. I’ve waited all my life for this, and the sons of bitches are ruining it. Listen, Hurley has a chance to do some real good here. We won’t get world peace out of this, but he has an opportunity to knock down some walls.

  “We’ve never acted as a species. There was a chance at the end of the Second World War and another when we made the moon flight. But this, Harry, this: what more natural way to draw everybody together than the sure and certain knowledge, as Pete likes to say, that there’s someone else out there?

  “What really frustrates me is that Rosenbloom is perfectly content with the way things’re going. And he’s right. It could blow up, and people could get burned. But what the hell, Harry, it’s been a downhill slide for the last half-century anyhow. Maybe we need a good gambler to change the flow. We’ve got a mystery, and we’ll do a lot better using the planet’s resources than trying to solve it without telling anybody what’s going on.” He looked carefully at Harry. “I think we need to do an end run.”

  “No,” said Harry. “You do an end run, if you want. Leave me out. I don’t want to wind up in Colorado with Fish and Wildlife.”

  Gambini straightened his tie and pursed his lips. “Okay. I can’t really blame you. But you understand we’ve become historical characters, Harry. What’s been happening here during the last few weeks, and what’s going to happen as we get deeper into this thing, is going to be dissected and written about for a long time to come. I want to be sure that, when the summing-up comes, I’m not on the wrong side.”

  “Funny. That’s what Pappadopoulis said to me.”

  “It’ll happen, Harry. This is too big to keep bottled up.”

  “Why do you need me?” asked Harry.

  “Because I can’t just walk in the door over at the White House. But you can get me in.”

  “How?”

  “They’re having the annual National Science Foundation banquet over there Thursday. The President will be passing out awards to some high school kids. It’s a big media event, and it would be a good chance to get close to him. But I have to get in first. NASA would have access to some tickets, if we asked.” Gambini leaned forward. “How about it, Harry?”

  “You don’t really care if they put me out in the mountains, do you?” Harry braced his elbows on the tabletop, knitted his fingers together, and rested his chin on them. His marriage was gone, and he’d never liked his job at Goddard that much. Actually, his early days with Treasury, when he’d been surrounded by others much like himself, had not been bad. But he’d been exposed to a lot at Goddard, where men looked into deep space while he arranged their group insurance. Maybe he’d begun to imbibe their contempt for his profession. “It’s a little late to get in now, unless we can cut some sort of deal. What’s Baines doing Thursday?”

  “I can’t help but wonder,” the President said in his rich baritone, surveying the two dozen young people seated along both sides of his table, “whether we don’t have another Francis Crick with us in the room today. Or a Jonas Salk. Or a Baines Rimford.” There was a brief stir; and a smattering of applause grew until it swept the room. It continued, and Rimford heard his name echoed from the audience. He rose from his place beside the President and bowed. Hurley smiled and graciously stepped back to allow an unobstructed view of his celebrated guest.

  Then he addressed the high school kids. “Perhaps, in a sense,” he continued when the reaction had subsided, “it is sufficient for us to reflect on what has brought you here today and on what you now are. I’m sure Dr. Rimford would agree that the future will take care of itself. Take pride in what you have done: it is enough.” He shifted his gaze over them, as if looking at some far horizon. “For the moment.”

  At one of the lower tables, Harry listened with interest. Hurley never used notes, always seemed to speak spontaneously, and it was said of him that he could hold an audience by reading a telephone book. Some who’d been around Washington for a while thought he was the best orator since Kennedy.

  Maybe the best ever. But Harry never really thought of the President as an orator, and therein lay his peculiar genius. When one heard Hurley, it was never with a sense of listening to a declamation. Rather, one sat with him in a pair of easy chairs, or in a dimly lit corner of a bar, and talked sense. With style. That was the illusion. Dockworker and economist: Hurley spoke to them all in their own language, and frequently did it at the same time. The gift of tongues, Tom Brokaw had called it.

  Harry would have felt guilty about using Rimford to get Gambini into the ceremony, except that the cosmologist was enjoying himself so much. They’d arrived early, at Rimford’s insistence, and he’d wandered among the young prizewinners, asking questions, listening to their answers, and shaking their hands.

  Gambini sat halfway across the room, gloomily wedged in with two garrulous representatives of the Indianapolis School District, which had a pair of recipients that year, and a young woman from JPL who, discovering his identity, proceeded to object at length to his handling of the Hercules operation, and persisted in glowering at him throughout the banquet.

  “Dr. Rimford,” continued the President, “I wonder if we can impose on you to make the awards.”

  “I’d be honored,” Baines said, rising and taking his place at Hurley’s side, while the audience responded again. One of those tableaux that the press love followed: the President played the role of flunky, calling out the names of award winners, handing their certificates to Rimford, and standing modestly aside while the cosmologist made the presentations. It was, thought Harry, a brilliant performance. No wonder so many loved him, despite all the problems of his administration.

  When it was over, the President thanked Rimford, added a few closing remarks, and started for the door. Gambini, surprised by the suddenness of the retreat, jumped to his feet and hurried in his wake. But Gambini had no Secret Service escort, and the press closed over him before he’d gone more than a few steps. Harry watched with growing dismay; Hurley strode past his table, while the harried Gambini tried to break free.

  The President paused to speak with Cass Woodbury of CBS. A couple of other reporters crowded in. Woodbury’s concern centered on the seizure of the Lakehurst nuclear power plant by a terrorist group. Out on the floor, flashbulbs popped and p
eople laughed. Spectators, trying to get a closer look at the President, pushed against Harry’s chair, and someone at his table knocked over a coffee cup. Gambini was no longer visible.

  Hurley was winding down his interview with Woodbury, glancing at his watch, obviously within moments of escaping. Chilton, the White House press officer, held open the door that the President would pass through.

  Harry got up slowly, more or less hoping that Hurley would leave before he could reach him. But Woodbury continued asking questions. “That’s really all I have, Cass,” he said, raising his voice to make himself heard over the noise around him. “New Jersey hasn’t asked for federal help. But we’ll be there if we’re needed.” He nodded encouragingly into a TV camera, waved to someone in the crowd behind Harry, and signaled to his people to get him out.

  Harry was almost at his shoulder now; one of the agents had begun to watch him with growing suspicion.

  Another reporter tried to get in a question about the Middle East, and the agent moved to cut her off as Hurley turned away and started for the door. In that moment, Harry crossed his vision. “Mr. President,” he said, knowing he was making a terrible mistake.

  Hurley required only a moment to place the speaker. “Harry,” he said. “I didn’t know you were here today.”

  “Dr. Gambini is also here, sir. We’d like to have a word with you. It’s important.”

  The elation that had marked the President’s bearing throughout the presentation did not exactly drain away. But Harry saw sudden lines around his mouth, and the dark eyes behind his steel-rimmed glasses grew wary. “Ten minutes,” he said. “In my quarters.”

  Dostoevski, Tolstoi, Dickens, and Melville lined the walls of the sitting room. The books were leather-bound, and one, Anna Karenina, lay open on a coffee table. “These are worn,” said Harry, inspecting several of the volumes. “You don’t suppose Hurley, of all people, reads Russian novels?”

  “If he does, I think he’s smart to keep it quiet.” Gambini was sitting with his eyes closed, hands pushed into his pockets.