by Ed Lerner
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Fictionwise
www.Fictionwise.com
Copyright ©2000 by Edward M. Lerner
First published in Analog, November 2000
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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CHAPTER 1
Dom Perignon flowed and beluga vanished. A chamber orchestra played Bach. Crystal chandeliers sparkled and gold-rimmed china gleamed. An indoor fountain sprayed upwards around an enormous ice swan.
The ITU knew how to party in style.
From a terrace kept comparatively uncrowded by the chill evening breeze off Lake Geneva, Dean Matthews observed the gathering. Inside the hotel's Great Ballroom mingled dozens of international civil servants and hundreds of national delegates. There was an even larger number of “accredited industry observers.” Matthews was one of the lobbyists, representing NetSat, a broadband satcom company.
Completion of a World Administrative Radio Conference was cause for celebration. New wireless technologies, and the implacable growth of older ones, kept the demand for spectrum high. For reasons of historical interest only, many radio bands had differing uses in different parts of the world: a big problem as more systems went global. Users of old systems were entitled to replacement bandwidth when new applications supplanted earlier frequency assignments.
The International Telecommunications Union took the lead in reconciling the many competing claims. That made the ITU an essential, if underappreciated, part of the global economy. Multi-billion-dollar fortunes rose and fell with the outcome of ITU negotiations.
A waiter glided by with champagne. Matthews took a flute for himself and one for his companion. “Congratulations, Madame Secretary-General.”
They clinked glasses.
“You, too.” Fair enough: the WARC had just authorized a frequency range for new broadband services that was compatible with NetSat's working prototype.
Bridget Satterswaithe, the Secretary-General of the ITU, turned to the lake. Great yachts bobbed at anchor, brightly lit by marina spotlights. She sipped her champagne. “Now that the conference is over, I look forward to some sailing. Maybe see my parents in London. Even a quiet...”
Buzzing interrupted her; she retrieved the cell phone from her clutch bag. She appeared surprised at the caller ID on the display. “Please excuse me—I have to take this.”
He took the stairs from the terrace down to the marina, giving Satterswaithe some privacy. Waves lapped peacefully against the shore. The wooden pier creaked under his tread. He, too, anticipated some well-deserved rest.
She rejoined him, sans champagne. She seemed shaken. “You're not going to believe why you won't be getting that bandwidth after all.”
* * * *
Dean held a PhD in physics and an MBA in international trade. With ten years of telecomm experience, he was, in Internet years, a grizzled veteran. As VP of Strategy and Technology for NetSat, his job entailed much more than lobbying the ITU and its national counterparts for bandwidth.
None of that experience prepared him for Bridget's news.
She had insisted that they go first to ITU headquarters, and would not discuss it—whatever it was—in the limo.
She now leaned against a corner of her desk. “This all becomes public knowledge tomorrow. It's been predistributed to governments and the appropriate international scientific bodies. I'm bending rules only slightly by telling you tonight. I'm doing so because, in one very narrow sense, the biggest impact will be on NetSat.
“Of course, life as we know it will also change.”
She had his full attention.
Her call had been from the Secretary-General of the United Nations, parent body to the ITU. The International Academy of Astronautics and MIT were co-hosting a press conference in the morning. Dr. Sherman Xu, the discoverer, would give the first public announcement of a confirmed radio signal indicative of extraterrestrial intelligence. The ITU would immediately initiate an Extraordinary Administrative Radio Conference to fence off the frequencies used by the extra-solar signal.
ET must be using frequencies near those sought by NetSat. Despite his months of effort to secure the desired spectrum, the professional and personal impacts seemed inconsequential. Intelligent alien life!
Satterswaithe extracted a decanter of amber liquid and two glasses from her credenza. “The formation of a UN task force will also be announced, reporting to the Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space. Since ET uses radio, I've been asked to participate on behalf of the ITU.”
He accepted a glass. “I have a terrific job at a world-class company. As of two minutes ago, that doesn't matter to me. This news is epochal. I want to be involved.”
“My impression is that the team will consist of national government and UN personnel, plus academics. Sorry.”
He canted his head thoughtfully. He'd been an RF engineer and systems architect before moving into management. He'd been a SETI (Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence) enthusiast for longer. Perhaps he had the basis for an inference that would impress her. “Let's see what I know about ET that you haven't shared.
“I don't need to tell you that the universe is full of radio noise, or that most of that noise is outside the microwave band. At one end of the microwave window, at a wavelength of 21 centimeters, is the neutral hydrogen line. Hydrogen is the most common element in the universe, so the SETI folks deduce that's the radio-dial marker to listen near.
“The OH ion radiates nearby, at 18 centimeters. H plus OH equals H2O: water. That's why the SETI crowd calls wavelengths between 18 to 21 centimeters the ‘watering hole,’ around which they theorize intelligent species will congregate.”
He tested the liquid in his glass: an unblended Scotch. Served neat: without ice or water. “Of course, that's a water-chauvinist's perspective on SETI.”
He knew that the SETI Institute had examined the nearest thousand stars at watering-hole wavelengths without success. He inferred a NetSat conflict with ET's signal, far from the watering hole. He hadn't read much about SETI work at MIT. All factors pointed away from a finding at the watering hole.
He rolled the dice. “I predict that ET's signal is about 6.7 centimeters: the hydrogen wavelength divided by pi.” Pi was the only transcendental divisor of the hydrogen wavelength that could cause a conflict for NetSat. “That would be a good indicator of a signal from intelligent beings.”
Her raised eyebrow confirmed his speculation.
“Where is the signal from?”
“Lalande 2-something. I hadn't heard of it.”
“Probably Lalande 21185.” The adult physicist had once been a boy with a four-inch telescope. A Web search agent kept him current at a hobbyist level with major astronomical news. “It's one of the stars closest to Earth, about eight light years. Near Leo Minor. It's been believed since 1996 to have at least one planet, Jupiter-sized.”
She was silent for several minutes, making up her mind. “I can't promise anything, but I'll see what I can do.”
* * * *
Bandwidth alone didn't guarantee a successful satcom company—NetSat also needed to put its birds into orbit. Some of their launches were booked on Russian and Chinese boosters. That had meant obtaining licenses to export satellites to the foreign launch sites. And that meant Matthews knew people in the State Department.
The connection worked.
His assistant reached him
on the flight from Switzerland. No need to dash across JFK for the plane to Washington: he had an urgent appointment in Manhattan with Alex Klein, American ambassador to the UN.
The diplomat was as circumlocutory as Matthews was direct. In some manner, it would seem, with vague attribution to the auspices of the Department of State, and in public-minded and full support of a recommendation from the Office of the Secretariat of the ITU, it would appear ... that Dean was in! He should expect an invitation to join the Lalande task force.
The implication was clearer that Klein's office was available to Matthews as a resource.
Unambiguous, if deniably oblique in its delivery, was the subtext that Dean should be forthcoming with any data of a “national security nature” that might arise during the task force deliberations.
CHAPTER 2
Held at a Caribbean resort, the kickoff meeting of the Lalande task force could have been mistaken for a corporate boondoggle. The remote island was far from most of the idly curious; a smattering of UN guards turned away uninvited members of the press.
The people at the registration table disavowed all knowledge when Dean had questioned the round red sticker on his name tag. It related, he presumed, to the as-yet undefined committee structure of the task force. Five colors were in use; no one whose name he recognized had red.
The auditorium doors opened, and the crowd surged inside. The Secretary-General of the UN gave the obligatory pep talk by satellite link. He introduced Kim Chun Ku, the Undersecretary-General for Administrative Affairs, as (the day's first news) head of the task force. The SG was followed by Ambassador Juan Roderigo of Argentina, currently heading COPUOS, the Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space.
Sherman Xu reprised his big announcement of two days before. The signal appeared to come from Lalande 21185. The carrier signal was at the hydrogen wavelength divided by pi. Like naturally occurring cosmic radio sources, the faint signal faded in and out. Unlike natural radio sources, the carrier was modulated with a narrowband signal, under 300 Hertz. About every 30 hours the signal included a sequence of pulses: pulse, pause, two pulses, pause, three pulses ... up to 128 pulses. That pulse sequence was repeated once.
A complex-seeming message followed the easy-to-recognize pulse sequences for thirty hours. The cycle then apparently repeated, although that conclusion was tentative due to noise and signal fading. His team hoped to have synthesized the full message within a week—if the signal persisted that long.
It was almost noon when Kim Chun Ku claimed the podium. Kim's remarks confirmed what his title plainly said: he was an administrator. His third viewgraph was an organization chart: five colored boxes. As one, the audience members glanced at their name badges. Whispered conversations erupted.
Kim tapped the mike until order returned, and he confirmed that colored stickers denoted committee assignments. After lunch, at committee breakout sessions, complete rosters would be made available.
The gold team, at the top of the chart, sounded like what Bridget had called the steering committee. Kim led the gold team. Membership included the leaders of the still undefined other teams, famous names from the SETI community, two assistants to ambassadors from COPUOS-participating countries, and a few UN agency heads like Bridget.
Blue team dealt with radio engineering: signal acquisition and recovery. They would work with the ITU on reducing Earth-originated interference in ET's preferred frequencies, and coordinate among radio observatories worldwide monitoring ET's signal. Blue team was mostly radio astronomers, including Sherman Xu, with some of Bridget's staff thrown in.
Green team owned what struck Matthews as the part of the project most likely to be second-guessed: analysis. They were tasked with decoding and interpreting ET's message. Membership included lots of SETI folks, a codebreaker from the National Security Agency, mathematicians, and linguists.
Gray team would ponder Earth's possible response. Opening a dialogue with another civilization was not about science: this committee was entirely staffed by diplomats assigned by the Security Council. Mathematicians and linguists from Analysis would encode Earth's message after a reply, if any, had been strategized.
And the red team? The best had not been saved for last.
Red denoted the media and education committee. They were to coordinate the release and positioning of everyone else's results. Red team would also field questions and unsolicited suggestions. Matthews’ teammates were pool reporters, PR flacks, educators, and—oh, joy!—a multicultural behavioral response team.
Why was he on the red team?
* * * *
“And so,” concluded Paul Ricard, “our role is to package and control the Lalande information, while respecting various cultural sensitivities. After a short break, I propose to discuss process concepts for that mission.”
The red-team leader had spoken for twenty minutes, without conveying any more than his summary. The viewpoint was what Matthews expected from a PR flack, even one with a prestigious UN title. Dean cleared his throat.
“Dr. Matthews, have you something to add?”
Unfortunately, he did. “Yes, actually. I don't think our charter, as you've spelled it out, can be accomplished.”
“Why is that?” Ricard was more condescending than curious.
Matthews had sensed, when the session opened with brief introductions, that he was not alone in wondering about his assignment. As he had suspected, Dean was the only member with a physical-sciences background.
“We don't have a monopoly on ET information.” The media reps, who were being mysteriously docile, seemed to suffer from the misapprehension that task-force membership guaranteed a lock on all Lalande news. “If we withhold or spin any findings, we'll discredit the whole task force.”
“I question the premise.” Ricard was miffed. “We've brought into the task force the leadership of every major radio telescope. Surely we can rely upon their cooperation in the responsible release of discoveries.”
Irrelevant even if true. “In days, universities worldwide will be monitoring ET directly. They can easily build an adequate receiver from arrays of commercial satellite dishes. Thanks to Dr. Xu, they know exactly where to point the antennas and the frequency to tune to. And they'll all be racing to post observations and interpretations on the Web.”
Many surprised looks were exchanged about the room before Ricard found his voice. “How sure are you about this?”
“Very. As you know, I'm on leave of absence from a satcom company, one of many such firms. Any of a dozen people from my former staff could do this.”
“Dr. Matthews?” asked Amreesh Shah, a psychologist from the behavioral-response group. “What would you propose?”
“Publish our observations rather than filter them. Clearly mark as commentary any ‘adjustments’ we may choose to make.
“While we won't have a monopoly on the signal, we will have resources far beyond those of other listeners. If our postings are prompt and objective, our interpretations insightful, we become the preferred source of ET data. If we hold back, however well-intentioned our reasons, the best we can hope for is marginalization by other news sources. At worst, who knows what motives will be ascribed to us? There's no shortage of people who see conspiracies all around them.”
Shah nodded. “Distrust is the result we can least afford.”
That was one point everyone in the committee agreed upon.
* * * *
From the SETI Conspiracy chat room
Suspect_Everyone: Does it strike anyone else as suspicious that the UN is orchestrating the Lalande investigation?
UFO_believer: Absolutely! And who's behind this “International Academy of Astronautics"?
42_is_true: I'd sure like to see the ET message text from a reliable source, not the US government, and *certainly* not the UN.
Suspect_Everyone: Does it strike anyone else as suspicious that it's suddenly hard to buy satellite dishes?
* * * *
Bridget idly fl
apped the paper umbrella from her tropical punch. Open, close, open, close. “Quite a meeting.”
Satterswaithe was an electrical engineer by training, with a PhD from Oxford. She'd gone straight from university to a British government research establishment. That had been a stepping stone to the ITU, which, after a succession of promotions, she now headed. An adult life spent in bureaucracies had not diminished her determination to make things happen. She had, however, developed a tolerance for committees that Matthews could not fathom.
Dean favored a local beer he'd discovered on the first night of the kickoff. Delightful microbrew notwithstanding, he was eager to get back to the States. He and Satterswaithe had met in the airport bar, awaiting their separate flights. “It turned out okay. Maybe I'll cancel the mob contract I took out on you.”
“For accomplishing what you pleaded for?”
“Requested in a dignified manner.” He gestured for another round. “No, for putting me with the social scientists and spin doctors. Look, I respect their sincerity and good intentions, but I've never met so many people who see the glass as half empty.”
“Don't blame me or the gold team. Yours was one of the few assignments Kim had made before Steering even met.” A boarding announcement from a staticky PA drowned out her next words.
“What?”
“I asked, ‘So how is it that things turned out okay?’.”
“Had it been my choice, I would've had a tough time deciding between Signals, Analysis, and Reply. It occurred to me that someone on the red team has to liaise with those other committees. A technically oriented interfacer made sense. So I've gotten myself access to all of the information that Steering has, without, no offense, enduring all of that bureaucratic ponderousness.”
“No offense taken.” She laughed. “Well, maybe a little. In any case, I'm off to my gate. I'm glad it worked out for you.”
He decided he was glad for her abrupt departure, which avoided the awkward question about whom, since it wasn't the steering committee, wanted him on the Media & Education team. It couldn't have been Kim's idea: Kim knew nothing about him.