A. R. Yngve - Alien Beach.pdf

(537 KB) Pobierz
A
A.R.Yngve
ALIEN BEACH
Chapter One
DAY 1
"You're not listening to me," the woman told the soldier.
She was right; he did hear her, but he wasn't listening. The soldier lay staring at the tiny
black-and-white TV set before the bed. The newscast was hurried, stunned, as if the Second
Coming had happened without warning. The soldier was initially testy enough to shout at the
woman to shut up, but in the next few seconds he didn't care to. Transfixed by the small screen,
he took in the breaking news.
"The signals are being received from a point off the plane of our solar system, at a distance
twice that to Mars. World-famous astrophysicist Carl Sayers, known for his work to find
extraterrestrial intelligence, has gathered with other scientists at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in
Pasadena, the NASA command-and-monitoring station for deep-space probes, to study the
signals. "Professor Sayers could finally give this comment to the CNN just a minute ago…”
"We have now established, beyond all reasonable doubt, that this is not a hoax. The TV
broadcast comes from an extraterrestrial source, extremely strong and with tremendous
bandwidth; that's why it shows up on so many of the world's stations. The source is a moving
transmission disk, with a diameter of… roughly, a thousand kilometers. And from the way the
signal increases in intensity, we have calculated that the disk is approaching the Earth with
decreasing speed.
"We now have reason to believe, that the disk is in fact an enormously huge solar sail, made
up of very, very thin metal foil, which is slowing down as it moves into an orbit…parallel to that of
Mars. It will probably settle in orbit, in the wake of Mars, where it will be shielded from the solar
wind - kind of a port in a cosmic mistral, if you like.
"And according to the alien broadcast, a smaller ship will leave the solar sail and orbit the
Moon while awaiting our invitation to visit Earth. I cannot express to you the excitement I feel, as
do all my colleagues here at the JPL. This is... this is..."
The excited scientist obviously hadn't slept very well for the last few 24 hours; neither had
the soldier. The headaches were still interrupting his nights - despite the booze, the women, and
the pills. The soldier's head was a little less heavy this morning, and he felt like getting some more
sleep - but the news of the alien TV broadcast pestered his brain, not with the dull pain of
headache but with the rush of anticipation. He couldn't remember being this excited since the war.
The woman, next to him in the bed, gave him an impatient push.
"What's the matter, soldier? You want me to go?" He sighed, rubbing his temples, avoiding
her sharp voice and stare.
"Yes," he groaned. "Go. I don't know you."
She pulled back strands of black hair from her tanned face and leaned closer to him, her soft
hands trying to gently pull his gaze from the TV. "But we just met," she said softly into his ear. "I
want to get to know you better..."
He turned to face her, and gave her an angry look. No you don't, he thought, and she let go -
as if she had heard his thoughts. Without a word, the woman gathered her clothes and began to
dress. From the other side of the half-closed window shutters, the street was teeming and
clamoring with human life.
The soldier had not wanted to be part of such life for the last two years. He had been drifting
around the Middle East since the war, in permanent early retirement, going nowhere, until this
morning when his life got a purpose again. Struck by instant epiphany after the TV news, he now
knew that he had to learn everything he could about the aliens. And then, just maybe, get a
chance to see them. And then - he couldn't picture what next.
Already, mocking his noble intentions, the thirst for booze, pills, whatever, was setting in.
When the fully clothed woman closed the door behind her, he watched some more TV.
"The strangest features of the Sirian broadcast is its wondrous clarity and briefness. Even a
child can understand it; the smallest satellite disk on a house is sufficient to receive it. Videotape
and CD copies of the main message, running ninety minutes long until repeated, must already
exist in millions of households all over the world.
"The broadcast has been on the air only since yesterday, and already many viewers have
asked us: isn’t ninety minutes too much of a coincidence? How come the alien solar-sail wasn’t
detected long before? Wouldn’t this and other odd things indicate that the broadcast is a fraud? At
a closer look, there are elements in its narrative structure which seem inspired by 1950s’ TV
shows and broadcast films. Strange as this may seem, it is not overly strange - since the
extraterrestrials claim to have had their sights set on Earth when they picked up and decoded our
early wide-band broadcasts. Being more advanced, and encountering their first messages from
our emerging technological civilization, they responded in kind…in both NTSC and PAL signals.
"Long will future generations of humans watch that historical first broadcast over and over:
moving, somewhat jerky black-and-white photographic pictures, accompanied by written, clumsy
English subtexts and simple sign language, carrying the Sirians' intent to mankind. And they will
reminisce how with it, the fantastic suddenly became mundane; alien visitors from space became
a daily chatting topic, like Iranian missiles or the greenhouse effect..."
The pundits were already turning the event into an excuse for endless media navel-gazing.
Painstakingly, the soldier got up from bed and stumbled into the shower. Amphibians from space,
he thought. Bet they don't have to take showers. Bet they don't feel dirty, foul, exhausted all the
time.
The soldier cried as he thought so, but he stayed in the shower to escape seeing or feeling
the tears on his face. A while later, when the sun stood at the zenith, the soldier left his hotel-room
and went out into the bustling city. Situated on an island off the coast of the Persian Gulf, this
garrison town was something of a freezone in the Arab world. Here were bars which served
alcohol to infidel soldiers - though not as many bars nor infidels for the past few years, since
terrorists had started putting pressure on Filipino barmaids to hide their legs and arms from sight.
He brought a Walkman radio with him, so that he could follow any further news about the Sirians.
Resting the small headphones around his neck, he cranked up the volume to hear it over the
prayer-calls. Above the city, the tall, newly-built minarets spread their wailing, two-note message
through loudspeakers: "God is greater... there is no god but God..." The soldier suppressed a
smile of sudden ironic insight. He thought: A call from the sky. Looks like the competition is
thickening, God. What will all these people think, they who go on pilgrimage to kiss a rock that fell
from space, ages ago? Would they kiss an alien spaceship too?
The soldier wandered into the street-corner café near his hotel. Earlier, the regular Arab
customers used to give him hostile looks - after all, he still wore some of his old uniform - but after
a few months they had gotten used to the brooding foreigner. This morning, the soldier was almost
completely ignored; the men inside were caught up watching the TV set above the counter.
Unsurprisingly, they were watching CNN as well. The soldier overheard bits of the conversation,
and though his Arabic was shaky he understood them well:
"They look almost human."
"They're amphibians, they say."
"Imagine. Like a National Geographic team from space!"
"What if they bring disease with them?"
"I'm not afraid."
"Yes you are. We all are."
"We've got missiles too, don't we? And the Iranians, and the Israelis too... they could come
to good use after all."
"Let them come. If they try anything...ffchh...boom!"
"Maybe the angels are coming. Inshallah."
"Angels with - ugh! - arms like snakes! You're talking nonsense!"
"Monsters. Demons. It's the end of the world."
“Aw, shut up!”
"It must be a fraud. The Jews set it up to undermine our faith."
"The demons are coming from hell, in the guise of angels."
"Naah, it's nothing but actors in rubber suits... look, you can almost see the zippers!"
"Aha, like that American show, 'X-Files'..."
"To hell with 'X-Files'. This is for real!" The bravest customer, a suave youngster with
leanings toward Western culture and clothing, turned to look at the soldier - as if he alone
possessed an understanding the older men lacked. The soldier had sat down in his regular corner
at the end of the counter, drinking the strong local coffee, eating late breakfast, watching the TV
news. The young Arab touched the soldier's sleeve, addressing him with serious intent. With an ill
grace, the soldier gave him half a red-eyed look.
"Hey, amrikani. What do you say?” The young man gestured toward the TV screen. “Is this
an American bluff?"
The soldier felt vaguely accused by the youngster's tone of voice, and he didn't like the dark
stares from some of the older customers. He made an averting gesture - couldn't think clearly. He
had nothing in common with these people, he was an alien here. And the land he used to call
"home" had become an alien world of artificial people obsessed with health, money, silicon,
steroids, and happiness pills. The soldier couldn't answer the Arab's question. He could only think
of one thing to say, but aimed at the sky: Take me away from here. Take me anywhere, but away
from this planet. Which of course would have sounded stupid. So he looked down at his plate and
kept his mouth shut.
One elderly man with a hookah at his table stopped puffing to say: "He's homesick. Go home
to Mars, amrikani!" Everyone laughed. The soldier nodded toward the joker with a faint smile.
"Home... phone home," he said in nasal English. Only the young Arab seemed to get the joke; he
fell silent, as if he understood its underlying meaning. The soldier stood up and walked out of the
café. He had to struggle uphill now, if he was to get anywhere with his newly found aim in life. First
of all, he must avoid just going through the old drinking routine. The urge was there all right, to buy
the cheapest illegal liquor and get drunk in the afternoon. His headache, forgotten for almost half
an hour, was returning... he could no longer tell, whether it was withdrawal or the war injury that
was the source. He stood there in the hot, dusty street, people jostling by, fingering his forehead,
fighting the old numb thirst for booze, looking around with unseeing eyes. He moved his right
tentacle toward his jaw, and wondered what had happened to his stubble... his jaw had never felt
so large and smooth... The headache grew stronger - he groaned with pain, squinting - and the
blue-green waves roared crashing through the street. As he crouched, he saw his feet: flat, long,
and gray, making little flapping sounds as he staggered through the wet, white sand. His gaze shot
upward. The sun turned green (natural or filtered through the atmosphere?), outshining its tiny
white companion star. He opened his mouth and screamed. "Gnnh… chiskr-r-r... chiskr-r-r... chis
chiptl mmer-r-r-lleee!!" The soldier collapsed in the street. The passing citizens stared at the fallen
Westerner, amazed at his inhuman gibberish. A few men rushed out of the café and leaned down
to see what had happened. The soldier lay unconscious but seemingly in turmoil - his arms and
legs made strange, almost undulating movements, as if he attempted to dance. Or swim. "He's
having an epileptic fit," one of the café-goers said. "Get this man to the American military hospital.
Hurry!" A pen was wedged between the soldier's jaws; the café owner called for a taxi on his
cellular phone. Within a minute, the men could carry the soldier into the passenger seat. He had
ceased moving now, and lay limp in the seat as the car drove him through the streets of the city.
Chapter Two
Astrophysics professor Carl Sayers stirred from an uneasy sleep; after a moment's
confusion, he got his bearings. He had dozed off in his guest office at the JPL headquarters. Back
at the old JPL at Pasadena, California, he mused - all the old days spent here, designing space
probes, following their orbits through the Solar System, paying off at last. Someone knocked on
the door; he shouted at the caller to come in. "Did I wake you up?" asked biologist-anthropologist
Ann Meadbouré as she entered the provisional office. He recognized her slight, crisp French
accent from the phone. Carl made a sleepy-sly face as he straightened in his armchair, yawning.
His own voice, when he answered, still carried traces of the old Brooklyn accent: "Hi, Ann...
question is, why didn't you wake me when you arrived?" The younger woman smiled; she was still
carrying the bag with the airline tags on it, but she had arrived almost an hour before. "The staff
were going to wake you up, but I told them you deserved some rest. I'm rather tired myself, what
with the flight from Sri Lanka." Carl brightened up at mentioning of the island. "How is Arthur doing
now? I bet he wanted to follow you on this job." Ann slumped down on the sofa next to Carl's desk.
The office was one of several with a panoramic window overlooking the command central, which
was now crowded with scientists. A horde of journalists was camping outside the building, and Ann
had had to push and elbow her way past them. As they talked, Ann noticed some other
newcomers out in the command central. They waved at Ann, and she waved back. "Yes, he and
the rest of the world. But he's getting to be too old and sick for travel now. Poor Arthur! The first
contact is finally happening, and he can't board the space-shuttle to come and greet them." Carl
groaned, holding his gray, shaggy head between his hands. "Don't say it! I'm the one who wrote
that stupid book about a first contact! And imagine... they, the Sirians, may have actually seen
parts of the film on TV! I feel like the greatest dork in the universe." Ann reached forward to pat his
hand, but didn't quite reach it. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Carl. I'm... I'm sure they haven't seen
it. Pity Hollywood instead, with their invasion movies." He chuckled, his face wrinkling into a
sardonic grin. Carl was pushing sixty-five and getting rather thin, but he still hadn’t lost the childish
twinkle in his eye; the hawkish nose was yet instantly recognizable. Carl Sayers' face had, through
the years, become something of a public media icon - especially in the last few years after
Hollywood made a movie of his book about contact with aliens. However, his lifelong commitment
had never really changed. After the first excitement of the alien message, he had cleared his head
with new resolve: he would not let the greatest moment of his life turn into a media circus. It was
his long media experience plus his devotion that had made him the focus of the recent events; as
newly appointed head of NASA's Extraterrestrial Contact Team, he was determined to keep the
media at a strict distance from the aliens. Carl had insisted on bringing Ann Meadbouré to the
project, since she had shown a similar devotion and was a friend though he hadn’t seen much of
her - Arthur, the old SF writer and a mutual acquaintance, could vouch for her skilled research in
dolphin-human communication. Now their commitment would be put to the ultimate test - they
would be allowed to communicate with real-life aliens.
He stood up and shook hands with Ann, who gave him a hug. "I really appreciate that you
would join us," he began, hoping he didn't sound too friendly - Ann looked younger than her thirty-
five years, and was quite beautiful in a very French, elegant sense of the word. Her short-cropped
blond hair framed her symmetric features and clear gray eyes - they had been covered by ugly
glasses the last time he had seen her, but now she seemed to be wearing contact-lenses. "Don't
be silly, Carl," she said with surprising self-control in her voice, "I'm one of the lucky few and I
know it. When do we all meet up?" "Please, Ann - I must save my energy for the big briefing
tomorrow. I know how hard it is to relax now. You know what I did when NASA first called me
about the alien transmission? I thought it was a damned joke and hung up on them!"
Ann almost laughed as she rummaged through her bags for cigarettes, listening to Carl
without looking at him. "It seemed like a joke then, because I thought such a huge transmitter in
space would show up in the telescopes, years before it came this close! And intelligent life, more
advanced than our own, coming from a double-star system that is only one billion years old? It
defies belief! Planets just plain can't hold stable orbits in a double-star system for long enough that
life can originate. Their planet would be thrown out into the cold or swallowed by one of the two
stars!" Ann couldn't remember the last time she had seen Carl so upset. She said: "They must be
thousands of years ahead of us, you know. Maybe they can do things we can only dream of yet."
She lit a cigarette and drew the poisonous, acrid smoke into her lungs. Ann had quit weeks ago,
saving a pack to test her willpower. The moment she had seen the Sirian TV broadcast, she took
up smoking again - the irony of which now escaped her somehow. She had to work constantly to
keep her outer persona cool and detached, to control the threatening confusion and chaos building
up inside her head... The older scientist paused, paced in no particular direction, stopping at the
window. She thanked the god she didn’t believe in, that Carl didn’t notice how nervous she really
was. Carl's lined face, as he looked out at the command central outside, was reflected in the glass
so that Ann glimpsed the vast, exhausting awe he felt. He looked not happy, not sad, but
overpowered... mentally flattened. "No," he said, voice husky with exertion. "Tens of thousands,
perhaps even a hundred thousand years ahead. They can understand us, the way we understand
monkeys. Question is... how can we possibly understand them, or even be sure we do?" Carl
frowned. A half-conscious thought that had begun when he saw Ann up close, suddenly cleared.
She had made herself prettier not for him, not for the other scientists - but for the aliens.
Ceremony, he had forgotten ceremony. If they should all dress up for the occasion? "Isn’t your
wife here?” Ann asked - Carl’s wife usually worked close to him, them both being scientists and
devoted to each other as well as their work. Carl explained, a little awkwardly: "We, uh, decided
that one of us should stay behind with the family, just in case there was a danger of exposure to
alien microbes." It was the truth, yet he feared people would misinterpret it. Then the phone rang,
and all of a sudden Carl had a million other things to deal with.
DAY 2
The next morning, the newly-formed ECT gathered in the lab’s Von Karman Auditorium for
their first big meeting: a dozen people, mostly astronomers and specialists in the fields of biology
and spaceflight. Also present at the meeting were the NASA chief, the U.S. Air Force Joint Chief
Of Staff, the Vice President, and the head of the National Security Council. All three visitors sat in
the background and kept silent, perhaps out of insecurity in the new situation; they listened intently
to what the team had to say. A cameraman from the White House was filming the entire meeting,
so that the President and the U.N. Security Council could follow it from the United Nations
Headquarters in New York. Other guests connected via the camera link were various scientists,
NASA staff, and Ann's friend Arthur back in Sri Lanka. Carl Sayers, standing at the conference
room's small lectern, introduced the people present and made some formal notices about
discretion - then he went on to his main speech. "I assume that you have seen the Sirian message
already; it's all over the world, and they will surely keep repeating it until we respond. Well, as we
speak the President and the U.N. Security Council are discussing the next step. I'm pretty sure
most heads of state are eager to get their hands on alien technology, so they won't refuse the
Sirians a visit altogether. "Now, NASA's preliminary plan is as follows. First, we establish a certain
frequency and stick to it, so that the aliens... er, Sirians are clear about who they should listen to -
remember, almost anyone can send something they might receive with their big disk! "Then we
send a radio message on several frequencies, making it clear that they are welcome - as long as
we decide the conditions of their visit. They must not spread alien microorganisms or other
uncontrollable life forms into our system, so personal contact will be difficult. I assume we can
work something out, or that the Sirians have some kind of solution... "The first close encounter will
have to take place on neutral ground: close enough to make it soon, but not too close to Earth. I
have suggested the surface of the Moon, and the President has declared his support of the idea."
He nodded toward the camera, and flashed a quick smile. "Now, who will be the first to meet the
Sirian envoy in person? Not me, I'm afraid..." The scientists laughed, greatly relieved by the joke at
such a time. "It will in all likelihood be an American astronaut, shuttled over from our space station,
who will be appointed Earth Ambassador. A great honor. "The Sirians have mentioned a first,
personal meeting in their message, but they weren't precise about the conditions. How should the
initial communication proceed? We don't know. Can they speak our language, since they have
taped our own TV and radio broadcasts since at least the 1950s? We don't know. Do they have
complex rules of conduct, which we must learn before we can risk a close encounter? We don't

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika:

Zgłoś jeśli naruszono regulamin