Meeting Of Minds
by
Ben Chenoweth
Copyright 2011 Ben Chenoweth
Smashwords Edition
(First edition published in
Australia in 1994 on the
Chenoweth family computer)
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Table Of Contents
For friendship, and inspiration.
This is for you, and your sense of humour.
part
one:
MeetingOfMindsTM
"Nothing which is at all times and in every way agreeable to us can have objective reality. It is of the very nature of the real that it should have sharp corners and rough edges, that is should be resistant, should be itself. Dream-furniture is the only kind on which you never stub your toes or bang your knee."
C.S.Lewis
before
Mom's Place
He opened his eyes.
All he could see was white, like an expanse of pristine snow gleaming under a clear sky, an immensity of pureness that almost made him close his eyes again. He found it impossible to judge depth; he could have been looking millions of miles, or just at a brightly lit ceiling.
And then, as if his eyes had adjusted to the lightness, he was looking at a brightly lit ceiling.
Alright, he thought. I'm here. Now what?
He was lying on what felt like a bed. Quite comfortable actually. It wasn't too hard (or else, what's the point of using a bed at all - you might as well sleep on the floor), and not too soft (which always left various parts of his anatomy feeling like they'd just run a marathon without stretching first or having a nice pleasant massage afterwards.)
He sat up, feeling a trifle dizzy. The room shifted into focus, as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and placed his feet in the luxurious carpet.
Nice. Trés chic.
A quick glance around the room showed that it looked remarkably like one you would find in any decent and upstanding hostelry in the better parts of town: plenty of space, expensive furniture that looked antique (but beautifully restored), pictures on the walls, walk-in wardrobes with brass fittings. Presumably, one of the doors led to an en suite. Lots of shine, taste and money was on view. It was quite apparent that the interior decorators knew how to spell the word 'opulent', and had a good idea what it meant.
There was a little bedside table within arm's reach. On it, there was a telephone, a couple of books, and a glass of water. He was never one to pass up an opportunity to browse through a book so he picked up one of them. It had quite a long title: A Smug Little Treatise On The Value Of A Planned Political Economy, by a Scholar. Very strange, yet somehow familiar. Not quite what he would have expected to find in the circumstances (he'd been expecting a Gideon's Bible), but still it could be useful. For insomnia, for instance. He opened it only to find that all the pages were blank.
Curiouser and curiouser, he thought, thumbing quickly through the book. Ah, of course! A product of the collapse of the Empire, brought on by the success of custom-built planets... A subtle reference, but I sense your hand in it, Dave.
He put the book down next to the other one, which he now noticed was a Gideon's Bible. Without needing to open it, he just knew that John 3:16 would be underlined. It always was.
He stood up with the intent to check out the pictures. His first glance had shown there were two Picassos (looking disconcertingly genuine) and a print of M.C.Escher's 'Relativity' hung upside-down, not that anyone but an authority would have known. He was just going over to check, when the telephone started ringing.
Well, someone knows I'm here. I guess it must be Dave, although I thought I'd meet him in person. He leant over and picked up the receiver.
"Ah, hello?"
"Yo, Jon! How ya doing?"
He recognised the voice easily.
"Dave, I thought I'd be seeing you..."
"Oh, I decided to give you some time to adjust. I'm real close to you. Just down the passage."
"Which passage?"
"The one outside your room."
"Oh, I hadn't got that far yet... this is a hotel, right?"
"Well, more a sort of reception area, really. You wouldn't want to materialise in the middle of a conference, would you?"
"No, I guess not. So, this is MeetingOfMindsTM. I'd heard so much about it, but it's even more impressive than I'd even imagined. The carpet is amazing..."
"Yeah, I know."
"Tell, me," asked Jon, "What's the 'TM' for?"
"It's the abbreviation for 'trade mark'. You know, some sort of copyright thing. I don't know much about it, but I know our lawyers are always going on about it. Look, let's finish this now, and I'll take you to the conference room itself."
"OK. Where do I go?"
"Out the door, turn left, and I'll meet you outside my room."
"Easy enough."
"Right, be seeing you."
"Bye."
He hung up.
Well, no point hanging around. He walked over to the door, opened it, and stepped through. Into an en suite. It, too, was radiantly stylish while retaining a certain rustic charm, but it wasn't the passage. Backtracking, he tried the other door. This time he found the corridor.
The interior decorators hadn't limited all their time (or funds) to the reception rooms, for the corridor carried on the same fixation-with-wealth motif: more famous paintings lined the walls, the carpet was deep, every shiny surface gleamed, and antique electric light-fittings1 hung from the ceiling. The whole effect was spoiled somewhat by the man at the end who was wearing ripped jeans, a scruffy goatee that any self-respecting goat would have shaved off years ago, and a Mickey Mouse tie. Dave.
Jon hurried towards him.
"Hey, what took you so long?" he asked Jon.
"Well, I thought I'd better check out the, er, facilities. You know, the en suite."
"Oh, right. Well, what do you think?"
"Quite nice. Polished...um...clean...button looked like it would work..."
"Not about the toilet! I mean, what do you think of the whole set-up?"
"Oh, sorry... It's great, I mean, fantastic. Must have cost a fortune."
"Looks that way doesn't it." Dave looked pleased. "We spent a lot of time making sure it was up to scratch. After all, for us the appearance is everything. As they say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder."
"Well this beholder is impressed."
"Enough chit-chat. Come and have a look at the conference room. It's worth seeing."
Dave led Jon down the passage to a large double-door which he proceeded to open. On the other side was a magnificent room, although calling it a 'room' was to diminish the impact. It was more like a sculpture. This would be what the United Nations Assembly would look like if they had the budget of a Steven Spielberg movie, Jon thought. And the effects.
There was a huge circular table in the middle of the room, with a large hole in the centre. Around the outside of the table were seats, indented slightly so that the whole thing, seen from above, would resemble a giant cog-wheel. In front of every seat there was a computer console that included a keyboard, a mouse and a notepad (for a light-pen). Jon sat down in one of the seats, and Dave sat nearby.
"Well?"
"I'm stunned," said Jon.
"Thanks!"
"It's absolutely amazing..."
"Well, this is Mom's place. This is MeetingOfMindsTM (and don't you forget the TM!) This is what corporations around the globe pay through the nose to use for their board meetings."
"It looks great."
"Well, we tried to replicate what the United Nations Assembly would look like if they'd had the budget of a Steven Spielberg movie."
"...And the effects."
"Yeah."
"How does it work?"
"Just like any other kind of meeting, except it takes place in virtual reality. There are so many advantages. For instance, the expensive décor costs as much as it takes to program in - and there's no maintenance."
"Very neat."
"Also, we can do a lot of nifty things for speaker presentations."
He pressed a button on the console in front of him and stood up. And disappeared.
"Dave?"
"Over here."
He'd reappeared in the hole in the centre of the table.
"This is where people can give their speeches, or whatever. The best thing is that everyone sitting around the table would see me talking directly at them, because each person's vision is individualised. As the speaker, I actually see everyone in rows. It also helps if I want to use slides, videos or holovids."
He pushed some more buttons. First, some spectacular photographs of waterfalls appeared, hanging in the air behind and slightly to the left of him. Then, the photos started moving. Then, suddenly, he appeared to be standing next to a real waterfall, splashing his hands under the flow. As quickly as it appeared, it vanished.
"Alright!" cried Jon, and applauded.
"Thank you, thank you," said Dave, bowing left and right. "You see, with virtual reality, many impossible things become possible."
"I saw."
"Oh yeah, and if it turns out the speaker is dead boring, there are games built into the consoles, as well as some books, movies, magazines and TV. Just as long as you don't laugh in the wrong spots, no one will know, because your view is completely personalised."
"I'm getting sick of saying 'amazing'."
"I'm used to it, I guess."
"And it gets used a lot?"
"What, 'amazing'?"
"No. This whole thing."
"All the time. We've got facilities for twenty of these conferences to run simultaneously with up to fifty people in each. We can make even bigger ones, if needed. And they're all getting used on a regular basis. Think about it, you can meet people here even if they live on the other side of the world, give or take a fractionally-small time delay."
"Amazing...whoops!"
"Actually, we need to leave about now. The Australian parliament is booked in five minutes from now. When the menu appears, just choose QUIT."
Dave disappeared.
A number of words appeared in the air directly in front of Jon. He reached forward and grasped the one that said QUIT. The others faded away, leaving a message:
Thank you for using
MeetingOfMindsTM.
Have a good reality.
It hung in space long enough for him to read it, then gradually the conference room faded around him, leaving him in a smallish room painted completely with white. He was sitting on a section of the floor that was raised from the rest at a comfortable seat height, wearing a light, rubberish jump-suit that completely covered every centimetre of his skin except for his face.
He knew where this was. The room was known as a dynamic interface and was the engineering marvel behind the success of MOMTM. It was essentially a section of flexible flooring that could move in any direction with a variety of speeds, but that could also be deformed from below.
He stood up, and behind him the floor levelled itself. Looking about him, he located the door, and walked towards it. If the floor had been in active mode, he would have stayed very much in the centre of the room, but it was off, so he quickly had the door open and was through.
Jon stepped out into a sophisticated work-room. A couple of cubicles like the one he'd just been in could be seen around the walls, and in the middle, masses of computers sat on benches. Dave was already there.
"Our main programming centre," he said, waving vaguely with his left hand. "Look, I'm dying for a bowl of ice-cream. Let's get into our proper gear and head to the café down the street. Don't forget the earplugs and contact lenses." As he spoke, he took out his earplugs and put them in a receptacle. The contacts followed. Jon did the same.
Dave left the room in the direction of the changing facilities, with Jon close behind. The lights automatically switched themselves off, and in the new darkness, the computers blinked a seemingly random pattern of lights that would have been almost hypnotic if anyone had been there to see them.
Café Java Jive
"And another thing: computers. In almost every movie with a computer in it, the people using them can do absolutely astounding things by pushing (at most) three buttons." Dave was speaking about one of his favourite topics - scientific inaccuracies in movies. "It's just unreal, in the true sense of the word. For example, a six-year-old kid creates a three-dimensional model of his bedroom and his backyard - from scratch, mind you - and then animates the escape route of his pet budgerigar, all by pushing the spacebar a couple of times! OK, that may be a bit extreme, but you know what I mean..."
It was Jon's turn.
"Yeah, I notice some things as well, relating to my own interests, I guess. A good example is in Dances With Wolves. There's this white woman, right, who's supposed to have been raised by the Sioux for most of her life. However, when Kevin Costner shows up, she starts to remember English. Fair enough, it is an important plot device, and saves Costner having to learn Sioux. The only thing is, she speaks English really nasally. Extremely so. I guess the film-makers wanted her to sound different. Anyway, the problem is the Sioux language is not the least bit nasal, at least as it is spoken in the film. So there is no linguistic reason why she would speak English nasally..."
They were sitting in the café around the corner from the workshop of MOMTM, and had just about finished their late-night snack.
"I remember someone telling me," said Dave, noisily slurping the dregs of his milkshake, "that Arnie, in the famous motorcycle chase along a canal in Terminator 2, changes up gears at least fifty times without once changing down."
"Hmmm," murmured Jon. "Makes you think..."
"Why? What about?"
"Oh, I don't know. I was just thinking."
"Er, right."
"Anyway, Dave, tell me more about MeetingOfMinds."
"TM."
"Yeah, sorry, TM."
"OK, brief rundown. You've seen the dynamic interface, and the actual Mom's place..."
"...and very impressive it was, too."
"Look, if you interrupt, we'll be here all night."
"Sorry." Jon tried to sound suitably penitent, but failed miserably.
"Well, the dynamic interface, in conjunction with the electronics in the jumpsuit, can simulate any surface shape and texture. You, yourself, experienced the feel of the carpet. Not only that, but since the floor can move in any direction, including up and down in sections, all movement can be simulated as well. I'm not just talking about walking, but also running, climbing stairs, riding a bicycle, driving a car. The only difficulties we've found have been trying to get the effect of falling. Climbing a cliff-face is also hard to accomplish. Weightlessness, I fear, may be impossible at this stage. Anyway, we're working on those."
"We?"
"Oh, the programmers and engineers at MOMTM."
"What about the jumpsuit? What's the point of wearing it?"
"You weren't listening. As I said, there's a lot of electronics built into it, so that it can simulate texture by stimulating your touch receptors electrically. It also fools your muscles into thinking they are pressing against something if needed. A wall, for instance. Of course, there's the earphones, and the scent-glands for any appropriate smells. The contact-lenses are the most delicate part, but they basically project an image into each eye. Put everything together, and I call it LSD - Localised Sensory Deception."
"Sounds hopelessly complicated."
"Well, it took ages to set up, but it's been modulated really well. Now that it's all there, it doesn't take much to design a new room."
"I'm very impressed, and boy, have I said that too many times today. No, it really works well."
"Oh, they don't call me Doctor Dave for nothing... and don't say it's because I pay them..."
They finished up, paid for their meals, and left the café. Walking along the road back to MOMTM, Jon remembered something that had been bothering him slightly.
"And where do I fit into all this? What needs to be done now?"
"Well, MOMTM is fully established now. We've got cubicles scattered over most of the country and in places overseas, too; it's growing quickly now. But we're looking to upgrades, and one thing will be exteriors, especially night exteriors. That's where your astrophysics comes in."
"All right, that sounds fun."
"Thought you'd like it. Look, I want you to come round to my place next Thursday, and meet Ruth."
"Ruth?"
"She's another one of the programmers at MOMTM. And my girlfriend."
They'd reached where Jon had parked his car, although that was certainly stretching the meaning of the word. To say it was road-worthy would be to overlook the faulty electrical system, the missing wheel-nuts, the wired-on muffler, the cracks in the crank-case, and the fact that reverse didn't work.
"Well, I'd best be off, Dave. Thanks heaps for the tour."
"Not a problem. You might be seeing a bit more of it."
"Looking forward to it. And to Thursday."
"See you then."
"Bye."
Jon started the engine (fourth try), put the car in gear (with a stomach-churning grind), and drove off. Surprisingly, there wasn't any part of the engine sitting on the road where the car had been; Dave had almost expected it. He walked off cheerfully, trying to remember where he'd parked his own car.
Behind him, a crumpled aluminium can sparkled in the reflected street-light, looking like a star trying to communicate with Earth using an alien morse code.
Andy's Existence
A light rain fell, as a figure hurried across one of the many court-yards that made up the grounds of the University. Deciduous trees, their branches denuded of foliage, swayed in the breeze while their own leaves, whipped into eddies, swirled about the trunks. A couple of adventurous leaves saw an opportunity to make someone's day, and flew into the face of the figure, and clung there stubbornly. The boy, in an unsuccessful attempt to dislodge them, stumbled into a puddle and splashed muddy water all over his legs. The fact that this had happened on the one day in his life when he was wearing a suit did not escape him. He swore, inventively. Unlike people who swear because they only know one adjective and a few nouns, he'd long since decided to increase his word power, especially in the realm of exclamations. He'd just used one that a medical student had taught him; it was quite impressive, and he'd been practising.
He tried to lessen the damage by brushing the water off, but the damage had been done. And he was already late.
Aw, who cares! he thought. It probably won't make any difference...
He continued on, however. He knew he'd lied just then - he did care, otherwise he'd never have bothered with the suit. So, here he was, dressed up to the nines (well, with the muddy legs, it was probably only seven and a half), scurrying across the University in an attempt to make it to an interview with one of his lecturers.
If anything, the rain was heavier than before, but this seemed to dampen the enthusiasm of any gymnastically-inclined leaves - none bothered him again. However, the rain played havoc with his suit. Make that 'six', he thought.
He was nearly at the computer centre now; he could see the lighted windows where the computer labs were.
Man, you make one mistake and you pay for it for the rest of your life. If only today will be the last time... He'd certainly hoped so. That's what the suit was for - to show that he was ready to move on. If only...
He entered the first computer lab and shook the rain out of his hair. He'd been instructed to meet Dr. Werner in the third lab, so he hurried through. The place was deserted; most of the computer screens were off, waiting. From another room, or even another floor, he heard muffled voices, but he couldn't distinguish any words.
This is almost creepy.
The second lab was as deserted as the first.
So was the third.
OK, so I'm late. At least you could have waited for me...
He was about to turn around and leave when a lighted computer screen caught his eye. It was the only one in the whole room that was on. Moving closer, he saw that there was only one word on the screen: 'Andy'. His name.
He sat down at the terminal. He started typing.
- here.
- about time. passwd?
- fingers
- good 2 hear from u a.
- sorry i'm late.
- ok. progress report on tr?
- done. no more probs from tr.
- xellent. next job: dp.
- wait. i thought that was it.
- wrong. u can't cheat on projects & xpect 2 b let off.
- yes but i have done your dirty work 4 2 years now.
- enough! if this 1 is successful i may re-consider your position.
- u mean graduation?
- yes. but this uni cannot b seen 2 promote cheats even ones who r
good hackers.
- ok. next job?
- david parkin. progr at mom. i want u 2 monitor his work over
next months. nothing more. yet.
- ok.
- call me after 1st contact. usual channels. ^C
- yes sir. ^C
He stood up, angrily. Swearwords! Another job. And he'd forgotten to mention the suit. Over the terminals it could have been 'nine' and Dr. Werner wouldn't have known any better.
He needed a coffee, so he went to the Caf.
He met Al on the way. It was fairly late in the evening by now, and only a few students were around, scurrying home after late lectures, trying to avoid flying leaves. The Caf, however, was quite full. On a cold night, a hot cup of coffee does much to soothe a weary body, thought Andy. Which is exactly what I need.
Al was a typical student. He dressed in the unofficial uniform of the University: jeans (Levi red tabs), shirt (with an exposed T-shirt underneath.) He wore Doc Martens as well, but this was optional. He took his studies fairly seriously, but was not adverse to missing the occasional tutorial. After all, everyone did. In fact, you weren't considered a 'student' until you'd missed an important lecture just to have coffee in the Caf with friends.
Andy, on the other hand, was from a sub-culture. He (usually) dressed very similarly to Al, but would never attend tutorials, and would miss lectures just to make use of the electronic mailing systems on the University computers. He had a number of file-systems into which megabytes of data were down-loaded from various bulletin boards each month. Sifting though them required much time, but it was worth it in his opinion. He knew what was going on in many of the Universities around the globe, he'd read a number of important documents detailing recent research in many different fields of study, and his collection of light-bulb jokes was extensive2. He knew a number of his lecturers personally, since, although he didn't attend many lectures, he always did well on his projects and in the final exams. They'd admired his abilities and confidently predicted post-graduate research. In short, he was a computer geek.
Unfortunately, one of his lecturers, Dr. Werner, had caught him doing something illicit way back in first year. He had done more than just admire Andy's abilities - he'd decided to use them. He had essentially blackmailed Andy into becoming a computer hacker.
Maybe this will be the last job...
They found an abandoned table, and sat down. At the moment, cappuccinos were in, especially with sprinklings of powdered chocolate on top of the froth. However, drinking them through a moustache was not recommended, and since Andy had been cultivating one for half a year, he drank his coffee with a straw. It added to his image, he'd thought. Al secretly thought he looked stupid, but didn't mention it.
"So, Andy. What's with the suit?"
"Oh... um... I just had a, you know, thingy. Job interview. That's right."
"What for?"
"Computer ha... I mean, programmer."
"Do you think you'll get it?"
"I don't think so. Even with the suit."
Actually, he had got the job. That was the problem. He took another sip of his drink.
"Al, why are you in so late?"
"Well, I just had a lecture. Why, what time is it?"
"A bit past seven thirty..."
Al, in the middle of a sip, spluttered.
"Oh, dirty jokes! I've gotta run. Look, all the best Andy. Hope you get a job soon..."
I've already got one. "Yeah, no worries."
"Sorry to dash off like this..."
"No, it's fine. I've gotta go, too, and get rid of this ghastly suit. I guess the only good thing about it is none of my friends will recognise me in it."
"Hey, I did," called Al, as he disappeared through the doors of the Caf.
"OK, there is no good thing," said Andy, to himself. He leisurely finished his cappuccino, staring aimlessly around the room watching people going through the motions of typical conversations. So much easier with computers. No body language to confuse the issue. Everything is so much clearer. And it makes lying easier...
He got up and left.
In the cafe, the two cups, one empty, the other half-full and still steaming faintly, waited patiently for someone to remove them. In the meantime, they'd enjoy the atmosphere.
Unfounded Rumours
Speculation abounds as to the possibility that life exists elsewhere in the Universe, and every branch of science and philosophy has its own reasons for the position it holds. If nothing else, this debate keeps everyone busy.
Mathematicians have stated that since the Universe is so immeasurably immense, the probability that extra-terrestrial life exists, given that we exist, is rather good. Say, 0.436 ± 0.001 expressed as a decimal.
Physicists point to quantum mechanics and ask if, in fact, we exist at all. The probability waves associated with every particle in the Universe mean that matter is an illusion. Thus, life must be as well.
Chemists, still trying to come to terms with DNA and its remarkable complexities, waver between "How can anything so complex come into being at all?" and "If it happened here, why not elsewhere too?"
Which is what biologists claim. Evolution, they say, produced us. What's to stop it producing aliens as well?
Creationists jump in at this point and ask, well where did life start? If you say anything with the words "big" or "bang" in it, we'll have to ask "But what caused that?" Of course God created life, and who's to say if that includes aliens or not. Tell you what, we'll ask him for you.
Atheists have a hard time swallowing that argument, but then again atheism has its problems. If you go around saying "I don't believe in this" or "I don't believe in that", people are bound to ask about what you do believe. And then maybe question the whole concept of belief.
Cynics, still celebrating the crop-circles fiasco, look to the stars and say, "Yeah, right! As if..."
To which mystics everywhere look hurt, but a glimmer returns to their eyes when they talk about the ancient architecture of Egypt, the Mayans and Easter Islanders, and say "They had help. We're sure of it. Look, these squiggles here: it's a signature!"
Psychiatrists respond by taking out their ink blots. "So," they ask. "When did you first start thinking about aliens?" They nod, understandingly, at the reply. "Ah," they say, having got beyond the surface problem to those lying underneath. "When did you first start hating your mother?"
Most computer scientists couldn't really care if there are aliens or not, as long as they can be contacted through e-mail: something along the lines of zeebrak@barnardstar.ophiuchus.mw.
Certainly most radio astronomers are content to just sit back and discover another pulsar, and leave the debate to everyone else. Which was why, when an extra-terrestrial message was picked up at Coonabarabran, many people appreciated the irony.
Of course, that was much later.
It had been a quiet week for Dexter Gilroy, one of the senior astronomers at the University's radio telescope just outside Coonabarabran. They'd been doing a prolonged exposure of galaxy 3c 449, and had produced a quite decent radio map sequence. He was even thinking of having them framed and put on the wall of his office, when one of the lab technicians bounded in through the door.
"Gilroy, sir! It's happening!"
"What on Earth are you talking about, Tim?"
"That's just it, it's not on Earth!"
"What isn't?"
"A message!"
"What?"
"A message from outer space!"
"Can you say anything without needing an exclamation mark?"
"Sorry, it's just so exciting!"
"Well, let's have a look."
He followed Tim down to the main control centre. There was a cluster of people around a terminal in the centre of the room. Gilroy strode in.
"What's all this about?"
One of the other astronomers tore his eyes away from the terminal. "Sir, we're receiving a signal."
"Tim indicated as much. What is it?"
"Well, it's a sequence of three re-occurring wavelengths. It is not a naturally occurring phenomenon and it appears to be emanating from Canis Majoris, also known as Sirius."
"Yes, yes, I know that - I'm an astronomer."
"The star is only 8.7 light years away, and so the red-shift is negligible."
"Then could the signal be coming from a satellite in geo-stationary orbit?"
"We thought of that, but there are none in the correct position."
"Good grief, then it's genuine."
"It looks that way, sir."
"Right. Make sure the message is fully recorded, then make a number of back-up copies. This is a very significant point in history, ladies and gentlemen. This is another giant leap for mankind." He rubbed his hands together. "And, it's going to bring us a fortune!"
There were cries of "Hear, hear!" from all present.
The message continued, oblivious to the talk of monetary gain.
Within four hours it stopped. The astronomers quickly realised that the message could be stored much more effectively as a series of ternary numbers, and so a computer program was quickly devised to translate. In addition, a copy was made using visible light instead of radio waves.
Security was tight. Only a handful of people outside the radio facility were told of the message. One of these was the head of Computer Science at CSIRO. His job was to try and decode the message as quickly as possible, so he was given a copy of the message, and no one else was allowed near it, or even to know of its existence. All the remaining copies were locked inside a safe in the main control centre at the telescope.
Except for a copy Tim kept and sent to a friend in the astro-physics department of the University. After all, what was the point of having an Earth-shattering piece of news if you didn't shatter the Earth with it?
When Jon got into the University two days after his tour around MOMTM, he found some electronic mail waiting for him in his computer system. It was a brief note from an old friend he'd known during his undergraduate years. He hadn't seen Tim in quite a while, but he was a nice enough guy. His one failing was to talk in exclamations when he got excited, but that was the sort of thing that made a friendship richer. He'd got a job in a radio telescope somewhere, Jon was fairly sure.
He read through the note. Then read it again. You could hardly see the text for all the exclamation marks, but it was clear enough: there had been a substantial breakthrough in SETI research. The search for extra-terrestrial intelligence was over. Something out there had communicated with Earth, and the message would come in the post in a few days.
It turned out to be a week and a half, which was rather amusing, considering that it took 8 years, 255 and a half days to cross part of the galaxy, and two weeks to cross part of Australia.
Gossip
The week passed very slowly for Jon. A bunch of partial-differential equations refused to co-operate with him, and just sat there totally unsimplifiable until Tuesday afternoon, when they suddenly gave in without any warning. Not before time, for Jon had been about to take the mathematical equivalent of a chainsaw to them, and cut them into little pieces.
He'd also started trying to decipher his income tax forms. Even with an honours degree in astrophysics (including a sub-major in mathematics), he had made little progress. It was looking like 'chainsaw' time again.
All this had been an attempt to take his mind off a certain package that was supposedly winging its way Jon-ward. He was hoping it would arrive in time to take to Dave's on Thursday, but so far, it hadn't showed up. And by Thursday, he was feeling rather drained, so he took the day off. During the morning he listened to some contemporary piano music. As he had hoped, it had a calming effect, and he felt the concerns and problems of day-to-day scientific research lift from him, uncovering the burning curiosity of what the message from space was all about. There was absolutely no answer to that, so he turned his mind to MOMTM, and the coming upgrades. What about developing a meeting of souls? They'd need to find someone with a degree in Theology for that. OK then, something else. What about a meeting of hearts? Some sort of virtual reality dating service? No, that had probably been done already.
In the afternoon, following a quick lunch, he played a couple of computer games. He always maintained that it was important to keep up-to-date with all forms of computer applications, including those for entertainment purposes. And they were fun, too. His favourite game at the moment was Malice in Lunarland, a graphically-interfaced adventure game about a girl who dreams she has been transported to an alien planet from which she must escape. Jon had got her to the point where she had located an escape pod, stocked it with some necessary goodies, and was almost ready for launch (she only had to switch off the tractor beam) when she stumbled into a gravity well and was compressed into a tiny black hole which then proceeded to eat away a large portion of the planet. She then wakes up with a splitting head-ache, as if to say "Too bad, you lost!"
"Darn," he exclaimed. Luckily, his previously saved game position had been done quite recently, so the next time he played he'd be able to catch up quickly.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. Wow, that game really took my mind off things, he thought. It's time to go. With just enough time to buy some necessary goodies on the way.
So it was that he arrived at Dave's place the proud owner of two packets of Pringles and a bottle of Coca Cola, and the bearer of momentous news. There was an unfamiliar car parked out the front, with a bumper sticker on it saying: "Computers Live!" Jon thought this statement was unlikely; he'd grown up having been told that computers were actually about as intelligent as a slow worm. If that. However, the owner of this car clearly held an opposing view, that computers exist existentially. Well, maybe it was life, Jim, just not as we know it.
Carefully balancing his purchases, Jon pushed the button next to the door. Inside, he heard a faint computer-accented voice say, "There's someone at the door, Dave. I'd love to be able to open the door, but I can't do that right now..." Then footsteps approached, and the door was opened by Dave, smiling his Cheshire-cat grin.
"Ah, Jon! Glad you could make it."
"Wouldn't have missed it for the world."
"Come in, come in..."
"Look Dave, I've got some enormous news. They've..."
"Wait! I want you to meet Ruth. She's already here."
"Yeah, I saw her car outside. Actually, she'll want to hear this, too."
Dave led the way down the corridor to a spacious living-room, that was filled with computer screens, data-gloves, and keyboards. However, there were a number of comfortable-looking chairs, and Jon could hear a Mozart piano concerto playing softly in the background. Number 20 in D Minor, I think, he thought.
As they entered, a woman who had been sitting next to a computer terminal, stood up and came across the room towards them. Dave did the introductions. She was a lively-looking character, with a charming smile and red, no auburn, hair. Her eyes were brown, and twinkled with a surprising intensity, probably from staring at computer screens too much. Her voice was quite musical, blending nicely with the piano concerto. Looking at her, Jon felt that he had neglected computer existentialism for too long.
Dave sat down.
"Anyone for a drink?"
After sorting out the details concerning what was available, individual preferences relating to those choices, and the physical fulfilment of those wishes, Dave settled himself back in his chair. The others followed suit.
"So," he said. "What's this important piece of news?"
Jon had completely forgotten about it during the introductions and subsequent refreshment dealings.
"Ah, yes. That." He paused dramatically. If there had been a sound-track related to the current flow of dialogue, there would probably have been a cymbal crash followed by a muted timpani roll, possibly with arhythmic percussive sounds. Instead, the lyrical second movement of Mozart's piano concerto could be heard. Totally inappropriate, but very beautiful nonetheless.
"A friend of mine, who works in a radio telescope near Coonabarabran, just sent me some e-mail. In it, he states that a message was received from a star 8.7 light years away. At this stage, it appears to be genuine. What do you say to that?"
"I'm astounded!" cried Dave.
"Ditto," said Ruth.
"Astounded, yeah, that's a word I could have used during my MOMTM tour..." murmured Jon, half to himself.
"That's amazing, Jon. What did the message say?"
"Well, that's the annoying part. It seems they haven't been able to decode it yet. Apparently, it's just a series of ternary numbers. You know, in base three."
"My goodness," said Ruth. "Why hasn't it been announced?"
"I think the astronomers involved have locked security measures in place. All except for this friend of mine, who will remain nameless. Protection, you understand."
"Perfectly."
Dave butted in. "What about the message itself. Can you get hold of it?"
Jon looked pained. "Well, I was hoping to bring it tonight, but it hadn't arrived. You see, he has sent it through the post."
"This is great! When it comes, could you bring it over? I'd love to be involved in the decoding."
"So would I," said Ruth. "And you might just need a couple of programmers anyway."
"Of course. But what about the MOMTM upgrade?"
"Forget it! This is heaps more interesting."
"OK, I'll bring it over asap. Now, what about some more appropriate music. Do you have Holst's The Planets?"
"Sure do."
The rest of the evening passed pleasantly for all concerned.
Founded Rumours
Waiting for something to come through the post can be a most frustrating business. Jon hated it. He knew that the usual time for delivery was about two in the afternoon, and that the guy used a motorcycle. This meant that every time he heard the sound of an engine (any engine) he would rush over to the front window of his house to see if this was it. Starting from ten in the morning.
At 12:05, the washing machine in the house next-door nearly gave him heart palpitations.
At 1:43, a nearby toilet flushed and sent him scurrying out the front door, straight into a pot-plant.
By two-thirty he was a nervous wreck, just as he had been yesterday, and the day before that. He had made fifteen trips to the letterbox, each one a false alarm. He had pretty much exhausted his supply of printable exclamations and looked likely to begin on the unprintable ones. No, there was still his 'linguistics' stock to go.
"Oh, diphthongs! If this thing doesn't come today, I'll go crazy," he said to himself. "If I make one more epiglottal trip without something to show for it, I'll diacritic my ablative, just see if I don't!"
And then, from far off, he heard a sound. Without another word, he was gone.
- Dave, it's come at last!!!!!!!
- What, the message?
- Yes!!!!!!
- Hey, easy on the !
- Sorry, I must have picked it up from somewhere...
- Have you looked at it?
- Yes. Just as my friend said - a series of ternary numbers.
- We'll start decoding immediately. To think, we have access to a
possible ET communication.
- Exciting stuff.
- Look Jon, can you come now?
- On my way. ^C
- See ya. ^C
Andy sat there, staring at the intercepted conversation on his computer screen. Well, this is interesting, and no mistake, he thought. Just what the Doctor ordered...
It took enormous self-control on Jon's part not to speed on his way to Dave's place. That, and the fact that his car was incapable of anything over fifty km/h. When he arrived, Dave was waiting out the front.
"At last! What took you so long?" he asked, as Jon got out of the car.
"Well, I had to stop to re-wire the muffler back on. Twice. But anyway, I'm here now, and here it is." He held up a plain brown-paper parcel.
"Alright! Let's get this inside."
The paper was quickly removed, revealing a note and a plastic CD cover. Dave picked up the note and started reading: " 'Dear Jon, This is a momentous day for mankind! On the CD you will find the entire message we received from Canis Majoris! Good luck for decoding! Tim.' I see what you mean about exclamation marks..."
"Yeah, that's him alright."
Jon opened the CD cover, and took out the CD. There were no markings on the outside - it looked blank.
"You got a drive for this?" he asked Dave.
"Sure do. Bring it over here."
Jon handed the disk to Dave, who placed it on a sliding tray, which then slid back into place.
"Now, I expect I'll need to write a program to view the contents, so this may take a while. You might want to read a book, or a magazine, or something. Oh, and Ruth will be here soon. I gave her a ring as soon as I heard."
"Right. Be quick."
"It'll be quicker if you don't talk." He was already bending over the keyboard with a look of pure concentration (or was it stomach cramps?)
"Gotcha," whispered Jon.
Ruth arrived after twenty minutes.
"Sorry I'm late," she panted breathlessly, "but I had a tutorial I couldn't get out of."
"It's alright," said Jon. "Dave's still programming a CD reader."
"Oh, the message came on CD? I thought it was from outer space." She sounded vaguely disappointed.
"No, it's just a copy."
"Oh, right. Well, I'll see if he needs a hand."
Just then there was a call from the other room.
"Hey, it's working. Come and see."
They hurried in, in time to see a long string of zeros, ones, twos flowing across the screen. It seemed to last for a long time.
Eventually Ruth asked, "Well, what does it mean?"
"Goodness knows," said Dave. "This is just the numbers. We have to decode it yet."
"Where would you start?"
"I guess at the beginning, and then go on until the end, and then stop."
"I think I've heard that before."
Dave started typing again.
"OK, this is the first part."
This time, the numbers didn't scroll off the screen.
"Now what?"
"Well, I think we'll need a good dose of inspiration..."
"You might be right."
They were still at it two hours later, with no success. Dave had tried to deduce where the character breaks were, assuming there were character breaks. But nothing had worked consistently. Ruth put forward the possibility that one of the numbers might be the delimiter, but none of them seemed to fit that role. Dave thought that maybe the numbers were supposed to be used in pairs, or other groupings, but nothing regular resulted. Ruth then decided that the use of numbers was misleading, since the original message had been wavelengths. But that wasn't much help. At least the numbers were easy to manipulate. Dave then ran a meta-program to scan the whole file to look for recurring patterns, and to get a distribution of the three numbers. There were patterns, but they were fairly large blocks. Ruth stored them elsewhere to look at later. Then, it turned out that the three numbers were distributed very evenly. Dave wanted to know why, because that should indicate meaning of some kind. Ruth wanted to know how, because that might show something about who created it. Jon wanted to know what the others wanted to drink, as he thought he might go make a cuppa.
"Look, it's no good," said Dave, wearily. "I think a solution is possible, but it will take a lifetime. Maybe several."
"You might be right," said Ruth. "Actually, that gives me an idea. Why don't we dust off that old AI experiment from our university days? You know, that one where we tried to make an executable brain dump."
"Yeah! We never completely succeeded, but we were pretty close."
Jon looked surprised.
"You mean you actually tried to create a software version of Dave? That would be remarkable!"
"Oh, not really. It's been done in a few laboratories around the world these days. We just tried to emulate their efforts.3"
"But we're talking the human brain, here. Would you have enough computer memory to fit it all in?"
Dave started to speak, but Ruth cut in. "Oh, but it was Dave's brain. That was no problem at all."
"Where would it get us, anyway?" asked Jon.
"Well," said Dave, looking daggers in Ruth's direction, "we could set the whole thing up to run in memory: a software version of me, and the ET message. Then, because it is all working internally, it would take only a few days to be the equivalent of several lifetimes in the real world. My software dump would be older than Methuselah, but it just might decode the message."
"Could it really do it?"
"If I can do it, it will be able to as well."
"If you can't do it?"
"Then it can tell us after a week, and we won't be any worse off."
"True."
"Right," said Jon. "Let's do it."
"Not today," replied Ruth, "or should I say, tonight. It's late, and anyway, most of the stuff isn't here; it will be over at my flat."
"Alright, let's make a date for tomorrow. Any problems?"
"Not for me," said Jon.
"Or me," responded Ruth.
"Good," said Dave, rubbing his stomach. "Now, who's for some pizza?"
Conversation
- what have u discovered a?
- dp received possible et message from astro-physicist.
- what? sounds implausible. anything else?
- his girlfriend is getting into old ai research of theirs.
- involving?
- making a software copy of himself aka max headroom.
- thats better. i was hoping 4 something like that.
- y?
- software modifiable yes?
- i c what u mean.
- good. i want backdoor in2 this. can u do it?
- of course.
- keep me posted a. out. ^C
- yes sir. ^C
The Dump
Creating an independently executable brain dump of someone, a software version of a person, was considered impossible, only fit for the realms of science-fiction. And then, the idea of combining elements of neural networks based on three dimensional lattices with the concept-oriented subdividing of consciousness enabled the designing of realistic templates for the downloading of brain-wave patterns. Simple, really.
"Sit still, Dave. Now that we've set everything up, this is the last thing to do."
"I know, Ruth, but you just stuck that electrode into my nose when it should have gone into my ear!"
"Sorry about that, but then your instructions weren't very clear."
"I never said insert it nasally..."
"Look, forget it - it's in your ear now."
"What was that? I missed what you said 'cause you were putting that electrode into my ear."
"I said forget it!"
"Right. Forgotten."
"Now what do I do? I forget what's next."
"Let's see: all the electrodes are in place, as is the scalp mask; the download program is up and running; the warning sensors are functional; my pillows are in position... yes, all ready. All you have to do now, is wait for me to fall asleep, then select 'complete scan' from the menu on the screen. Don't, whatever you do, wake me up."
"Why, what'll happen? Will it transverse your brain patterns, or something?"
"No, nothing so drastic - I'll just have to sit here with electrodes in most of my major cranial orifices for another few hours. That's all."
"Don't get sarcastic."
"Well, I'm the one with electrodes in..."
"Listen, if you just stop talking, we can get on with it."
"OK. Once the scan is finished - it takes about an hour and a half - you can wake me up, and then remove these disgusting things from my ears."
"They'll be more disgusting when we take them out..."
"Must you?"
"Sorry, couldn't resist. Did you say we wait for you to fall asleep?"
"Yeah, do you know any long, boring stories? About your childhood, maybe?"
"Dave!"
"Sorry, couldn't resist..."
He was typing at the keyboard, debugging a program with an intractable maths problem in it, when he realised that he couldn't move his hands any more. He looked down and saw that they had somehow moulded themselves to the plastic, as if it had melted around them. He tried pulling away, but the attempt just caused more of his arms to become incorporated. He stood up, or at least tried to, and tried to use his foot to get leverage off the screen, but it just sank right in up to the knee.
Where was Brer Fox when you needed him?
He started to lose all sensation in his hands. Instead, he became aware of the coursing of electricity in the circuitry of his central processing unit. In a last burst of independence, he lashed out with his head at the computer screen, but he passed right through.
He had no body. But he could feel activity all around him, as the various parts of him functioned, being controlled by sub-conscious sections of his processor. He could see, too, as if he was in a pitch-black space looking out a small window, into a study of some kind. He could see the top of a desk, and a keyboard. There was a book-shelf in the background. And a person in front of the book-shelf. A woman, coming closer, reaching out to a switch on the side of his console. There was an audible click, and the window went black. He was alone in a void.
He screamed...
"Dave, wake up. The scan's finished."
Still half asleep, Dave said "Oh, don't ever do that again..."
"Do what?"
"Turn me off."
"What are you talking about?"
Dave looked up groggily from the make-shift bed they'd rigged up next to the computer. "Oh, it must have been a dream. Felt so real, though."
"Tell me about it sometime. But not now. I want to know if the scan worked or not."
"Alright, let's have a look."
He got up, shook his head briefly, and went over to the computer terminal. With a few keystrokes, he had conjured up a digitised picture of himself, and connected it to the now-completed software dump of his brain patterns. Then, he set the simulation in motion.
The image on the screen started to move. The facial features began to flex, as if the software was exploring the boundaries of movement. It did look very much like Max Headroom. It spoke.
"Hey, is anyone there? Or am I still asleep? How did the brain dump go? Hello? Anyone?"
Dave turned to Ruth and grinned. "This is looking good."
"Can he hear us?" she asked.
"No, I haven't rigged up the microphone, or the camera for that matter. Microphone first, I think."
He plugged one into a likely-looking socket, and put it on top of the screen, which now showed his face peering into all the corners, craning his head around to look behind him.
"Hi, Dave. How's it going?" he asked.
The face on the screen turned back to the front.
"Dave? Is that you? I mean, me?"
"Yep. Thought I should tell you: the software dump worked perfectly. You're it."
"Really? Is that why I can't feel anything, or see anything? Hey, what about a camera. There's one in the third cupboard from the door. On the right."
"I know, I was just getting it."
Ruth was just sitting there, looking amused.
"Hey, this thing really works. Even after all these years."
"Oh, hi Ruth," said the face on the screen.
"Hi, Dave," she replied.
Dave came back with the camera, and connected it to a digitiser.
"There, that should do it."
He held it up to his eye, and said, "Can you see anything?"
"Just a blurry view of a primordial planet. Focus, please."
Dave laughed, and put the camera on a motorised stand.
"There, how's that? You should be able to control the rotation and angle of inclination. The focus, too. There you go, Dave: you have vision."
"Alright! Hi, folks, you're all looking well."
"Wait a minute, guys," said Ruth. "This isn't going to work. You can't both be called Dave. What about the software version taking the more refined 'David'?"
The face on the screen appeared to ponder that for a second. "You have a point there. Yes, I don't mind that at all."
Dave responded, "Yeah, that's OK with me, too."
"Great, then that will work out fine," said Ruth.
Suddenly, a computer-accented voice said: "There's someone at the door, Dave. I'd love to be able to open the door, but I can't do that right now..."
David said, "That'll be Jon. I'll get it. Oh, wait a minute... maybe not."
Dave was already on the way.
"This will be interesting," said Ruth.
"How do you mean?" asked David.
"Oh, I don't know. Let's just see."
Voices could be heard coming up the passage way.
"...and I did a little research on Sirius. You know, see if anything there might be important for the decoding. Oh, how did the software dump go?"
"Not bad. You be the judge."
They walked into the room. The first thing Jon saw was Dave's face grinning on a computer screen. The first thing he heard was Dave's voice saying, "Hi, Jon. What do you think of my new look?" The first thing he did was to lose control of his jaw.
"Wha... That's great! It even talks!"
"Hey!" The face on the screen looked hurt. "I'm not an animal. I'm a human being!"
"Gosh, this is better than I imagined. Reminds me of Max Headroom."
"Ha," said David. "That guy couldn't get one sentence out without stuttering ad infinitum, like a rap record stuck on repeat.4"
Dave laughed. "Jon, do you like the digitised image? I call it my interface."
"Groan... Er, do I call you Dave, or what?"
"To avoid confusion, call me David."
"Yeah," said Dave. "We worked it out just before."
"Well, you're definitely 'Dave'. This guy, on the other hand, is, shall we say, much more 'squarish'."
"I resent that," said David.
"So do I," said Dave.
"I'll take it back: I'm out-numbered."
There was a brief, semi-embarrassed pause. Ruth broke it.
"Jon, I heard you say you'd done some research. What did you find?"
"Just this."
He held out a sheet of paper.
a (alpha) Canis Majoris (Sirius, from the Greek for sparkling or scorching), magnitude -1.46, is a brilliant white star 8.7 light years away, one of the Sun's closest neighbours. It has a white dwarf companion of magnitude 8.5 that orbits it every 50 years. The brilliance of Sirius overpowers this white dwarf so that even when the two stars are at their greatest separation, as in 1975, telescopes of 200mm aperture or more and steady atmospheric conditions are required for it to be visible. During the 1990's, when the two stars are at their closest, the companion will be impossible to see in any amateur's telescope. The companion of Sirius, called Sirius B, was first seen in 1862 by the American astronomer Alvin G Clark using a 47cm refractor. But not until 1915 was the truly remarkable nature of the star realised. Observations showed that Sirius B was very hot, very small and very dense. In fact Sirius B has the mass of the Sun packed into a sphere only two percent the Sun's diameter. The resulting density of Sirius B is over 100,000 times that of water.
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