It was agonizing, painstaking work. Most of the formulas meant nothing to either one of us. We had to ransack the dome’s meager library of microspools to piece them together. They started simply enough—basic chemical combinations: carbon and two oxygens yield CO2; two hydrogens and oxygen give water. A primer … not of words, but of equations.
The equations became steadily longer and more complex. Then, abruptly, they simplified, only to begin a new deepening, simplify again, and finally become very complicated just at the end. The last few lines were obviously repetitious.
Gradually, their meaning became clear to us.
The first set of equations started off with simple, naturally-occurring energy yielding formulas. The oxidation of cellulose (we found the formula for that in an organic chemistry text left behind by one of the dome’s previous occupants), which probably referred to the burning of plants and vegetation. A string of formulas that had groupings in them that I dimly recognized as amino acids—no doubt something to do with digesting food. There were many others, including a few that Rizzo claimed had the expression for chlorophyll in them.
«Naturally-occurring, energy-yielding reactions,» Rizzo summarized. «They’re probably trying to describe the biological setup on their planet.»
It seemed an inspired guess.
The second set of equations again began with simple formulas. The cellulose-burning reaction appeared again, but this time it was followed by equations dealing with the oxidation of hydrocarbons: coil and oil burning? A long series of equations that bore repeatedly the symbols for many different metals came up next, followed by more on hydrocarbons, and then a string of formulas that we couldn’t decipher at all.
This time it was my guess: «These look like energy-yielding reactions, too. At least in the beginning. But they don’t seem to be naturally occurring types. Then comes a long story about metals. They’re trying to tell us the history of their technological development—burning wood, coal and eventually oil; smelting metals … they’re showing us how they developed their technology.»
The final set of equations began with an ominous simplicity: a short series of very brief symbols that had the net result of four hydrogen atoms building into a helium atom. Nuclear fusion.
«That’s the proton-proton reaction,» I explained to Rizzo. «The type of fusion that goes on in the Sun.»
The next series of equations spelled out the more complex carbon-nitrogen cycle of nuclear fusion, which was probably the primary energy source of their own Cepheid variable star. Then came a long series of equations that we couldn’t decode in detail, but the symbols for uranium and plutonium, and some of the heavier elements, kept cropping up.
Then came one line that told us the whole story: the lithium-hydride equation—nuclear fusion bombs.
The equations went on to more complex reactions, formulas that no man on Earth had ever seen before. They were showing us the summation of their knowledge, and they had obviously been dealing with nuclear energies for much longer than we have on Earth.
But interspersed among the new equations, they repeated a set of formulas that always began with the lithium hydride fusion reaction. The message ended in a way that wrenched my stomach: the fusion bomb reaction and its cohorts were repeated ten straight times.
I’m not sure of what day it was on the calendar, but the clock on the master control console said it well past eleven.
Rizzo rubbed a weary hand across his eyes. «Well, what do you think?»
«It’s pretty obvious,» I said. «They have the bombs. They’ve had them for quite some time. They must have a lot of other weapons, too—more … advanced. They’re trying to tell us their history with the equations. First they depended on natural sources of energy, plants and animals; then they developed artificial energy sources and built up a technology; finally they discovered nuclear energy.»
«How long do you think they’ve had the bombs?»
«Hard to tell. A generation … a century. What difference does it make? They have them. They probably thought, at first, that they could learn to live with them … but imagine what it must be like to have those weapons at your fingertips … for a century. Forever. Now they’re so scared of them that they’re beaming their whole history out into space, looking for someone to tell them how to live with the bombs, how to avoid using them.»
«You could be wrong,» Rizzo said. «They could be boasting about their arsenal.»
«Why? For what reason? No … the way they keep repeating those last equations. They’re pleading for help.»
Rizzo turned to the oscilloscope. It was flickering again. «Think it’s the same thing?»
«No doubt. You’re taping it anyway, aren’t you?»
«Yeah, sure. Automatically.» Suddenly, in mid-flight, the signal winked off. The pulsations didn’t simply smooth out into a steady line, as they had before. The screen simply went dead.
«That’s funny,» Rizzo said, puzzled. He checked the oscilloscope. «Nothing wrong here. Something must’ve happened to the telescope.»
Suddenly I knew what had happened. «Take the spectrometer off and turn on the image-amplifier,» I told him.
I knew what we would see. I knew why the oscilloscope beam had suddenly gone off scale. And the knowledge was making me sick.
Rizzo removed the spectrometer set-up and flicked the switch that energized the image-amplifier’s viewscreen.
«Holy God!»
The dome was flooded with light. The star had exploded.
«They had the bombs all right,» I heard myself saying. «And they couldn’t prevent themselves from using them. And they had a lot more, too. Enough to push their star past its natural limits.»
Rizzo’s face was etched in the harsh light.
«I’ve gotta get out of here,» he muttered, looking all around the cramped dome. «I’ve gotta get back to my wife and find someplace where it’s safe …»
«Someplace?» I asked, staring at the screen «Where?»
THE MAN WHO SAW GUNGA DIN THIRTY TIMES
I’ve seen the movie Gunga Din more than thirty times, and I have the feeling that unless you’ve seen the film often enough, or recently enough, to remember it well, this story may not hit you as hard as it could. But it says something to me about the Zarathustrian dichotomy between the Forces of Light and the Forces of Darkness, a conflict that was very much in evidence when you worked for a military-oriented research laboratory during the strife-torn Sixties.
Nosing the car through the growling traffic down Memorial Drive, autos clustered thick and sullen as Bombay thieves, the Charles River looking clear in the morning sunlight, the golden dome of the Capitol sparkling up on Beacon Hill, the sky a perfect Indian blue.
The temple of gold.
—What?—
Charlie’s a perfect Higgenbottom type: capable in a limited way, self-centered, basically stupid.
The golden temple, I repeat.
—Oh, the Capitol. It’s a wonder the goddam politicians haven’t stolen that yet—
A Fiat bulging with bearded Harvard Square types cuts in front of us. I hit the brakes and Charlie lurches and grumbles—goddam hippies. They oughtta get a job—
They’re in the morning traffic. Maybe they have jobs.
—Yeah. Undercutting some guy who’s been working twenty years and has a family to support—
It was on the Late Show again last night, did you see it?
—See what?—
Gunga Din. The movie. Cary Grant. Doug Fairbanks Jr., Victor McLaglen…
—What? They have that on again?—