“Publish or perish,” said Academician Bulacheff with a slow smile. “Under their system, a scientist must publish papers constantly or be left behind in the competition for money and prestige.”
The conversation drifted further and further into a guessing game about what the Americans were doing. Markov slumped back in his chair and studied Bulacheff. He was an elderly man with a thin, sallow face. The little hair that remained on his gleaming dome was pure white and wispy, like a spindrift of snow blown across the tundra. The old man seemed slightly amused by the proceedings. He caught Markov gazing at him and returned a slight smile.
“The signals can be only one of two things,” Bulacheff said. His soft voice quavered slightly, but everyone turned to him and listened.
Raising one finger, the academician said, “It could be some natural process of the planet Jupiter that is giving off these radio waves. Most likely it is exactly that and nothing more. After all, we have been observing Jupiter’s radio emissions for only a few decades. The planet has been in existence for more than four thousand million years. Who are we to say what is natural and what is anomalous?”
No one challenged his statement. The colonel gave a little coughing grunt and reached for a fresh cigarette.
“The second possibility?” Markov asked gently.
“It may be a deliberate attempt at communication by an intelligent race of Jovian creatures. Personally, I find that difficult to accept, but we must consider it as a possibility until we can actually disprove it.”
Everyone around the table nodded. A bit fearfully, Markov thought.
“Professor Markov,” Bulacheff called, “you are a well-known expert on archaic languages—and you wrote a most interesting monograph about extraterrestrial languages.”
Markov felt himself blushing. “The book was merely an amusement. It was not meant to be considered as a serious text.”
Bulacheff smiled approvingly. “Perhaps. Still, it was a thoughtful piece of work. We must have your help. We would like you to review all the data we have obtained and have you tell us if, in your opinion, these radio pulses could be a language of some sort.”
“Or a code,” Maria added.
“I would be happy to do so,” Markov said to the academician. “And more than happy to work with you, sir.”
Bulacheff inclined his head slightly, accepting the compliment. “Now then, Colonel, if you are truly worried about the Americans, I suggest that we pay special attention to the international astronomical conference that will be held in Paris next month. The Americans will have a large delegation there, as usual. We should be able to learn how much they know.”
“They talk that freely?” someone asked.
Bulacheff’s wrinkled old face eased into a tolerant grin. “The Americans have a fixation about freedom of speech. They don’t know when not to talk.”
“But suppose,” Maria asked, “they say nothing about these radio signals?”
The old man’s grin faded. “That in itself would be significant. Very significant.”
The colonel placed both his pudgy palms down on the tabletop. “Very well. Pick the people who should attend the conference,” he said to Bulacheff. “I will add a few of my own.”
Bulacheff nodded.
He’s taken command of the project, Markov realized.
“But remember one thing,” the colonel warned.
Everyone looked toward him.
“If it becomes clear that these signals really are from an intelligent race, we must make certain that it is the Soviet Union—and only the Soviet Union—that makes contact with them. Such an advanced technology must not be allowed to fall into the hands of the West.”
Chapter 6
…how might such a communication be effected? Space vehicles travel very slowly. A typical mission to the Moon lasts a few days, to the nearby planets a few months, to the outer solar system a few years. …Even quite optimistic estimates place the nearest civilization at a few hundred light-years, where a light-year is almost six trillion miles. It would take our present spacecraft some tens of thousands of years to go the distance of the nearest star, and several tens of millions of years to travel this estimated distance to the nearest other civilization.
A much quicker and more reliable means of interstellar communication is to send or receive radio messages that travel at the speed of light.
Stoner’s eyes snapped open like an electric light turning on. He was lying on the bed, still dressed. He had fallen asleep.
It was morning now, gray and dank. Rain drummed against the window.
The hallway door opened and Dooley backed in, carrying a breakfast tray. It had been his single sharp rap on the door that had awakened Stoner. Through the open door he could see the other agent standing in the hall, calmly appraising him, ready for anything.
“Breakfast in bed,” Dooley said cheerfully. “Not bad, huh?”
Stoner nodded blearily and Dooley quickly left. The door closed, the lock clicked.
Despite himself, Stoner found that he had an appetite. Juice, eggs, bacon, muffins, jam and coffee quickly disappeared into crumbs and stains on his paper napkin.
He went to the window, stared outside and tried to figure out where he was. The rain was stripping the last leaves from the trees. Low gray clouds were scudding past, most likely east to west, he thought. So north must be in the direction I’m facing, more or less.
There were no landmarks outside that he could recognize, only wooded hills that might have been anywhere in New England.
With nothing else to do, Stoner showered. He saw there was an electric razor in the bathroom. They’re very thorough, he thought. And careful with their prisoners. Rummaging through the bureau drawers and closet, he found a blue pullover sweater and a pair of tan chinos that almost fit. The sleeves and pants legs were too short. At least they’re not prison gray.
No books in the room. No television. No phone. The bed was a double. Its fluffy chenille spread, the kind a middle-class housewife buys for the guest room, was rumpled and sagged halfway to the floor. The wingback chair was still a decorator’s nightmare. The carpet was thick, beige, ordinary. The night table was some unrecognizable variation of the furniture style carried by mail-order chains.
It was an odd room to be locked in.
Stoner shrugged to himself, thought about doing some warmup exercises, started pacing the room instead. He was by the window when the door’s sudden opening startled him.
Turning quickly, he saw that the man coming through the doorway was the observatory’s director, Professor McDermott.
Ramsey McDermott was a big man, physically big, with the heavy shoulders of a longshoreman and the rugged good looks—even in his sixties—of a campus idol. His blond hair had turned a dull pewter shade of gray long ago, but he still kept it in a bristling crew cut. His cobalt-blue eyes could still snap when he got angry.
Professor McDermott liked to loom over smaller people and convince them that he was right and they were wrong on the strength of precise logic and a booming voice. But to Stoner, Big Mac looked old and flabby, living on past glories and younger men’s achievements.
Stoner stood between the window and the chair as McDermott came into the bedroom. The hall door closed behind him.
“How are they treating you, Stoner?” No handshake. McDermott kept his heavy, blunt-fingered hands at his sides. He was wearing a tweed jacket, comfortable old slacks that bagged slightly at the knees, a checkered shirt with a hideous green tie.