Gold Rush, page 17
“And you think that’s what it’s like for them listening to us?”
“Oh, yeah. Picking out SETI’s message from, I dunno, The Real Housewives of Islamabad or NPR broadcasting Yoyo Ma playing Bach’s cello sonatas would be next to impossible. Can you imagine how difficult it would be to make sense of all our noise?”
“So you’re not expecting to hear anything from them?”
“I’ll keep my eye on my inbox,” Jill says with a smirk, knowing that’s just as unlikely as any other form of communication given the mass of confusion projected from Earth.
As much as she hates the rundown old pizza parlor, she must admit, it is perfect. Time itself has come here to die. The heat death of the universe could unfold beyond the rotten door, and nothing in here would have changed. One day blends into the next.
With each passing day, the view of an alien spacecraft becomes clearer. Answers bring anxiety. Debates rage online. Jill and Alex return to the pizza parlor each morning to begin anew.
Jill’s schedule is set by several Senate advisors. Regardless of which day of the week it is or even public holidays, Senator Jean Williams has Jill appear before the Intelligence Committee at 4 pm to provide an update, which is broadcast live on C-SPAN and almost every other network around the world. Her strategy is to overcommunicate and, hopefully, defuse tension by providing monotonous repetition. It’s the same talking points day after day, with only a handful of real updates.
Jill becomes what Senator Williams calls ‘the funnel.’ With over four hundred scientists and astrophysicists working with JPL and SETI on the project, the announcements slowly filter down to her. Each of them works on a specific area of research and reports on their progress to their local steering committee, which forwards anything of interest to the NASA Administrator’s Office. Then, the office provides Jill with a list of talking points for the daily briefing.
With a week to go, Jill is sitting at her desk opposite Alex when Mitch walks in once again with their morning coffee.
“What about you?” she asks him as he places disposable coffee cups in front of her and Alex.
“Me?”
“You never get yourself a coffee. Why?”
“Oh, it’s not about me,” Mitch replies. “I’m here for you.”
“You’re here for our protection,” Jill says. “Not our coffee. You could get one for yourself.”
“I guess.”
The next day, Mitch returns with three coffees. Nothing is said, but smiles are exchanged. Jill likes Mitch. She trusts him.
“Do you ever get bored?”
“Me?” Mitch asks, not sure who she’s addressing. Being a secret service agent, he’s used to being invisible, avoiding the limelight, remaining in the background. He always seems surprised whenever Jill talks to him like an equal, a human being.
“You’re on babysitting duty.”
“Duty is duty,” Mitch replies, sipping his coffee. Jill isn’t sure, but he seems to be hiding behind the cup, using the act of drinking as a way of deflecting.
Mitch excuses himself. He walks over to a stool set by the window, allowing him to look out into the alleyway. Jill should let his comment go. She should focus on her inbox, but she can’t. With her coffee in hand, she swivels in her seat to face him.
“It is about you, you know.”
“Me?” Mitch points at himself.
“I mean, I get it. I know you’re here for our protection and all, but this—all of this—everything that’s happening—it’s as much about you as it is me. This will affect all of us.”
Mitch nods but remains silent. His professionalism demands he remains quiet. He’s supposed to be a shadow—ever present but always in the background.
“Where are you from?”
“Detroit.”
As much as Jill wants to ask him a bunch of personal questions to try to peek beneath his tough exterior, she’s aware that one-word answers are defensive and don’t help.
“What do you think of all this?”
“Me?” Mitch replies. “They don’t pay me to think.”
Alex says, “I don’t believe that for a second.”
“Okay,” Mitch replies. “Fair point. They don’t pay me to speak. Opinions are for politicians.”
“I’m not a politician,” Jill says.
“Me, neither,” Alex says.
“Opinions are for all of us,” Jill says. “I know you’re supposed to provide close security for politicians, but we’re not like them. We’re scientists. We want to know what you think.”
“Why?” Mitch asks. From the look on his face, Jill can see he’s genuinely surprised by her question.
“Because First Contact is about us as a whole. We all have a stake in what is about to unfold. None of us is more or less important than anyone else. Whether it’s a young woman washing clothes on the banks of the Ganges or the Pope sitting in the Vatican, we’re all equal.”
Alex says, “Oh, yeah. They’re not going to see any of our distinctions.”
“So what do you think?” Jill asks.
“Honestly,” he says, pausing for a moment. “It’s not them I worry about—it’s us. We’re volatile—flammable. We need one of those signs you see on the side of a gas tanker—No open flames in this area.”
Alex nods.
“And?” Jill asks, liking what she’s hearing and wanting to draw more out of him. For her, it’s interesting to listen to the perspective of someone outside of science and politics. Her world has narrowed since the discovery of Comet Yakov. She gets glimpses of the confusion and fear on social media, but bots cloud the issue. Looking at the responses to a tweet is like wandering through a minefield. With roughly a third of all responses being by trolls or automated bots running AI algorithms to push an agenda, it’s impossible to understand what people really think and feel.
“And it’s scary,” he says, with impressive candor.
“What are you scared about?”
“That we’ll blow this.”
“You’re worried about the politics? Whether we’ll lean right or left?”
“Huh,” Mitch replies, holding himself back from responding. Jill gets a sense she’s seeing beyond the veneer, peering into his reasoning. She waits for him to speak in his own time.
“There’s no left or right.”
“Then what is there?” she asks, fascinated by the insights of someone who’s provided security for dozens of politicians from both sides of the aisle over the past twenty years.
“There’s decency—and there’s money. That’s it. That’s all there ever is in politics. That’s the two sides stripped bare.”
“Decency and money?”
“Yep. There are no Democrats, no Republicans. There’s just values and dollars, principles and cash, ethics and greed. And the brand doesn’t matter. The tug-of-war exists in both parties. I think that’s the thing most people don’t realize. We’re tribal. We’re loyal. We back our team. We assume our team is playing for us. And sometimes they are. And sometimes, they’re taking bribes on the side. But us? We’re in the bleachers wearing our merch, cheering for our team, calling out to the umpire, yelling at the opposition. And the bookie? He makes money on both sides.”
Jill asks, “Are there good people in politics?”
“Define good.”
Alex laughs. “Oh, yeah. That. That right there. That’s the problem.”
“What do you think they’ll make of us?” Jill asks, intrigued by the responses of the special agent.
“I dunno. Maybe they’ll look at us like ants. We’re all running in different directions, scrambling over the ground, tugging on this leaf or that crumb of bread, and yet somehow we make things work.”
Jill points at him and smiles, saying, “I like that.”
“There’s a lot of confusion, you know,” Mitch says. “Everyone’s saying something different.”
Alex says, “Conspiracy theories, huh?”
“Are any of them true?”
Jill doesn’t answer Mitch directly. “Conspiracy theories are mirrors. They’re a reflection of our fears.”
“Well, that checks out,” Mitch says. “And you scientists. You’re all so calm and chill about this.”
“Oh, no, we’re not,” Alex says. “We’re just following rather than leading the facts.”
“We’re blind,” Jill says. “We think we see clearly—all of us—scientists, politicians, pastors, you name it. We’re all convinced we see reality, but we don’t. We are like four blind men describing an elephant.”
“Feels like a trunk to me,” Alex says, playing along.
“Then why is it pissing on me?” Jill replies. “I’m telling you, this is a tail.”
Mitch laughs. “And these long, curved, pointy things. They’re as hard as a rock.”
Alex says, “All I’m feeling is ears. Really big, floppy ears.”
Jill says, “The world would be a safer place if we stopped thinking for a bit and simply accepted reality.”
“What do you mean?” Mitch asks, clearly intrigued by her point.
“We think we think, but we don’t. Not really.”
“How so?”
“Most of our so-called reasoning is oversimplified. It’s little more than parroting ideas we’ve heard elsewhere. And it’s understandable. We’re lazy—all of us—you, me, Alex. We’re generalists. We all want people to think we’re smart, but we’re not. Not really.”
“You seem pretty smart to me,” Mitch says.
Alex says, “Don’t confuse discipline for intelligence.”
“We flatter ourselves,” Jill says. “All of us. But in reality, we take shortcuts.”
“Shortcuts?”
“Sure. We’re predictable. We think in vague terms. And that makes us easy marks. And that’s why conspiracy theories are the seething tar pits of our age, trapping us in black, sticky goo. We’re all fools and we’re all far too easy to fool.”
“We’re all fools?” Mitch asks. “Okay. All right, I’ll bite. Fool me.”
“Fool you?”
“Sure. Let’s see if I’m an easy mark.”
Jill stops and thinks for a moment. She can’t just rattle off some astronomical example or talk about statistics or probabilities. She needs something concrete.
“Okay, consider this… You’re in Reno, Nevada.”
“Reno, sure,” Mitch says, and Jill can see the machinations of his mind at work as he thinks about the city. “I’ve been there. Okay. I’m in Reno. Now what?”
“You’re boarding a flight to LA. Which direction are you flying?”
“Oh, easy,” an overconfident Mitch says. “West.”
“South,” Jill replies.
“South?”
“South-East!”
“What? No way!”
“Yes—way.”
“But LA’s over on the coast. Reno’s inland. I mean, Nevada is literally next to California. It’s east of California.”
“Yes, but the West Coast doesn’t run in a neat, tidy, straight line from north to south—that’s the assumption, but it’s wrong. See? We oversimplify ideas. We generalize. But reality is complex. The West Coast is jagged. It slants on an angle.”
“Okay. Again,” Mitch says, slapping his palms together, clearly enjoying this. He gestures with his hands, pointing toward his jaw as though he were provoking a boxer. “Again. Hit me again.”
“All right,” Jill says. “Which city is further north? Portland, Oregon, or Toronto in Canada?”
“It’s a trick question, right?”
“It’s a trick question,” Jill replies, tilting her head slightly in acknowledgment of that point.
“It’s gonna be Portland, isn't it? No. It can’t be. You’re trying to fool me.”
Jill smiles but doesn’t say anything, waiting for Mitch to settle on an answer.
“I can’t do it. I can’t say Portland. There’s no way in hell it’s Portland. Portland’s too far south. You’ve got Portland in Oregon, then Seattle in Washington, and then Vancouver in Canada. There are two states before you hit the border. I think this is a bluff. I’m going with Toronto.”
“Lock it in?”
“Lock it in. Toronto in Canada is north of Portland in Oregon.”
“For a million dollars,” Jill says, playing around with him. “Portland is north of Toronto.”
“No—fucking—way.” Mitch laughs. “That’s crazy, man… Again. Hit me again.”
“All right. Staying with Portland.”
“For a billion bucks,” Mitch says, rubbing his hands together and pretending to be overconfident and a little greedy. “We’re staying with Portland.”
“Which city is further west?”
“Oh, I like this,” Alex says, grinning.
“Portland in Oregon or San Francisco?” Jill asks.
“Are you serious?” Mitch asks. “You’re not serious, right? Frisco and the Golden Gate? They’re on the coast—right on the Pacific. Portland is—well, it’s inland. It’s on a river. It’s surrounded by mountains and farmland. It’s nowhere near the ocean. I’m calling BS on this one. You’re bluffing. You’re screwing with my head, right?”
Jill doesn’t say anything.
“San Francisco,” Mitch says. “I’m going with San Fran being further west.”
“Portland, Oregon.”
“Jesus,” Mitch says, laughing. “You’re killing me here.”
“Assumptions,” Jill says. “We think we think more than we actually do. We think without checking. And that leaves us open to mistakes. And that is why we fall for conspiracy theories.”
“One more. All or nothing,” Mitch says.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“A trillion dollars.”
“A trillion dollars. Bluff or double bluff?” Jill says. “Are you man enough? To take a bluff or a double bluff?”
“I am.”
“Okay… Tijuana. Mexico.”
Mitch nods.
“You know where that is, right?”
“I know where that is,” Mitch says. “I’ve been there. Just south of San Diego. Lots of markets. Cheap clothes.”
“And you’ve seen it on a map.”
“I’ve seen it on a map.”
“Okay, is Tijuana in Mexico north or south of the following cities?” She pauses. “For a trillion dollars… Tucson, Arizona. Waco, Texas. Montgomery, Alabama. And Savannah, Georgia?”
“You’re killing me, you know that, right?” Mitch says, laughing.
“Oh, I know.”
“I mean…” Mitch throws his arms wide. “You’re fucking with me. You have to be.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“The smart money says Mexico is south of the US, but…”
“But…?”
“No. You’re not doing this to me,” Mitch says, pointing at his forehead. “You’re bluffing. You’re screwing with me. You’re getting inside my head. You’re trying to get me to doubt myself.”
“Is it working?”
“It’s working… and it’s disconcerting… No. I can’t do it. I can’t go against what I know is correct. Tijuana is south of all of those US cities.”
Jill says, “For a trillion dollars, that’s your final answer.”
“It is my final answer. Tijuana is in Mexico. It’s south of the US.”
“Tijuana is north of all of those US cities.”
“Mother ffff,” Mitch says, laughing. Jill can see he’s desperately trying not to complete that phrase.
“And this is the problem,” Jill says. “We’re confident. Too confident. We’re so sure of ourselves. We’re smart. We really are. And that’s a problem. We’re so smart that we cannot conceive of ever being wrong. We think we know what we’re dealing with, but a lot of the time, we miss the finer details. We fall for assumptions—generalizations. And if it’s this easy to be fooled by geography, imagine what it’s like with vaccines and trade wars or aliens chasing comets.”
Mitch says, “We’re sitting ducks.”
“Yep.”
Vulcan
“What time is it?”
There’s silence. No one answers. Dice won’t get a response for over twelve minutes. He knows Suzanne is sitting at the console in Houston, as her avatar is showing up as active on his communications console.
Dice is patient. It’s one of those rare traits no one thinks about when applying to become an astronaut. If asked, most people would say the characteristics NASA looks for in candidates are things like courage, diligence and intelligence. No one would reply with patience. But patience is not only necessary, it’s critical. Without patience, the long stretches of boredom would drive most people insane. The recruitment brochures—if there are any—leave off patience.
Spaceflight is best summarized as a few minutes of bone shaking, butt clenching, absolutely terrifying explosive acceleration, followed by days, weeks, or even months of utter boredom and repetition. Oh, there are policies and procedures to follow that have been defined with astonishing attention to detail, but there’s no applause, no awards, and no sense of achievement in following a checklist.
As glamorous as it seems, astronauts are the plumbers of astrophysics. They’re the electricians or perhaps the carpenters of the space age. The actual owners of spaceflight never leave the ground. They’re the scientists who commission various telescopes and experiments, while the architects directing the carpenters are the aeronautical engineers who design the hardware to conduct those experiments and make deep space observations. Dice may be deploying hundreds of monitoring satellites, but the real work is in their design, test, and build phases. In essence, all he’s doing is pushing them out the door. And the job won’t be finished until the data rolls back into the universities and laboratories, where researchers will painstakingly analyze the impact. They’re the real heroes. They’re the ones who will labor to understand the various mechanisms at play in the cosmos and learn from these remarkable observations. They’re the ones who will shape the future, not him.
Dice waits and waits and waits.
At a distance of almost 60 million miles, it takes six minutes for his words to reach Houston and another six minutes for the reply to reach his tiny capsule adrift in the utter darkness of space. Dice floats in his capsule, watching as the craft rotates slowly, distributing the heat of the Sun evenly across the hull. Shadows roll around the interior of the cabin. Out of nowhere, a voice speaks.
