PLATINUM POHL (48 page)

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Authors: Frederik Pohl

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While we were in the hot drench, while we were dressing, while we were eating a light lunch, Sam chattered on about the forthcoming conference in Alexandria. I was pleased to listen. Apart from the fact that everything he said was interesting, I began to feel hopeful about actually producing a book for Mark. If anybody could help me, Sam could, and he was a problem addict. He couldn’t resist a challenge.
That was undoubtedly why he was the first to puzzle out the Olympians’ interminably repeated
squees
and
squahs.
If you simply took the “dit” to be “1,” and the
squee
to be “+” and the
squah
to be “=,” then
Dit
squee
dit
squah
dit dit
simply came out as
1+1=2
That was easy enough. It didn’t take a super-brain like Sam’s to substitute our terms for theirs and reveal the message to be simple arithmetic—except for the mysterious “wooooo”: dit
squee
dit
squee
dit
squee dit squah
wooooo.
What was the “wooooo” supposed to mean? A special convention to represent the number four?
Sam knew right away, of course. As soon as he heard the message he telegraphed the solution from his library in Padua:
“The message calls for an answer. ‘Wooooo’ means question mark. The answer is four.”
And so the reply to the stars was transmitted on its way: dit
squee
dit
squee
dit
squee
dit
squah
dit dit dit dit.
The human race had turned in its test paper in the entrance examination, and the slow process of establishing communication had begun.
It took four years before the Olympians responded. Obviously, they weren’t nearby. Also obviously, they weren’t simple folk like ourselves, sending out radio messages from a planet of a star two light-years away, because there wasn’t any star there; the reply came from a point in space where none of our telescopes or probes had found anything at all.
By then Sam was deeply involved. He was the first to point out that the star folk had undoubtedly chosen to send a weak signal, because they wanted to be sure our technology was reasonably well developed before we tried to answer. He was one of the impatient ones who talked the collegium authorities into beginning transmission of all sorts of mathematical formulae, and then simple word relationships, to start sending
something
to the Olympians while we waited for radio waves to creep to wherever they were and back with an answer.
Sam wasn’t the only one, of course. He wasn’t even the principal investigator when
we got into the hard work of developing a common vocabulary. There were better specialists than Sam at linguistics and cryptanalysis.
But it was Sam who first noticed, early on, that the response time to our messages was getting shorter. Meaning that the Olympians were on their way toward us.
By then they’d begun sending picture mosaics. They came in as strings of dits and dahs, 550,564 bits long. Someone quickly figured out that that was the square of 742, and when they displayed the string as a square matrix, black cells for the dits and white ones for the dahs, the image of the first Olympian leaped out.
Everybody remembers that picture. Everyone on Earth saw it, except for the totally blind—it was on every broadcast screen and news journal in the world—and even the blind listened to the anatomical descriptions every commentator supplied. Two tails. A fleshy, beardlike thing that hung down from its chin. Four legs. A ruff of spikes down what seemed to be the backbone. Eyes set wide apart on bulges from the cheekbones.
That first Olympian was not at all pretty, but it was definitely
alien.
When the next string turned out very similar to the first, it was Sam who saw at once that it was simply a slightly rotated view of the same being. The Olympians took forty-one pictures to give us the complete likeness of that first one in the round … .
Then they began sending pictures of the others.
It had never occurred to anyone, not even Sam, that we would be dealing not with one super-race, but with at least twenty-two of them. There were that many separate forms of alien beings, and each one uglier and more strange than the one before.
That was one of the reasons the priests didn’t like calling them “Olympians.” We’re pretty ecumenical about our gods, but none of them looked anything like any of
those,
and some of the older priests never stopped muttering about blasphemy.
 
Halfway through the third course of our lunch and the second flask of wine Sam broke off his description of the latest communique from the Olympians—they’d been acknowledging receipt of our transmissions about Earthly history—to lift his head and grin at me.
“Got it,” he said.
I turned and blinked at him. Actually, I hadn’t been paying a lot of attention to his monologue because I had been keeping my eye on the pretty Kievan waitress. She had attracted my attention because—well, I mean,
after
attracting my attention because of her extremely well developed figure and the sparsity of clothing to conceal it—because she was wearing a gold citizen’s amulet around her neck. She wasn’t a slave. That made her more intriguing. I can’t ever get really interested in slave women, because it isn’t sporting, but I had got quite interested in this one.
“Are you listening to me?” Sam demanded testily.
“Of course I am. What have you got?”
“I’ve got the answer to your problem,” he beamed. “Not just a sci-rom novel plot. A whole new
kind
of sci-rom! Why don’t you write a book about what it will be like if the Olympians
don’t
come?”
I love the way half of Sam’s brain works at questions while the other half is doing something completely different, but I can’t always follow what comes out of it. “I don’t see what you mean. If I write about the Olympians not coming, isn’t that just as bad as if I write about them doing it?”
“No, no,” he snapped. “Listen to what I say! Leave the Olympians out entirely. Just write about a future that might happen, but won’t.”
The waitress was hovering over us, picking up used plates. I was conscious of her listening as I responded with dignity. “Sam, that’s not my style. My sci-roms may not sell as well as yours do, but I’ve got just as much integrity. I never write anything that I don’t believe is at least possible.”
“Julie, get your mind off your gonads—” so he hadn’t missed the attention I was giving the girl “—and use that pitifully tiny brain of yours. I’m talking about something that
could
be possible, in some alternative future, if you see what I mean.”
I didn’t see at all. “What’s an ‘alternative future’?”
“It’s a future that
might
happen, but
won’t,”
he explained. “Like if the Olympians don’t come to see us.”
I shook my head, puzzled. “But we already know they’re coming,” I pointed out.
“But suppose they weren’t! Suppose they hadn’t contacted us years ago.”
“But they did,” I said, trying to straighten out his thinking on the subject. He only sighed.
“I see I’m not getting through to you,” he said, pulling his robe around him and getting to his feet. “Get on with your waitress. I’ve got some messages to send. I’ll see you on the ship.”
 
Well, for one reason or another I didn’t get anywhere with the Kievan waitress. She said she was married, happily and monogamously. Well, I couldn’t see why any lawful, free husband would have his wife out working at a job like that, but I was surprised she didn’t show more interest in one of my lineage—
I’d better explain about that.
You see, my family has a claim to fame. Genealogists say that we are descended from the line of Julius Caesar himself.
I mention that claim myself, sometimes, though usually only when I’ve been drinking—I suppose it is one of the reasons that Lidia, always a snob, took up with me in the first place. It isn’t a serious matter. After all, Julius Caesar died more than two thousand years ago. There have been sixty or seventy generations since then, not to mention the fact that, although Ancestor Julius certainly left a lot of children behind him, none of them happened to be born to a woman he happened to be married to. I don’t even look very Roman. There must have been a Northman or two in the line, because I’m tall and fair-haired, which no respectable Roman ever was.
Still, even if I’m not exactly the lawful heir to the divine Julius, I at least come of a pretty ancient and distinguished line. You would have thought a mere waitress would have taken that into account before turning me down.
She hadn’t, though. When I woke up the next morning—alone—Sam was gone from the inn, although the skip-ship for Alexandria wasn’t due to sail until late evening.
I didn’t see him all day. I didn’t look for him very hard, because I woke up feeling a little ashamed of myself. Why should a grown man, a celebrated author of more than forty bestselling (well, reasonably
well-
selling) sci-roms, depend on somebody else for his ideas?
So I turned my baggage over to the servant, checked out of the inn and took the underground to the Library of Rome.
Rome isn’t only the imperial capital of the world, it’s the scientific capital, too. The
big old telescopes out on the hills aren’t much use anymore, because the lights from the city spoil their night viewing, and anyway the big optical telescopes are all out in space now. Still, they were where Galileus detected the first extra-solar planet and Tychus made his famous spectrographs of the last great supernova in our own galaxy, only a couple of dozen years after the first spaceflight. The scientific tradition survives. Rome is still the headquarters of the Collegium of Sciences.
That’s why the Library of Rome is so great for someone like me. They have direct access to the Collegium database, and you don’t even have to pay transmission tolls. I signed myself in, laid out my tablets and stylus on the desk they assigned me and began calling up files.
Somewhere
there had to be an idea for a science-adventure romance no one had written yet … .
Somewhere there no doubt was, but I couldn’t find it. Usually you can get a lot of help from a smart research librarian, but it seemed they’d put on a lot of new people in the Library of Rome—Iberians, mostly; reduced to slave status because they’d taken part in last year’s Lusitanian uprising. There were so many Iberians on the market for a while that they depressed the price. I would have bought some as a speculation, knowing that the price would go up—after all, there aren’t that many uprisings and the demand for slaves never stops. But I was temporarily short of capital, and besides you have to feed them. If the ones at the Library of Rome were a fair sample, they were no bargains anyway.
I gave up. The weather had improved enough to make a stroll around town attractive, and so I wandered toward the Ostia monorail.
Rome was busy, as always. There was a bullfight going on in the Coliseum and racing at the Circus Maximus. Tourist buses were jamming the narrow streets. A long religious procession was circling the Pantheon, but I didn’t get close enough to see which particular gods were being honored today. I don’t like crowds. Especially Roman crowds, because there are even more foreigners in Rome than in London, Africs and Hinds, Hans, and Northmen—every race on the face of the Earth sends its tourists to visit the Imperial City. And Rome obliges with spectacles. I paused at one of them, for the changing of the guard at the Golden House. Of course, the Caesar and his wife were nowhere to be seen—off on one of their endless ceremonial tours of the dominions, no doubt, or at least opening a new supermarket somewhere. But the Algonkian family standing in front of me were thrilled as the honor Legions marched and countermarched their standards around the palace. I remembered enough Cherokee to ask the Algonkians where they were from, but the languages aren’t really very close and the man’s Cherokee was even worse than mine. We just smiled at each other.
As soon as the Legions were out of the way I headed for the train.
I knew in the back of my mind that I should have been worrying about my financial position. The clock was running on my thirty days of grace. I didn’t, though. I was buoyed up by a feeling of confidence. Confidence in my good friend Flavius Samuelus who, I knew—no matter what he was doing with most of his brain—was still cogitating an idea for me with some part of it.
 
It did not occur to me that even Sam had limitations. Or that something more important than my own problems was taking up so much of his attention that he didn’t have much left for me.
I didn’t see Sam come onto the skip-ship, and I didn’t see him in our compartment. Even when the ship’s fans began to rumble and we slid down the ways into the Tyrrhenian Sea he wasn’t there. I dozed off, beginning to worry that he might have missed the boat; but late that night, already asleep, I half woke, just long enough to hear him stumbling in. “I’ve been on the bridge,” he said when I muttered something. “Go back to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

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