Rollback (16 page)

"Huh," said Don.

"And there's been lots of music sent." Sarah moved over to the couch and lay down. He motioned for her to lift her legs so he could sit down at the far end. She did so, then she lowered her feet into his lap, and he began rubbing them for her.

"Mmmmm,"
she said. "That's nice. Anyway, Fraser Gunn was there—remember him? He argued that sending music was a mistake."

"Why?" asked Don. "Afraid of being sued by the copyright holders?"

"No, no. But, as he said, the only thing we've got to trade with aliens is our culture; that's the only thing you might want from another civilization. And if we give away the best stuff—Bach, Beethoven, the Beatles—we'll have nothing good to offer when the aliens say, hey, what have you got to swap for
our
best work?"

Don knew all about scraping the bottom of the cultural barrel. He was a DVD addict—more so as a collector than as an actual watcher. He'd been thrilled when all the great television of his childhood and teenage years had been released on DVD, and he'd snapped up the boxed sets:
Thunderbirds, All in the Family, M*A*S*H, Roots, Kolchak, The Night Stalker
, and, of course, the original
Star Trek
. But the last time he'd been in Future Shop, all he'd seen in the new-releases section was forgotten crap like
Sugar Time!
, a seventies sitcom starring Barbi Benton, and
The Ropers
, a spinoff from
Three's Company
whose only virtue was that it proved the original
wasn't
the worst TV show ever made. The studios had gone through their good stuff at a breakneck pace, and were now desperately trying to find anything at all worth releasing.

"Well," he said, "maybe Fraser's right. I mean, the only thing SETI is good for is sending information of one sort or another, no?"

"Oh, I'm sure he
is
right," said Sarah. "But there's nothing we can do about it. People are going to send whatever they want to. It's turned Carl Sagan's old saying on its ear. He used to ask, 'Who speaks for the Earth?' The question really is, 'Who
doesn't
speak for the Earth?"

"That's our number-one product these days, isn't it?" said Don. "Spam."

He saw her nod ruefully. SETI, as he'd often heard Sarah say, was a mid-twentieth-century idea, given birth to by Morrison and Cocconi's famous paper, and, as such, it carried a lot of quaint baggage. The notion that governments, hopefully cooperating internationally, would control the sending and receiving of signals was a fossil of an earlier age, before cheap, mass-produced satellite dishes became common, allowing everyone everywhere to watch ESPN and the
Playboy
channel.

No, these days anybody who wanted to cobble together the equipment from off-the-shelf parts could build their own radio-telescope array. Using home-computer astronomy software to drive them, consumer satellite dishes could easily track Sigma Draconis across the sky. Such dishes separated by wide distances could be linked via the Internet, and with the aid of error-correcting and noise-canceling software, groups of them effectively formed much bigger dishes. The phrase "SETI@home" had taken on an all-new meaning.

Of course, the American FCC, and comparable bodies in other jurisdictions, had the authority to limit private radio broadcasting. At the urging of the SETI community, the FCC was trying to prosecute many of the individuals and groups that were beaming unofficial replies to Sigma Draconis. But those cases were almost certainly all going to be lost because of First Amendment challenges. No matter how powerful they were, tight-beam transmissions aimed at one tiny point in the sky had no impact on the normal use of the airwaves, and attempts to ban such narrowcasts were therefore an unwarranted infringement of free speech.

Don knew that some religious organizations, including a few new cults that had sprung up, had already built their own vast dishes, dedicated to beaming signals to Sigma Draconis. Some did it twenty-four hours a day; Sigma Drac never set in the sky for anyone whose latitude was greater than twenty degrees north.

And for those who just wanted to send one or two messages—crackpot theories, execrable poetry, political tracts—there were private-sector firms that had built dishes and offered various transmission plans. One of the best-known was Dracon Express, whose slogan was "When it absolutely, positively has to be there 18.8 years from now."

Nine-year-old Emily appeared, having come up from the basement. "Hi, sweetheart," Don said. "Just a few minutes to dinner. Set the table, will you?"

Emily looked petulant. "Do I
have
to?"

"Yes, dear, you do," he said.

She let out a theatrical sigh. "I have to do
everything
!"

"Yes, you do," Don said. "After dinner, you have to go out and plow the fields for a few hours. And when you're done with that, you'll need to sweep all the streets from here to Finch Avenue."

"Oh, Daddy!" But she was grinning now as she headed off into the kitchen. He turned back to his wife, who was visibly trying not to wince every time Emily banged the plates together.

"So," he said, "did your group figure out precisely
why
the aliens are interested in our morality?"

She shook her head. "Some paranoid types think we're being tested, and, if found wanting, will be subject to retribution. Someone from France went so far as to suggest we were undergoing an evaluation by the Sigma Draconian equivalent of PETA, wanting to determine, before they came to eat us, whether we had the higher moral and cognitive standing of true intelligences, or were just dumb cattle."

"I thought it was an article of faith in SETI circles that aliens only communicated; they never actually go places."

"Apparently they didn't get that memo in Paris," said Sarah. "Anyway, someone else suggested that we're just one data point in some wider survey, the kind that would be summarized in multicolor pie charts in the Dracon counterpart of
USA Today
."

A timer sounded in the kitchen. Don patted her legs, indicating she should let him up. She did so, and he headed in. He rinsed his hands, then opened the stove, feeling a rush of hot air pouring out. "And what about orchestrating the replies?" he called out. "What did you guys decide about that?"

Sarah called back, "Hang on, I'm going to wash up."

He got the oven mitts and removed the pot, placing it on the stove top.

"Where are the napkins?" Emily asked.

"In that cupboard," he said, indicating it with a movement of his head. "Just like yesterday. And the day before."

"Stacie said she saw Mommy on TV," Emily said.

"That's pretty cool, isn't it?" he said, opening the pot and stirring the vegetables surrounding the meat.

"Yeah," said Emily.

Sarah appeared in the doorway. "Something smells good."

"Thanks," said Don, then, shouting, "Carl! Dinner!"

It took a few minutes to get everyone seated and served, and then Don said, "So,
what are
you going to send the aliens?"

"We're going to do what they asked. We're going to set up a website, based at U of T, and let people from all over the world answer the questions the aliens asked. We'll pick at random a thousand completed surveys, and send them off."

Carl was reaching for the dinner rolls. "Hey," Don said, "come on, Carl. Don't reach halfway across the table. Ask your sister; she'll pass them."

Carl sighed. "Can I have the rolls?"

"Say please," Emily said.

"Dad!"

Don was tired. "Emily, give your brother the rolls."

Scowling, she did so.

"Why do you suppose they want a thousand sets of responses?" continued Don. "Why not just, you know, send a summary—like,
X
percent chose answer
A
,
Y
percent chose
B
, and so on."

"This isn't
Family Feud
," said Sarah.

Don chuckled.

"Seriously," said Sarah, "I suspect it's because if you summarize it all, you'd never see the seemingly contradictory stuff. You know, saying that
X
percent are against abortion and
Y
percent are for the death penalty doesn't let you draw out the fact that, often, it's the same people who are pro-life and also pro-capital punishment. Or, for that matter, the aliens might consider my own beliefs to be bizarrely contradictory. Being both pro-choice and anti-capital punishment could be interpreted as meaning you're in favor of murdering innocent children but against killing those who could be said to deserve it. I'd never put it that way, of course, but combinations like that are interesting, and I guess they don't want them to get lost in the data."

"Sounds like a plan," Don said, while carving another piece of roast for Carl. "But what about your own answers?"

"Sorry?"

"You figured out that it was a survey," he said. "Surely one of the thousand sets of answers sent should be yours."

"Oh, I don't know about that..." Sarah said.

"Sure, Mom," said Carl. "You've got to include your own answers. It's your right."

"Well, we'll see," said Sarah. "Emily, would you please pass the peas?"
 

After lunch, Lenore headed back to the University, and Don made his way down to the Art Gallery. He'd been impressed by the young lady's Scrabble play. She had a terrific vocabulary, a good strategic sense, and didn't take too long to make her moves. Although he did ultimately win, she had the best single turn, placing
oxlip
vertically starting at the triple-word-score square in the upper-left corner of the board.

The Art Gallery of Ontario had the world's largest collection of Henry Moore sculptures, as well as major collections of European Old Masters and Canada's Group of Seven, plus a permanent exhibition of Helena van Vliet watercolors—and although Don had seen all of those before, he enjoyed looking at them again. But it was the traveling exhibition of blown glass by Robyn Herrington that had really brought him here today, and he took his time admiring each piece. He had a fondness for art forms that required genuine manual skill; so often, today's digital arts substituted patience for real talent.

The AGO was popular with tourists, and he had to put up with being jostled a fair bit—but at least it didn't actually hurt to be bumped by people anymore; until recently, he often used to ache for hours after colliding with a wall or another person.

His favorite Herrington piece, he decided, was a yellow fish with big blue eyes and giant pink lips; somehow, out of molten glass, the artist had imbued great personality into it.

After he'd seen his fill, Don headed outside and started making his way back to the university to pick up the pile of papers. Rush hour had begun and the traffic on the streets was already bumper-to-bumper. By the time he got back to the fourteenth floor of the McLennan tower, it was a quarter to five, but, as promised, Lenore was still there.

"Hi, Don," she said. "I was beginning to think you'd fallen into a black hole."

He smiled. "Sorry. Lost track of time."

"How was the exhibition?"

"Terrific, actually."

"I put your papers into a couple of bags for you, so they'd be easier to carry."

And who said young people today were inconsiderate? "Thanks."

"It's too bad it's so late," Lenore said. "The subway will be jam-packed, at least for the next ninety minutes. Sardine City."

"I hadn't thought about that," he said. It had been years since he'd had to come home from downtown in rush hour. A tin can full of sweaty, exhausted people didn't sound very pleasant.

"Look," said Lenore, "I'm about to head back to the Duke of York."

"Again?" said Don, astonished.

"I get a discount there. And it's Tuesday night—that's wing night. Me and a few other grad students meet there every week. Why don't you come along? You can hang with us until the subway traffic dies down a bit."

"Oh, I don't want to intrude."

"It's no intrusion."

"I, um..."

"Think about it. I'm going to have a pee before I head out." She left the office, and Don looked out the little window. In the distance, beyond the campus, he could see gridlocked streets. He reached into the pocket of his shorts, and pulled out his datacom. "Call Sarah," he said to it, and a moment later he heard her saying, "Hello?"

"Hey, hon," he said. "How are you?"

"Fine. Where are you?"

"Actually, down at your old stomping grounds. Just picking up the papers you wanted."

"How was the exhibit at the AGO?"

"Good; I'm glad I saw it. But, listen, I really don't want to face the rush-hour crush on the subway."

"No, you shouldn't."

"And Lenore here, and a few other grad students, are going out for chicken wings, and—"

"And my husband loves his wings," Sarah said, and Don could hear the smile in her voice.

"So would you mind if...?"

"No, not at all. In fact, Julie Fein just called. They've got theater tickets for tonight, but Howie's not feeling up to going, so she wanted to know if I wanted to go; I was just about to call you."

"Oh, for sure. Go. What are you going to see?"

"
Fiddler on the Roof
, at Leah Posluns." Just a few blocks from their home.

Don did a decent Topol impersonation, and he sang a few bars of "If I Were a Rich Man"—he liked any song that properly employed the subjunctive. Then he added, "Have a wonderful time."

"Thanks, dear—and enjoy your wings."

"Bye."

"Bye."

Just as Don was closing up his datacom, Lenore came back into the room. "So, what's the verdict?" she asked.

"Thanks," he said. "Wings sound great."
 

When Don and Lenore arrived back at the Duke of York, Lenore's friends had already shown up. They were seated in a small room to the left on the ground floor, an area Lenore said was called "the snug."

"Hey, everybody," Lenore said, pulling out a captain's chair and sitting down. "This is my friend Don."