Arthur Clarke: Cradle

Before leaving the beach at Deer Key, Carol Dawson opened up the back of her station wagon. It served her well as a portable photo laboratory. She first rewound and checked the video tape that she had taken, listening particularly to hear if the splashing of the whales could be heard behind her while she was in the boat. Then she popped the discs from the still cameras into readers to see if she liked all the photographs. They were good. She smiled to herself, closed the back of the station wagon, and drove back to Key West.

Carol finished the redundant transfer of the videotape through the modem to Joey Hernandez in Miami and then called another number. She was sitting in one of the private cubicles inside the large new communications room at the Key West Marriott. The screen in front of Carol indicated that the connection for her new number had been made, but there was not yet any picture. She heard a woman’s voice say, “Good morning, Dr. Michaels’ office.”

“Good morning, Bernice, it’s Carol. I’m on video.”

The monitor cleared up in a second and a pleasant middle-aged woman appeared. “Oh, hi, Carol. I’ll tell Dale you’re on the line.”

Carol smiled as she watched Bernice swivel her chair and roll over to a panel of buttons on her left. Bernice was almost surrounded by her desk. In front of her were a couple of keyboards connected to two large screens, a variety of disc drives, and what looked like a phone embedded in another monitor. Apparently there had been no room for the communications panel right next to the phone, so Bernice had to roll three to four feet in her chair to signal to Dr. Dale Michaels that he had a call, that it was on video, that it was Carol, and that it was coming from Key West. Dr. Dale, as he was known by everyone except Carol, liked to have plenty of information before he answered the phone.

Both to Bernice’s left and right were perpendicular extensions to the desk, upon which were arrayed stacks of floppy discs of different sizes (the stacks were labeled “read” or “file” or “outgoing correspondence”), interleaved with groups of magazines and manila folders containing hard copy printout from the computers. Bernice pushed a button on the panel but nothing happened. She looked apologetically at Carol on the screen above the phone.

“I’m sorry, Carol.” Bernice was a little flustered. “Maybe I didn’t do it right. Dr. Dale had a new system installed this week again and I’m not certain…”

One of the two large monitors flashed a message. “Oh good,” Bernice continued, now smiling, “I did it right. He’ll be with you in a minute. He has someone in there with him and will finish quickly so he can see you and speak with you. I hope you don’t mind if I put you on hold.”

Carol nodded and Bernice’s image faded away from the screen. On the monitor Carol now watched the beginning of a short tutorial documentary on oyster farming. The piece was beautifully filmed underwater using the most advanced photographic equipment. The narration featured the mellifluous voice of Dr. Dale and the video pointed out the connection between the inventions at MOI (the Miami Oceanographic Institute, of which Dr. Dale Michaels was the founder and chief executive officer) and the rapid rise of sea farming of all kinds. But Carol had to laugh. Playing quietly behind the narration, and increasing in volume during periods of narrative silence, was Pachelbel’s “Canon.” It was Dale’s favorite piece of mood music (he was so predictable—Carol always knew what was coming next when Dale put Pachelbel on the CD player in his apartment), but it seemed strange to her to listen to the lilting strings as the cameras moved in for close-ups of growing oysters.

The oyster story was abruptly discontinued in medias res and the screen dissolved to the interior of a large executive office. Dale Michaels was sitting on a couch, across the room from his modem desk, looking at one of three video monitors that could be seen in the room. “Good morning again, Carol,” he said enthusiastically. “So how did it go? And where are you? I didn’t know that they had videos in the Marriott rooms yet.”

Dr. Michaels was tall and slim. Blond, his hair was slightly curly and receding just a trace at the temples. He flashed a ready smile that was too quick, almost practiced, but his green eyes were warm and open.

“I’m down in the comm room here at the hotel,” Carol answered. “I just sent the whale beaching story off to the Herald on disc. Jesus, Dale, I felt so sorry for those poor animals. How can they be so smart and still get their directions so fouled up?”

“We don’t know, Carol,” Dale replied. “But remember that our definition of intelligence and the whales’ definition are almost certainly completely different. Besides, it’s not that surprising that they trust their internal navigation system even when it leads them to disaster. Can you imagine a situation in which you would essentially disregard information that your eyes were giving you? It’s the same thing. We’re talking here about a malfunction in their primary sensor.”

Carol was quiet for a moment. “I guess I can see what you’re saying,” she said finally, “but it hurt to see them so helpless. Oh, well, anyway, I got the story on video too. Incidentally, the new integrated video technology is superb. The Marriott here just installed a new higher data rate modem for video and I was able to transfer the entire eight-minute piece to Joey Hernandez at Channel 44 in only two minutes. He loved it. He does the noon news, you know. Catch it if you can and tell me what you think.”

Carol paused just a beat. “And by the way, Dale, thanks again for the tip.”

“Just glad to help.” Dale was beaming. He loved it when he could help Carol with her career. He had been pursuing her single-mindedly, in his left brain scientific way, for almost a year and a half. But he had been unable to convince her that a permanent relationship would be mutually beneficial. Or at least he thought that was the problem.

“I think this whale thing could be a great cover,” Carol was saying. “You know I was worried about attracting too much attention with your telescope. And the treasure hunter bit just doesn’t fit if someone down here recognizes me. But I think I can use a whale follow-up story as the pretense. What do you think?”

“Sounds reasonable to me,” Dale answered. “Incidentally, there have been a couple of other whale irregularities reported as well this morning—a partial pod beaching up at Sanibel and a supposed attack on a fishing boat north of Marathon. The owner was Vietnamese and highly excitable. Of course it’s almost unheard of that false killers attack anything related to humans. But maybe you can use the whole thing somehow.”

Carol saw that he was already up from the couch and walking around his office. Dr. Dale Michaels had so much energy it was almost impossible for him to sit still or relax. He was just a few months away from his fortieth birthday but he still had the zest and enthusiasm of a teenager.

“Just try not to let anyone from the Navy know that you have the telescope,” he continued. “They called again this morning and asked for a third set of equipment. I told them the third telescope was loaned out and being used for research. Whatever it is that they’re looking for must be very important.” He turned and looked at the camera. “And very secret. This guy Lieutenant Todd reminded me again this morning, as soon as I made a normal scientific inquiry, that it was Navy business and he couldn’t tell me anything about it.”

Carol made some notes on a small spiral pad. “You know, Dale,” she began again, “I thought this story had tremendous potential as soon as you mentioned it to me yesterday. Everything indicates that something unusual and secret is going on with the Navy. I myself was amused by the amateur way that Todd stonewalled me on the phone yesterday and then demanded to know who had given me his name. I told him that a source in the Pentagon had suggested that there was some high-priority activity at the Naval Air Station in Key West and that he, Todd, was associated with it. He seemed to buy it. And I’m convinced that the bozo Navy public affairs guy here knows nothing at all about anything that might be happening.”