Fred Hoyle - A for Andromeda

Christine tapped rapidly at the keyboard and the computer hummed steadily behind its metal panelling. It really did seem to be all around them—massive, impassive and waiting.

Dawnay looked at the rows of blue cabinets, the rhythmically oscillating lights with less awe then Judy felt, but with interest. “Questions and answers—do you believe that?”

“If you were sitting up among the stars, you couldn’t ask us directly what we know. But this chap could.” Fleming indicated the computer control racks. “If it’s designed and programmed to do it for them.”

Dawnay turned to Reinhart again.

“If Dr. Fleming’s on the right line, you really have something tremendous.”

“Fleming has an instinct for it,” said Reinhart, watching Christine.

When she had finished typing, nothing happened. Bridger fiddled with the control desk knobs while the others waited. Fleming looked puzzled.

“What’s up, Dennis?”

“I don’t know.”

“You could be wrong,” said Judy.

“We haven’t been yet.”

As Fleming spoke the lamps on the display panel started to flicker, and a moment later the output printer went into action with a clatter. They gathered round it watching the wide white streamer of paper inching up over its roller, covered in lines of figures.

One of the long low cupboards in Geers’s office was a cocktail cabinet. The Director stood four glasses on top and produced a bottle of gin from the lower shelf.

“What Reinhart and his people are doing is terribly exciting.” He was wearing his second-best suit but his best manner for Dawnay’s benefit. “A little set-back yesterday, but I gather it’s all right now.”

Dawnay, submerged in one of the armchairs, looked up and caught Reinhart’s eye. Geers went on talking as he sprinkled bitters into one of the glasses.

“We’ve nothing but ironmongery here, really, out in this wilderness. We do a good deal of the country’s rocketry, of course, and there’s a lot of complex stuff goes into that, but I wouldn’t mind changing into some old clothes and getting back to lab work. Is that pink enough?”

He placed the filled glass on his desk on a level with Dawnay’s ear. Its base was tucked into a little paper mat to prevent it from marking the polish.

“Fine, thanks.” Dawnay could just see it and reach it without getting up. Geers reached into the cabinet for another bottle.

“And sherry for you, Reinhart?” Sherry was poured. “One gets so stuck behind an executive desk. Cheers.... Nice to see you again, Madeleine. What have you been up to?”

“D.N.A., chromosomes, the origin of life caper.” Dawnay spoke gruffly. She put her glass back on the desk and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke down her nose like a man. “I’ve got into a bit of a cul-de-sac. I was just going away to think when I met Ernest.”

“Stay and think here.” Geers gave her a nice smile and then switched it off. “Where’s Fleming got to?”

“He’ll be over in a minute,” said Reinhart.

“You’ve a bright boy, though an awkward one.” Geers informed him. “In fact you’ve a bit of an awkward squad altogether, haven’t you?”

“We’ve also got results.” Reinhart was unruffled. “It’s started printing out.”

Geers raised his eyebrows.

“Has it indeed? What’s it printing?”

They told him.

“Very odd. Very odd indeed. And what happened when you fed it back?”

“A whole mass of figures came out.”

“What are they?”

“No idea. We’ve been going over them, but so far...” Reinhart shrugged.

Fleming walked in with a perfunctory sort of knock.

“This the right party?”

“Come in, come in,” said Geers, as if to a promising but gauche student. “Thirsty?”

“When am I not?”

Fleming was carrying the print-out sheets. He threw them down on the desk to take his drink.

“Any joy?” Reinhart asked.

“Not a crumb. There’s something wrong with him, or wrong with us.”

“Is that the latest?” asked Geers, straightening the papers and bending over them to look. “You’ll have to do a lot of analysis on this, won’t you? If we can help in any way—”

“It ought to be simple.” Fleming was subdued and preoccupied as though he was trying to see something just beyond him. “I’m sure there ought to be something quite easy. Something we’d recognise.”

“There was a section here—” Reinhart took the sheets and shuffled through them. “Seems vaguely familiar. Have another look at that lot, Madeleine.”

Madeleine looked.

“What sort of thing do you expect?” Geers asked Fleming, as he poured a drink.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what the game is yet.”

“You wouldn’t be interested in the carbon atom, would you?” Dawnay looked up out of her chair with a faint smile.

“The carbon atom!”

“It’s not expressed the way we’d put it; but, yes, it could be a description of the structure of carbon.” She blew smoke out of her nose. “Is that what you meant, Ernest?”

Reinhart and Geers bent over the sheets again.

“I’m a bit rusty, of course,” said Geers.

“But it could be, couldn’t it?”

“Yes, it could be. I wonder if there’s anything else.”

“There won’t be anything else,” Fleming said. He seemed very sure, and no longer preoccupied. “Take it from the beginning. Think of the hydrogen question. He’s asking us what form of life we belong to. All these other figures are other possible ways of making living creatures. But we don’t know anything about them, because life on this earth is based on the carbon atom.”

“Well, it’s a theory,” said Reinhart. “What do we do now? Feed back the figures relating to carbon?”

“If we want him to know what stuff we’re made of. He won’t forget.”

“Aren’t you presupposing an intelligence?” said Geers, who had no time for fancy stuff.

“Look.” Fleming turned to him. “The message we picked up did two things. It stipulated a design. It then gave us a lot of basic information to feed into the computer when we’d built it. We didn’t know what that information was at the time, but we’re beginning to know now. With what was in the original program, and what we tell him, he can learn anything he likes about us. And he can learn to act upon it. If that’s not an intelligence, I don’t know what is.”

“It’s a very useful machine,” Dawnay said.

Fleming turned on her. “Just because it doesn’t have protoplasm, no chemist can imagine it as a thinking agency!”

Dawnay sniffed.

“What are you afraid of, John?” Reinhart asked.

“Its purpose. It hasn’t been put here for fun. It hasn’t been put here for our benefit.”

“You’ve a neurosis about it,” said Dawnay.

“You think so?”

“You’ve been given a windfall; use it.” She appealed to Reinhart. “If you use Dr. Fleming’s method and feed back the carbon formula, you may get something else. You may build up to more complicated structures, and you’ve got a marvellous calculating machine to handle them. That’s all it is. Apply it.”

“John?” Reinhart turned to Fleming.

“You can count me out.”

“Would you like to tackle it, Madeleine?” said the Professor.

“Why don’t you?” she asked him.

“It is a long step from astronomy to bio-synthesis. If your university can spare you....”

“We can accommodate you.” Geers, when he moved, moved in quickly. “You said you were at a dead end.”

Dawnay considered.

“Would you work with me, Dr. Fleming?”

Fleming shook his head. “There’s something needs thinking out first—before we start at all.”