John Sandford - Saturn Run

They did. They asked about the probability that Earth-like evolution would be working on an alien planet. Clover said, “High. Unless the beings were created instantaneously by their own biblical God, they probably proceeded from simple organisms to complex ones. I also suspect it’s probable that they grew up in a gaseous atmosphere rather than a liquid environment, and that they have sight, that they hear sound. All of those things have been invented several times on Earth, and are critical to an evolved tech state, in my opinion. Note that I don’t say their eyes are necessarily like ours—they could be like insect eyes—but they can see. Note that I also don’t specify that they see the same wavelengths as we do, only that they can see. In my opinion.”

They asked about the possibility that aliens would be so culturally unlike Earth people that communication would be impossible. Clover said, “Depends on what kind of aliens you’re talking about. Exo-bacteria would fit the definition of alien, and we can’t communicate with our own bacteria. But if you’re talking about technological beings, we should be able to communicate because communication involves the manipulation of symbols, and we should be able to build a dictionary starting with basics. For example, no matter how alien the aliens might be, hydrogen is hydrogen, and iron is iron, and light travels at the same speed for both cultures. With a highly evolved species, we should be able to create the equivalents of The Physics Handbook , and compare them, and that in itself would provide leads to sophisticated symbol manipulation—or language. The place where we might have problems would be understanding highly evolved cultural tastes based on physical differences. For example, we have rather inane performances called ‘light shows’ on Earth. Given an alien species with different eyes, that respond to much wider wavelengths than ours, they may have evolved a terrifically sophisticated ‘music’ based on vision, rather than hearing. We might never understand that. On the other hand, there are millions of people on Earth who don’t understand jazz—so those kinds of differences can be dealt with.

“But that doesn’t mean we’d be compatible. They sure wouldn’t look like us, they sure wouldn’t think just like us. Think about how many wars have been started on Earth over misunderstandings, and we’re all the same species, evolved on the same planet. Would we have lots in common with aliens? I expect so. But we’d probably have lots of ways to piss each other off without even knowing it, so if and when we meet the little green guys it’ll be ‘step lightly, people.’”

They talked for two hours, the questions ranging from high-school basics to postdoc details. Chapman called a halt when the food service started opening up at a shift change.

“Lot of smart people here,” Clover said, as Chapman took him back to his cabin.

“Yes. And that was probably less than a third of the people who actually wanted to come, but couldn’t because of work assignments or sleep period. The fact is, half of us are up here because we got interested in space and aliens when we were kids…. But I have a question for you. I didn’t want to ask it during the meeting, though I thought it might come up.”

“Go ahead,” Clover said.

“Why are they sending an anthropologist to Mars? There aren’t any aliens on Mars.”

Clover smiled and said, “I asked the same thing. Promise you won’t tell?”

“I won’t.”

“Because the President wanted me to go,” Clover said. “She’s a fan, she’s read my books. She was one of those kids who wanted to know about space and aliens. She sent me a note and said she hoped that actually living in a space environment would inspire me to new insights.”

“Really,” Chapman said. “Well, she’s the President, I guess she can do that.”

Clover suspected that Chapman suspected that something was up.

When Clover shut the cabin door behind him, Mr. Snuffles meowed before he had a chance to sit on his bunk and look around. The cat was still in its nylon carrying case, and Clover put the nylon case on the bed, sat beside it, and unzipped it.

Mr. Snuffles stuck his head out, tentatively, looked around, and then hopped out onto the cabin floor. That was odd enough. Five minutes later, the cat launched himself halfway up the fabric-covered wall, dug in with his claws, and hung there, turned and looked at Clover, and meowed, something beyond a standard meow. More like a meow combined with a purr.

Five minutes, and the cat had gone through a rebirth. His weight was one-tenth of what it had been in New Orleans; his heart didn’t have to work as hard, his arthritis didn’t hurt as much when it landed. He could jump again. In fact, he was jumping all over the place.

After a while, Clover stretched out for a nap, and the cat snuggled on his chest. The cat, Clover thought, was thanking him, and that made him want to cry, although former WFL tackles didn’t do that.

Hardly ever.

Crow spent two hours with Fang-Castro, locked in her bedroom with all the security measures up. “We’re going deep on all your crew members. I’m sure you’ve noticed that you’ve had a few unexpected transfers down. Those were obvious security problems. I’m not saying they are guilty of anything, I’m just saying that we’re not going to take any chances at all.”

“I understand. I’ve been told that you’ll be the security chief on the trip.”

“That’s not quite right. I’ll be your security chief. You’re the boss, I’m the underling. I’ll make that work: I’ve been employed by two presidents, both of whom are assholes of a magnitude you can’t even begin to imagine. But. I need you to pay attention to me. When it comes to security issues, I am rarely wrong.”

“And if we have two conflicting issues, one involving security, the other the safety of the ship…”

“Just like a ship’s captain to come up with the immovable-object problem,” Crow said with a grin. “If that should happen, I’ll give you my best advice and even urge it on you. But you’re the captain. I’m paid to give advice, you’re paid to make decisions.”

Fang-Castro said, “Then we agree.”

DAY TWO:

Fiorella took Sandy aside, as they geared up for the first recording session. “I have to tell you, if we’re going to work together, that I probably will never like you very much. I grew up in the underclass and there’s something about rich people that causes me to itch.”

“What are you talking about?” Sandy said. “You gotta be rich yourself.”

“I’m affluent—now—but I don’t work with the assumptions of the people who are born rich. People like you. But: I can work with people I don’t like. I do it all the time. I just don’t know if you can handle that kind of relationship, without cutting me up. I don’t want to be cut up: this is my career. This is my life.”

“No problem, then,” Sandy said. “I don’t watch much screen, but I’ve been told you’re very good at this. As long as you’re good, and you pay attention when I’m telling you camera stuff, we can do it. I’ll pay attention to what you say about your reporting requirements. You take care of the talk, I’ll take care of the pictures.”

Fiorella nodded. “Fine. Now. How did you make that shot of me, at the window? I’ve never seen anything quite like it. My camera guys all have Reds, the same equipment you have.”

Sandy shrugged. “I was an arts major and I’ve looked at a lot of paintings, and I actually did quite a bit of painting and color studies myself in the studio courses. When I saw that dark window, and the light on the people walking by, I saw a painting, a Caravaggio, that deep, dramatic lighting,” Sandy said. “The other thing is, most photographers want sharpness. That’s most of what they think about: sharp, sharp, sharp. But people can look too sharp—a little softness can really pop with a naturally sensuous face. The thing is, I was shooting you through the glass on the egg, and then through the view-port glass, and that degraded the sharpness enough to give you the glow. Instead of re-sharpening in-camera, I left it that way.”