Ian Watson - The Embedding

“Just flying the nude auction show? What a joke. The stars look down—as voyeurs.”

“Could just be the stars,” Zwingler agreed primly. “Don’t see what else it could be. Frankly.”

“But it’s got to be a robot, Tom!” How desperately Sam sounded like he wanted to believe this version of the facts—cock of his own dunghill here at Haddon how smartly he put himself in the place of humanity, long-time cock of its. “No sane race would squander the time and resources to survey even a fraction of the stars by going there in person, on the off-chance.”

“We’re putting out as much radio traffic today as a fair-sized star so how long do you think it is since the signal strength became noticeable out there? Maybe they heard—and came to see?”

“No, Tom—that would put them within a couple of dozen light years of us, unless they know how to travel faster than light, which is a physical impossibility. It’s just not probable, another civilization so close to us. It’s got to be a robot. Maybe one out of hundreds or thousands sent out goodness knows how long ago. The thing could have been travelling for centuries before it picked up our signals. The fact that it only echoes our own broadcasts instead of sending one of its own proves it’s a drone.”

“Of course,” Sole pointed out, “they’d have no reason to expect you to be looking out for any signals from that particular direction with the sort of sophisticated radio-dish you mention—unless you acknowledged their rebroadcasts. Have you done that—or is everyone sitting on their hands in panic?”

Zwingler nodded.

“In fact we have—we sent a 1271 bit test-panel. But no response—just our own programmes being played back at us, backwards.”

Now that he’d partially absorbed it, the news exhilarated Sole rather than scared him. It seemed to absolve him from his petty worries about Pierre and Eileen and his guilt in the face of Dorothy. His experiments with the children took on a purer, clearer complexion, the sort of exhilarated mood he imagined the realization of the ‘Death of God’ had filled Nietzsche with. Anything was possible in the world where God was dead; likewise with a world about to be visited from the Stars. Then he realized he was using the news as an anaesthetic—and the pain returned.

“How soon is this thing getting here?” fretted Sam.

Zwingler shook his head sadly.

“At the current rate of deceleration—extrapolating from the broadcasts—we reckon on it being in the vicinity of the Moon in five days’ time.”

Sam looked heartsick and Zwingler visibly sympathetic. The rubies circulated consolingly.

“It’s been decided not to release the news.”

“But that’s ridiculous. How do you propose to make that stick? And for God’s sake why?”

“It’s too dangerous to release news of this calibre, Chris, Carl Gustav Jung predicted that the reins might be torn from our hands—metaphorically speaking. We’d be bereft of our dreams as a species—it could kick the legs right out from under us.”

“Or give us a timely kick in the pants?”

“False optimism, Chris. We’re going out to collect it—meet it—whatever. If it’s a robot drone, humanity needn’t be traumatized—not yet awhile, till we’ve got people prepared—maybe not for another hundred years. Naturally the Russians were bound to find out sooner or later so we took them into our confidence. They see our point about discretion, and providing there’s a quid pro quo about information sharing they’ll play along with us. A Russian scientist will be travelling out with our crew to intercept—”

“When?”

“They’re leaving tomorrow night from the Cape. But in case it isn’t a robot—” “It’s got to be, Tom! Be reasonable. The statistical chances.” “In case it isn’t, like I say, is why I’m here.”

Sam nodded sagely—wanting things both ways—for the safety of Mankind, and the greater glory of Haddon.

“We’d like someone from here over in the States in a consultative capacity—”

Concentrating his attention on the blank screen behind Zwingler’s back, Sole thought of Vidya wrenching at the innermost embedded doll.

“Well, Chris?”

So why had Vidya done it?

“Provided you realize there might be nothing in it for you—if this thing turns out to be a robot—and let’s hope to hell it is, in my humble opinion!”

“Why me?” murmured Sole. “I can’t just walk out on the children on the spur of the moment…”

“Chris, come on Chris— think! This is the Big Thing of all time, maybe. Whatever it is, it’s really big. Don’t you want to be involved?”

“Rather a schizophrenic attitude to this thing you’ve got,” Sole temporized (conscious too of this aspect in himself… damn Pierre and his untimely letter!). “You want it and you don’t want it. It’s the Big Thing and the Worst Thing That Can Happen—”

“Of course you can leave Haddon temporarily, Chris, you might be involved in a car smash or something. We’d have to find a stand-in then.”

“Thanks a lot, Sam.”

“What I mean is, Lionel can look after your kids while you’re in the States. You have to go as our representative, Chris—keep the flag flying.”

“May I put it this way?” Zwingler smiled. “Practical alien linguistics could be pretty essential soon.”

“Unless it’s a robot.”

“Well, we still get our old broadcasts back—when I left the States they were sending some vampire movie…

“Maybe our aliens have got a sense of humour—”

Zwingler shook his head.

“Doubt it. They wouldn’t understand the cultural context. Baseball, striptease, vampires—it would all be the same to them. Incidentally, how fit are you?” “Fit?”

“It might involve you being sent into space via the Shuttle, who knows?” Ruby moons ascended, blasted off.

“Pretty big carrot, Chris—get any lazy donkey on the move.”

“Equally there may be nothing in it.”

Behind the American’s back, the blank video screen clamoured for Sole’s attention, Vidya twisting the tiniest doll on tape, inexplicably. Overhead, the neon-framed skylight black with space…

And very high overhead, way out beyond the Moon’s orbit, something—a seed of the stars—returning the electromagnetic refuse of Earth back to Earth, the Coke bottles and condoms of TV culture, the Nude Auction Show, a Vampire movie screened in the wee hours when only muggers and addicts prowl the deserted streets; a sound sweep sweeping down the star lanes, decelerating as it comes…

“You know the snake in the log, and the snake in the stone, Pee-áir?”

“Yes I know them.”

“Well, they are Man and Woman. So they want to make love. They will fuck together to give birth to the Xemahoa people. The Log and the Stone will lie together.”

“The Stone will lie on top of the Log?” I hazarded, thinking of the shape of the head on top of the body.

Kayapi shook his head impatiently.

“How do the Xemahoa make love, Pee-áir? We lie side by side, so any sperm spills on the soil not on the limbs. Listen to me, Pee-áir. Do not have your own ideas, or you will not know the Xemahoa.”

So much for the ‘Missionary Position’, I thought wryly! My mistake.

I said sorry, and he grunted a surly acknowledgment, then carried on:

“The snake in the stone and the snake in the log want to lie together. But they cannot come out of the stone or the log, or the stone and the log will close up and not let them in again. The stone and the log want to be empty. They will not be tricked a second time. So the two snakes can only half fuck. They spill a lot of sperm. From the part of their fuck that goes into the log, the tribe of Xemahoa is born. But from the part that falls on the soil—what do you think?”