Impact

97

Abbey stood behind Simic as she went online with her Mac and searched various databases, looking for real-time orbital data on Deimos.

"Mars is in the sky and Deimos is in front of it," she said. "Ideal conditions to make the, ah, call." More typing, and then Simic scratched out some calculations by hand on a scrap of paper. She copied down the celestial coordinates and brought the piece of paper over to an old computer keyboard with a bulbous monitor.

"What's the procedure?" Abbey asked.

"It's simple. I just type in the celestial coordinates and the computer calculates the actual position in the sky and aims the dish at it." She rapped away on the keyboard with her long fingers; the screen called for a password, she typed it in. Finally she stood up, went over to a gray panel festooned with switches, and flicked several. For a moment, nothing happened. And then, with a screech of metal and a humming of electric motors, the huge dish began to turn on greased gears, tilting slowly upward, moving almost imperceptibly. The meshing gears and creaking metal sounds filled the interior of the dome, temporarily drowning out the sounds of the storm. Several minutes passed and, with a clunk, the dish stopped. Simic rapped on the keyboard, read off a string of numbers, and sat back.

"All right. It's pointed."

"So how do I send a message?"

Simic thought for a moment. "We use a special frequency to communicate directly with commsats. Mostly for calibration purposes, although we did use it back when we were one of the Earth Stations in contact with the Saturn mission. I suppose we could use that channel."

She paused. Abbey thought she detected perhaps a faint glimmer of sympathy, if not interest, among the skepticism stamped on the woman's face.

"Do you want to send a voice message . . . or, ah, send it in written form?"

"Written. If it responds, will you be able to capture it?"

"If it responds . . ." She paused. "I would think that the 'alien artifact' would be smart enough to respond on the same frequency, using the same ASCII coding scheme. Assuming, of course, it can read and write English." She cleared her throat ostentatiously. "If you don't mind me asking . . . are you some kind of religious cult?"

Abbey returned the look. "No, although I can see why you might think that."

Simic shook her head. "Just asking."

"Can you capture a reply?"

"I'll set it up for duplex transmission. If a message comes back, it'll print on that printer there. We'll need paper." She turned to Fuller. "Hand me a stack from that cabinet over there, will you, Jordy?"

"Right," said Fuller.

"I'll get it," said Jackie, stepping past Fuller and opening the drawer. She pulled out a thick stack of paper, handing it to Simic.

"That should be enough for an alien War and Peace," Simic said dryly, loading it into the tray.

"When you send the message," said Abbey, "make sure it's at full power. Mars is a lot farther away than a commsat in geostationary orbit."

"I understand," said Simic. Her fingers rattled over the keyboard, she checked the switches and knobs on the old metal console, adjusted a few dials, then sat back. "It's all set up."

"Good." Abbey took a piece of paper and scribbled two words on it. "Here's the message."

Simic picked it up and examined it for a long time. She raised her gray eyes and locked on Abbey's. "Are you sure this is wise? Assuming what you say is true, this strikes me as an exceedingly dangerous, or perhaps unfortunate, message to send."

"I have my reasons," said Abbey.

"All right." She swiveled around in her chair and poised her fingers over the keyboard, pausing. And then, with a nod, she typed the two-word message into the keyboard and hit return. Then she stood up, adjusted a few dials, examined an oscilloscope, and threw another switch.

"Message sent." She leaned back in the chair.

The seconds went by. The sound of the storm filled the room. "Well," said Fuller, his voice laden with sarcasm, "the phone's ringing at the other end but no one's answering."

"Mars is ten light-minutes away," said Abbey. "It's going to take twenty minutes for a response."

She found Simic looking at her curiously, and with a faint glimmer of respect.

Abbey kept her eyes on an old clock ticking away above the console. Everyone stood unmoving: her father, Jackie, Fuller. The storm shook the old dome. If anything it sounded worse, like a monster pawing and batting the dome, trying to get in. As she watched the clock sweeping around the dial, doubts came crowding back. The message was all wrong, maybe even dangerous. God knows what it might trigger. And now they would be in trouble for what would surely be described as an armed takeover of a government facility. Her father's new boat was at the bottom of the ocean and he was going to be charged as the ringleader, the man carrying the weapon--a felony. She'd ruined her life, her friend's, and her father's. For a message that wouldn't work or might have some horrible, unintended effect.

The second hand of the clock swept its way endlessly around the dial.

Maybe Jackie was right. They should have let the government take care of the problem. Ford was in Washington, no doubt straightening everything out. On top of that, the message was idiotic, the plan was too simple, it'd never work. This is some crazy-ass message, all right. What had she been thinking?

"It's been twenty minutes," said Fuller, examining his watch. "And E.T. ain't phoning home."

Just then the dusty old printer began to clatter away.