Rollback

Still, why was he leaving his true age a secret? It wasn’t as if he could keep it under wraps forever. People would eventually find out — including people at the astronomy department; Sarah was still in touch with several of them, and they had no pact to keep what had happened quiet. Besides, Lenore would probably be fascinated to hear all about his meeting with Cody McGavin, who, after all, was the patron saint of SETI these days. But whenever he contemplated the selective success of the treatment, the guilt cut him from within, like swallowed glass, and—

"Okay," said Lenore, "let’s see what you’re made of."

He stared at her, completely baffled, as she rummaged in her purse. After a moment, she pulled out her datacom and placed it on the table between them. She pressed a couple of keys, and it projected a holographic Scrabble board onto the wooden tabletop.

"Wow!" Don said. Although he had a nice collection of portable Scrabble boards — fold-up sets, magnetic sets, a set with self-stick vinyl tiles, dedicated electronic devices, even a miniature version that fit on a key chain — he’d never seen one this… this skytop.

"All right, Mr. Qoph," Lenore said. "Let’s play."

Chapter 22

A spring evening in 2009. "Sweetheart, I’m home!" Sarah called out.

Don came out of the kitchen, crossed through the living room, and stood at the head of the six stairs leading down to the entry-way. "How’d it go?"

It was The First International Collaborative Session for Dealing with the Message from Sigma Draconis, a three-day marathon, hosted by the University of Toronto, chaired by Sarah herself, with SETI experts from all over the world having flown in to attend.

"Exhausting," said Sarah, sliding aside the mirrored closet door and hanging up her raincoat; April was Toronto’s wettest month. "Contentious. But ultimately worthwhile."

"I’m glad," he said. "I’ve got a pot roast in the oven, by the way. It should be ready in about twenty minutes."

The door to the house opened again and Carl came in, looking soaked and bedraggled. "Hey, Mom," he said. "How was the conference?"

"Good. I was just telling your father."

"Dinner in twenty minutes, Carl," Don said.

"Great. I’ll wash up." Carl managed to get his wet shoes off without bending over or undoing the laces. He didn’t take off his wet jacket, but just scooted up the stairs, slipping by Don as he did so.

"So, what happened?" Don asked.

Sarah came up to the living room, and they shared a kiss. "We started with an inventory of the unauthorized messages that we know have already been sent to Sigma Draconis."

"Like what?"

"There’s a group that says it managed to render the opening of Genesis in the language the Dracons provided."

"Christ," said Don.

"No," she said. "He doesn’t show up until the sequel. Anyway, another group has sent up a library of digitized Islamic art. Somebody else says he’s sent a list of the serial numbers of all of the U.S. soldiers killed in Iraq. Another person sent a version of the Mensa admissions test. He said instead of us worrying about passing the aliens’ test, they should be worrying about passing one of ours; maybe they’re not good enough to join our club."

"Huh," said Don.

"And there’s been lots of music sent." Sarah moved over to the couch and lay down. He motioned for her to lift her legs so he could sit down at the far end. She did so, then she lowered her feet into his lap, and he began rubbing them for her.

"Mmmmm," she said. "That’s nice. Anyway, Fraser Gunn was there — remember him? He argued that sending music was a mistake."

"Why?" asked Don. "Afraid of being sued by the copyright holders?"

"No, no. But, as he said, the only thing we’ve got to trade with aliens is our culture; that’s the only thing you might want from another civilization. And if we give away the best stuff — Bach, Beethoven, the Beatles — we’ll have nothing good to offer when the aliens say, hey, what have you got to swap for our best work?"

Don knew all about scraping the bottom of the cultural barrel. He was a DVD addict — more so as a collector than as an actual watcher. He’d been thrilled when all the great television of his childhood and teenage years had been released on DVD, and he’d snapped up the boxed sets: Thunderbirds, All in the Family, M*A*S*H, Roots, Kolchak, The Night Stalker, and, of course, the original Star Trek. But the last time he’d been in Future Shop, all he’d seen in the new-releases section was forgotten crap like Sugar Time!, a seventies sitcom starring Barbi Benton, and The Ropers, a spinoff from Three’s Company whose only virtue was that it proved the original wasn’t the worst TV show ever made. The studios had gone through their good stuff at a breakneck pace, and were now desperately trying to find anything at all worth releasing.