“I’m supposed to be supervising the big dish when we ask The Question.” Martinson looked around at his red-faced, flustered colleagues, then added, “If we ever come to an agreement on what it should be.”
THE DICTATOR
“Arecibo is only a few hours from here, by jet transport,” the dictator repeated, staring out the ceiling-high windows of his office at the troops assembled on the plaza below. “Our paratroops can get there and seize the radio telescope facility well before eighteen hundred hours.”
His minister of foreign affairs, a career diplomat who had survived four coups d’etat and two revolutions by the simple expedient of agreeing with whichever clique seized power, cast a dubious eye at his latest Maximum Leader.
“A military attack on Puerto Rico is an attack on the United States,” he said, as mildly as he could, considering the wretched state of his stomach.
The dictator turned to glare at him. “So?”
“The Yankees will not let an attack on their territory go unanswered. They will strike back at us.”
The dictator toyed with his luxuriant moustache, a maneuver he used whenever he wanted to hide inner misgivings. At last he laughed and said, “What can the gringos do, once I have asked the Question?”
The foreign minister knew better than to argue. He simply sat in the leather wing chair and stared at the dictator, who looked splendid in his full-dress military uniform with all the medals and the sash of office crossing his proud chest.
“Yes,” the dictator went on, convincing himself (if not his foreign minister), “it is all so simple. While the scientists and world leaders fumble and agonize over what The Question should be, I—your Maximum Leader—knew instantly what I wanted to ask. I knew it! Without a moment of hesitation.”
The spacious, high-ceilinged palace room seemed strangely warm to the foreign minister. He pulled the handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and mopped his fevered brow.
“Yes,” the dictator was going on, congratulating himself, “while the philosophers and weaklings try to reach an agreement, I act. I seize the radio telescope and send to the alien visitors The Question. My question!”
“The man of action always knows what to do,” the foreign minister parroted.
“Exactly! I knew what The Question should be, what it must be. How can I rule the world? What other question matters?”
“But to ask it, you must have the Arecibo facility in your grasp.”
“For only a few hours. Even one single hour will do.”
“Can your troops operate the radio telescope?”
A cloud flickered across the dictator’s face, but it passed almost as soon as it appeared.
“No, of course not,” he replied genially. “They are soldiers, not scientists. But the scientists who make up the staff at Arecibo will operate the radio telescope for us.”
“You are certain. . .?”
“With guns at their heads?” The dictator threw his head back and laughed. “Yes, they will do what they are told. We may have to shoot one or two, to convince the others, but they will do what they are told, never fear.”
“And afterward? How do the troops get away?”
The dictator shrugged. “There has not been enough time to plan for removing them from Arecibo.”
Eyes widening, stomach clenching, the foreign minister gasped. “You’re going to leave them there?”
“They are all volunteers.”
“And when the Yankee Marines arrive? What then?”
“What difference? By then I will have the answer from the aliens. What are the lives of a handful of martyrs compared to the glory of ruling the entire world?”
The foreign minister struggled to his feet. “You must forgive me, my leader. My stomach. . .”
And he lurched toward the bathroom, hoping he could keep himself from retching until he got to the toilet.
THE RADIO ASTRONOMER
At least the military was operating efficiently, Brian Martinson thought as he winged at supersonic speed high above the Atlantic. An Air Force sedan had been waiting for him in front of the NSF headquarters; its sergeant driver whisked him quickly through the downtown Washington traffic and out to Andrews Air Force Base, where a sleek swept-wing, twin-jet VIP plane was waiting to fly him to Puerto Rico.
Looking idly through the small window at his side, his mind filled with conflicting ideas about the aliens and The Question, Martinson realized that he could actually see the Gulf Stream slicing through the colder Atlantic waters, a bright blue ribbon of warmth and life against the steely gray of the ocean.
Looking out to the flat horizon he could make out the ghost of a quarter Moon hanging in the bright sky. Somewhere beyond the Moon, far, far beyond it, the aliens in their spacecraft were already on their way out of the solar system.
What do they want of us? Martinson wondered. Why did they bother to make contact with us at all, if all they’re willing to do is answer one damned question? Maybe they’re not such good guys. Maybe this is all a weird plot to get us to tear ourselves apart. One question. Half the world is arguing with the other half over what The Question should be. With only a few hours left, they still haven’t been able to decide.
Sure, he thought to himself, it could all be a setup. They tell us we can ask one question, knowing that we might end up fighting a goddamned war over what The Question should be. What better way to divide us and then walk in and take over the remains?
No, a saner voice in his mind answered. That’s paranoid stupidity. Their spacecraft is already zooming out of the solar system, heading high above the ecliptic. They won’t get within a couple of light hours of Earth, for God’s sake. They’re not coming to invade us. By this time tomorrow they’ll be on their way to Epsilon Eridani, near as I can figure their trajectory.
