They got into my bedroom. My own bedroom! Who did it? How many people in this house are plotting against me?
They could have killed me!
I’ll turn the note over to the Secret Service. No, they screwed up. If they were doing their job right this would never have happened. The attorney general. Give it to the FBI. They’ll find the culprit.
Her hands were shaking so badly she could hardly read the note.
Remember Caesar, thou art dust.
That’s all the note said. Yet it struck terror into her heart. They could have killed me. This was just a warning. They could have killed me just as easily as leaving this warning on my pillow.
For the first time in her life, she felt afraid.
She looked around the Oval Office, at the familiar trappings of power, and felt afraid. It’s like being haunted, she said to herself.
In his apartment in New York, the U.S. ambassador to the United Nations nodded as he spoke to the president’s secretary of state.
“That’s good news, Carlos!” said Herbert Muldoon, with a hint of Irish lilt in his voice. “Excellent news. I’m sure the president’s made the right choice.”
He cut the connection with Washington and immediately punched up the number of the U.N.’s secretary general, thinking as his fingers tapped on the keyboard: It worked! Apara did the job. Now we’ll have to send her to Tehran. And others, too, of course. The mullahs may be perfectly willing to send young assassins to their deaths, but I wonder how they’ll react when they know they’re the ones being targeted.
We’ll find out soon.
LIFE AS WE KNOW IT
Now we get serious again.
The scientific effort to determine if life exists elsewhere in the universe has been ridiculed by politicians, pundits, and even some scientists. When NASA established a department dedicated to the search for extraterrestrial life, for example, Harvard biologist George Gaylord Simpson quipped that it was the first time in the history of science that an organization had been put together to study a subject before evidence of its subject matter had been found.
Politicians have turned SETI (the search for extraterrestrial intelligence) into a well-publicized whipping boy. However small the funds allocated for SETI, some representative or senator loudly proclaims that it’s a vast waste of money and gets Congress to cancel the appropriation. It is only through the private efforts of activist groups such as the Planetary Society that astronomers have been able to continue the search.
No extraterrestrial life has yet been found, although in 1996 NASA scientists reported that microscopic structures inside a meteorite that originated on Mars may be the fossilized remains of 3.5-billion-year-old Martian bacteria.
Radio telescopes have not detected any intelligent signals, although they have barely begun to scratch the surface of the problem. There are billions of stars and thousands of millions of wavelengths to be examined.
Our spacecraft have landed on the Moon, Mars, and Venus; others have flown past all the planets of our solar system except distant most Pluto. The Moon is, as we expected, airless, waterless and lifeless. Mars is a frigid desert, although there is some hope that life may have arisen there, only to be extinguished by the planet’s increasing aridity. Venus is an utterly barren oven, with surface temperatures hot enough to melt aluminum and a heavy choking atmosphere of carbon dioxide.
Jupiter, largest of the solar system’s planets, might have the chemical ingredients for life swirling in its multicolored clouds. If I were a betting man, I’d put my money on Jupiter as the most likely place to find some form of extraterrestrial life. Not intelligent life, most likely. But you never know.
Sadly, this story contains a glaring anachronism. Carl Sagan died in late 1996, more than two years after this story was written, and a thousand years too soon. He is a living character in the story, just as his dedication and drive are still living influences in the continuing search for extraterrestrial life.
They were all there, all the Grand Old Men of the field: McKay, Kliest, Taranto—even Sagan, little more than an ancient withered husk in his electric wheelchair. But the fire still burned in his deep, dark eyes.
All the egos and superegos who had given their lifetimes to the search for extraterrestrial life. Often derided by the media, scorned by the politicians, even scoffed at by their fellow scientists, this was going to be their day. One way or the other.
Jupiter was going to reveal its secrets to them. Today. Life on another world at last. Make or break.
I could feel the tension in the room, like just before a thunderstorm, that electrical smell in the air that makes the hair on your arms stand on end. Careers would be made today, or broken. Mine included. That’s why everyone was here, waiting impatiently, chattering nervously, staring at the display screens that still showed nothing but crackling streaks of random noise.
The mission control center was a big room, huge really, but now it was jammed with bodies, hot and sweaty, buzzing with voices in half a dozen languages. The project scientists, all the top government officials, invitees like Sagan, hangers-on who inveigled their way in, everybody who thought or hoped they’d capture some of the glory of the moment, and more than a hundred news reporters and photographers, all crammed into the mission control chamber, all talking at once. Like a tribe of apes, jabbering, gesticulating, posturing to hide their dreams and ambitions and fear.
They didn’t want to miss the first images from beneath the cloud tops of Jupiter. Even if it killed them, they had to be at mission control when the probe’s first pictures came in.
Most of the reporters clustered around Sagan, of course, although quite a few hung near Lopez-Oyama, the center’s director. Our boss.
Beautiful Allie stayed at Lopez-Oyama’s side. Allison Brandt, she of the golden hair and pendulous breasts. I dreamed about Allie, saw her flawlessly naked, smiling at me willingly. In my waking hours I thought about her endlessly, picturing myself doing things with her that not even my dreams dared to imagine.
But she stayed beside the director, next to the power and the attention. I was merely an engineer, neither powerful nor glamorous. Still, I longed for Allie. Lusted after her. Even as she smiled for the photographers I noticed how she had artfully undone an extra couple of buttons on the front of her blouse.
“Imagery systems check,” droned the voice of the mission controller. The huge room fell absolutely silent. I held my breath.
“Imagery systems functioning.”
We all let out a sigh of relief. Me especially. The imagery systems were my responsibility. I built them. If they failed, the mission failed, I failed, six dozen careers would go down the tubes, six dozen frustrated scientists would be seeking my blood.
Our probe into Jupiter was unmanned, of course. No astronaut could survive the crushing pressures and turbulent storms beneath the cloud deck of Jupiter. No one knew if our robotic probe was sturdy enough to reach below the cloud tops and survive.
