The atmosphere of self-indulgent spookery hanging over the table was broken by the physicist.
“So a captain arrives in an unfamiliar city,” he announced. “He checks into his hotel and says he wants to speak to the owner…”
Suddenly he stopped and looked around.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I had forgotten that I was in the presence of a lady.” Here he bowed in the direction of Mrs. Moses. “Not to mention a young… er… a youth.” He stared at the kid.
“I’ve heard this one,” the kid said with disdain. “‘It’s good, but you can’t split it.’ Is it that one?”
“Exactly,” Simone said, and let loose a burst of laughter.
“What can you split?” Mrs. Moses said, smiling.
“You can’t split it!” the kid corrected her angrily.
“Ah: you can’t split it,” a surprised Mrs. Moses said. “But what aren’t we splitting?”
The kid opened its mouth to respond, but Du Barnstoker made a subtle gesture, and a large red apple appeared there. The kid immediately took a juicy bite out of it.
“The bottom line is that amazing things don’t just happen in our inn,” Du Barnstoker said. “One has only to recall, for example, the unidentified flying objects…”
The kid pushed its chair back with a crash, stood up and, still munching on the apple, made its way to the exit. Well I’ll be damned—for suddenly I seemed to be watching the slender figure of a charming young woman. But as soon as my heart softened the young woman vanished, leaving behind her, in the most obscene way, a brash and impertinent teenager: the kind that spread their fleas over beaches and shoot drugs in public bathrooms. Was it a boy? Or, damn it, a girl? I had no idea who to ask, and meanwhile Du Barnstoker was prattling on:
“Gentlemen: Giordano Bruno was burned for a reason. Doubtless, we are not alone in the universe. The only question is how densely intelligence is distributed through space. According to various scholars’ estimates—Mr. Simone will correct me if I’m mistaken—there may be up to a million inhabited solar systems in our galaxy alone. If I was a mathematician, gentlemen, I would, on the basis of this fact alone, attempt to establish at least the probability that our Earth is the object of someone else’s scientific attention…”
I thought it over: to ask Du Barnstoker himself would be somewhat awkward. Besides, maybe even he doesn’t know. A kid is a kid… No doubt my gracious host couldn’t care less. Kaisa’s dumb. To ask Simone would be to bring his undead laughter back to life… But then what am I doing? Why do I care? Should I grab more roast? Kaisa is dumb, that’s for certain, but she knows a lot about cooking…
“You must agree,” Du Barnstoker murmured, “The idea that alien eyes are attentively and diligently studying our little corner of the universe across the cosmic abyss—this idea alone is enough to capture the imagination…”
“By my calculations,” Simone said. “The probability that they would be able to distinguish the areas settled by humans from the uninhabited ones, and then pay attention only to the inhabited parts, is e to the negative first power.”
“Is that so?” Mrs. Moses said, letting out a reserved gasp as she granted Simone a delighted smile.
Simone broke into his hee-haw. His eyes even started to water and he squirmed in his chair.
“How much is that in real numbers?” Du Barnstoker asked, after weathering this acoustic attack.
“About two thirds,” Simone said, wiping his eyes.
“But that’s a huge probability,” Du Barnstoker said warmly. “As I understand it, that means that we are almost certainly an object of observation!”
At this point the door to the dining room creaked and rattled behind me, as if leaned against with great force.
“Pull!” the owner shouted. “Pull, please!”
I turned around at the exact moment that the door opened. An astonishing figure stood on the threshold: a massive older man with a face that looked exactly like a bulldog’s, dressed in a sort of hilarious, salmon-colored waistcoat straight out of the middle ages, whose hem hung all the way to his knees. Under this doublet, I could see uniform pants with golden general’s stripes. One of his hands was pressed against his back, and the other was holding a tall metal mug.
“Olga!” he growled, staring straight ahead with bleary eyes. “Soup!”
A brief hubbub erupted. Mrs. Moses threw herself towards the soup table with uncharacteristic haste, the owner pulled himself from the buffet table and began gesturing with his hands, as if to signal his readiness to provide any service, Simone hurriedly stuffed his mouth with potatoes and rolled his eyes in order to avoid breaking out in laughter, while Mr. Moses (it had to be him) ferried his mug and solemnly quivering cheeks to a chair beside Mrs. Moses, where he sat down, practically missing his seat.
“It’s snowing out, gentlemen,” he announced. He was completely drunk. Mrs. Moses set his soup in front of him; he stared sternly at the dish and took a sip from his mug. “What’s everyone been talking about?”
“We’ve been discussing the possibility of visitors from another planet here on earth,” Du Barnstoker explained, smiling agreeably.
“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Moses, glaring suspiciously over his mug at Du Barnstoker. “I did not expect this from you, Barn… Bardel… Dubel…”
“Oh, it’s only a theory,” Du Barnstoker said casually. “Mr. Simone has calculated the odds for us.”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Moses said. “Rubbish. Mathematics—now there’s a science… And who is this?” he asked, rolling his right eye at me. It seemed murky somehow, a bad eye.
“Allow me to introduce you,” the host said hurriedly. “Mr. Moses, Inspector Glebsky. Inspector Glebsky, Mr. Moses.”
“Inspector,” grumbled Moses. “Fake documents, forged passports… I’ll have you know my passport is not a forgery, Glebsky. Is your memory any good?”
“I can’t complain,” I said.
“Well, then, don’t forget that.” He glared sternly at his bowl again and took a sip from his mug. “Good soup today,” he said. “Olga, take this away and bring me some sort of meat. But why have you stopped talking, gentlemen? Continue, continue, I will listen.”
“Yes, meat, that reminds me,” Simone piped up. “A glutton walked into a restaurant and ordered a filet…”
“A filet—what’s wrong with that?” Mr. Moses said approvingly, as he tried to cut his roast with one hand. He did not remove the other hand from its mug.
“The waiter said he would bring one right away,” Simone continued. “And the glutton stared up at the girls on the stage while he waited…”
“Hilarious,” Mr. Moses said. “So far, utterly hilarious. This needs salt—Olga, pass the salt. Well?”