The Tell
by David Brin
You can read much of the human saga—a stark history of extravagant hopes and stunning defeats—on the face of any gambler…
…the same story told by Judean hills, where towns and villages gradually piled atop one another, layer after layer, each stratum spelling yet another tale of confidence and ambition that inevitably failed. Till someone else arrived to build upon that dust. An upward sedimentary process, mounting ever higher. Generations, separated by the babble of language and culture and centuries, but united by one aim—to reach Heaven by dint of hard work, hope, and pain.
“Here, we have trenched through an augury,” our guide explained, while leading us along plank bridges that crisscrossed over the Tel Ain Makor dig. “An important ceremonial center, it apparently remained in use across the Hellenistic period till it was burned and abandoned under the Hasmoneans, then restored during the Roman era.”
She gestured toward a broad, shallow excavation where ancient ashes and debris had been removed—slowly and painstakingly—by archaeology students from all over the world. One cluster of young folks crouched at the north end, murmuring to each other, alternately in English and in Hebrew.
“Here, priests would come to apply the arts of prophecy, divining future events from haruspication—studying animal entrails. Or else by reading auspices—interpreting the flight and behavior of passing birds. From inscriptions on tribute medallions, it appears that people came from all over the region—even dignitaries from Caesarea and Jerusalem—to have horoscopes read or to learn what the gods intended.”
Another group of students, closer to us, argued in Arabic over which tool to use on an obstinate outcrop. I didn’t understand a word, but from their expressions I could easily tell the debate was just theater, for us visitors. Or for the guide. And it worked. A twitch of a smile showed she was pleased with their industriousness.
I don’t delve time. I dig faces.
“You mentioned horoscopes. So they also did astrology here?”
That was Ludmilla Kilonova. Of course that would interest her. Stars and such. Especially those on the verge of exploding.
“Good question. I don’t believe there was an observatory here. At least, we’ve seen no traces so far.” Our Ministry of Antiquities guide gestured at the extent of the dig, almost twenty meters long by thirty, under a tent canopy that flapped slightly in an inadequate breeze, staving off the harsh Levantine sun. Beyond, surveyor stakes pocked the dun-colored hilltop with laser-pinned accuracy, proposing sites for further excavation.
“Tel Ain Makor may seem vast when you are crawling so close to the ground. But in fact, it was a minor municipality, more a pilgrimage shrine than a large, urban center. I would wager that they acquired their star charts from Alexandria. Or maybe Babylon.”
Babylon. I perked up at the mention. My home.
At least that’s what they call Vegas, sometimes: New Babylon.
The parallels ran deep. Both sin capitals featured hellish desert heat. Though we’re clever enough to use air conditioning. Take that, Hammurabi.
Both nursed the same delusion. That our gaudy works will stand up to time.
And an identical, all-too-human ambition. To peer forward. To catch a warning glimpse of what’s ahead.
Was that my real reason for coming halfway around the world? To traipse through dust amid proof that humans always fool themselves?
As if further evidence were needed.
“You are needed,” Sophia Van Took said, almost two years earlier, cornering me after my second Saturday show. Bigger stars get helpers and dressers and private quarters. I shared a backstage alcove with Teresa, my “beautiful associate” (I could no longer say “assistant”), whose makeup table and privacy screen left little room for the headliner—me. Well, well. It still beat working for a living.
I took advantage of Sophia’s presence by handing her my glitter-dusted jacket, slightly pungent from sweat. (Hey, those lights are hot.)
“Hang it over there, please?” I indicated the cupboard that served as my wardrobe closet. Sophia held the garment gingerly by the collar, clearly pondering whether to let it fall, then shrugged and tiptoed for a hanger. Diminutive, and thanks to her last name some wiseacres called her “the hobbit.” But no one in her presence. Who wanted to live.
My shirt went into a laundry hamper, to be dealt with by the Tuscany Hotel staff. Hey, this may not be the Strip, but my name drew enough customers to merit some amenities. While toweling off, I asked Dr. Van Took, “How’d you like the show?”
“Didn’t pay much attention,” she admitted. Or was that a brag? Sophia had a pretty good poker face. During the performance I glimpsed her at the comp table, sipping occasionally from a grapefruit juice while tapping the rim of her specs—the latest model from Anson Aiware. Even from the stage I could tell that images flickered along the inner surfaces. She must have been grunting, clicking, scrolling, and deciding the fate of nations the whole time I was levitating Teresa, or catching a bullet with my teeth.
Or doing my mentalist routine, guessing which cards had been chosen by five randomly selected guests, all by reading giveaway tells: The dilating iris. A cheek tremor. A nervous grin. Or the clenched, flat expression of a college kid absolutely determined not to show a thing—and thus revealing everything.
Ah, well. Van Took had uses for a stage magician, but entertainment never entered into it.
“So what’s the scam?” I asked. “Another perpetual motion machine? Cold fusion? A vacuum energy propulsion system?”
Those were the big three—perennial favorites—though others had been climbing lately: SETI “signals” and water desalinization miracles and microbiota guaranteed to cure your bowels of all that ails ’em. Along with a dozen other skilled illusionists, I served on a Skeptics Society alert squad to help investigate such claims, separating auspicious assertions from deceptive ones. Because it turns out that scientists and engineers aren’t very good at penetrating hoaxes.
We stage magicians know the tricks, though. Well, most of them. Ways to deliver power without wires, to make things fizz or bubble or rise without any visible means of support. They say it takes a thief to catch one. Anyway, it helps pay the bills, off-season. And Mom and Dad seemed a bit more proud of me when I mentioned this sideline. As if I was a kind of private eye. Or something else respectable.
“None of that, this time.” Sophia shook her head.
I admit feeling some disappointment. Those tech-hoax gigs are cool, hanging around top science types and showing them whatever trick was afoot—or mistake, since some of the cold fusion guys are actually sincere, just way too eager and prone to fooling themselves. Then there are those rare occasions when the strange new thing actually turns out to be…but I’m drifting off-topic.
“What? No warp drive?” I asked. “Or teleport—”
Holding up a hand, Sophia scotched my hopes.
“No, this job is all about prediction.”
I blinked, my facial expression as readable as any mark’s.
“Again?”
Sophia shrugged. “They do keep trying.”
Perhaps the simplest example of reality mining is the analysis of automobile traffic congestion by using the global positioning system (GPS) data collected from the mobile telephones carried by the automobile drivers. These data provide minute-by-minute updates on traffic flow, allowing for more accurate predictions of driving time. Congestion patterns can be predicted days in advance, and traffic jams detected hours before they become serious…