“They don’t,” Dan said patiently. “So what you have to look for is a place where tracks come out but none go in. That’s where a Tevatron neutrino has hit some particle in our emulsion. You get it? You have a mass of counters and magnets downstream of the emulsion, and you measure the photons with a twenty-ton lead-glass detector array, and the results are storedon laser discs and analyzed by the data-acquisition software.”
He talked on, lapsing continually into jargon she couldn’t follow.
But then they started talking about the neutrinos themselves. Neutrinos, it seemed, barely existed: no charge, no mass, just a scrap of energy with some kind of spooky quantum-mechanical spin, fleeing at the speed of light. Spinning ghosts indeed. Most of them had come out of the Big Bang — or the time just after, when the whole universe was a soup of hot subatomic particles. But neutrinos didn’t decay into anything else. And so there were neutrinos everywhere. All her life she would be immersed in a sea of neutrinos, a billion of them for every particle of ordinary matter, relics of that first millisecond.
At that thought she felt an odd tingle, as if she could feel the ancient, invisible fluid that poured through her.
Now humans had sent waves rippling over the surface of that transparent ocean. And the waves, it seemed, had come reflecting back.
Dan talked fast, as excited as she’d ever seen him. Malenfant watched, rigid with interest. “Essentially we’ve been producing millisecond neutrino pulses,” Dan said. He produced a bar chart, a scrappy series of pillars, uneven in height. “Anyhow, up until yesterday, we were just picking up our own pulses, unmodified. Then… this.”
A new bar chart, showing a long series of many pulses. Some of the pulses, now, seemed to be missing, or were much reduced in size.
Dan picked out the gaps with a fat finger. “See? On average, these events seem to have around half the neutrino count of the others. So half the energy.” He looked at Emma, trying to see if she understood. “This is exactly what we’d expect if somebody downstream has some way of suppressing the advanced-wave neutrinos. The apparent retarded neutrinos then would have only half the strength—”
“But it’s such a small effect,” Emma said. “You said yourself neutrinos are hard to detect. There must be other ways to explain this, without invoking beings from the future.”
“That’s true,” Dan said. “Though if this sustains itself long enough we’re going to be able to eliminate other causes. Anyhow, that’s not all. We have enough data now to show that the gaps repeat. In a pattern.”
“This is new to me,” Malenfant growled. “A repeating pattern. A signal?”
Dan rubbed his greasy hair. “I don’t see what else it could be.”
“A signal,” Malenfant said. “Damn. Then Cornelius was right.”
Emma felt cold, despite the metallic stuffiness of the chamber.
Dan produced a simplified summary of several periods of the pattern, a string of black circles and white circles. “Look at this. The blacks are full-strength pulses, the whites half-strength. You get a string of six white. Then a break of two black. Then an irregular pattern for twelve pulses. Then two black, six white, and a break. Then another string of twelve ‘framed’ by the two black and six white combination. I think we’re seeing delimiters around these two strings of twelve pulses. And this is what repeats: over and over. Sometimes there are minor differences, but we think that’s caused by the experimental uncertainty.”
“If it’s a signal,” Malenfant said, “what does it mean?”
“Binary numbers,” Emma replied. “The signals are binary numbers.”
They both turned to her.
Malenfant asked, “Huh? Binary numbers? Why?”
She smiled, exhausted, jet-lag disoriented. “Because signals like this always are.”
Dan was nodding. “Yes. Right. I should have thought of that. We have to learn to think like Cornelius. The downstreamers know us. Maybe they are us, our future selves. And they know we’ll expect binary.” He grabbed a pad and scribbled out two strings of 1 and 0:
111D101010D1
0111110DD010
He sat back. “There.”
Malenfant squinted. “What’s it supposed to be?”
Emma found herself laughing. “Maybe it’s a Carl Sagan picture. A waving downstreamer.” Shut up, Emma.
“No,” Dan said. “It’s too simple for that. They have to be numbers.” He cleared his softscreen and began tapping in a simple conversion program. After a couple of minutes, he had it running.
3753
They stared. Malenfant asked, “What do they mean?”
Dan began to feed the raw neutrino counts through his conversion program, and the converted signals — live, as they were received in the film-emulsion detector — scrolled steadily up the screen.
1986
3753
1986
3753
1986
“Someone should call Cornelius,” Dan said.
Emma didn’t share Malenfant’s evident glee at this result.
She felt dwarfed. She imagined the world wheeling around her, spinning as it carried her through darkness around the sun, around the rim of the Galaxy — while the Galaxy itself sailed off to its own remote destination, stars glimmering like the windows of a great ocean liner.
Messages from the future. Could it be true that there were beings, far beyond this place and time, trying to signal to the past, to her, through this lashed-up physics equipment?
Was Cornelius right? Right about everything? Right, too, about the Carter catastrophe, the coming extinction of them all?
It couldn’t be true. It was insanity, an infection of schizophrenia from Cornelius, that was damaging them all.
Malenfant, of course, was hooked. She knew him well enough to understand he would be unable to resist this new adventure, wherever it took him.
And how, she wondered, was she going to be able to persuade him to do any work at all, after this”?
3753
1986
3753
1986…
Reid Malenfant:
The puzzle of the Feynman radio message nagged at Malenfant, even as he threw himself into his myriad other projects. He would write out the numbers on a pad, or have them scroll up on a softscreen. He tried taking the numbers apart: factorizing them, multiplying them, dividing one by the other. He got nowhere.
Cornelius Taine was equally frustrated. He would call Malenfant at odd time-zoned hours. Mathematics, even numerology, must be the wrong approach.
“Why?”
What do you know about math, Malenfant? Remember the nature of the signal we’re dealing with here. Remember that the downstreamers are trying to communicate with us — specifically, with you.
“Me?”
Yes. You’rethe decision maker here. There has to be some simple meaning in these numbers for you. Just look at the number, Cornelius urged. Don’t think too hard. What do they look like?
1986
3753
“Umm, 1986 could be a date.”
A date?
It had been the year of Challenger and Chernobyl, a first overseas posting of a young pilot called Reid Malenfant. “It wasn’t the happiest year in history, but nothing so special for me… Hey. Cornelius. Could 3753 also represent a date?” His skin prickled. “The thirty-eighth century… Christ, Cornelius, maybe that’s the true date of the Carter catastrophe.”
Cornelius’s softscreen image, slightly blurred, showed him frowning. It’s possible, but any date after a couple of centuries is very unlikely. Anything else?
“No. Keep thinking, Cornelius.”
Yes…
And Malenfant would roll up the softscreen and return to his work, or try to sleep.
Until the day came when Cornelius, in person, burst into a BDB project progress meeting.