Joe Haldeman - Tricentennial

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Tricentennial -- JOE HALDEMAN

Joe Haldeman is a. public relations department's dream. Handsome, with

a dashing beard, and in his early thirties, he is not only a world

traveler, a teacher, a lecturer, a former senior editor of ASTRONOMY

magazine, guitar player, and skin diver, but in addition to his science

fiction he has written adventure novels, nonfiction books, short

stories, articles, poems, and songs. In 1976 he won a Nebula Award for

his novel THE FOREVER WAR, which also that year won a Hugo, the award

given out by the World Science Fiction Convention annually. This year

he is nominated in two categories for the Hugo-both his novel

MINDBRIDGE and "Tricentennial," the short story that follows.

You would think that this would be enough for anyone. Add, however, the

fact that Joe Haldeman's university degree is in astrophysics, with

postgraduate work in mathematics, computer science, statistics, and

art, and the further fact that he is a decorated Vietnam War veteran

who was severely wounded in combat, and you have, as I said, a package

that a public relations department even one that deals with authors

year in and year out-tends to find almost embarrassingly rich in

interesting details.

Nonetheless, all these things are as true and real as Joe Haldeman

himself is real. And you will see as you read "Tricentennial," on the

pages that follow, that this is one of his geniuses as a writer-his

writing also has a rare element of reality within it.

December 1975

Scientists pointed out that the Sun could be part of a double star

system. For its companion to have gone undetected, of course, it would

have to be small and dim, and thousands of astronomical units distant.

They would find it eventually; "it" would turn out to be "them";

they would come in handy.

January 2075

The office was opulent even by the extravagant standards of twenty-

first-century Washington. Senator Connors had a passion for antiques.

One wall was lined with leather-bound books; a large brass telescope

symbolized his role as Liaison to the Science Guild. An intricately

woven Navajo rug from his home state covered most of the parquet floor.

A grandfather clock. Paintings, old maps.

The computer terminal was discreetly hidden in the top drawer of

his heavy teak desk. On the desk: a

blotter, a precisely centered fountain pen set, and a century-old

sound-only black Bell telephone. It chimed.

His secretary said that Dr. Leventhal was waiting to see him. "Keep

answering me for thirty seconds," the Senator said. "Then hang it and

send him right in."

He cradled the phone and went to a wall mirror. Straightened his tie

and cape; then with a fingernail evened out the bottom line of his lip

pomade. Ran a hand through long, thinning white hair and returned to

stand by the desk, one hand on the phone.

The heavy door whispered open. A short thin man bowed slightly. "Sire."

The Senator crossed to him with both hands out. "Oh, blow that,

Charlie. Give ten." The man took both his hands, only for an instant.

"When was I ever `Sire' to you, he fool?"

"Since last week," Leventhal said, "Guild members have been calling you

worse names than 'Sire."'

The Senator bobbed his head twice. "True, and true. And I sympathize.

Will of the people, though."

"Sure." Leventhal pronounced it as one word: "Willathapeeble."

Connors went to the bookcase and opened a chased panel. "Drink?" .

"Yeah, Bo." Charlie sighed and lowered himself into a deep sofa. "Hit

me. Sherry or something."

The Senator brought the drinks and sat down beside Charlie. "You should

of listened to me. Shoulda got the Ad Guild to write your proposal."

"We have good writers."

"Begging to differ. Less than two percent of the electorate bothered to

vote: most of them for the administration advocate. Now you take the

Engineering Guild-"

"You take the engineers. And-"

"They used the Ad Guild." Connors shrugged. "They got their budget."

"It's easy to sell bridges and power plants and shuttles. Hard to sell

pure science."

"The more reason for you to-"

"Yeah, sure. Ask for double and give half to the Ad

boys. Maybe next year. That's-not what I came to talk about."

"That radio stuff?"

"Right. Did you read the report?"

Connors looked into his glass. "Charlie, you know I don't have time to-

"Somebody read it, though."

"Oh, nighty-o. Good astronomy boy on my staff: he gave me a boil-down.

Mighty interesting, that."

"There's an intelligent civilization eleven light-years away-that's

`mighty interesting'?"

"Sure. Real breakthrough." Uncomfortable silence. V "Uh, what are you

going to do about it?"

"Two things. First, we're trying to figure out what they're saying.

That's hard. Second, we want to send a message back. That's easy. And

that's where you come in."

The Senator nodded and looked somewhat wary.

"Let me explain. We've sent messages to this star, 61 Cygni, before.

It's a double star, actually, with a dark companion."

"Like us."

"Sort of. Anyhow, they never answered. They aren't listening,

evidently: they aren't sending."

"But we got-"

"What we're picking up is about what you'd pick up eleven light-years

from Earth. A confused jumble of broadcasts, eleven years old. Very

faint. But obviously not generated by any sort of natural source."

"Then we're already sending a message back. The same kind they're

sending us."

"That's right, but---21

"So what does all this have to do with me?"

"Bo, we don't want to whisper at them-we want to shout! Get their

attention." Leventhal sipped his wine and leaned back. "For that, we'll

need one hell of a lot ` of power."

"Uh, nighty-o. Charlie, power's money. How much are you talking about?"

"The whole show. I want to shut down Death Valley for twelve hours."

The Senator's mouth made a silent O. "Charlie, you've been working too

hard. Another Blackout? On purpose?"

"There won't be any Blackout. Death Valley has emergency storage for

fourteen hours."

"At half capacity." He drained his glass and walked back to the bar,

shaking his head. "First you say you want power. Then you say you want

to turn off the power." He came back with the burlap-covered bottle.

"You aren't making sense, boy."

"Not turn it off, really. Turn it around."

"Is that a riddle?"

"No, look. You know the power doesn't really come from the Death Valley

grid; it's just a way station and accumulator. Power comes from the

orbital-"

"I know all that, Charlie. I've got a Science Certificate." .

"Sure. So what we've got is a big microwave laser in orbit, that shoots

down a tight beam of power. Enough to keep North America running.

Enough-"

"That's what I mean. You can't just-"

"So we turn it around and shoot it at a power grid on the Moon. Relay

the power around to the big radio dish at Farside. Turn it into radio

waves and point it at 61 Cygni. Give 'em a blast that'll fry their

fillings."

"Doesn't sound neighborly."

"It wouldn't actually be that powerful-but it would be a hell of a lot

more powerful than any natural 21 centimeter source."

"I don't know, boy." He rubbed his eyes and grimaced. "I could maybe do

it on the sly, only tell a few people what's on. But that'd only work

for a few minutes . . . what do you need twelve hours for, anyway?"

"Well, the thing won't aim itself at the Moon automatically, the way it

does at Death Valley. Figure as much as an hour to get the thing turned

around and aimed.

"Then, we don't want to just send a blast of radio waves at them. We've

got a five-hour program, that first builds up a mutual language, then

tells them about us,

and finally asks them some questions. We want to send it twice."

Connors refilled both glasses. "How old were you in '47, Charlie?" ,

"I was born in '45."

"You don't remember the Blackout. Ten thousand people died . . . and

you want me to suggest-"

"Come on, Bo, it's not the same thing. We know the accumulators work

now-besides, the ones who died, most of them had faulty fail-safes on

their cars. If we warn them the power's going to drop, they'll check

their fail-safes or damn well stay out of the air."

"And the media? They'd have to take turns broadcasting. Are you going

to tell the People what they can watch?"

"Fuzz the media. They'll be getting the biggest story since the

Crucifixion."

"Maybe." Connors took a cigarette and pushed the box toward Charlie.

"You don't remember what happened to the Senators from California in

'47, do you?"

"Nothing good, I suppose." -

"No, indeed. They were impeached. Lucky they weren't lynched. Even

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Tricentennial--JOEHALDEMANJoeHaldemanisa.publicrelationsdepartment'sdream.Handsome,withadashingbeard,andinhisearlythirties,heisnotonlyaworldtraveler,ateacher,alecturer,aformersenioreditorofASTRONOMYmagazine,guitarplayer,andskindiver,butinadditiontohisscience\fictionhehaswrittenadventurenovels,nonfic...

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Joe Haldeman - Tricentennial

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