Christian Clarity Review

The Institute:

A handwritten signature by George Bush Sr. and ‘Congratulations, Henry!’ in red ink over a group shot of men smiling on a glacier face and pointing to a small, dark object embedded in the ice hangs on the wall by his desk. The small brass plate beneath the picture reads “Antarctica, charcoal meteorite, 1991.” He bought the frame and wrote the inscription to be engraved himself.

Next to the photo is a list of the six questions of Astrobiology, printed on plain computer paper in Times New Roman and stuck on the small bulletin board over his desk. Other papers and other lists stick out from behind the same pinhead.

A small bookshelf to the right contains back copies of Astrobiology Magazine, a worn copy of Plato’s Philosophy, a Bible, one of the first paperback copies of The Gulag Archipelago to go into print and a hardbound book named “The Oxford Book of Exile”. Text books in a smaller glass case shine with use underneath his desk in their own cubicle. Reference books here and there proclaim the subjects of his most recent projects.

Two pictures of his wife sit to one side beside the monitor. One is a photo from twenty two years ago when they were dating. She is frowning in the little blue jump suit. The other is recent, with a little grey at her temples; glasses; a look of depth and seriousness. Next to the photos is a tiny, plastic case with a meteor cut in half and the surface polished to reveal the layers and impurities. The top of the plastic case has a magnifying lens built in to show the details.

On his desk is a note that he needs to send his request for telescope time on the new SIM telescope in by no later than six o’clock Monday. It isn’t scheduled to be deployed until 2011.

Henry sits holding the artifact in his hand and staring at the old photo of his wife. The artifact is approximately three by two inches, one inch thick and heavy for its size.

Behind him at his own desk in the large cubicle they share, Dmitri is bringing up a screenshot of rotating symbols. Various symbols in various combinations from modern and ancient alphabets are being compared to three dimensional representations of the swirls and loops of the artifact at two hundred terabits per second.

“Yes, I know. I’m not disputing you. But if we are not certain of larger context in which to put it, it makes no sense. Isn’t that what you mean?” Dmitri has the habit of rephrasing what Henry says within his own argument and speaking it back it to him translated into Dmitri-speak, which inevitably makes Dmitri appear to be correct and Henry wrong.

They have come to a point after many years where they can dispute and on rare occasions yell at each other. It has become a game of chess and sometimes poker both as entertainment and work related brain storming. They sometimes get lost in it beyond any relevance to what is at hand.

Henry puts down the artifact, picks up his eight ball filled with philosophy quotes and shakes it. Into the window floats up “He was so learned that he could name a horse in nine languages; so ignorant that he bought a cow to ride on.”

“Your Benjamin Franklin was not astrophysicist. And what does that have to do with anything we are doing here? You wander sometime.”

Henry puts down his eight ball and sits staring at the small, rectangular artifact on his desk.

“Patience. This is only beginning.” Dmitri says as if Henry has replied and in the affirmative. “We will find the larger picture. And it is not as if clock is counting down and we are running out of time. This could go down as one of unsolved questions of history. It could be next Linear A or Phaistos Disk.”

“I understand the argument, Dmitri. But this is different. The material isn’t clay or stone. And this was under the Antarctic.”

Dmitri has asserted that there is something called context and words are summations of complex concepts and symbols that have to be interpreted within the interrelationships in which they had been written or in this case constructed, to understand their meaning.

Henry is familiar with the standard argument Dmitri is trying to apply to the artifact. But he doesn’t believe it. He sits back and turns to look Dmitri in the eye. “It’s like saying you have to understand the family before you can understand their kids, the family isn’t around anymore and you have to just make up what you think they might have been like. But not everything is the same. Not everything is related like that. You walk by a guy in the grocery store and he’s really thinking about his wife’s birthday and you think he’s thinking about dinner because he happens to be standing in front of the steaks. That’s the purpose on that moment for that guy–for you to figure out what he’s doing. So you think: Steak ergo dinner, just to watch yourself be smart. But nothing can telegraph what this thing is. It just is. We could find a new use for it that has nothing to do with what it really is—or was. How will we know the difference between our new use and its true function? That’s what I want to know. Then I’ll know what it is.”

On the first reading of the spectrogram they hadn’t agreed. But recalibrating and retesting only confirmed the first results: the artifact was pure gold.

Refining gold to complete purity has only been accomplished within the last twenty years. It still holds unexplored possibilities that promise to revolutionize the electronics industry.

Henry saw pure gold for the first time several years ago when he had walked down front after a lecture to see, what has since been named crystaline gold, in a small glass case. Then, as now, he had been surprised to see that it was as clear as colorless glass.

He picks it up. The artifact lays in his hand as he breathes on it again and watches the fog outline the depth and the strange characters. They haven’t been worked into the surface. The characters are smoothly incorporated from the surface and inside the plate with depressions and looping swirls, but in such a way as to make three dimensions seem a poverty in which they have been captivated, like a sentence that became material and froze in place. The artifact is air and gold and hard to tell which ends where with the naked eye. The only thing familiar about it is that it is solid and that the characters are so arranged as to create the exact corners of a rectangle.

Instantly obsessed, he had insisted on appointing Dmitri and himself as part of the investigating team. Having fought his way into administration and management, Henry is usually content to read the reports and write critiques.

The fact of the small artifact’s composition suggests hoax. But the circumstances under which it has been found and the age of the ice make that impossible. He turns it over and holds it off at an angle to look at the characters again in the light.

“Do pictograms need punctuation?” Henry asks abruptly.

“I don’t know.”

“Know anybody that knows anything about ancient languages? Maybe somebody over at NSA?”

Dmitri says nothing for a moment. He watches Henry’s fascination with it over the top of his glasses. Then: “No. You already ask me that.”

“I sponsored a kid from Alabama this year at Cal Tech. He’s a grad student doing his thesis on Bioinformatics and Computational Biology, math whiz that he is. This could be just the thing for him.”

“What about getting him a clearance?”

“They got Chinese nationals working in Los Alamos. If they can get a clearance, who can’t?”

Dmitri gives a humorless laugh. “They checked on my great-grandparents back in Russia. I almost didn’t make it because my grandmother attended a Communist Party meeting–once! Now, who knows?”

“It can’t hurt to try, right?”

A young man from Communications walks by, frowns and shakes his head.

“Still no news from the site.”

Henry stands up and rubs his eyes. “I’m going home. I haven’t gotten a decent night sleep since this thing got started.” He grabs his jacket. “Who signs those things these days?”

“It goes through Jack.”

Henry groans. “Of course.”

“He is not as bad as some.”

“He’s a thief in a suit that knows when to smile. And since when does a civilian sign off on those things? Should I know something?” He sighs. “See you tomorrow–and don’t solve it without me.”

Dmitri stands, reaching for his own jacket. “He told me other day he is civilian plus, whatever that means. I’ll walk out with you.” He taps a code into the keyboard. The screens fall blank while the computations run.

Up top the weather has changed. Ominous, distant thunders roll in accompanied by the first edge of rain.

Henry pulls out of the parking lot as the lightening begins, exhausted. He drives home to the squeak and whump of his wipers against the water, fidgeting with the radio.

———————————-

At sea–

“… Kryleeenko en Zahh Peyaat Lay-et. Los Cinco Años.”

” Qué dijo?”

” él dice eso , eh.. las cortes son contemporáneamente el creador de la ley ..eh, .. y una arma política!”

“¿y los americanos?”

“¡piense que son contra comunista mientras que hacen igual!”

“ha ha ha ha ha haa!”

Warbling static combines with theme music to signal the end of the broadcast from somewhere in South America about something. The crewman smiles at the humor of the announcers, imagining the joke to be good one to get such laughter.

He pushes the search/scan button and finds another station. It has more static than the first and seems to fade in and out. Listening carefully to pick out each individual sound, he turns his head and narrows his eyes in concentration.

“Whatcha’ got there?” asks another crewman passing by.

“I got this last leave.” he says.

“I can see it’s a radio. I mean, what are you listenin’ to?”

“Oh, I don’t know–yet. I can’t understand a word. Everybody says I should learn Spanish or some language other than English. I just haven’t gotten to it yet.”

“Then what’s the point? The static is bad enough. If you can’t understand the words …?”

The first crewman adjusts the dials on the tone and beat frequency dials in an attempt to bring the station in clearer. “Oh, I guess it makes me feel more international or something–you know, more open minded. Did you know the German word for ‘the’ is ‘die’? Ain’t that weird? I wonder how many times a day they say die and really mean the.”

The next station has morse code in the background. It combines with music from another station that is fading into it.

“I knew that.” The other crewman nods. “Open minded, huh? I guess that’s important. That Norwegian? Dutch?” He looks down the corridor and sees an officer coming, says, “Well, gotta go!” and disappears.

“Yeah, see you later.” the young man with the radio replies absently, his attention focused on the digital display. He hits the scan button again. The numbers on the display seemed to vibrate in place until another signal is detected. It is nothing but a silent strain on the air void of any sound. He tries again. This time he gets an Italian station.

The officer goes by.

“Hey Brian! Hey..” the other crewman is back. “Did you see that thing in the hold? Man is it big!”

“Yeah, I saw it loaded. It’s huge!” Brian said as he turns down the receiver. “I heard it was a recovered UFO from a crash site out in Arizona–you know, they been havin’ those fires there? I heard this thing set off a forest fire that’s still burnin’.”

“That’s what I heard too. But it didn’t look damaged or anything. Odd shape for a UFO, huh? It’s cigar shaped and smooth on one end and these pipe things wrapped around the other. Everybody is being really quiet about it.”

“We could be takin’ it to a secret base somewhere to reverse engineer it.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

They fall silent for a moment, thinking over the whole possible situation.

“Where they got you?” Brian asks the other crewman.

He points down the passageway. “They got me helpin’ out in the infirmary for the past two days. Man, those people are sick. I ain’t never seen anybody that sick! I was sick on my first time out. But not like that. That good lookin’ lady? Man, I feel sorry for her. She’s been in and out of here pretty regular. She just wants something to make her sleep. But the Doc won’t give her anything. He say’s he’s got orders from that guy the C.O.’s always talkin’ to. She’ll just have to stick it out. Another day or so and it should break for her–those other people too.”

“Well it hasn’t broken for me yet.” Mary says from behind him in a weak voice. She stands by the open hatchway, with one hand on the other side of the corridor and one hand on the door. Closing her eyes and swallowing, she grips the handle hard to stop from swaying.

“Oh! I..uh, I mean..” Begins the crewman, turning quickly. His ears turn scarlet.

“Just get me something to knock me out for twenty four hours. Please!”

“Ma’am they’ll know. I can’t…”

“Well it’s not as if you’ll lose.. ” she swallows and closes her eyes for a second, “your job is it?”

The young man softens and tries to smile. “No ma’am. I guess not. C’mon before anybody sees.”

He leads her to the infirmary two doors down and gives her several tablets. Looking around, he fills a small paper cup with water. “Don’t tell anybody I gave this to you!”

“I won’t.” she says as she drinks the pills back and leans against the wall.

“You need some help gettin’ to your cabin? You look awful.”

“No, I’ll be alright now.” she replies weakly and stumbles back toward the stairs.

He watches her climb unsteadily.

“She’ll be alright, man. What’d you give her?” Brian asks, putting away his radio.

“Two vitamins.”

“A placebo? Man you’re tough.”

“Doc’s orders. He said to wait ’til they pressed me and give ‘em the vitamin C tabs. It can’t hurt ‘em except to give them a little acid in their stomach. If they got anything else it would only prolong bein’ sick. But you can’t tell ‘em that in the middle of it.”

Brian looks up at the other crewman. “Busted!” he says with a smile.

“She’s too old for me anyway. You on now?”

“Yeah. I go on duty in about ten minutes. The chief chewed my ass for bein’ late the other day. I gotta get there five minutes early today ‘or else’.”

“Bummer.”

“Yeah. See you later.” Brian calls as he starts down the passageway. “And don’t touch my radio!”

——-

In a small cubbyhole of the engine room, Jimmy leans over the thin pipe and vomits again. He lays back against the bulkhead slowly; holding his stomach; catching his breath. Unsure of how long he has been here, the darkness has long since become oppressive. Time seems to have stood still. He is getting worse and worse. Who knew about sea-sickness?

Even though he hasn’t eaten in days he still dry-heaves. His mouth has an awful taste in it. He can see and smell the spatters of bile down the front of his sweatshirt and on his jeans and has ceased to care.

There had been no previous thought of staying aboard. But suddenly, in a rush of excitement and for no reason he could think on the spot, he had leapt over a pile of boxes after they were on their way out. Crawling under countless pipes and railings and sneaking through one door after another, he had made his way down and down until he found a room where any inadvertent noise he might make would be covered by the engine. Finding a spot he could stretch out in he had lain there, waiting for sounds of pursuit, sweating and panting; listening to the steady, diesel hum of the engine until the sound became his thought and he had slept.

His chosen spot has been a good one: next to a hot water pipe. He lays just close enough to it to keep warm. The cold of the pacific water has worked its way through the ship’s hull. When he tries to get closer he almost burns himself as the ship rolls unrepentantly. But he manages to keep up a noiseless security except for the sickness.

Wanting to be discovered after they were at sea, he has practiced and thinks to have perfected an explanation. His explanations and his expressions will get him by. But now it appears unlikely he will be found. His hiding place is a good one. He has only seen crewman from a distance. The men have been checking the engines and the freshwater supply with a long wooden pole and have been oblivious of Jimmy’s presence.

Maybe I should have made a noise. Or maybe they know I’m here but just don’t care.

He needs food and water pretty soon. The bottle of water he has stolen out of a cabin has long since run dry. He is afraid to try for another one.

Everything he knows has been left behind in that mad dash over the boxes and into the bottom of the ship. Joe would understand when he didn’t return–wasn’t he always sayin’ how he ought to get out? “This life’s no good Jimmy. You get a shot at gettin’ out you take it-and don’t ever look back!”

What could they do to him? How much trouble was the trouble he could get into?
If nothing else he might even pick up a skill or some connection in the process.
He’d probably have to do some kind of ship work. I’m no freeloader. But I don’t want to work with fish.

“You gotta have faith.” he tells himself as he leans back and holds his stomach. Actually being discovered will be excruciating.

He counts the cash he has again to take his mind off everything else. One hundred and thirty five dollars from the job plus the seven and change he had lifted from the hotdog wagon.

It is a lot of money.

He is afraid they will take it from him. Looking for a place to hide it, he finds a small ventilator shaft in a greasy spot behind one of the massive engines. Slipping off his socks he stuffs the money tightly inside and pushes it way back into the pipe.

He has to show himself.

The thought of it is terrifying. What will they say? What will he say? All his planning and explanations won’t make the fear go away. They will get mad. Maybe they won’t care. He is stuck.

He huddles back in the corner, breathing deeply and letting it out slowly. I should never have done this! I should have left with the others! I’m always pushin’ my luck–I should have let it go and been satisfied with the money!

“Too late now, Jimmy. Too late now. You just gotta do it.” he whispers to himself and breathes deeply to relax. “You just gotta….do it!”

Slowly and painfully he slips out from the pipes and stands up. His back hurts and a muscle spasms in his leg, making him grab a pipe nearby to keep from crying out. He stretches gingerly.

Smoothing out his clothes and fingering his hair back he takes the first few steps. Catching a glimpse of himself in a chrome metal plate as he passes he stopped. He looks terrible.

So much for a first impression.

He makes his way up from one deck to another as quiet as he can, on the alert for anyone. Finally he sees sunlight coming from an open hatch.

He has found a small deck overlooking the main cargo holds and is as high as is possible to go on the ship. The view is breath-taking. The sounds of the waves and water breaking over the bow and washing by the sides is beautiful. Powerful.

He has the best view possible of the ship and the ocean. The ship seems so small in comparison to his image of it when it had been at the dock. It is slowly, gently rolling from side to side and up and down on the open sea. The sky is the bluest he has ever seen. The water is green and darker as it gets deeper; the depth below the color just ..keeps going.

The wind and the water wash his odor away with a cleansing scent of their own. All of it is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

Jimmy holds on with both hands to the rail, saying nothing; silent at the serious, physical real. The height is a little scary.

They will see him soon. But that is okay. If he never sees anything again he will remember what he saw now. Joe ain’t never seen anything like this! Wait’ll I tell ‘em all about this!

He sees men walking beneath him. A sudden realization flashes of how those people he hears about, the ones who run out naked at baseball games, must feel just before they are seen.

————————————————————————–

Mark 4:22 For there is nothing hidden which shall not be made manifest; nor does any secret thing take place, but that it should come to light.

In the Name of Jesus Christ, Amen