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Authors: David Lee Summers
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Saturn. It was almost enough to make him willing to risk the voyage. “There's one more thing I'd like to see. You mentioned the shuttle-lander."
"Right this way.” Pilot shut off the view screen.
* * * *
Myra Lee was at home in the shower when the phone rang. Grumbling to herself, she shut off the water, wrapped a warm, fuzzy towel around her middle and started drying her hair with another. After a minute of searching, she found her cell and answered.
"This is Joyce Harmer at Oxford,” said a very precise voice on the other end of the line. “We believe we are close to translating a portion of the whale song for you."
Myra's knees went watery and she fought not to drop the phone.
"Dr. Lee, are you there?” asked Harmer, vaguely distressed.
"Yes, I'm here. It's just that no one has ever come up with a translation script for whales before. This is absolutely historic."
"I know. Can we set up an Internet chat and I'll show you what I've got?"
"Absolutely, I'll just sit down at the computer.” Myra's towel slipped an inch. “Actually, better give me a couple minutes to get dressed. You caught me in the shower."
"Certainly. I'll wait for your ping."
Myra let the towel drop as she stepped through the house, thinking of the implications of the first words from whales. She found a T-shirt and some slacks and dressed as quickly as she could—which wasn't very fast since her mind kept turning around in circles. Finally, she started toward her computer, just remembering to grab a brush, so she could comb out her hair as she talked.
She logged into the computer and pinged the Oxford philologist. Harmer's face showed in a window on the computer. Her short, gray-blond hair was a mess, not matching her precise speech at all. There were dark bags under her eyes as though she'd been up all night working on the complex problem. Suddenly, Myra didn't feel so bad about combing her hair in front of her own camera.
Harmer sent some charts over to Myra, who recognized them as being very similar to her own charts of recorded whale song. “You were right,” said Joyce. “This new song is very like binary code."
"You said you have a translation?” Myra forgot her hair and leaned forward.
"Not exactly, but we do have a sense for what they're trying to say.” Joyce closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and continued. “It's as though they're sending a message. The context makes it sound like a warning. If we've got it right, it's something like, ‘The land dwellers are on their way.’”
Myra sat back and stared at the Oxford linguist. “That doesn't make any sense. Who are they warning?"
"That's difficult to say.” Joyce's brow furrowed. “It's like they've been reading too much Tolkien. They're warning someone they call ‘the keepers of the rings.'” She paused and sent some more information across. “I know it sounds utterly fantastic, but I'm sending along all of the notes and programs I used to come to my conclusions."
"Any idea who ‘the keepers of the rings’ are?” Visions of dolphins jumping through hoops at Marineland in California came unbidden to Myra's mind.
"You said the whales started their song at one o'clock in the afternoon of April 17?"
Myra nodded, remembering the event clearly. It was difficult to believe that almost two months had passed since then.
Joyce hesitated before answering, “The only other significant event that happened at the time was a broadcast from Quinn Corp executives announcing a mission to Saturn."
"The ringed planet,” mused Myra. “Are you trying to suggest that the ‘keepers of the rings’ are little green men from Saturn?"
Joyce shrugged and sighed. “I almost hesitated to mention it."
Myra nodded. “Thanks. Can the programs you've devised tell us anything about what the whales say in any of their other songs."
"I haven't had time to do much with the other songs.” Joyce appeared relieved by the change of subject. “All we can really pick up
"Right this way.” Pilot shut off the view screen.
* * * *
Myra Lee was at home in the shower when the phone rang. Grumbling to herself, she shut off the water, wrapped a warm, fuzzy towel around her middle and started drying her hair with another. After a minute of searching, she found her cell and answered.
"This is Joyce Harmer at Oxford,” said a very precise voice on the other end of the line. “We believe we are close to translating a portion of the whale song for you."
Myra's knees went watery and she fought not to drop the phone.
"Dr. Lee, are you there?” asked Harmer, vaguely distressed.
"Yes, I'm here. It's just that no one has ever come up with a translation script for whales before. This is absolutely historic."
"I know. Can we set up an Internet chat and I'll show you what I've got?"
"Absolutely, I'll just sit down at the computer.” Myra's towel slipped an inch. “Actually, better give me a couple minutes to get dressed. You caught me in the shower."
"Certainly. I'll wait for your ping."
Myra let the towel drop as she stepped through the house, thinking of the implications of the first words from whales. She found a T-shirt and some slacks and dressed as quickly as she could—which wasn't very fast since her mind kept turning around in circles. Finally, she started toward her computer, just remembering to grab a brush, so she could comb out her hair as she talked.
She logged into the computer and pinged the Oxford philologist. Harmer's face showed in a window on the computer. Her short, gray-blond hair was a mess, not matching her precise speech at all. There were dark bags under her eyes as though she'd been up all night working on the complex problem. Suddenly, Myra didn't feel so bad about combing her hair in front of her own camera.
Harmer sent some charts over to Myra, who recognized them as being very similar to her own charts of recorded whale song. “You were right,” said Joyce. “This new song is very like binary code."
"You said you have a translation?” Myra forgot her hair and leaned forward.
"Not exactly, but we do have a sense for what they're trying to say.” Joyce closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and continued. “It's as though they're sending a message. The context makes it sound like a warning. If we've got it right, it's something like, ‘The land dwellers are on their way.’”
Myra sat back and stared at the Oxford linguist. “That doesn't make any sense. Who are they warning?"
"That's difficult to say.” Joyce's brow furrowed. “It's like they've been reading too much Tolkien. They're warning someone they call ‘the keepers of the rings.'” She paused and sent some more information across. “I know it sounds utterly fantastic, but I'm sending along all of the notes and programs I used to come to my conclusions."
"Any idea who ‘the keepers of the rings’ are?” Visions of dolphins jumping through hoops at Marineland in California came unbidden to Myra's mind.
"You said the whales started their song at one o'clock in the afternoon of April 17?"
Myra nodded, remembering the event clearly. It was difficult to believe that almost two months had passed since then.
Joyce hesitated before answering, “The only other significant event that happened at the time was a broadcast from Quinn Corp executives announcing a mission to Saturn."
"The ringed planet,” mused Myra. “Are you trying to suggest that the ‘keepers of the rings’ are little green men from Saturn?"
Joyce shrugged and sighed. “I almost hesitated to mention it."
Myra nodded. “Thanks. Can the programs you've devised tell us anything about what the whales say in any of their other songs."
"I haven't had time to do much with the other songs.” Joyce appeared relieved by the change of subject. “All we can really pick up
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