The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(6)
“Of course I do, George,” Serviss replied solemnly. “Although I suppose it’ll happen after the year two thousand. First we have to deal with the automatons.”
“The automatons? Oh yes, of course . . . the automatons.”
“But there’s no question in my mind that sooner or later they’ll invade,” Serviss insisted. “Don’t you believe, as Lowell maintains in his book, that the canals on Mars were built by an intelligent life-form?”
Wells had read Percival Lowell’s book Mars, in which he set out this idea; in fact he had used it to substantiate his own novel, but it was a long way from there to believing in life on Mars.
“I don’t suppose the purpose of the many millions of planets in the universe is simply to create a pretty backdrop,” replied Wells, who considered discussions about the existence of life on other planets a pointless exercise. “Nor is it unreasonable to imagine that hundreds of them probably enjoy the conditions essential for supporting life. However, if Mars is anything to go by . . .”
“And they don’t necessarily need oxygen or water,” Serviss observed excitedly. “Here on our planet we have creatures, like anaerobic bacteria, that can live without oxygen. That would already double the number of planets able to support life. There could be more than a hundred thousand civilizations out there that are more advanced than ours, George. And I’m sure generations to come will discover abundant and unexpected life on other planets, although we won’t live to see it, and they’ll come to accept with resignation that they aren’t the only intelligent, let alone the oldest, life-form in the Cosmos.”
“I agree, Garrett,” Wells conceded, “but I am also convinced that such ‘civilizations’ would have nothing in common with ours. We would be as hard put to understand them as a dog would the workings of a steam engine. For example, they may have no desire to explore space at all, while we gaze endlessly at the stars and wonder if we are alone in the universe, as Galileo himself did.”
“Yes, although he was careful not to do it too audibly, for fear of upsetting the church,” Serviss quipped.
A smile fluttered across Wells’s lips, and he discovered that the drink had relaxed his facial muscles. Serviss had extracted a smile from him fair and square, and there it must stay.
“Of course, what we can’t deny is Man’s eagerness to communicate with supposed creatures from outer space,” Serviss said, after managing to make two fresh pints brimming with beer appear on the table, as if out of nowhere. “Do you remember the attempts by that German mathematician to reflect light from the sun onto other planets with a device he invented called a heliotrope? What was the fellow’s name again? Grove?”
“Grau. Or Gauss,” Wells ventured.
“That’s it, Gauss. His name was Karl Gauss.”
“He also suggested planting an enormous right-angled triangle of pine trees on the Russian steppe, so that observers from other worlds would know there were beings on Earth capable of understanding the Pythagorean theorem,” Wells recalled.
“Yes, that’s right,” Serviss added. “He claimed no geometrical shape could be interpreted as an unintentional construction.”
“And what about that astronomer who had the bright idea of digging a circular canal in the Sahara Desert, then filling it with kerosene and lighting it at night to show our location?”
“Yes, and a perfect target!”
Wells gave a slight chuckle. Serviss responded by downing the rest of his beer and urged Wells to do the same. Wells obeyed, somewhat abashed.
“The last I heard they are going to hang reflectors on the Eiffel Tower to shine light from the Sun onto Mars,” he remarked, while Serviss ordered another round.
“Good heavens, they never give up!” Serviss exclaimed, thrusting another pint toward Wells.
“You can say that again,” Wells seconded, noticing with alarm that he was beginning to have difficulty speaking without slurring his words. “We seem to think here on Earth that beings in space will be able to see anything we come up with.”
“As if they spend all their money on telescopes!” Serviss joked.
Wells couldn’t help letting out a guffaw. Infected by his laughter, Serviss began slapping his hand on the tabletop, causing enough din to elicit a few disapproving looks from the waiter and some of the other diners. These censorious looks, however, appeared not to intimidate Serviss, who slapped the table even harder, a defiant expression on his face. Wells gazed at him contentedly, like a proud father admiring his son’s antics.
“Well, well . . . so, you don’t think anyone would go to the trouble of invading a tiny planet like ours, lost in the infinity of the Cosmos, is that it, George?” Serviss said, trying to sum up once he had managed to calm down.
“I think it unlikely. Bear in mind that things never turn out the way we imagine. It is almost a mathematical law. Accordingly, Earth will never be invaded by Martians like it was in my book, for example.”
“Won’t it?”
“Never,” Wells said resolutely. “Look at all the novels currently being churned out about contact with other worlds, Garrett. Apparently, anyone can write one. If future encounters were to take place with beings from outer space identical to the ones we authors have written about, it would be a case of literary premonition, don’t you think?”