The Biggest Problem in Communication
The lighthouse at the Reverend’s Green Junction Point spun slowly on its axis like a colossal iceberg in the cold void of space. Partly a refueling/docking station, partly an info-beacon, it was wholly a quiet, lonely place. Deep within the structure, far from the traveler suites and transmission relays, two technicians sat at the central information booth, eating lunch.
Whiter chewed her protein curry thoughtfully: “Hell they call it a ‘lighthouse’ anywat?”
“Hold, I know this,” said Samar, putting down her tea. “My sister’s like some history-otaku and says ancient lighthouses kept water-ships from running a-rock.”
“Hell?”
“Notsure,” Samar admitted. “By helping the water-ships see the rocks, guess.”
“Ia,” said Whiter, “I grok you! The lighthouses were a-shinning on the rocks and the ships saw them and sixed. But hell the water-ships not have lights on board?”
Samar shrugged. “Notsure, mebbe ancient lights were too big.”
“Wat,” Whiter returned the shrug and went back to her curry. Then she stopped, “but hell is this called a ‘lighthouse’?” She waved her spork around the room of blinking maps and screens. “No water-ships hereabout.”
“Ia, but we’re a-doing the kinda thing: helping ships see rocks, only insteada water-ships it’s ships and insteada rocks it’s system hazards.”
“Ia.”
The co-workers fell silent; the only noise: the slurp of curry, the sip of tea, and the cheery burble of the machinery. The quiet chiming fanfare of a new local object was like the burst of distant fireworks. Slowly Samar turned to one of the screen, taking a long pull of her tea.
“We got a ufo on screen 2,” she said.
“Headed?” Whiter asked lazily. “They requesting?”
“Passing the belt, looks like Saturn,” Samar said, tracing the brightly colored graphic with her finger. “They’re not requesting, just minding their own: not identifying or transmitting. I’m a-sending the haz-maps, anywat.” Her fingers skipped over a keyboard. “Hold,” she said. “They are a-transmitting something but it ain’t anything I grok. Just some beeps.”
“Waaa,” Whiter cocked her head and listened to the punctuated noise. “I’ll ax the computer,” she said, then, “Waaa . . . says it’s ‘Morse Code’ – some ancient language, mebbe a ship of reenacts. Computer’s a-translating . . . hell?”
Samar swiveled her chair around. “Hell’s it say?”
“It’s just the letters ‘O’ and ‘S’ over and over again.”
“O S?”
“Yeah, just: ‘o s o s o s o’.”
Samar swiveled back to her screen, Whiter peering over her shoulder. Suddenly the cartoon-like ufo graphic disappeared along with the repetitive beeps. “Hell they go?” Said Whiter, pointing her spork at the empty screen.
“Musta gone outta range or switched their beacon off. Mebbe the haz-maps pissed them.”
“Anywat,” said Whiter resuming her seat, “problem-gone-way. But hell ‘oso’ mean?”
“Notsure,” Samar got up to refill her tea. “I’ll ax my sister next time I a-talk to her.”
“Ia.”
END
Whiter chewed her protein curry thoughtfully: “Hell they call it a ‘lighthouse’ anywat?”
“Hold, I know this,” said Samar, putting down her tea. “My sister’s like some history-otaku and says ancient lighthouses kept water-ships from running a-rock.”
“Hell?”
“Notsure,” Samar admitted. “By helping the water-ships see the rocks, guess.”
“Ia,” said Whiter, “I grok you! The lighthouses were a-shinning on the rocks and the ships saw them and sixed. But hell the water-ships not have lights on board?”
Samar shrugged. “Notsure, mebbe ancient lights were too big.”
“Wat,” Whiter returned the shrug and went back to her curry. Then she stopped, “but hell is this called a ‘lighthouse’?” She waved her spork around the room of blinking maps and screens. “No water-ships hereabout.”
“Ia, but we’re a-doing the kinda thing: helping ships see rocks, only insteada water-ships it’s ships and insteada rocks it’s system hazards.”
“Ia.”
The co-workers fell silent; the only noise: the slurp of curry, the sip of tea, and the cheery burble of the machinery. The quiet chiming fanfare of a new local object was like the burst of distant fireworks. Slowly Samar turned to one of the screen, taking a long pull of her tea.
“We got a ufo on screen 2,” she said.
“Headed?” Whiter asked lazily. “They requesting?”
“Passing the belt, looks like Saturn,” Samar said, tracing the brightly colored graphic with her finger. “They’re not requesting, just minding their own: not identifying or transmitting. I’m a-sending the haz-maps, anywat.” Her fingers skipped over a keyboard. “Hold,” she said. “They are a-transmitting something but it ain’t anything I grok. Just some beeps.”
“Waaa,” Whiter cocked her head and listened to the punctuated noise. “I’ll ax the computer,” she said, then, “Waaa . . . says it’s ‘Morse Code’ – some ancient language, mebbe a ship of reenacts. Computer’s a-translating . . . hell?”
Samar swiveled her chair around. “Hell’s it say?”
“It’s just the letters ‘O’ and ‘S’ over and over again.”
“O S?”
“Yeah, just: ‘o s o s o s o’.”
Samar swiveled back to her screen, Whiter peering over her shoulder. Suddenly the cartoon-like ufo graphic disappeared along with the repetitive beeps. “Hell they go?” Said Whiter, pointing her spork at the empty screen.
“Musta gone outta range or switched their beacon off. Mebbe the haz-maps pissed them.”
“Anywat,” said Whiter resuming her seat, “problem-gone-way. But hell ‘oso’ mean?”
“Notsure,” Samar got up to refill her tea. “I’ll ax my sister next time I a-talk to her.”
“Ia.”
END