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And now picture after picture of genetic molecules appeared on the screen.
"Why would anyone be transmitting genetic information?" said Val.
"Maybe it's a kind of language," said Miro.
"Who could read a language like that?" asked Val.
"Maybe the kind of people who could create the descolada," said Miro.
"You mean they talk by manipulating genes?" said Val.
"Maybe they smell genes," said Miro. "Only they do it with incredible articulation. Subtlety and shade of meaning. Then when they started sending people up into space, they had to talk to them so they sent pictures and then from the pictures they reconstruct the message and, um, smell it."
"That's the most ass-backwards explanation I've ever heard," said Val.
"Well," said Miro, "like you said, you haven't lived very long. There are a lot of ass-backwards explanations in the world, and I doubt I hit the jackpot with that one."
"It's probably an experiment they're doing, sending data back and forth," said Val. "Not all the communications make up diagrams do they, Jane?"
"Oh, no, I'm sorry if I gave that impression. This was just a small class of data streams that I was able to decode in a meaningful way. There's this stuff that seems to me to be analog rather than digital, and if I make it into sound it's like this."
They heard the computers emit a series of staticky screeches and yips.
"Or if I translate it into bursts of light, it looks like this."
Whereupon their terminals danced with light, pulsing and shifting colors seemingly randomly.
"Who knows what an alien language looks or sounds like?" said Jane.
"I can see this is going to be difficult," said Miro.
"They do have some pretty good math skills," said Jane. "The math stuff is easy to catch and I see some glimpses that imply they work at a high level."
"Just an idle question, Jane. If you weren't with us, how long would it have taken us to analyze the data and get the results you've gotten so far? If we were using just the ship's computers?"
"Well, if you had to program them for every--"
"No, no, just assuming they had good software," said Miro.
"Somewhere upwards of seven human generations," said Jane.
"Seven generations?"
"Of course, you'd never try to do it with just two untrained people and two computers without any useful programs," said Jane. "You'd put hundreds of people on the project and then it would only take you a few years."
"And you expect us to carry on this work when they pull the plug on you?"
"I'm hoping to finish the translation problem before I'm toast," said Jane. "So shut up and let me concentrate for a minute."
Grace Drinker was too busy to see Wang-mu and Peter. Well, actually she did see them, as she shambled from one room to another of her house of sticks and mats. She even waved. But her son went right on explaining how she wasn't here right now but she would be back later if they wanted to wait, and as long as they were waiting, why not have dinner with the family? It was hard even to be annoyed when the lie was so obvious and the hospitality so generous.
Dinner went a long way toward explaining why Samoans tended to be so large in every dimension. They had to evolve such great size because smaller Samoans must simply have exploded after lunch. They could never have handled dinners. The fruit, the fish, the taro, the sweet potatoes, the fish again, more fruit--Peter and Wang-mu had thought they were well fed in the resort, but now they realized that the hotel chef was a second-rater compared to what went on in Grace Drinker's house.
She had a husband, a man of astonishing appetite and heartiness who laughed whenever he wasn't chewing or talking, and sometimes even then. He seemed to get a kick out of telling these papalagi visitors what different names meant. "My wife's name, now, it really means, 'Protector of Drunken People.' "
"It does not," said his son. "It means 'One Who Puts Things in Proper Order.' "
"For drinking!" cried the father.
