“Every single frequency on the radio spectrum is taken up with some kind of repeating signal—looped messages in some unknown language. Thousands and thousands of ‘em.”
Lamont was returning to the observation bench with an empty ashtray in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Stubbing out a cigarette some moments before, he had realized that the built-in ashtray at the end of the bench was filled to overflowing with stubs that could only be his. Self-consciously, he had made a trip to the refreshment station so that he could furtively empty the tray into the trash receptacle. Just as he was replacing the tray in the molded area provided for it on the end table (and ignoring a mildly curious glance from Captain Carter, who was perched in the center of the bench), the command deck doors slid open to admit three newcomers.
Lamont glanced at his watch. It was 8:00 in the evening already—the beginning of the second shift. Entering the deck were Raj Singh, the navigator, and Sandra Ucan, pilot. Trailing behind them was Milo Faust. As the crew members busied themselves with exchanging stations, the old doctor ambled to the observation window and regarded the visual spectacle from beneath bushy white eyebrows. “So this is what all the fuss is about,” He mumbled.
“Not enough to impress you, doctor?” Captain Carter asked, looking up at Milo from his place on the bench. Lamont noticed that when the doctor entered his view, Carter had changed position, leaning back in his seat and laying his cane over crossed legs rather than perching forward with his palms resting on it as he had been before.
“On the contrary,” Doctor Faust replied, “It’s a most impressive—er—what is it we’re headed toward, exactly?”
“Some kind of a structure on that moon,” Carter said. “We haven’t been able to get a very good look at it visually, but we know it’s artificial. And technological.”
“Based on what?” Milo asked.
“The radio signals,” Lamont explained, standing next to the hunched doctor. “Every single frequency on the radio spectrum is taken up with some kind of repeating signal—looped messages in some unknown language. Thousands and thousands of ‘em. Did I get that right?” He looked over his shoulder at Abigail Bishop, who was hovering over the side of her console, engaged in a quiet orientation with Raj.
“You must be taking notes,” Abigail smiled, without looking up from the panel.
“Ah,” The doctor nodded thoughtfully. “That explains the music, I suppose.”
“Music?” Carter asked.
Milo turned toward the console. “Mister Raj, would it be possible to play the signal at, say, eighteen-point-five hertz through a speaker?”
The young navigator looked up from his console with a perplexed expression. “I could, technically,” He affirmed. “But we wouldn’t be able to hear it.”
“Surely you know something that can be done about that,” The old doctor urged him in a tone of light admonishment.
Bishop restrained a smile while her counterpart, visibly flustered, scrambled to adjust his controls. “Ah, yes. Yes, of course,” He mumbled, his amiable features darkening sheepishly.
A few moments later, Lamont felt an unpleasant vibration deep in his chest. Slowly, the sensation resolved itself into a sound, a low drone emanating from the speakers in the console. His brows knit in concentration, Raj made barely visible adjustments to a knob, and the drone resolved into a rich, complex tone. It was not unlike the sound of a pipe organ, but the notes it made were weird, utterly alien. The occupants of the command deck exchanged astonished glances with one another.
“There,” said the old doctor, nodding in satisfaction. “Music, or I’ve gone senile.”
Next: A Haunting Backdrop