We've been sending out signals for years now, a small laboratory just
outside Valencia, into the depths of space. Or, rather, I've just been
informed, not quite the depths of space, but still a lot further than
you might want to go to pick up a pint of ice cream.
We've been sending them out, I am told I'm allowed to reveal, to try and suss out whether or not we're alone in the big, dark, empty bowl of cheese and onion crisps that we call the Universe. The empty bit of the preceding description being left out if it turns out that we are, indeed, not alone in the Universe. Horribly and quietly alone. In which case (the being alone bit, if it turns out to be True), at least we'd have the Internet.
So, periodically, whenever someone questions just what that rather large glass and metal thing lurking the in the corner of the room and inevitably Melissa, the third scientist hired at our labs, and always under the impression that she needs to prove that she wasn't just hired to even out the ratio of male scientists to female (the explanation that she, being the third, couldn't hope to even out the ratio in any case, never quite seemed to suffice for her, and she would wave off all such entreaties with a disgusted gesture and rush over to the laser beamer again, and begin sending out Mary Wollstonecraft's Vindication of the Rights of Woman to the reasonably near depths of space, which we'd been trying to avoid sending to potential other co-habitants of the Universe, if only because it's a bit of a depressing book. We've discussed Melissa's rather unimpressive mathematical skills with particular emphasis on her refusal to accept the ratio argument, and how it might effect her scientific enquiries), a laser message is sent screaming out into the vast reaches of space within reasonable limit.
And, I guess, what we do then is sit around and wait for someone to get back to us, which is remarkably similar to the same experience here on Earth of ringing someone to see if they'd like to go out somewhere public (or private, even) and do something with you, possibly with slightly less apprehension because we've never actually seen or talked to the people we're inviting out for an evening, which I've only done here on Earth once, maybe twice, with just about the same amount of apprehension as this routine inspires.
So imagine our surprise when we got a response last week. The BBC covered it, some extra noise trickled in amongst all the normal space noise we get back. The BBC thing was purely speculation, a few vague suggestions, also some possibly cautionary language pertaining to the unspecified origin of the noise, so as to not arouse the groundlings unnecessarily.
We know what it said. Since it was our laser that had bunged off their radio tower in the first place, interrupting the gardening hour, which, on the planet they happened to be on, was actually quite a valuable programme, since it's extremely difficult to grow things in the bluish dirt they have there.
Well, based on further communication, the initial message was rather difficult to understand, mostly because the author of it was rather brassed off, having missed half of the gardening promgramme because he had to climb up on the tower and bend the bit back in place that would re-direct the signal to everyone's homes.
In later communications, considerably more legible, it also turns out that we may have laser-skewered their most popular football player, who also happened to be their Prime Minister, with the "disorderly education of women" bits from Wollstonecraft, which drew a rather large crowd of curious spectators. They were quite understanding, actually, but, in order to save future embarassing situations, we've since stopped shooting laser beams in their direction.
disclaimer:
I am always pleased and delighted that I have the ability to shock by simply wearing an ironed shirt.
Yer Weekly Horoscopes. not as naff as you might think.