Rizzo was back on his bunk again, reading one of his magazines. I tried
to call him, but the words froze in my throat. Without taking my eyes
from the flickering 'scope, I reached out and touched his arm.
He looked up.
"Holy Mother of God," Rizzo whispered.
For a long time we stared silently at the fluttering line dancing
across the oscilloscope screen, bathing our tiny dome in its weird
greenish light. It was eerily fascinating, hypnotic. The line never
stood still; it jabbered and stuttered, a series of millions of little
peaks and nulls, changing almost too fast for the eye to follow, up
and down, calling to us, speaking to us, up, down, never still, never
quiet, constantly flickering its unknown message to us.
[Illustration: _The line never stood still; millions of little peaks
and nulls calling to us, speaking to us, never still, never quiet,
constantly flickering its unknown message to us._]
"Can it be ... people?" Rizzo wondered. His face, bathed in the
greenish light, was suddenly furrowed, withered, ancient: a mixture of
disbelief and fear.
"What else could it be?" I heard my own voice answer. "There's no other
explanation possible."
We sat mutely for God knows how long.