The Radio Telescope – Part 1: False Signal

"It's repeating," said Leila.

"It's regular."

"It's an intelligent signal."

"It's a pulse every ninety seconds."

They stared at the screen. The control room of the radio observatory hummed softly in the dark, lit by a single lamp and the blue glow of monitors. Outside, the Atacama night lay vast and cold, full of stars. Fifty dishes stood in the desert like white giants listening to the sky.

Paula was thirty-four, a senior astronomer, small, precise, in a Chilean wool poncho over her jumper, with a long dark plait and a dry smile. Leila was thirty-one, a postdoc from Beirut, tall, lanky, bespectacled, with an electrifying enthusiasm and a mug of coffee she held like a trophy.

"If it's a pulsar," said Paula.

"It's not a pulsar."

"If it's a fast radio burst—"

"It's aliens," said Leila, with relish.

For six hours they chased the signal, checking calibrations, cross-referencing catalogues, running diagnostics. They shouted. They scribbled equations on the whiteboard. Paula traced the cables. Leila refreshed the plots. At nine a.m., as dawn spread pink along the volcanoes, they found the source.

It was the microwave. In the kitchenette. The cleaner had been reheating her lunch every ninety seconds.

They sat on the floor of the control room, unable to speak. Then Paula began to shake, and Leila fell sideways, and they laughed until they cried, clutching each other, while the sun came up on the desert.

"Aliens," wheezed Paula.

"The cleaner," gasped Leila.

"It was a very intelligent microwave."

"Can I ask you something?" said Leila, wiping her eyes.

"Yes."

"Do you want to have dinner? Not in the control room. With plates."

"Green?" said Paula, a dish, a screen.

"Green," said Leila, grinning. "Very green. I know a place with real chairs."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Clear Sky.