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Chris rated it:

06/22/08

Read in June, 2008

I can’t say enough good things about the writing of the late Carl Sagan. Previously, the only works of his I had read are his non-fiction works “Cosmos” and “Dragons of Eden”. I didn’t quite know what to expect of his fictional work, though I think I had a few good clues going into it, the first being the fact I’ve seen the film adaptation about fifty times (which I discovered is vastly different than this story, aside from the general, top-level plot) and the second being Sagan�...more I can’t say enough good things about the writing of the late Carl Sagan. Previously, the only works of his I had read are his non-fiction works “Cosmos” and “Dragons of Eden”. I didn’t quite know what to expect of his fictional work, though I think I had a few good clues going into it, the first being the fact I’ve seen the film adaptation about fifty times (which I discovered is vastly different than this story, aside from the general, top-level plot) and the second being Sagan’s stated expectations/hopes/fantasies in his other works when he discusses the forthcoming ‘contact’ from another intelligent civilization which he firmly believes exists, somewhere. While I didn’t know if Carl could write a lick of fiction worth a damn, “Contact” still beckoned.

Much like the message that appears to be originating from nearby the star Vega in the book, Sagan's message penetrates the babbling background noise of commonplace life and I hope that every last one of his readers are glad they were listening with white-knuckled anxiety to that particular frequency. Carl Sagan’s best quality is his intelligent sensibility and incredible sense of wonderment and adventure; his writing and boundless appreciation for the infinite wonders this universe holds is unparalleled, and he’s sickeningly contagious; I dare anyone to read Sagan and walk away without seeing their own existence in a new light. At one point in “Contact” he draws a parallel between the humbling but awesome and enlightening religious experience dubbed ‘the numinous’ or ‘misterium tremendum’ in which the acolyte feels utterly insignificant but absolutely astonished through their epiphany; I was thunderstruck at how accurately he was describing my selfsame helpless reverence for his own powerful work.

One last digression before actually commenting on the book; I can’t imagine what a profound impact the loss of Carl Sagan was to our own exploration of the cosmos. When I think about what we are capable of, and what we are actually actively pursuing, I feel insulted as a human being begging for even a morsel of this knowledge. Astronomers and scientists ultimately blame public ignorance and pitiful government and private funding (with the widespread ignorance as the real culprit driving the budgeting decisions), but when presenting their concepts to the masses, the largest problem I see is that the eggheads just can’t effectively communicate their plans, I can only assume the response from most budget committees is “hey, thanks for completely mind-fucking us with your nth dimensional cosmic jargon and belittling our intelligence in the process of panhandling for a couple of million dollars. Feel free to erase that blackboard-filling-equation before pissing off and taking a flying fuck at a rolling donut”. With his ability to efficiently communicate these things to the layman, Sagan filled a much-needed niche, replaced now by a vacuum and a lack of connectivity between those who could finance such operations and those who dare to espouse these fantastic dreams. We also seem to have lost our balls somewhere along the way in our quest; I understand there is little glory in the Challenger and Columbia disasters, and that both of these tragedies are at the forefront of many minds when contemplating taking that next step in our progress, but seriously, we’ve lost a hundred times as many people in the process of sheep-shearing through the ages, and sure, there’s a major difference in the money lost in these ventures, but it’s time to grow up people. Besides, there’s a good chance we’ll find space-sheep capable of shearing themselves, let’s start looking forward to bigger and better instead of sniveling over past failures.

In “Contact”, Sagan hypothesizes on mankind finally receiving an indication from space that we are not alone. Eleanor Arroway is a radio astronomer bound to the tenets of science and grew up somewhat brash and confrontational due to a poor relationship with her step-father, the nefarious businessman John Staughton. Her 'true' father, a simple, loving, hard-working hardware vendor was taken from her at a young age, and a less-similar replacement than Staughton couldn’t be found in the Milky Way. Ellie’s studies are rooted firmly in the black and white world of science, which is considered uncharacteristic for a woman at the time, and Staughton makes sure to scoff and mock at her passions and desires at every turn, as she slowly gains acceptance and credibility as a radio astronomer. She starts accumulating some serious observation time at premier facilities where she is slowly brought into the search for extraterrestrial intelligence. A thorough skeptic, even Ellie isn’t convinced that SETI is a worthwhile course of action, with thousands of man hours a year spent (effectively) wasting time for little green men.

Until, of course, mankind finally receives a signal, which appears to be the real thing, on her watch.

In order to get confirmation that the inbound transmission from space is legitimate, she has to align the resources of international observatories in order to continue receiving it as the planet turns and to establish credibility from various sources receiving the signal. In two jiggle’s of a jackrabbit’s ass, the authorities swoop down to try to contain the situation, rather displeased that she felt the need to alert foreign agencies of this unprecedented event. The message itself is obviously of intelligent design, patterned around prime numbers with multiple underlying messages within the palimpsest. The first part to be decoded is a doozy, Adolph Hitler announcing the onset of the Olympic games in Berlin. Immediately, the government is less than amused; few things are less expected or desired than a space-faring Fourth Reich. The scientific community assures them that the Nazi broadcast is simply the first earth-bound transmission powerful enough to have reached space, and this is the aliens’ way of confirming that they received are message. The irony of Hitler as our first ambassador to space is lost on few.

After much labor, the message is finally decoded, and it’s a schematic for building a machine, for purposes left unspecified. For the most part, the ‘big brains’ are convinced that the machine is some form of conveyance with which to go and meet this civilization, but the defense agencies of the planet understandably conceive that this thing may very well be a Doomsday Device, or perhaps a Trojan Horse of some sort, upon activation we can either expect that this thing will completely annihilate the planet or transport the Vegan army directly to Earth. These points of view cause quite a sensation, and this is before the religious fanatics begin jumping into the debate, unafraid to compare the Machine (as it is dubbed) to the Tower of Babel, as a blasphemous means to speak with God, and should we be foolish enough to attempt building it, punishment for our insolence is sure to follow.

Naturally, construction begins on not just one, but a pair of Machines, setting in motion a great tale of fantastic adventure in the search for truth and man’s rightful place in this apparently barren universe, dredging up enough speculation to question or validate one’s faith, forging a bond of worldly brotherhood and a desire for a diligent and determined global community, and a moving reaffirmation of the things which make life worth living.

I couldn’t recommend anything better if you have a scheduled week of daydreaming ahead of you, preferably on a sunny beach.

So jump on the bandwagon, find your voice, and cry for the construction of The Machine, or at least whatever the hell we can currently erect that helps us understand and visit the corners of this sprawling playground we were generously given to explore. We’re past the days of launching unmanned flights that contain a phonograph with a golden lp record blindly into space. Let’s face it, knowing our bum luck that thing is going to be intercepted by some amateur DJ on his way to his next gig in the Pleiades, and all he’s going to do is lift some samples from it when he’s scratching away for a hodgepodge of alien species. We can either get our asses in gear and make a mark of our own deliberate fashioning in the cosmos, or be poorly represented to the galactic community by the sweet sounds of frogs mating as some filler in some nimrod's hot 'mix'. Consider yourself responsible for helping make that call.
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