Lost on a
crashed drive for years, I just found this on a floppy and could not resist.
This was originally published in the November, 1998 issue of Analog Science Fiction and Fact at http://www.analogsf.com and is a short tongue-in-cheek story about
visiting aliens who almost go to war with us because of an internet blunder on
our part. The title is a shameless pun, and that should be a clue, though the
normally staid editor liked it enough to publish it for over 100,000 readers
world-wide. And as copyright reverts to the author six months after publication, I took the liberty
of a slight change to make it appropriate for the April 2006 issue of MS Musings at http://www.msmusings.com .
Waltzing My Tilde
by
F.
Alexander Brejcha
It is
such a little thing. A squiggly little
line that invariably causes many a Spockian raised eyebrow when relaying a web
address to resistant web-o-phobes.
"Tilde? What's
that?" Or: "Where's
that?" from those who at least realize you are talking about a written
character.
Such an
inoffensive little symbol.
Until you
accidentally leave it out and almost start a war.
But I see
confusion on your faces, Madam Chairperson and honorable members of the
Senate. Perhaps I'd better backtrack a
few days, to March 23, 2013: the day the
aliens landed.
Hollywood
did it much better, you know. The alien
ship was a real disappointment. No
enormous, musically humming and farting giant candelabra fit to grace a stage
concert for the second coming of Liberace, and no kilometers-wide disks looming
ominously over Earth's major cities.
Just a squat and scuffed tin can the size of a large, round office
building that looked right at home on the bleak
And as
for the aliens, well, they were a bunch of dogs... and I mean that in a
sympathetic way. They resembled a
tired-looking lot of bipedal and emaciated six foot-tall greyhounds -- and no,
I'm not being redundant -- who would have fit right in at the waiting room of a
doggie-doctor specializing in eating disorders.
As I watched them troupe off the ship I felt an almost irresistible urge
to call an 800 number to offer up my credit card for a donation.
But at
least I knew I'd have some work lined up.
I remember turning my wheelchair towards the president, who also looked
ready to do some dialing for dollars...
#
"Are
you ready, sir?"
He nodded,
looking a little annoyed -- probably because
he would
only be making a brief appearance before introducing the aliens to the U.N.
Secretary General. "Are you certain
you can talk to them?" he asked for the umpteenth time.
"Sure,.”
I reassured him. “I've been communicating with them for weeks, ever since they
got to the orbit of Jupiter and we first heard from them. The transmission delay was useful at first
since nobody expected an immediate answer, so we had time to work out a common
language. It wasn't hard since they have
been watching our television for some time, and they already know English and
several other languages. But they insist
on speaking for themselves, and since they can't form our speech, and vice
versa, we came up with a compromise language.
It's a little spare, but we've programmed both our computers to
translate what we can't say verbally, so nobody will be offended."
"Yes,
I hear they're a little touchy," the president grunted.
"Can
you blame them? They've been traveling a
long time, and now they come here and find out that we have pets and racing
dogs that look related to them."
He
frowned. "Well, I won't invite them
over to the White House to play with Ethics.
Still, it's a good thing our new dog is a poodle instead of a
whippet." He eyed the small PC
attached to my wheelchair. "And
you'll be able to translate all right?"
"Just
stick to the welcoming speech," I cautioned, "and go easy on the
improvising, and we'll be fine." I
had made the same comment to the U.N. Secretary General, and I hoped both would
stick to it -- and try not to think about the fact that every radio,
television, and computer in the world would probably be listening and watching
via cable, Internet, network or satellite feed.
#
But we
got through it fine, Madam Chairperson, each side keeping close to the
well-rehearsed dog and pony... er, side-show, exercise in diplomacy. In other words, not a genuine feeling or
off-the-cuff remark made it on the air.
But both sides managed to look very good, and with the best U.N. and
White House spin doctors on the case, even the most critical media outlet would
have been hard-pressed to find anything negative about the meeting.
And then
it was time to get down to some serious negotiating with the Security
Council. I had trained a number of other
translators also, and like a good administrator, I was delegating and dividing
the translating duties, hampered a bit by the fact that it would be a bit like
the old game of telephone sometimes; with comments often going through two
translators.
That's
where I thought the trouble would come from.
But I was wrong.
The
negotiations went well. As you know, all
the aliens really wanted was to re-supply.
An accident had destroyed their hydroponics farm for their livestock,
and since our world -- listed in the Galactic Handbook as a "here be there
dragons" type of place -- was known to be biologically compatible, the
captain had decided to ignore regulations and stop by for supplies.
She had been
stunned to find out that we were not going to throw nuclear bombs and laser
beams in her direction. And as the
negotiations for supplies concluded quickly and successfully, we got some neat
gadgets to convert spent nuclear fuel and toxic wastes, as well as solar cells
with an efficiency at least ten times what we had. The alien captain had even cooperated with us
to open a web site for humans all over the world to learn about them and to
communicate.
My
translating team even got some fame, and we each got our own page under a
translators' page, complete with a private message board, all under the main
domain of http://www.celestial.alien.visitors.gov.
Unfortunately
the webmaster assigned to the alien task force was not only rushed, but singularly
unimaginative -- and because of that, it wasn't entirely my fault that the
Captain almost blew up Earth.
Really,
it wasn't!
It all
happened after the Security Council negotiations were all finished -- three
grueling and virtually non-stop days confined to an admittedly large room, but
one with a partially malfunctioning ventilation system.
I see
dawning comprehension on your faces -- some of you must have met the aliens
personally. It's not that I am
inherently against dogs, but I'm an apartment dweller -- it's all I can afford
on my salary -- and cats are so much neater...
Yes Madam Chairperson, I'll get to the point. They smell.
The aliens, I mean, not cats. A
typically doggy -- wet doggy -- smell.
And after several long days of close contact, I was getting sick of it.
But
finally we finished, and dotted all the i's and crossed all the t's. And after I finished my report on the
computer in my office, just like my compatriots were all doing, I logged onto
the "messages" area to express my relief and to emphatically state
that I was "heading to the shore for some fresh air that didn't reek of
wet mutts...". Yes Madam
Chairperson, those were my exact words.
And yes, I realize they were ill chosen, but they were only meant for my
own co-workers.
So why
did I post it on the public message area of the aliens' web site?
Well,
that's just it. I didn't think I was.
Do you
know just how the web is structured, Madam Chairperson? Well for those who may not, allow me to
explain what happened. The main address
for the alien web site -- it's called a URL for Uniform Resource Locator -- is
http://www.celestial.alien.visitors.gov.
Sounds
awful complicated, but it really isn't once you get used to it. The "http" and the "www"
are mostly standard, and the middle part is self-explanatory -- they have to be
a little unique now that there are so many web sites out there -- and the
"gov" is just because it's a government site.
Well, the
webmaster -- and like I said, he really ought to take some responsibility,
ma'am -- set up the main domain just fine and with a sub-level called
"messages" for the world to post reactions to the aliens' visit. But he screwed up when he added the
translator page below it called "translte".
Under
"translte", he added all our individual pages, and furthest “down”
also a private "messages" page only registered translators can access
-- but he gave it the same name as the public messages board: "messages"... And I see comprehension on some of your
faces. You must have your own web sites.
But for
the rest of you, let me explain that there is a shortcut you can take to
prevent having to type every level on a web site. And that is the tilde I mentioned -- it's at
the upper left on a PC keyboard in the numbers row.
For
instance, to get to our messages page, instead of typing
http://www.celestial.alien.visitors.gov/translte/markovsky/messages, you just
type http://www.celestial.alien.visitors.gov/~messages -- the tilde bypasses
all levels and goes straight to the lowest specified. And I see you understand now.
I forgot
to type in the tilde, and instead of typing
http://www.celestial.alien.visitors.gov/~messages and rashly posting my
comment, I typed http://www.celestial.alien.visitors.gov/messages. Such a little mistake, but instead of going
to the private translators' messages page where no one else could read it, I
went to the public messages page where the whole world -- and the aliens --
could read my indelicate words. I
deleted my message almost as soon as I posted it, but it was too late since it
was on the public message board.
Yes,
Madam Chairperson, I'll wait outside.
*
* *
"Mr.
Markovsky, do you have a statement yet?"
The GNN
news anchor was there personally, and his hand was first as I looked out over
the sea of reporters waiting to hear my reaction to the Senate Investigating
Committee's decision. I screwed on my
most determined and enthusiastic smile as I needlessly adjusted the microphone
and straightened my tie to face the assembly of television cameras and
expectantly hunched reporters.
"The
Visitors' Captain has been most gracious in accepting my profound apology for
the inappropriate words I mistakenly expressed in a public forum in a moment of
utter exhaustion. You can ask more
questions tomorrow night at the joint press conference which we will hold
before the Presidential Ball at the White House."
I
swallowed. "I want to add that I am
honored to have been chosen as the Captain's escort for the evening, and you
can ask her directly how she feels about the Committee's decision to put me in
charge of personally supervising the loading of the supplies for the Visitors'
ship."
Weeks of
non-stop, up close personal contact and interaction with physically
hard-working aliens. After an evening of
closely escorting, and then ballroom wheelchair waltzing with the alien
captain.
That
ought to teach me to type more carefully!
- end -