Contact - Carl Sagan [92]
What prodigies of human inventiveness, Ellie reflected, were being directed to reading each other's mail. The global confrontation between the United States and the Soviet Union-now, to be sure, easing somewhat-was still eating up the world. It was not just the financial resources dedicated to the military establishments of all nations. That was approaching two trillion dollars a year, and by itself was ruinously expensive when there were so many other urgent human needs. But still worse, she knew, was the intellectual effort dedicated to the arms race.
Almost half the scientists on the planet, it had been estimated, were employed by one or another of the almost two hundred military establishments worldwide. And they were not the dregs of the doctoral programs in physics and mathematics. Some of her colleagues would console themselves with this thought when the awkward problem arose of what to tell a recent doctoral candidate being courted by, say, one of the weapons laboratories. "If he was any good, he'd be offered an assistant professorship at Stanford, at least," she could recall Drumlin once saying. No, a certain kind of mind and character was drawn to the military applications of science and mathematics-people who liked big explosions, for example; or those with no taste for personal combat who, to avenge some schoolyard injustice, aspired to military command; or inveterate puzzle solvers who longed to decrypt the most complex messages known. Occasionally the spur was political, tracing back to international disputes, immigration policies, wartime horrors, police brutality, or national propaganda by this nation or that decades earlier. Many of these scientists had real ability, Ellie knew, whatever reservations she might have about their motivations. She tried to imagine that massed talent really dedicated to the well being of the species and the planet.
She pored over the studies that had accumulated during her absence. They were making almost no progress in decrypting the Message, although the statistical analyses now stacked into a pile of paper a meter tall. It was all very discouraging.
She wished there were someone, especially a close woman friend, at Argus to whom she could pour out her hurt and anger at Ken's behavior. But there was not, and she was disinclined even to use the telephone for this purpose. She did manage to spend a weekend with her college friend Becky Ellenbogen in Austin, but Becky, whose appraisals of men tended to be somewhere between wry and scathing, in this case was surprisingly mild in her criticism.
"He is the President's Science Adviser, and this is only the most amazing discovery in the history of the world. Don't be so hard on him," Becky urged. "He'll come around."
But Becky was another of those who found Ken "charming" (she had met him once at the dedication of the National Neutrino Observatory), and was perhaps too inclined to accommodate to power. Had der Heer treated Ellie in this shabby way while he was a mere professor of molecular biology somewhere, Becky would have marinated and skewered the man.
After returning from Paris, der Heer had mustered a regular campaign of apology and devotion.