Nature Abhors a Vacuum (and so do I).
Nature Abhors a Vacuum
October
Titanic
Dim moon-eyed fishes near
Gaze at the gilded gear
And query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?" . . .--Thomas Hardy, 'The Convergence of the Twain', V
The oceans of Titan aren't like the oceans of Earth. Yes, the tides move the ocean--but they also move you. We're on a lander (actually a skimmer) at low tide--prancing around in the low-g--when out from the sea erupts a something. As we train the skimmer spotlight on it through the soupy fog, it looks geological, parts ramified upon parts like some complex foam. But its movements seem to imply something more complex--maybe life? Is Saturn's gravity just pulling a dumb formation out of the organic soup or am I looking at a sentient being with whom it's my imperative to communicate. What do you say to a piece of complex foam? I wouldn't want to insult it, but at the same time one has to think of the impression one makes on the crew members.
So, at the risk of sounding like an idiot, I say "Hello, I'm Adam and we're from the third planet," as I point to myself then hold up three space-suit fingers. Right, I know, geological ramifications of another planet's moon are pretty unlikely to understand the implications of three fingers, much less the English language, but what else am I going to say? Nothing much happened, but as we back off the gas on the skimmer and train some instruments on the eruption, it darkens and splits into two parts...
So, I guess, using our idiotic communication algorithm, the ramification's name must be 'Dark' and it's from Venus. I guess when you're the first humans on a planet with life potential you get a little gung-ho about the whole 'first contact' thing. Even if it is a "life-form", the chances of 'Dark' being sentient and able to communicate with me are pretty microscopic.