[ WP ] Arthur C. Clarke said that `` Two possibilities exist : either we are alone in the universe or we are not . Both are equally terrifying . '' What he did n't know is that there is a third possibility ...

`` If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?'' he asked, his dark eyes staring intently at me over his tall glass of orange juice. 
 I fought the urge to sigh, instead replying `` It will make pressure waves in the air, but sound is the subjective perception of these in our minds. So no.'' 
 
 The red-cloaked minister flashed a brief smile. 
 
 I shook my head, `` I really do n't see how that has anything to do with a Keeper of the Course though.'' 
 
 He spread his arms in an overly dramatic fashion, his cloak billowing majestically in the low-g, and exclaimed happily `` Pray you never will!'' 
 With that he walked away, leaving most of his lunch uneaten on plastic the tray. 
 
 The next morning I caught him lost in thought, sitting at our usual table, the intricately carved Keeper medaillon held loosely in his hands. 
 `` So it's a time machine right? ``, I asked as I sat down and nodded at the device. 
 His fingers clutched around the metal disc for an instance, `` What? No, no. It is THE time machine''. 
 After a brief moment of consideration he added: `` Actually it is not really that either. It just takes time and nudges it a little. Changes the course. Though I keep it, that's what makes me the Keeper.'' 
 
 I did not see him again until the Contact. Every member of the ship, us included, being to busy with preparations and too wrapped up in our own anxiety for socializing. Now we stood side by side facing the main display on the primary deck, and the tension was palpable. The normally rowdy room was dead-quiet, a hundred spacers collectively holding their breath. Even the usual background noises of the ships machinery seemed eerily faint somehow. 
 
 We were making first contact with another species. 
 
 We in the broad sense that is, as the display showed the ten thousand other ships of our fleet, suspended like glittering motes in interstellar space. Since the discovery of the plates we'd had 70 years to prepare for our galactic blind date. We had arrived a little early, 4 years early that is. Our fleet of envoys, ambassadors, warriors and us. Like a nervous suitor we'd scoped the place out, but had found nothing out of place. No rogue planets, no alien ships, no markers, not even a single stray chunk of exotic metal, to suggest that someone was ever here. Yet now the ever present countdown had reached the last minutes. If we'd read the plates right, and if whoever had left them them kept their promise, the wait would be over soon. 
 
 I tore my eyes away from the screen for a brief moment, to look at my fellow shipmates. To an outsider, we'd look like a fashion show gone horribly wrong. A representative of every major faith was gathered here, and all dressed for the occasion. I had made it my task to learn as much a possibly about all of them. I knew most of them desperately hoped, if not believed, that no one would show up. I could n't blame them, after all I did n't really look forward to another rewriting of the Bible either. Only the Keeper, the minister in red, had remained a mystery. All I really knew was that the Keepers had come from a group of scientists working at the LHC, where it had started as a Pastafarian-like in-joke. Somehow, along the way they'd convinced someone to let them join this lone ship of faith. 
 
 The final 10 seconds announced themselves audibly and I turned back to display. Was I crying? 9 second to go. I rubbed my eyes, but they seemed dry. 7 seconds. I blinked rapidly, but the blurry spots remained. It was n't me. 3 seconds. If the fucking display picked this exact moment to break down, I'd denounce God myself right here, aliens or no. 1 second. 
 
 I feel my stomach dropping. The screen is n't broken. The blurry parts are ships. Were ships. Our ships. 
 I can see them, winking out one by one, leaving clouds of debris and gas. Whole groups disappearing now. Rapidly. Closer and closer. 
 
 I am crying. 
 
 `` Goddammit, not again. Ca n't we ever get a fucking break?'' It's the red minister. 
 
 I hear the snap of a cord. 
 I look over to see him palming the medaillon. He does n't look surprised, or scared, or sad. Just tired. 
 His thumb presses into the center of the medaillon. 
 
 It clicks. 
 
 I did n't know it had a button. 
 
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 `` If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?'' he asked, his dark eyes staring intently over his tall glass of apple juice. 
 
 The man suppresses a sigh, instead replying `` It will make pressure waves in the air, that is what we have defined as sound. So yes.'' 
 
 The red-cloaked minister flashes a brief smile. 

