Fermi and Geller - first lines

Pubblicato da Stefano Castelvetri il 23/12/2025

Fermi watched her with a puzzled look, his teeth chattering, noting the ease with which the tall woman pushed through the deep snow and the heavy boots she wore. What irritated him most was the heavy-padded-parka-trimmed-with-fur she had chosen. Its overly warm-looking hood revealed only a glimpse of her nose, red by the cold, and her thin lips curved into a faint, cynical smile.

«The only ghosts I’ve found here are the links removed from our approval request.» he said. «Yesterday the Institution turned down our application for a larger memory storage unit.»

Geller burst out laughing, nearly choking. «Guess I’ll delete all the anime I downloaded last month.»

Fermi’s mood darkened. «For what it’s worth, you can keep the anime.»

She giggled. «Does anyone actually read our comprehensive, flawless reports?»

«No one.»

«Perfect. Then I’ll fill the next one with dirty jokes and porny fanfiction.»

«And blood-sucking sprites.»

She hopped in place—cold, despite the heavy jacket. «I really need to teach you a few things. Sprites don’t suck blood. That’s scientifically, and above all biologically, inaccurate.»

He nodded, shivering, hunching deeper into his spring jacket. «Mine do. Anyway, I think I’ve got the scan results.”» he said. «“Let’s take a look. In a very warm room.»

The warm room was the tiny office cubicle inside the landing pod. The scraped walls were cluttered with server interfaces, post-its covered in notes and passwords, and trinkets gathered on recent expeditions dangling from every corner.

Perched on the retractable stool, Fermi hammered commands into the analysis tool. When he felt up to date—and needed to scratch his thick beard—he used the voice interface. But at the first misunderstood instruction (which happened often), he would lose patience, switch to manual control, and go back to keyboard and pen. Geller didn’t follow his work; instead, she started fiddling with a half-broken seismograph. When the search completed, the screens spat out pages of intricate results. Seeing the columns neatly aligned, the periods in place, the words correctly spelled, Fermi validated the report with his usual ritual: a soft whistle and a final grumble. Despite the cold, he was in a good mood. He always was when he finished something neatly.

Outside, the air now felt less icy, the sky less grey. Flying spiders circled high above, hunting for snacks. The two xenoarchaeologists planted coloured markers where the report indicated.

Fermi stretched, grunting. «Ok. Processors are processing. So far, nothing relevant. Not like Site Three.»

Geller pushed back her hood, adjusting the braid of pink hair that crossed the shaved side of her head. The cold flushed her pale cheeks. «Do you have any chumbo? I need to chew something rubbery.»

He rummaged through his pockets—tools, notes, unknown fragments, unsoldered bits. No chumbo. «No chumbo.» he said. «I’ve got dried meat, though.»

«Are you kidding? You know I don’t eat meat. Any kind.»

She looked more amused than annoyed. Fermi didn’t insist. He tossed the scrap of food onto the ground. After a brief bubbling sound, a brownish scavenger worm poked out, drawn by the scent. «Funny how worms aren’t attracted to living flesh at all.»

«A blessing. I wouldn’t sleep if I thought those nasty things could swarm me.»

Soon there were two worms, then three, then four. The two researchers stepped back. A shadow swept across the ground—a gust of wind—and a creature swooped down. With a few limp wingbeats it landed, grabbed the worms with its many spider-like legs, and carried them to its small, circular mouth. Then it took off again, leaving behind the meat and a chunk of worm still writhing on the ground.

«Chumbo would’ve been better.»

«I might have some pretzels in the container. I’ll check.»

«Hurry.»

Fermi headed back to base camp. Inside the storage container, everything was stacked in a chaotic mix of junk, vital equipment, fine food, and trash—organized according to the sacred principles of worst-in, best-out, and the Japanese technique of I’ll-find-what-I-need-when-I-need-it.

He moved a few cardboard boxes (maps? specs?) off the energy cells and accidentally found the digital spectroscope he’d been looking for for months. The pretzels, in a half-empty display, were buried between spare optical viewers and emergency beacons. He stuffed the third-to-last bag into his pocket and began rearranging materials on the shelves.

«Fermi.»

The communicator.

«Fermiii.»

Still the communicator.

«What’s up, Gel?»

«You need to come and see.»

«Haven’t found the pretzels yet.» he lied, lining up the bins.

«Fermi, seriously. Come see this. I found a ghoul.»

She sounded alarmed. Or curious. Or concerned. Maybe the communicator was glitching, but Fermi couldn’t read her tone.

This story was written in English from the very beginning, as an experiment. It tells the story of two xenoarchaeologists who stumble upon a functioning alien artifact. As the name of one of the characters suggests, the story is based on the Fermi paradox..