Jag läser detta runt 2005ish, på engelska, men jag tror att det var i en antologi av äldre historier. Människan är i krig mot utlänningar (eller kanske bara en skurklig gren av mänskligheten) Två män befinner sig i rymdstationer vid kanten av rymden och letar efter tecken på invasion. De har en lekfull rivalitet som innebär att man stumpar varandra om musik. En utomjording snubblar på dem och har dem i någon form av stat som hindrar observation. Det finns en teknik som kan användas för att fly, men det krävs att båda stationerna agerar i synkronisitet. Huvudpersonen vet att deras kommunikation övervakas, men hittar ett sätt att kommunicera position och timing via sångtitlar.
Detta är förmodligen "Tin Ear" av Spider Robinson. Det finns i sin "Antinomy" -samling, 1980, Dell-böcker.
... the Enemy’s drones keep popping out at irregular intervals, robot-destroyer planetoids … somebody has to mount guard over every known ’Hole, to sound the alarm when a drone comes through, and hopefully to neutralize it (before it neutralizes us)
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It was well that Walter and I inhabited separate Pods. We didn’t get along at all. The only things we had in common were (a) an abiding hatred for the government which had drafted us into this sillyass suicidal employ (“. . . before we had a chance to volunteer like gentlemen,” we always added) and (b) a deep enjoyment of music.
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Both types of Enemy planetoid have only the two tractor beams—but the relative positions of them are one of the chief distinguishing features from the outside. If this was a Mark I, we could both throw full power to our drives— and while they wouldn’t be sufficient to peel us loose, their energies should cross, like surgical paired-lasers, at the center of the planetoid, burning out its volitional hardware. If this were Mark the Second, the same maneuver would have our drives cross in the heart of the power-plant and distribute the component atoms of all three of us across an enormous spherical volume of space. But how could we compute our positions blind, on a sphere with no agreedupon poles or meridians anyhow, and communicate them to each other’s computers without tripping the damned planetoid’s squelch-program? The cagey son of a bitch had cracked Cipher B too easily—apparently it was programmed to jam anything that it computed to be “exchange of meaningful information” whether it could decipher it or not.
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forever to establish contact. I scratched a telemetry contact and consulted Abacus Al. “How,” I programmed, “can I communicate meaningful information without communicating meaningful information?”
That’s the kind of question that makes most computers self-destruct, like an audio amplfier with no output connected. But Al is built to return whimsy with whimsy, and his sense of humor is as subtle as my own.
“WRITE A POEM,” he replied, “OR SING A SONG.” I snorted.
“No good,” I punched. “Can’t use words.”
“HUM,” Al printed.
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De byter hummiga sångtitlar för att hitta fienderens skeppsplats och knäcker sedan en lambspets (ett Spider Robinson-varumärke) om hur fiendens fartyg dog att lyssna, bara "ta anteckningar".
Läs andra frågor om taggar story-identification Kärlek och kompatibilitet Skor Gear 12 Stjärntecken Grunderna