by Jerry
“I can see a parched piece of empty plot of land full of stones and rubble.”
“You are impossible,” said Ravi exasperated. He sat in the car and both of them returned home.
Ravi lay on his bed, thinking hard. Excepting himself nobody else could see the garden. What to make of it; was it there at all! He threw stones at the spot where he used to sit on the bench and they disappeared—where did they go, did they go at all, for his wife said they were lying amongst the rubble. Did they really go or was he just imagining things. Then he got a queer idea. Suppose he wrote a letter would it also go, just like a posted letter? He smiled to himself at this outlandish idea. Who should he address this letter! To himself! Who else! He took out his writing gear and wrote a letter.
Dear Ravi Mohan,
I don’t understand a thing that is happening to me. One day I got thrown out of the home by my own wife and children, the next day they all welcomed me. And there is another guy who looks like me every inch; he stays in my house and my wife brands him with a swastik sign. I don’t understand anything at all. Who is this guy; what was he doing in my house? Did he hypnotize my wife and children! And there is this mathematical garden, which nobody can see except me. I throw a stone on the bench and it disappears—I don’t know where it goes. So I am writing this letter. I want to know where it is going. But how do I find out where it has gone or whether it has gone at all.
Signed
Dr Ravi Mohan
He folded the letter, put it in a cover, and wrote down his postal address. Next he quietly slipped out and reaching the garden placed it on the bench. To his surprise the letter vanished! Just like the stones!
Ravi waited under a tree watching the bench from a distance where his letter had gone. Would it come back! He stood for a long time, then decided to go home.
Next day on arrival at the lab, the peon came hunting for him. “The director is calling you,” he said.
The director welcomed him, shook hands with him and asked him to take a chair.
“How are you, Dr Mohan?” he asked in a kind tone.
“I am ok, thanks.”
“You know, Mohan, the pressure of lab work tells on people. I can tell you from my own experience. Research takes a toll. You go on working with so much interest that you are bound to neglect your health. Thinking about the next experiment, planning it, going through it with your nerves on end and then waiting, waiting for the result—exultation, if successful or despondency if not. So Mohan, I think you have done your stuff for a long time and now it is better that you take a break, go on a month’s holiday with your family to Lonavala, Matheran or whatever. I am rather seriously telling you, because I got reports that you are seen going to the empty patch of land nearby and sitting in the sun. The other day you were throwing stones, I heard. I don’t mind if you throw stones to pass off your time, but something serious has happened. I got reports that you are keeping letters addressed to yourself in the gravel and rubble there. Somebody picked up this letter from there, let me read it out to you.
Dr Ravi Mohan,
I received your letter in the mathematical garden, which surprised me. You have described vividly what happened to me, I don’t know how, but somebody looking like me had come to my door. My wife, Pratibha made me sit away from that person and branded me with a swastik. My daughter Sai and son Prabhat pushed that man out and closed the door. Who are you? I was astonished to see your signature. Ravi Mohan is also my name.
Signed
Dr Ravi Mohan”
Dr Ravi Mohan was stunned.
“This is not what I wrote,” he cried. “This seems to be an answer to my letter, which I had written and when I placed it on the bench it vanished. I don’t know where it went. Now all of sudden I get an answer by somebody of my own name. Please let me see it.”
Ravi held out his hand to receive the letter. The director looked at him uncertainly. He thought Ravi had really lost his bearings. He writes a letter to himself, which vanishes and then he receives a reply to his phantom letter.
The director held out the letter. Ravi took it, unfolded it to read, but before he could do so the letter exploded with a loud bang in his hand.
The director and everybody got up. They were greatly agitated.
“What are you doing? You were carrying a bomb in your hand? You want to blow up the institute!” he shouted.
“I never had a bomb in my hand. The letter exploded by itself.” He looked at his hand, it was bleeding profusely and was badly burnt.
While Ravi Mohan’s wounds were being dressed in the laboratory hospital, his thoughts were wandering to the events taking place one after the other in his, until now sedentary, uneventful life. Who was the other Ravi Mohan! Why does he look the same as him, with the same name, same way of dressing, why was he staying in his house? Why his own wife and children were against him while that man was staying in his house, did he hypnotize his family? And then, out of nowhere he answers his letter and sends his letter to the mathematical garden. Can he see the garden! Nobody can see it except him.
And the letter—definitely it was sent by that fellow, it was an answer to his letter, or was somebody fooling him—answering his letter and placing it on the gravel in the garden! No, no . . . not possible, for it exploded in his hand, only in his hand—not in the director’s hand. Why did it explode!
Did it have something to do with his and that man’s fingerprints? Positive—negative! Positive and negative fingerprints combine and big explosion. Is this the real explanation! Or it is something else! Ravi Mohan’s head started swirling round and round. He sat down suddenly.
The doctor was concerned, “Now, now, Mohan you go home immediately. Take leave and stay at home. You are not well at all.”
Back on his bed Ravi’s mind once again started mulling over the seemingly irrational happenings of the day. How an ordinary letter written on an ordinary paper could explode like a bomb and injure and burn his hand? Was what he thought true—that negative and positive fingerprints exploded on coming together? In that case it was easy to extrapolate this to the other strange, inexplicable things that happened one after the other during the course of these two days.
The other man who looked exactly like him—that man was also Dr Ravi Mohan. He could see the mathematical garden and could place an answer to his letter. Was the letter written by him made of negative atoms! In that case that man also was made of negative atoms. This would explain the phenomenon. And then it was easy to think about the other set of people. His wife Pratibha and children Sai and Prabhat, who threw him out of the house. They must be the negative people who were staying with that man. Did it mean that they were staying in another world—a parallel world made of negative people? And on coming together they annihilate each other—they explode! They are analogues, deadringers of each other but opposite to each other.
The fingerprints on that letter did not match the fingerprints of the director, so there was no explosion—only his fingerprints matched. So the other Ravi Mohan was the exact opposite number, an opposite twin—so also all others, a parallel negative world, in which the twins, the exact opposite numbers, whose structure was similar, were staying. This was a dangerous situation!
He was kept away from that man by his wife just inadvertently—just by chance. Otherwise a big explosion would have occurred with a force of ten hydrogen bombs and destroyed the city. The bench in the mathematical garden is the entrance to that negative parallel world. It was fortunate that not many could see the garden. If others like him could see the garden, a very dangerous situation would be at hand. If that somebody were to go to the other parallel world and shake hands with his exact opposite . . . his exact twin—incomprehensible damage would ensue!
Dr Ravi Mohan decided to consult his director.
The director heard Ravi patiently but rather patronizingly because he did not believe Mohan at all. He did not want to ridicule Ravi but could not hold himself from laughing.
�
�This is your hypothesis—that there is a parallel negative world. You mean to say that you have been seeing people exactly similar to people here in our world. But it may be pure speculation. Theories have to be proved in the laboratory without a shade of doubt, then only people can accept them—not by personal experience. There should be some proof of what you are stating. If you are not able to prove it, it is better to forget the whole thing as something absurd.”
Dr Ravi Mohan walked away without saying a single word. His story was so weird, so bizarre that it would be difficult to convince anyone. He took his writing gear, wore rubber gloves and wrote:
Dear Dr Ravi Mohan,
I received your letter to my great surprise, but it exploded in my hand. It seems your fingerprints were made of negative atoms as opposed to our positive atoms. That is, you are in a parallel negative world. Nobody here believes me. They think I am out of my mind. I am worried that if by some unforeseen circumstance somebody comes to your or our world and shakes hands with his or her exact opposite, unimaginable explosion would occur and destroy our cities. I am worried. Do you have you any suggestions?
Signed
Dr Ravi Mohan
2009
THE EARTH SHIP
Graham Storrs
Editor’s Note: History is a tale written in blood that stretches backward to the dawn of human awakening and forward to the unknowable end of days. Or is it? Are human beings the source of violence? Or could our barbarity be a learned behavior, pressed into each new generation by the unbroken chain of cultures that stand behind us?
At about noon the Earth ship landed. Liddie came in and said, “They’re here.” Everyone looked up and stopped and the silence was electric.
Gerol went straight to the council building where Malc and Anya were discussing the situation.
“May I see the transcript again, please?” Gerol asked, holding out his hand to Malc. The old man shrugged and pushed the sheets of paper across the table to him.
“I’ve read it through a hundred times,” Malc grumbled. “They make as little sense now as they did two weeks ago.”
Gerol picked up the record of the first and only contact between Beasphor and the visiting Earth ship. It had been recorded at the Mount Snowy Radio Observatory, where astonished astronomers had heard the Earth ship hailing them and had quickly improvised a transmitter to answer with. He could easily imagine the excited scientists hunched around the microphone.
Earth ship: This is Earth ship Resolution of the Imperial Fifth Fleet. Please respond if you can hear us. This is Earth ship Resolution. Please respond.
It was repeated over and over until the transmitter had been lashed together. Then the inhabitants of Beasphor spoke to the people of Earth for the first time in so many hundreds of years. The radio engineer, Allie, spoke first.
Allie: Earth ship? Earth ship? Can you hear me? Hey, Penn, Kate, I think I’ve got it working!
Penn: What’s the distance now? How much delay can we expect?
Earth Ship: We are receiving you, Colony FC3098-BS4. Please stand by.
There followed a long break during which the observatory team babbled excitedly. Eventually, the ship broke its silence.
Earth Ship: This is Captain Robert Cheng of the Resolution. To whom am I speaking?
Allie: I’m Allie and I’ve got Penn and Kate with me. Are you really speaking from a spaceship?
Earth Ship: This is the Earth Ship Resolution of the Fifth Fleet. I would like to speak to someone in authority. Is the Colony leader present?
Kate: I’m in charge of the observatory this year, does that count?
Penn: He probably wants to talk to a councillor, Kate. Would that do, Earthman? Would you like to talk to a councillor?
The transcript showed one minute and thirty-five seconds of silence from the Earth ship. Then the voice of Captain Cheng came back.
Earth Ship: We will be arriving in ten days and will make landfall shortly afterwards. My navigator requires information.
For a while the observatory staff and the ship discussed the suitability of various landing sites. Luckily Kate was able to understand the navigator’s talk about coordinate systems well enough to direct them to Hundred Acre Field, which they all agreed would be a good place.
Earth Ship: Our mission is a peaceful one. We therefore must insist that no military forces come within a hundred kilometres of the landing site. We will be monitoring the movement of military equipment and personnel from space and will defend ourselves vigorously if we feel threatened in any way.
Kate: But we don’t have any military equipment or personnel. Why would we want to threaten you?
Earth Ship: We also insist that there is no air traffic within 500 kilometres of the landing site at any time. I’m sure you will understand our need to take such precautions.
Kate: No. I don’t understand. Do you, Allie? Penn? We won’t threaten you and I know it’s very exciting and interesting that you are coming and all that but what you’re asking would upset lots of people’s travel plans. I can’t see them agreeing to that! Couldn’t you just land without all this fuss?
Earth Ship: I will not repeat my instructions. Just relay them to your superiors. This mission to your colony is under the authority of Her Imperial Majesty’s Ministry for Interplanetary Affairs. When we land, we will expect an immediate audience with your civil and military leaders.
Kate: But I don’t understand. I don’t think I understand any of this.
Earth Ship: Just pass this on. You may also wish to arrange a celebration. Our visit marks the reabsorption of Colony FC3098-BS4 into the protection of the Empire. Long live the Empress!
The Earth ship had not spoken to them at all from that moment to this.
* * *
The landing craft ticked and sighed. Its engines cooled and its framework relaxed after the tensions of the descent from high orbit. Four other landers stood in formation around it. Above them, ten sub-atmospheric fighters circled like hawks.
Captain Robert Cheng stood in front of the viewscreens and surveyed the crowd of gawking civilians. They were coming in ground cars and buses to see the spectacle. There was no sign of military activity and no sign yet of an official welcoming party. Well, he would wait a while longer.
“There is no interruption to the civil air traffic, sir,” said a young officer.
“Recommendation?”
“Shoot a couple of planes down sir, just to let them know we mean it.”
“Wang?”
Another officer snapped to attention. “Yessir!”
“Your assessment of the threat this crowd poses.”
Wang relaxed a little. “None whatsoever sir. A scan reveals no weapons or energy sources of any kind. Their vehicles are primitive and low-powered. No armor. We could eliminate them in a few seconds if we wished to.”
Cheng paced the deck. “Why would they expose themselves like this? Is it a trick, do you think, Mr. Lee?”
Principal Officer Lee Ping Ya of the Imperial Secret Police, looked at Cheng’s tall, broad-shouldered figure and smiled. “You are the military man, captain. I am only a cultural affairs consultant.”
Cheng turned and looked him in the eye. Principal Officer Lee, in the usual manner of the secret police, was attached to his mission under an assumed role and title. Only Cheng knew his real affiliation—only Cheng and the entire crew. Lee was an ascetic creature, sinuous and sharp-witted, with insolent eyes. “Then perhaps you would give me the benefit of your thoughts on this culture, Mr. Lee.”
Lee smiled again. “They are a puzzle, are they not? To listen to their radio chatter, you would guess they were a simple, rural people, thinking only about their families and their potato crops. Yet our observations reveal high levels of organization, a manufacturing capability and technical infrastructure well beyond any rural economy we have ever seen, and evidence of scientific awareness many advanced societies would be proud of.”
“And their tactics?” insisted Cheng.
>
Lee just shrugged and turned away as if he was bored.
The Captain clenched his teeth in silent anger and whirled on the young officer who was now staring fixedly at his displays. “Shoot down the next aircraft to enter the exclusion zone. No warning. Then shoot down every single one that enters our airspace until they get the message.” His angry gaze darted round to fix the marine colonel attached to the mission. “McGregor. I want your troops out there. I want a cordon around these ships. Got it?”
“Yes sir!” The marine snapped into action.
“Patel!” The Communications Officer yessired him smartly. “I want to talk to someone in charge. If they think I’m going to sit here playing diplomatic games with them, they’re mistaken. McGregor! I want an armed guard ready to escort a delegation into that city.”
* * *
Gerol was explaining his research to the other councillors. “We hardly know what we lost when the original settlement failed. So much was destroyed and so many things abandoned.”
“Barbarism,” Anya said, softly.
“We have no actual records from back then, of course. Our ancestors expected the people of Earth to come to us and help us, but no one came. The writings of later ages spoke of knowledge and wisdom beyond our conception and of tremendous, terrifying power. All gone.”
He was lost in thought for a moment. They all were. “Some of us have hoped that the Earth people might come back one day. Some believe it will be the start of a Golden Age.”
“Thommo’s New Farm,” said Anya, smiling fondly. It was perhaps the best-loved poem on Beasphor.
Gerol was not smiling. “I looked up some of the words from the message, tracing them back as far as I could to get their original meanings. Dora at the University helped me. What do you think that strange use of the word ‘superiors’ means?”
“Well, people with greater abilities, I suppose,” Malc offered. “I don’t see why it’s so important.”
“Dora thinks the word means: people who have the right to tell other people what to do.”