Analog SFF, July-August 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Toymaker's pause continued well beyond point at which could be considered pregnant before continuing. “They were so impressed that they requested data on our technology. In those days, when the government requested information, one provided it.” Expression darkened. “It is not beyond the realm of possibility that some of the technology I gave them that day contributed to the end of Mankind.”

  Sighed. Then glanced up with worried expression. “And if you please, again, what business do you have at Serdtsevina Rasovyi?"

  Explained about Daddy. By conclusion, Father Toys’ expression was picture of distress. “You are so young; you are so—please forgive my bluntness—tiny! What can you hope to accomplish there all by yourself?”

  Without going into specifics, replied had picked up specialized training, which ought to be helpful. In afterthought, added was pretty good shot.

  During recital, Toymaker's expression metamorphosed from distress to borderline horror to resignation to resolve. “Then perhaps this will be of assistance to you. I was escorted in and around most of that base. I have an excellent graphical memory; I recall the base in detail. Would a map of the layout be helpful to you?”

  Indeed; base schematic had not been included in materials Wallace supplied.

  Working freehand, Toymaker quickly produced positively draftsman-quality sketch in black ballpoint on reverse side of nonpertinent aviation chart.

  “However,” he added darkly, “please understand, apart from the buildings into which I was invited, I have no knowledge of what any of the other facilities are used for.”

  Finally, with everything aboard Stallion but Foster twins, Father Toys cleared throat self-consciously. Glanced at him inquiringly. Russian's expression clearly unhappy. “Would you like me to come with you on this quest to rescue your father?”

  Oh, dear. If caught-with-pants-down situation had been awkward, in many ways this was worse. But Toymaker deserved straight answer. So, in hopes would provide it himself, asked, “Have you been in the military?”

  Had; two years’ compulsory service twenty years ago. Qualified as marksman on range.

  “Have you had special-forces- or commando-type training?”

  Uh, had not.

  “Have you ever killed anyone in cold blood?”

  Toymaker blinked; eyes went round. “No!”

  Sighed. Or maybe shivered slightly. “I have.”

  Sudden, visibly horrified comprehension, sympathy appeared in sweet old Russian's eyes as Special-Ops Girl continued relentlessly: “My plan is to sneak in, kill any sentries in the way, find Daddy, and get him out. Unless you have training or experience in that type of operation—”

  “I will undoubtedly just get you caught,” Father Toys finished thought sadly.

  Paused, eyed me reflectively; then rueful smile flickered across features. “I think perhaps it is fortunate that we have become friends....”

  * * * *

  As always, Plucky Girl Aviatrix's actual departure preceded by morning Frisbee. Toymaker proved expert backhand-flip practitioner; BC approved of technique. Approval lasted something over hour.

  Eventually though, time to leave. Russian hugged me as if own kin. Finally released, stepped back with brimming, worried eyes—which of course set off your Humble Historiographer as well: Amazing, how quickly bonds form in depopulated world....

  * * * *

  Chelyabinsk, penultimate destination, selected after due deliberation. Respectable-sized city, though by no means huge. Charts, as well as between-the-lines interpolation of Danya/Wallace's notes/off-the-cuff observations confirmed presence of well-equipped airport.

  Location, depth of resources fundamental to strategy:

  First, though Chelyabinsk barely 50 crow-flies miles from heart of Serdtsevina Rasovyi, Bad Guys’ big headquarters/shelter/lab beneath Urals’ spine, single entrance to which is drilled into side of valley some 15 miles east of Zlatoust, does lie beyond foothills, far enough back to minimize detection odds, either electronically or, via random malchance (worse luck even than mis-), being observed by, stumbling into, some wandering Khranitel.

  Next, irrevocably final opportunity to service, prepare plane for potentially protracted storage. Servicing needs to be thorough: Last stop prior to tiptoeing on foot into heart of enemy territory in all-out recon/infiltration mode.

  Intend to delay refueling until morrow; depart directly from Chelyabinsk's pumps with utterly brim-full tanks, following very-last-second refueling session. Shan't leave even manual-recommended margin for fuel expansion due to heating by outside air—much warmer than nearly permafrosted soil under which tank farm resides.

  Stallion's total fuel capacity, including Lennel's custom-fabricated, extra fuselage tank, listed at 360 gallons. By morning, fuel remaining in ship's tanks, following today's final run, should be chilled nearly to temperature of that waiting underground. If heat differential between belowground fuel stores, daytime air, provides expected nearly ten percent expansion, that amounts to close to 35 spontaneously generated additional gallons as fuel warms, expands.

  Expect turbine's thirst to account for pretty much whatever excess may come into being from atmospheric warming during short hop from Chelyabinsk to Serdtsevina Rasovyi, which means, until point reached where expansion fails to replace that disappearing into engine, fuel level shouldn't drop at all. Of course, overflow vents will bleed off whatever engine doesn't consume.

  Takeoff, final 50 miles’ treetop-level flight, plus landing, should take (plus-minus) 15 minutes. Turbine consumes 50 gallons per hour, of which roughly 70 percent will be magically replaced during flight—clearly, if scheme works as advertised, will arrive at destination with tanks still brim-full; i.e., no trapped air.

  (Mmm ... Why does sophisticated, thermodynamics-based, fluid engineering plan sound so much like excerpt from brochure for perpetual-motion device...?)

  Better work, however, regardless whether physics or Alternate Forces responsible. Otherwise, could find self returning to plane following multiple days'—possibly weeks’ or even months'—storage to find diurnally repetitious warming, cooling of trapped air has generated a gallon or five of H2O condensate, every drop needing to be drained prior to departure.

  Normally, accumulated water not problematical. Presence expected; sump draining part of any normal preflight inspection.

  However, if exit happens to be motivated by unscheduled urgency, perhaps with pursuing Khraniteli's bullets parting hair, might forget to drain sumps altogether during abbreviated preflight inspection—i.e., leap aboard, slam door, switch on ignition, push starter button, jam throttle forward, haul back on yoke, hold breath.

  Following which, assuming plane actually clears ground, almost certain to fall out of sky soon afterward as fundamentally noncombustible nature of water reaffirmed one more time.

  Physics has long attention span....

  * * * *

  Chemaya to Chelyabinsk required long attention span as well. Too far to make in single hop, planned for touchdown at Surgut, on River Ob, for fuel, lunch, Frisbee. In terms of terrain, might as well have been flying over Midwest American heartland: flat to gently rolling terrain; now forested, now grasslands, now moth-eaten, abandoned farmlands; sprinkling of lakes, rivers. Mostly quite pretty landscape.

  Arguable, of course, that plentitudinous array of potential emergency landing options contributed to favorable opinion of vistas. Particularly since had no idea what sort of radar coverage Khraniteli might have set up around Serdtsevina Rasovyi, even less desire to find out, so, as distance shrank, developed increasing aversion to height. Last two-thirds of flight consisted of progressive letdown from 1,000-foot cruising altitude.

  Final hour closing in on Chelyabinsk spent snaking along valley floors, arcing around hilltops, skimming under power lines, wheels virtually brushing forest roofs (dodging between higher treetops) during final 100 miles. Flight rivaled better air combat simulator video games; furnished real-world epinephrine levels guaranteed to
satisfy most demanding thrill junkie.

  Arrived well before dark. Got good start on stem-to-stern aircraft checkover before dusk began to intrude.

  We ate, then frisbeed. Gathering gloom appeared not to interfere with Maggie's enjoyment of pursuit; illumination sufficed for her simple purposes: Nailed Frisbee every time, even by the time I could hardly tell where it was. (IR vision component useless for frisbeeing; no temperature variation worth talking about.) Border Collie's motion tracker, however, apparently functions independently from visual-light spectrum.

  Or maybe BCs related distantly to bats. Actually, have known several who, because of intensity, could be described as “batty.” (Okay, sorry.)

  Finally went to bed. Closed eyes, put arm over still happily panting, fuzzy baby sister snuggled against side—then found self wide awake, engrossed in detailed study of backs of eyelids, trying very hard not to brood about fact that only about 15 minutes’ flight remained before parking ship for last time, preferably someplace inconspicuous, covering with camouflage netting (borrowed from AAs’ special forces’ stash), commencing shanks'-mare area recon before—

  ("Attention, attention; this is not a drill.")

  —engaging enemy.

  Mmm ... Somehow, Posterity, this all seemed so much better idea during planning stages.

  Or, put differently, as Sven Nordstrom, Norwegian “political refugee,” slyly deadpan resident philosopher/fireman/EMT, back in pre-end-of-world Wausippi hometown days, was wont to observe in times of stress, “Hoooooh, jeeeez....”

  * * * *

  Day IX

  Palomar to Alaska's tip, 2,900 miles. Bering Strait crossing, 50. Then 4,300 or thereabouts wandering across Asia.

  All in all, some 7,300 miles’ flying lay behind us as, two hours after sunrise, following aircraft prestorage maintenance wrap-up, and moments after final, squeeze-in-very-last-chilled-drop, brimmest-full-possible fueling, we lifted off from Chelyabinsk, headed for Serdtsevina Rasovyi.

  * * * *

  Quarter hour later, eased through notch between tree-covered, rounded tops of relatively low, 40-mile-long, five-mile-wide, last-but-one, big-hill-bordering-on-small-mountain just north of Turgoyak. In interests of reduced visual conspicuousity, brushed uppermost leafy branch tips with main-gear tires as cleared summit.

  Pulled back throttle, floated downhill at near idle, propeller just ticking over, keeping eyes peeled for suitable landing site/hiding place for Stallion.

  Candidate emerged halfway down slope: Well before reaching broad, grassy valley floor, forest cover terminated in smooth, turf-covered hillside clearing, almost pastureland, whose uphill end disappeared into gloom under ancient oak grove, beneath whose sprawling limbs plane surely invisible from air, and pretty well hidden on ground as well, unless wandering indigene happens physically to stumble over it.

  Now. Only actual experience with bush-pilot-style uphill landing/downhill takeoff took place months ago during ultralight phase of aviation career. (Oddly, bush-flying techniques not touched on during shuttle simulator training.) But flying is flying; Lennel agrees: Same set of physics governs Stallion's aerodynamic behavior as person-rated toy airplane. No big deal.

  In theory.

  Lowered flaperons, leading edge Fowler slats popped out. Executed low, slow, gently banked 180, maintaining barely enough altitude to keep from digging in wingtip. Rolled out of turn nicely lined up on clearing, whose lower end was still well above us on hillside.

  Added power, raised nose; established gradually slowing climb calculated to intersect rising ground about a third of the way up-slope.

  Raised nose higher, slowed further despite adding more power. Increased backpressure on yoke, added still more power. Airspeed bled off as terrain rose faster than climb rate. Skimmed over final hedgerow bordering clearing's lower end as rising ground finally intersected flight path.

  Wheels down/terrain up—distinction without difference. Chopped throttle, hauled yoke all the way back at first bump to ensure plane remained fully stalled.

  No need for brakes, reversed thrust; uphill rollout complete in less than hundred feet.

  Whereupon freshly graduated mountain pilot resumed breathing.

  Added power again; S-turn taxied rest of the way uphill to, between trees; parked beneath spreading branches of huge old oaks. Momentary blast of power gave rudder sufficient authority to aid one-wheel brake application in swinging tail around to face Stallion downhill.

  Set brake. Killed ignition. Sat back, sighed, feeling flight tension bleed from soul—only to be replaced by mounting preinfiltration apprehension...

  Maggie stretched neck, nudged elbow with nose. Reached over, unlocked BC's harness.

  Thought about pulling her onto lap for hug, but, as usual, hyperalert puppy had picked up cues; already in motion. Held her for long moments as she leaned against me. Stroked, scritched; thought Beautiful Thoughts—reflected on unlikely state of affairs:

  Substantial portions of two continents, plus symbolic spit of (really cold) ocean, now lay behind us; Intrepid Girl Flying Ace had, in fact, successfully navigated almost third of the way around world in furtherance of quest.

  Now all that separated us from Khraniteli stronghold (and, pleaseplease-please—Daddy!) was broad valley, big lake, plus single, modestly prepossessing mountain ridge.

  (As well as, for detail-obsessed, whole base full of genocidally inclined, sociopathic fanatics.)

  After chocking Stallion's wheels, tying down, covering with camo net, we celebrated with rousing Frisbee session, epicurean repast of Canned Stuff; then early off to bed, perchance to have nightmares....

  To be continued.

  Copyright (c) 2008 David R. Palmer

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  * * *

  Science Fact: THE CHALLENGE OF THE ANTHROPIC UNIVERSE

  by Carl Frederick

  In the early 1990s, a creeping realization swept through the theoretical physics community that the probability for the universe to even exist was vanishingly small. Indeed, the only “theory” around that seemed able to explain the universe's existence was Intelligent Design. This was not something physicists and cosmologists liked to talk about.

  In 1974, the observation that the universe seemed “fine tuned” to permit life prompted the Australian cosmologist physicist Brandon Carter working at the Paris Observatory to coin the term “The Anthropic Principle.” In the “strong form,” it maintains, “The Universe, and hence the fundamental parameters on which it depends, must be such as to admit the creation of observers within it at some stage.” Although he put a name to the problem, Dr. Carter was not the first to point out the difficulty. In 1957, Robert Dicke (my thesis advisor's advisor, by the way) suggested in Reviews of Modern Physics, “The fundamental physical constants, such as the gravitational constant and the charge on the electron, are not random but conditioned by biological factors, central among them the fact that organisms must exist in order for these constants to be measured.” More extreme still was the so-called “participatory anthropic principle” of John Wheeler (Dicke's advisor. We theoreticians are very keen on lineage.), which says that “Modern quantum theory, the overarching principles of twentieth century physics leads to quite a different view of reality, a view that man, or intelligent life, or communicating observer participators are the whole means by which the very universe is created: without them, nothing.” In Wheeler's very quantum mechanical and non-linear world-view, observations by intelligent observers are vital: observations by beings living billions of years after the Big Bang, he maintains, actually caused the Big Bang to occur in the first place. Strange as this sounds, it echoes ideas common in quantum theory.

  The depth of the anthropic problem is, I think, well described by the cosmologist responsible for the Steady State theory of the universe (and noted science fiction author), Sir Fred Hoyle. His appreciation of the almost miraculous coincidences in enabling carbon to be produced in stars caused him to change his very percept
ion of the universe. He wrote, “A commonsense interpretation of the facts suggests that a superintendent has monkeyed with the physics, as well as chemistry and biology, and that there are no blind forces worth speaking about in nature. I do not believe that any physicist who examined the evidence could fail to draw the inference that the laws of nuclear physics have been deliberately designed with regard to the consequences they produce inside stars.”

  Here we have it then: Intelligent Design in physics. We have come very far (backwards, in my opinion) from that time when Laplace, explaining celestial mechanics to Napoleon, was asked where God fit into his equations. Laplace replied, “Sire, I have no need of that hypothesis.”

  So, then: Do we need that hypothesis? Below, we'll take a short romp through modern theoretical physics and cosmology to seek insights, then attach some numbers to the problem, and finally look to the physics community for possible solutions.

  * * * *

  This article was prompted by the 2007 Bethe lectures here at Cornell and three weeks later, the Messenger lectures. In the first lecture series, the eminent string theorist, Joseph Polchinski addressed the anthropic principle, leaning largely on the work of Leonard Susskind, who might well be considered the father of modern string theory. Dr. Susskind was, incidentally, one of my professors in grad school (did I mention how keen we theorists are on lineage?). In the Messenger lectures, Steven Weinberg (who won a Nobel Prize for his unification of the electromagnetic and weak atomic forces) also addressed the issue—here in the context of elegance and beauty in physical theories.

  The article proper relies on the above two lecture series as well as “The Anthropic Universe,” a special edition of The Science Show from The Australian Broadcasting Company, and four books: Just Six Numbers by Martin Rees, The Trouble with Physics by Lee Smolin, Many Worlds in One by Alex Vilenkin, and The Cosmic Landscape by Leonard Susskind.