by Ray Deeg
Gwen’s tree was special, and she’d learned to appreciate that it had been spared. Every season as she grew, she saw it sprout seeds with wings that launched from the heights of its branches—but only when the wind was right. Those tiny green flyers defied gravity and were carried by the wind to all corners of the neighborhood. And when it rained, she remembered seeing those green seeds float down the newly paved street to where the water pooled at a large open field. Gwen’s family had moved from that house nearly thirty years ago, but when she’d visited last, she had seen dozens of younger sycamore trees all over the neighborhood and in the empty field where the water pooled. Plants can swim and fly.
“I don’t recall seeing fall colors more vivid than these,” Gwen said, breaking the silence.
Tom looked around, seeming to sense something. “Are you about to tell me about a gigantic tree in the backyard of your childhood home?” Tom asked.
“Whoa, whoa,” Gwen replied. “How did you know that?”
“I’m not sure. I just had this weird sense of déjà vu, of hearing you speak. You were looking out the window as trees passed by, and then you mentioned that you were thinking about fall colors and a gigantic tree you remembered from your childhood.”
Gwen eyed Tom. “Was that the voice talking, or is that you—the observer?” Gwen asked, looking around as if Tom’s déjà vu might be visible.
“Well, we’re both staring out the window at trees passing by, so it’s more than likely pure coincidence,” Tom replied.
“Do you remember anything else about what I was going to say?” Gwen asked.
“No, I interrupted the thought to tell you.”
“Lots of things can trigger the feeling of déjà vu,” Gwen offered. “A color, a shape. A corned-beef sandwich. I’ve had cases where specific sights triggered déjà vu.”
Tom wasn’t impressed. “A corned-beef sandwich that causes déjà vu?”
Gwen smiled. She seemed to shake off the road trip fog. “Déjà vu is a common symptom of temporal lobe epilepsy, so be careful what you say. We may have to do some brain scans now. Déjà vus are also associated with several psychiatric disorders, so, seriously, think about what might be causing these feelings.”
“You’re turning me into a hypochondriac,” Tom said.
“Now that was definitely the little voice again. When people choose to stop narrating their lives and consciously observe the world, they feel more exposed. It becomes painfully obvious that you can’t know what’s coming next. But your mind is accustomed to helping break things down, to simplify them. Our minds try to make the live stream fit with our views of the past, our observations about how things work—to fit what we’ll call the Tom filter. All that helps you create the illusion of control. Without it, you’re uncomfortable. Reality is too sobering. It’s sad and dreary, so it gets tempered by your mind.”
“So it’s a protection mechanism making us—making me—feel more secure. Life is happening, and I’m not seeing it for what it is. I’m putting it through a filter, changing it based on my personal preferences.”
“Marvelous, Tom. Couldn’t have said it better. And the more you filter the live stream, the less your mind serves you. Not only are you using all your conscious bandwidth to paint pictures, you’re not seeing what’s really there—often to the point of dysfunction. The world is full of possibilities, but we oversimplify or ignore them. We add meanings to things to validate and justify deep emotional opinions and then miss all the openings presented to us every day.”
“We become too busy up there to notice what’s happening out here. We stop learning,” Tom said.
“Beautiful,” Gwen replied. “And you give up opportunities to see things as they truly unfold. Your sea of opinions begins to jade everything you see, hear, touch, taste, and smell. Simply understanding and admitting that you’re doing it is a giant leap to becoming clear. True personal growth is about transcending that voice, that piece of Tom that is scared and uncomfortable, that’s not OK with reality and always needs protection. When you start watching the voice talk and see how the Tom filter intercepts reality, you’re on the threshold of an amazing voyage within yourself. It will free you inside and allow you to experience real life out here. When your mind becomes clear, you’ll be amazed at what you can do and who you can be.”
They drove alongside a train track and then past a rusted suspension bridge that caught Tom’s eye. The bridge was identical to the bridge in the model train he’d been given as a child. The steel girders formed a geometric pattern that took Tom back to his model and the house in Greenwich where he had grown up. “I think your little sessions are already having an effect.”
“How so?”
“See that bridge?” Tom asked.
“Um-hmm.”
“It’s strange, but it’s identical to the bridge in my model train set. I thought I was dreaming when I first saw it. The circular track in my model crosses a bridge just like that one. The bridge leads into a rocky tunnel—a lot like the one just ahead, actually—and when the train appears on the other side, a little horn blows, and it begins its route all over again. It was hypnotic. I played with it for hours.”
Gwen and Tom approached a real train station with a large green sign that read Tuxedo. Toward the left they spied a medieval-looking stone wall that appeared to surround the entire park. Near the only opening in the wall was a guard booth and two miniature castles on either side, also made of large stones. Gwen wondered whether the wall was to keep people out or hold them in. “What’s the plan to get in?” she asked.
Tom retrieved his phone and tapped the screen. After a moment, he spoke. “Connie, listen. I’m with Gwen Pierce; remember Gwen? No, no, I need your help. I’m at the entrance to Tuxedo Park. I need a Russell Pennyworth.” Gwen groaned reluctantly. “The guy’s name is Rudy Conway, and there’s a video of him on the web.” Tom held his hand over the phone and turned toward Gwen. “Connie is truly gifted, and he loves doing it.”
“Right. So you’re doing him the favor.”
“Exactly.”
“Who’s Russell Pennyworth?” she asked.
Tom nodded slyly, moving his eyebrows like Groucho Marx. “If I tell you, you won’t have plausible deniability. Still want to know?”
“I guess not.”
Conrad, sitting in his kitchen, found the video and pressed play. An older, distinguished man wearing a dark-blue suit came into view. “Rudy Conway here; greetings from our family to yours. We’ve been in the trucking and distribution business for decades, starting with my grandfather. The special thing about working with our customers is that they allow us into their world. They trust us with their most precious cargo. They’ve allowed us to become their partners, and it’s been our honor to serve. We hope we can serve you too.”
“What do you think, Connie?” Tom asked. “You got it? OK, let’s go!”
Tom handed the phone to Gwen and then pulled up to the guard house. A uniformed policeman slid back a glass window, giving Tom and Gwen the once-over. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Hi. I’m here to see Rudy Conway.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“I sure hope so, because we’re starving,” Tom replied with a toothy smile.
The policeman smiled and then browsed some entries on a clipboard. “There are no visitors listed. I’ll have to call up.”
“Excuse me,” Gwen said quickly. “I’m actually on the phone with Rudy. What did you say, Rudy? Give the phone to the attendant?” Gwen shrugged and handed the phone to the policeman, who reluctantly accepted it.
“Hello?” the puzzled man asked, holding the phone against his plump pink cheek.
Faintly, Gwen could hear Conrad’s spot-on impression: “Greetings from our family to yours. Rudy Conway here. I forgot to call down. We’ve been in the barbeque business for hours; slipped my mind. Please allow these good people into my world.”
“Of course, Mr. Conway. I’ll send them up,” the policeman rep
lied in a courteous tone.
“Give them directions, would you?” Conrad said.
“Of course, sir. Have a wonderful barbecue.” The policeman handed the phone back. “OK, follow the main road until it forks at the lake, then go right at Clubhouse Road. On the top of the mountain, make a right at Split Rock.” The policeman pressed a button, and the barrier arm went up.
Tom waved. As they drove past the gatehouse, Gwen spoke into the phone. “Thanks, Connie. You’re amazing. It’s been too long, and I’d love to catch up.”
“Gwen, I’ve been in this business for years,” Conrad said. “The most wonderful thing about my friends is the way they allow me into their world and trust me with their most precious cargo.”
CHAPTER 21
ON THE OPPOSITE end of the world, in Geneva, Switzerland, a journalist thanked his tour guide for the informative tour around the facilities of CERN’s accelerator complex. He was anxious to attend the press conference now gathering on the other side of the campus. As he headed toward the media room, the press credentials dangling from his neck became twisted and faced backward. As he approached the media room’s entrance, a friendly uniformed guard spun his finger in circles, gesturing at the man’s press pass. “Face front, please,” the guard said in a stern Swiss accent.
The journalist smiled and straightened out the pass. “Sorry about that,” he replied.
The guard inspected the man’s credentials and nodded approvingly. “Welcome to CERN,” he remarked as he stepped aside, allowing the journalist entry.
The journalist pushed through a crowd of reporters who were already gathering inside the impressive room. He held a boom microphone over his head as he passed through the crowd, eventually finding a spot he gauged as being adequate toward the front.
A distinguished man with gray hair eventually sauntered onto the platform stage and stood at a podium. The sound of SLR camera motors spun away. The excitement was palpable. The room went quiet as the man unfolded and donned his eyeglasses. He smiled and then tapped the microphone. “Bonjour, hello, and welcome to CERN,” he said in a French accent. “It’s so good to see all of you this afternoon. We have some very exciting news to share with the world. My name is Frédérick Bordry, and I am director of accelerators and technology here at CERN. For you—how do you say—newbies, CERN is the largest particle physics laboratory in the world. Our large hadron collider, or LHC, comprises an underground loop with a circumference of twenty-seven kilometers—that’s about seventeen miles for you Americans—and runs beneath both France and Switzerland.”
The director motioned to someone at the side of the stage, and several flat-panel monitors overhead lit up. Colorful illustrations and graphics detailing the collider and its function began playing. The crowd of journalists and guests raised their heads in unison to admire the show. “Inside the ring, our engineers send protons in opposing directions, accelerating them to near light speed before smashing them head-on into each other. As you can see, this collision creates an explosion of fantastic force, and it is in this aftermath that the energy produced converts itself into mass in the form of particles. This is where the magic happens. Many of these particles are exotic and rarely seen in nature. We have made many great discoveries here.
“One of our greatest discoveries took place on July 4, 2012, when we discovered a new particle with a mass between 125 and 127 GEV. While many had theorized its existence for decades, the Higgs boson revealed itself to the world right here. Now our scientists are hoping the LHC can repeat the feat and expose even more exotic particles, ones that have not been seen since the beginning of our universe fourteen billion years ago. As many of you know, we set a new collision energy record here just a few months ago. That record now stands at thirteen tera electron volts, or TEV. But the main point of high energies within particle colliders is that they allow us to see into the heart of atoms in order to study the structure of matter at tiny distance scales, just like the Big Bang, which created our universe. In many ways, the LHC is like a giant microscope, and turning up the power is like zooming in even closer. We are eager to see what this might reveal.
“It is my great pleasure to announce that in just two days, we will attempt to break our own record and achieve a collision that generates eighteen TEV. Now we are bumping up against the speed-of-light barrier. This will be a monumental feat, and many believe the event will provide unprecedented insight about the nature of our universe, what it’s made of, and how all of this—including you and I—came into being. Now I’ll take any questions.”
The journalist immediately raised his hand. The director looked around and pointed. “Mr. Bolton,” the director said, squinting at the journalist’s press pass.
“Thank you, Monsieur Bordry,” he replied. “Nick Bolton with the New York Times. There are many who believe these collisions can have serious unintended consequences, especially given the increased energy levels now being attempted. As you know, there are many widely regarded physicists who are gravely concerned that these collisions can create dangerous anomalies such as microscopic black holes, strangelets, magnetic monopoles, and vacuum bubbles. Some believe they could even destabilize the fabric of space-time, creating undetectable time loops. My question to you, sir: What responsibility does CERN have in ensuring that this next experiment is truly safe, and is it really an intelligent idea to place jurisdiction over a technology that potentially threatens the entire human race in the hands of a small group of people?”
The roomful of faces turned toward the director, who was smiling with a look of joyful annoyance that was about as subtle as a fart in a library. He removed his glasses, folded them up, and returned them carefully to his jacket pocket. For a moment, he only stared at the journalist with an uncomfortable grin. “Mr. Bolton, I assure you that in the astronomically unlikely event that the earth is sucked into a black hole or collapses in upon itself due to strangelets, the entire event would last for no more than a few femtoseconds.”
The room stayed silent while the journalist looked around, unsure of what he’d just heard. “What does that mean exactly, Monsieur Bordry?” the journalist asked.
“It means, Mr. Bolton, you won’t feel a thing.”
The room erupted in laughter.
CHAPTER 22
INSIDE TUXEDO PARK, the everyday world quickly vanished. Almost instantly, Gwen felt herself detached from the modern, connected world, becoming concealed inside this cloistered sanctuary. Inside the stone wall, there were no utility poles, no power lines, no road signs. The noise, traffic, and flashing lights of the modern world were missing from this hidden forest. A small stone wall covered in patches of bright-green moss traced a twisted road swallowed in the distance by towering trees and fog. An opulent stone church appeared on the right, but not a soul could be seen. No cars, no people. Tom stopped the car and rolled down the window. Concentrated stillness crept into the car; there was nothing else to breathe.
To the left, they saw a stunning three-story country mansion resting atop a colossal stone foundation. It was painted a friendly yellow and decorated with latticework on either side. The house might be five, fifty, or five hundred years old; it was hard to say. On the right, they saw a French chateau surrounded by a white paddock fence. A smaller cottage toward the back of the property was clearly intended for the help—or an annoying mother-in-law. Each house seemed an architectural wonder; every landscape was perfectly manicured. The road twisted through the forest, around a small mountain dotted with cottage mansions. As they turned the corner, it suddenly appeared: Split Rock, the mansion once owned by Alfred Lee Loomis. It was simply stunning. Its magnificence was dwarfed only by its historical legacy and the secrets that might be locked inside.
Tom steered down a steep gravel driveway, his eyes fixed on the colossal gabled manor. He knew this place. Was it the popping sound of gravel under tire or the shape of the large chimneys looming overhead? Or maybe the shade of patina on the copper roof and siding? He couldn’t place it
. At the bottom of the driveway, Tom swiped a plastic garbage can near a standalone garage.
“Tom,” Gwen said, loud enough to break his reverie.
“Oops, sorry.” She could see that he was enamored with the place. “It’s just that it looks…familiar, somehow.” He placed the car in park and then jumped out to set the can upright. He retrieved the photo from his pocket and began walking toward the back of the house.
“They don’t make ’em like this anymore,” Gwen said as she followed. As the gravity of their mission set in, she began to feel something close to apprehension mix with good manners and property law. “Shouldn’t we ring the doorbell?” she asked, but Tom didn’t say a word. He was mesmerized. “I suspect you’re a solipsist,” she said.
He looked back and smiled, but stayed quiet. He finally spoke when they were halfway around the house. “I know I’m a little obsessed. It doesn’t mean I’m not interested in you—no no no—or in learning what a solipsist is, especially given I might be one. But let’s table the label.”
A very reasonable request, she thought, and extraordinarily diplomatic, too. “I have this gut instinct that we’re on to something here,” Tom said. “It’s like I feel something. It’s been hidden for a long time, and it’s going to change our lives.”
As they rounded the side of the mansion, they saw an enormous boulder, at least twenty-five feet high. It was surrounded by an adorably picturesque rosebush and a small path of inlaid brick. And while the sheer size of the rock was fantastic, what was most striking was that the enormous thing was perfectly split down the middle, as if by God’s scalpel. It appeared as though the gigantic boulder might separate and fall into two perfect halves at any moment. A smart-looking, hand-painted sign hung from a dead tree above the boulder: Split Rock. As they approached, they heard a slow, pleasant chiming sound coming from the boulder and saw a rusted wind chime hanging off a craggy limb. There was a smell in this place, too, a mixture of fog, autumn leaves, and wet wood. Around the back of the large manor, they came to a stone retaining wall with two sets of stairs running up either side from this lower backyard to an upper backyard resting on a colossal stone foundation.