The Science of Discworld III - Darwin's Watch tsod-3

by Terry Pratchett

  The Science of Discworld III - Darwin's Watch

  ( The Science of Discworld - 3 )

  Terry Pratchett

  Jack Cohen

  Ian Stewart

  Terry Pratchett, Jack Cohen, Ian Stewart

  The Science of Discworld III - Darwin's Watch

  CONCERNING ROUNDWORLD

  DISCWORLD IS REAL. It's the way worlds should work. Admittedly, it is flat and goes through space on the backs of four elephants which stand on the shell of a giant turtle, but consider the alternatives. Consider, for example, a globular world, a mere crust upon an inferno of molten rock and iron. An accidental world, made of the wreckage of old stars, the home of life which, nevertheless, in a most unhomely fashion, is regularly scythed from its surface by ice, gas, inundation or falling rocks travelling at 20,000 miles an hour.

  Such an improbable world, and the entire cosmos that surrounds it, was in fact accidentally created by the wizards of Unseen University[1]. It was the Dean of Unseen University who in fact destabilised the raw firmament by fiddling with it, possibly leading to the belief, if folk memory extends to sub-sub-sub-sub-atomic particle level, that it was indeed all done by somebody with a beard.

  Infinite in size on the inside, but about a foot across on the outside, the universe of Roundworld is now kept in a glass globe in UU, where it has been the source of much interest and concern.

  Mostly, it's the source of concern. Alarmingly, it contains no narrativium.

  Narrativium is not an element in the accepted sense. It is an attribute of every other element, thus turning them into, in an occult sense, molecules. Iron contains not just iron, but also the story of iron, the history of iron, the part of iron that ensures that it will continue to be iron and has an iron-like job to do and is not, for example, cheese. Without narrativium, the cosmos has no story, no purpose, no destination.

  Nevertheless, under the ancient magical rule of As Above, So Below, the crippled universe of Roundworld strives at some level to create its own narrativium. Iron seeks out other iron. Things spin. In the absence of any gods to do the creating of life, life has managed, against the odds, to create itself. Yet the humans who have evolved on the planet believe in their hearts that there are such things as gods, magic, cosmic purpose and million-to-one chances that crop up nine times out of ten. They seek stories in the world which the world, regrettably, is not equipped to tell.

  The wizards, feeling somewhat guilty about this, have intervened several times in the history of Roundworld when it seemed to them to be on the wrong track. They encouraged fish (or fish-like creatures) to leave the seas, they visited the proto-civilisations of dinosaur-descendants and crabs, they despaired at the way ice and falling comets wiped out higher life forms so often - and they found some monkeys who were obsessed with sex and were quick learners, especially if sex was involved or could, by considerable ingenuity, be made to be involved.

  Again the wizards intervened, teaching them that fire was not for having sex with and in general encouraging them to get off the planet before the next big extinction.

  In this they have all been guided by Hex, UU's magical thinking engine, which is immensely powerful in any case, and with Roundworld, which from Hex's point of view is a mere sub-routine of Discworld and is practically godlike, although more patient.

  The wizards think 'they have sorted it all out. The monkeys have learned about their permanently threatened world via a type of technomancy called Science and may yet escape frozen doom.

  And yet...

  The thing about best laid plans is that they don't often go wrong. They sometimes go wrong, but not often, because of having been, as aforesaid, the best laid. The kind of plans laid by wizards, who barge in, shout a lot, try to sort it all out by lunchtime and hope for the best, on the other hand ... well, they go wrong almost instantly.

  There is a kind of narrativium on Roundworld, if you really look.

  On Discworld, the narrativium of a fish tells it that it is a fish, was a fish, and will continue to be a fish. On Roundworld, something inside a fish tells it that it is a fish, was a fish ... and might eventually be something else ...

  ... perhaps.

  1. ANY OTHER BUSINESS

  IT WAS RAINING. THIS WOULD, of course, be good for the worms.

  Through the trickles that coursed down the window Charles Darwin stared at the garden.

  Worms, thousands of them, out there under the soft rain, turning the detritus of winter into loam, building the soil. How... convenient.

  The ploughs of God, he thought, and winced. It was the harrows of God that plagued him now.

  Strange how the rustle of the rain sounds very much like people whispering ...

  At which point, he became aware of the beetle. It was climbing up the inside of the window, a green and blue tropical jewel.

  There was another one, higher up, banging fruitlessly against the pane.

  One landed on his head.

  The air filled up with the rattle and slither of wings. Entranced, Darwin turned to look at the glowing cloud in the corner of the room. It was forming a shape ... It is always useful for a university to have a Very Big Thing. It occupies the younger members, to the relief of their elders (especially if the VBT is based at some distance from the seat of learning itself) and it uses up a lot of money which would otherwise only lie around causing trouble or be spent by the sociology department or, probably, both. It also helps in pushing back boundaries, and it doesn't much matter what boundaries these are, since as any researcher will tell you it's the pushing that matters, not the boundary.

  It's a good idea, too, if it's a bigger VBT than anyone else's and, in particular, since this was Unseen University, the greatest magical university in the world, if it's a bigger one than the one those bastards are building at Braseneck College.

  `In fact,' said Ponder Stibbons, Head of Inadvisably Applied Magic, `theirs is really only a QBT, or Quite Big Thing. Actually, they've had so many problems with it, it's probably only a BT!'

  The senior wizards nodded happily.

  `And ours is certainly bigger, is it?' said the Senior Wrangler.

  `Oh, yes,' said Stibbons. `Based on what I can determine from chatting to the people at Braseneck, ours will be capable of pushing boundaries twice as big up to three times as far.'

  'I hope you haven't told them that,' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. `We don't want them building a ... a ... an EBT!'

  `A what, sir?' said Ponder politely, his tone saying, `I know about this sort of special thing and I'd rather you did not pretend that you do too.'

  `Um ... an Even Bigger Thing?' said Runes, aware that he was edging into unknown territory.

  `No, sir,' said Ponder, kindly. `The next one up would be a Great Big Thing, Sir. It's been postulated that if we could ever build a GBT, we would know the mind of the Creator.'

  The wizards fell silent. For a moment, a fly buzzed against the high, stone-mullioned window, with its stained-glass image of Archchancellor Sloman Discovering the Special Theory of Slood, and then, after depositing a small flyspeck on Archchancellor Sloman's nose, exited with precision though a tiny hole in one pane which had been caused two centuries ago when a stone had been thrown up by a passing cart. Originally the hole had stayed there because no one could be bothered to have it fixed, but now it stayed there because it was traditional.

  The fly had been born in Unseen University and because of the high, permanent magical field, was far more intelligent than the average fly. Strangely, the field never had this effect on wizards, perhaps because
most of them were more intelligent than flies in any case.

  `I don't think we want to do that, do we?' said Ridcully.

  `It might be considered impolite,' agreed the Chair of Indefinite Studies.

  `Exactly how big would a Great Big Thing be?' said the Senior Wrangler.

  `The same size as the universe, sir,' said Ponder. `Every particle of the universe would be modelled within it, in fact.'

  `Quite big, then ...'

  `Yes, Sir.'

  `And quite hard to find room for, I should imagine.'

  `Undoubtedly, sir,' said Ponder, who had long ago given up trying to explain Big Magic to the rest of the senior faculty.

  `Very well, then,' said Archchancellor Ridcully. `Thank you for your report, Mister Stibbons.' He sniffed. `Sounds fascinatin'. And the next item: Any Other Business.' He glared around the table. `And since there is no other busi-'

  `Er ...

  This was a bad word at this point. Ridcully did not like committee business. He certainly did not like any other business.

  `Well, Rincewind?' he said, glaring down the length of the table.

  `Um ...' said Rincewind. `I think that's Professor Rincewind, Sir?'

  `Very well, professor,' said Ridcully. `Come on, it's past time for Early Tea.'

  `The world's gone wrong, Archchancellor.'

  As one wizard, everyone looked out at what could be seen of the world through Archchancellor Sloman Discovering the Special Theory of Slood.

  `Don't be a fool, man,' said Ridcully. `The sun's shining! It's a nice day!'

  `Not this world, sir,' said Rincewind. `The other one.'

  `What other one?' said the Archchancellor, and then his expression changed.

  `Not-' he began.

  `Yes, sir,' said Rincewind. `That one. It's gone wrong. Again.' Every organisation needs someone to do those jobs it doesn't want to do or secretly thinks don't need doing. Rincewind had nineteen of them now, including Health and Safety Officer[2].

  It was as Egregious Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geography that he was responsible for the Globe. These days, it was on his desk out in the gloomy cellar passage where he worked, work largely consisting of waiting until people gave him some cruel and unusual geography to profess.

  `First question,' said Ridcully, as the faculty swept along the dank flagstones. `Why are you working out here? What's wrong with your office?'

  `It's too hot in my office, sir,' said Rincewind. `You used to complain it was too cold!'

  `Yes, Sir. In the winter it is. Ice freezes on the walls, sir.' `We give you plenty of coal, don't we?'

  `Ample, Sir. One bucket per day per post held, as per tradition. That's the trouble, really. I can't get the porters to understand. They won't give me less coal, only no coal at all. So the only way to be sure of staying warm in the winter is to keep the fire going all summer, which means it's so hot in there that I can't work in - don't open the door, sir!'

  Ridcully, who'd just opened the office door, slammed it again, and wiped his face with a handkerchief.

  `Snug,' he said, blinking the sweat out of his eyes. Then he turned to the little globe on the desk behind him.

  It was about a foot across, at least on the outside. Inside, it was infinite; most wizards have no problem with facts of this sort. It contained everything there was, for a given value of `contained everything there was', but in its default state it focused on one tiny part of everything there was, a small planet which was, currently, covered in ice.

  Ponder Stibbons swivelled the omniscope that was attached to the base of the glass dome, and stared down at the little frozen world. Just debris at the equator,' he reported. `They never built the big skyhook thing that allowed them to leave[3]. There must have been something we missed.'

  `No, we sorted it all out,' said Ridcully. `Remember? All the people did get away before the planet froze.'

  `Yes, Archchancellor,' said Stibbons. `And, then again, no.'

  `If I ask you to explain that, would you tell me in words I can understand?' said Ridcully.

  Ponder stared at the wall for a moment. His lips moved as he tried out sentences. `Yes,' he said at last. `We changed the history of the world, sending it towards a future where the people could escape before it froze. It appears that something has happened to change it back since then.'

  `Again? Elves did it last time!'[4]

  'I doubt if they've tried again, sir.'

  `But we know the people left before the ice,' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. He looked from face to face, and added uncertainly, `Don't we?'

  `We thought we knew before,' said the Dean, gloomily.

  `In a way, sir,' said Ponder. `But the Roundworld universe is somewhat ... soft and mutable. Even though we can see a future happen, the past can change so that from the point of view of Roundworlders it doesn't. It's like ... taking out the last page of a book and putting a new one in. You can still read the old page, but from the point of view of the characters, the ending has changed, or ... possibly not.'

  Ridcully slapped him on the back. `Well done, Mr Stibbons! You didn't mention quantum even once!' he said.

  `Nevertheless, I suspect it may be involved,' sighed Ponder.

  2. PALEY'S WATCH

  THE SCENE: A RADIO CHAT-SHOW in the Bible Belt of the United States, a few years ago. The host is running a phone-in about evolution, a concept that is anathema to every God-fearing southern fundamentalist. The conversation runs something like this: HOST: So, Jerry, what do you think about evolution? Should we take any notice of Darwin's theories?

  JERRY: That Darwin guy never got a Nobel Prize, did he? If he's so great, how come he don't get no Nobel?

  HOST: I think you have a very good point there, Jerry.

  Such a conversation did occur, and the host was not being ironic. But Jerry's point is not quite the knock-down argument he thought it was. Charles Robert Darwin died in 1882. The first Nobel Prize was awarded in 1901.

  Of course, well-meaning people are often ignorant about fine points of historical detail, and it is unfair to hold that against them. But it is perfectly fair to hold something else against them: the host and his guest didn't have their brains in gear. After all, why were they having that discussion? Because, as every God-fearing southern fundamentalist knows, virtually every scientist views Darwin as one of the all-time greats. It was this assertion, in fact, that Jerry was attempting to shoot down. Now, it should be pretty obvious that winners of Nobel prizes (for science) are selected by a process that relies heavily on advice from scientists. And those, we already know, are overwhelmingly of the opinion that Darwin was somewhere near the top of the scientific tree. So if Darwin didn't get a Nobel, it couldn't have been (as listeners were intended to infer) because the committee didn't think much of his work. There had to be another reason. As it happens, the main reason was that Darwin was dead.

  As this story shows, evolution is still a hot issue in the Bible Belt, where it is sometimes known as 'evilution' and generally viewed as the work of the Devil. More sophisticated religious believers - especially European ones, among them the Pope - worked out long ago that evolution poses no threat to religion: it is simply how God gets things done, in this case, the manufacture of living creatures. But the Bible-Belters, in their unsophisticated fundamentalist manner, recognise a threat, and they're right. The sophisticated reconciliation of evolution with God is a wishy-washy compromise, a cop-out. Why? Because evolution knocks an enormous hole in what otherwise might be the best argument yet devised for convincing people of the existence of God, and that is the `argument from design'[5].

  The universe is awesome in its size, astonishing in its intricacy. Every part of it fits neatly with every other part. Consider an ant, an anteater, an antirrhinum. Each is perfectly suited to its role (or 'purpose'). The ant exists to be eaten by anteaters, the anteater exists to eat ants, and the antirrhinum ... well, bees like it, and that's a good thing. Each organism shows clear evidence of `design', as if it had been ma
de specifically to carry out some purpose. Ants are just the right size for anteaters' tongues to lick up, anteaters have long tongues to get into ants' nests. Antirrhinums are exactly the shape to be pollinated by visiting bees. And if we observe design, then surely a designer can't be far away.

  Many people find this argument compelling, especially when it is developed at length and in detail, and `designer' is given a capital `D'. But Darwin's `dangerous idea', as Daniel Dennett characterised it in his book with that title, puts a very big spoke into the wheel of cosmic design. It provides an alternative, very plausible, and apparently simple process, in which there is no role for design and no need for a designer. Darwin called that process `natural selection'; nowadays we call it `evolution'.

  There are many aspects of evolution that scientists don't yet understand. The details behind Darwin's theory are still up for grabs, and every year brings new shifts of opinion as scientists try to improve their understanding. Bible-Belters understand even less about evolution, and they typically distort it into a caricature: `blind chance'. They have no interest whatsoever in improving their understanding. But they do understand, far better than effete Europeans, that the theory of evolution constitutes a very dangerous attack on the psychology of religious belief. Not on its substance (because anything that science discovers can be attributed to the Deity and viewed as His mechanism for bringing the associated events about) but on its attitude. Once God is removed from the day-to-day running of the planet, and installed somewhere behind DNA biochemistry and the Second Law of Thermodynamics, it is no longer so obvious that He must be fundamental to people's daily lives. In particular, there is no special reason to believe that He affects those lives in any way, or would wish to, so the fundamentalist preachers could well be out of a job. Which is how Darwin's lack of a Nobel can become a debating point on American local radio. It is also the general line along which Darwin's own thinking evolved - he began his adult life as a theology student and ended it as a somewhat tormented agnostic. Seen from outside, and even more so from within, the process of scientific research is disorderly and confusing. It is tempting to deduce that scientists themselves are disorderly and confused. In a way, they are - that's what research involves. If you knew what you were doing it wouldn't be research. But that's just an apology, and there are better reasons for expecting, indeed, for valuing, that kind of confusion. The best reason is that it's an extremely effective way of understanding the world, and having a fair degree of confidence in that understanding.