“Where did I leave you on my history?”
“After World War II,” I say. “The split. The Pact.”
“I wasn’t like you, Audie. When my new universe branched off, I didn’t know anything was different. It’s not as if I woke up in a different body. No, it was still the same me, kissing my wife goodbye every morning, going to work every day, coming home to help raise our son. Life went on.
“And it was a very exciting life. We were making large changes in the world. Peace was finally on everyone’s minds at the same time, and when the whole world wants peace, suddenly other things become more important.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Medical advances. Health. Prosperity. Knowledge, exploration, travel—pursuits your friend Halli and her grandmother were perfectly suited for. With the world more open and accessible now, people wanted to know what there was to see. It’s why adventurers became so popular. Halli and Virginia weren’t the only ones, of course—there were many before they came along—but now explorers were the heroes people wanted to hear about, instead of soldiers or anyone involved in any kind of violence. Aggression of every kind went out of fashion very, very quickly, I’m happy to say.”
“I can’t even imagine that,” I tell him. “Sometimes it seems like every other person in my world has a gun. And you wouldn’t believe some of the movies and TV shows and games we have—some of them are crazy violent.”
“I know,” Dr. Venn says. “I’ve seen my share. I can tell you that that kind of ‘entertainment’ never would have flourished here. I’m proud of that. We didn’t know that would happen when we signed the Pact, but it was a welcome result.”
“You’ve seen some of them?” I ask. “How?”
“I’ve spent considerable time in your universe,” Dr. Venn says. “But I’ll get to that.
“Decades went by. I pursued my work. Instead of designing bombs, I was free to explore some of the ideas I’d first had as a young man—questions about the mind, and what it’s capable of, and how human consciousness might affect what we witness in the natural world.”
“I’m interested in that, too,” I say.
“Of course you are. What physicist wouldn’t be? It’s the most fundamental and fascinating question we can ask: What makes the universe tick? Is it possible that we, these small, seemingly insignificant beings living their short lives on a small planet in a vast cosmos, can have any affect at all?”
“But I thought you said you couldn’t study space.”
“No,” Dr. Venn says, “we couldn’t explore space. There’s a difference. We could think about it all we wanted. Ponder it night and day. We just couldn’t build anything that would let us see what was really up there. We had to limit ourselves to math and theory.”
“That must have been kind of sad,” I say. “I know how excited people were when we finally sent men to the moon. And now we have rovers examining the surface of Mars. Your world has missed out on all that.”
“We have,” Dr. Venn agrees, “but we chose humanity over the stars. Was it a poor bargain? I didn’t think so at the time I signed the Pact, and I still don’t think so. But, then, I’ve had the benefit of both worlds for the past forty-one years. I’m sure many of my colleagues would have loved the opportunity to say the same—if only they were brave enough, and had opened their minds to the possibilities back when I gave them the chance.”
I do a quick calculation. “So you were … sixty-two? What exactly happened?”
“I made a machine,” Dr. Venn says. “A machine that changed my life.”
33
“What kind of machine?” I ask.
“A very simple one, in principle,” Dr. Venn answers. “Simple parts: cloth, metal, rope. I improved it over time, but that first prototype was something I constructed from supplies I brought from home.
“If you would.” He detaches his arms from the cuffs and gestures for me to set up his notepad and pen in front of him on the desk. Then with a shaky hand he draws a long, narrow oval with a short line extending from the top.
“It’s a swing, of sorts,” he says. “But you stand in it. I have padding here and here at the legs,” he says, drawing two horizontal lines across the oval, “more at the waist, and then more to brace the chest and arms.” He looks up from the paper. “It’s what gave me the idea for my chair here. I discovered that the more crooked and weak my spine became, I could still find relief by climbing into the swing. I could feel the blood circulating through my legs again. My back stopped aching as long as I could stretch it out. I started spending several hours every day defying old age and gravity. Then about five years ago, when walking finally became too difficult, I had a friend build this chair to my design.”
“So … the swing changed your life,” I say. This whole thing isn’t nearly as dramatic as I thought it would be. But I guess if your body is in pain and you figure out a way to feel better, then that qualifies as changing your life.
“It isn’t just a swing,” Dr. Venn says. “It’s a space-time machine.”
Now we’re talking.
“History, Audie. We scientists don’t pay enough attention to it. How do you feel about history?”
“It’s … okay.” If he means my history classes, then I’m not going to lie and say I’ve loved them. There might be a few interesting stories here and there, but mostly it feels like we’re just supposed to memorize a bunch of facts and dates so we can pass the next test.
“You might have noticed that our culture here celebrates history,” Dr. Venn says.
“Oh, I’ve noticed.” When I was in the hospital, the nurse flipped through channels for me, and everything was a history show: history of science, history of adventure, even “current” history like, “Who’s that mystery guy Halli Markham was seen with last week? Daniel Everett, ladies and gentlemen!”
And then there’s the kind of history studio Daniel’s parents run, delving into archaeology in their own unique way.
“Some scientists believe that everything we do now in modern times is an advance,” Dr. Venn says. “That methods from the past were primitive. Even laughable.”
“I think they feel the same way where I come from.”
“But sometimes the old methods still work,” Dr. Venn says. “Maybe even better than anything we might devise now.” He points to the unit on his desk that both of us are hooked into—him with his earphones, me with the mic. “I tried the tiny amplifiers that fit inside the ear, but they never gave me the kind of reception I can get from this old machine.
“So when I read a reference in an ancient translation about a tribal leader who built something to allow him to travel through time and space, of course I paid attention. Science is about discovery, not pride. Our job is to learn and to teach. For the sake of the human race.”
I don’t think I’ve ever thought of it in such noble terms. But I can see his point.
“So were there drawings of it that you could follow?” I ask.
“No, just a few very vague details. But I had time, I had an interest, and so I applied myself to the problem.”
I can understand that perfectly. He’s talking to a girl who sat in her room for hours every day for six months in a row trying to figure out how to contact a parallel universe.
“I built over a dozen different prototypes,” Dr. Venn says. “I failed time and again. But it’s just how you described, Audie: suddenly, there he was. The other Edgar Venn.”
“Really?”
A buzz moves along my skin. Funny how a few words can generate electricity.
“My method of travel was different from yours,” Dr. Venn says. “My body stayed here, but my mind duplicated it in full in the other universe. Do you understand bilocation?”
“Halli told me about it. She said the ancient yogis knew how to do it. They could sit in a room in deep meditation, and appear in a completely different town at the same time. Their students could hug them, talk to them—they couldn’t tell the differ
ence.”
“Exactly so,” Dr. Venn says.
“So, what … you just showed up one day out of the blue? How did he react?”
Dr. Venn chuckles. “Let’s just say it wasn’t very dignified. I told him it would be our secret.”
“So where was he at the time? What was he doing?”
“We were lucky,” Dr. Venn says. “He was alone in his office, daydreaming.”
That sounds familiar, too. The first time Halli and I made contact, it’s because both of us were meditating at the time. I always thought that that’s what did it: creating this kind of pathway or connection between us at the vibrational level. Now this story from Dr. Venn makes me think I’ve got it right.
“It took a few minutes for both of us to get over the shock,” Dr. Venn continues. “I knew I might be able to travel to other places and times, but I had no idea I might meet another version of myself. Edgar and I sat for a while just looking at each other. First afraid, then laughing.”
I smile. Because I get that, too. Once you get over the freakiness of what’s going on, you can’t help but be excited that you’ve met your other self.
“So what did you do?” I ask. “What happened? Tell me everything.”
“We did what any trained scientist will do,” Dr. Venn answers. “We began studying our situation. And we did so for the next twenty-three years. And continued expanding our research into other universes, and other selves.”
“Excuse me, what?”
“Forty-three of us, Audie. That we found so far. Different versions of us in different universes and different eras. And not all of us scientists, either. Or, for that matter, men.”
“Okay, hold on.” Once again I have to set down the mic for a moment to regather my brain. It’s like eating a huge meal. You can’t just shove it all in at once without getting sick.
“Okay,” I say after a short break. “Go.”
“Do you remember what I said about how you could have written Past, Present, and Future all on top of each other in one spot?”
I nod.
“This might be hard to conceptualize,” Dr. Venn says, “but try to imagine that all of time is happening right now, all in this same moment. So a Viking and a medieval peasant and a young woman in Italy in the 1800s and I, Edgar Venn, and the other Edgar Venn—all of us living our lives in our own places and centuries, all right now at the same time.”
“I’m sorry, I’m having a really hard time picturing that.”
“See if this helps,” Dr. Venn says. “Here in this moment it’s after two o’clock in England. At this same moment it’s several hours later in China. And at this same moment it’s many hours earlier in California. Do you have trouble with that?”
“No … but it’s because I’m used to it, I guess. I know it’s true, so I don’t have to question it anymore.”
“Why do you know it’s true?”
“Because I had this really cool teacher in third grade,” I say. “Mrs. George. She did a whole demonstration one day with a model of the earth and the sun. So we could see that as the earth rotated, everyone on the planet got to have sunshine at different parts of the day. That always stuck with me.”
Dr. Venn nods. “This is how I see it: when I was a boy, I loved to go to the carnival that came through our town every year. We were poor, and I always wanted to win a prize to take home to my mother. So I became expert at the bag toss—the one where you knock down bottles with a sand-filled bag. Do you know the game?”
“Yes.”
“I noticed that the man running the game would only let a few customers try and fail before he took the bag himself and showed that it could be done. It was very important, I realized later, for the psychology of the customers that they knew what they were trying was possible. Otherwise they just felt cheated. And this way, once they saw the worker do it, they felt even more motivated than before and even bought extra tries.”
“Okay … but what—”
“What does that have to do with the simultaneity of time?”
“Right.”
“Because I’m telling you that I have done it,” Dr. Venn says. “I have seen it. I am the carnival worker who shows you what’s possible. And I can tell you that without a doubt I have shared a meal with my Viking counterpart in his sod-roofed house in the year one thousand twenty-four. I was there. I ask you to believe me.”
“Dr. Venn, it’s just so … weird.”
He gestures toward me. “Look where you are, Audie. Look who you are. Tell me that is any less unbelievable.”
“So you traveled there—you bilocated—while you were in the swing.”
“Yes.”
I shake my head. “I believe you, but …”
“You need to verify,” Dr. Venn says.
“I need … yeah. I need to see something to believe it. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Dr. Venn says. “Blind belief is useless to the scientist. I want you to know, Audie. But I also need you to know that it’s possible, and it’s real.”
“But I also need to know something else,” I say. “Why did the other Edgar Venn die? Was it connected to all this?”
“Sadly, yes. By the time we realized what the problem was, it was too late—the damage had already been done. And the damage became more progressive, until finally Edgar died. In exactly the way you were experiencing that last time you were here.”
“So what was it?” I ask. “What killed him?”
“Free will,” Dr. Venn says. “He tried to violate free will. The human mind simply won’t allow it.”
34
“Think about it, Audie,” Dr. Venn says. “You were able to insert your mind into your former body. But Halli’s mind had already taken up occupation there. And each time you were suddenly ‘pulled’ out of your body, as you described it to me, you felt excruciating pain. That was your interpretation of it, correct?”
“Yes.” It was obvious that was the problem. The first time, Halli was so excited to find me inside my old body, she practically screamed with delight. That shocked me out of the experience. Then the second time, I was in a quiet, dark room with Daniel, having a long conversation with Halli and Professor Whitfield, when suddenly Sarah and Jake and Bryan burst into the room. Once again I was violently pulled out of the experience and felt like my brain was splitting in two.
“You weren’t pulled out of it,” Dr. Venn tells me. “You were attacked.”
“Attacked? By what?”
“By Halli’s mind. Without her knowing it. You see, toward the end of his life, Edgar had begun experimenting with a different way of contacting our other selves. He’d had a particularly frightening experience bilocating to a South American village where one of us lived in a very isolated, close-knit tribe. When Edgar suddenly appeared on the scene one morning, our other self went half-mad. He attacked Edgar quite savagely. And while Edgar wasn’t actually hurt—it was just his bilocated form, and it can’t be harmed—the real damage was to our tribesman self. The man was terrified. Edgar realized he could never do that to him again.
“But he still wanted to investigate what the man’s life was like. That’s what Edgar and I were doing: he built his own swing—by now it was more of a machine—and the two of us went off on our separate travels to find our others, then we shared everything we learned. Once we realized we existed in so many different lives in different places and times, we had to know everything—as much as we could. Can you understand that?”
“Of course. I’d probably do that, too. I mean, are you saying that Halli and I probably aren’t the only versions of us that exist?”
“Most certainly,” Dr. Venn says. “You’ve already been three different girls yourself. Of course there are more of you.”
I don’t set down the mic this time, but I do close my eyes for a moment just to give myself a little time to absorb it all. Then I open my eyes and nod to let him know I’m ready for more.
“So the next time Edgar went back, in
stead of bilocating, he tried a different method—the one you discovered on your own. He simply inserted his mind—his consciousness if you prefer—into the tribesman’s brain. With the intention of quietly, secretly investigating what the man’s life was like. How he thought. How he lived. With disastrous consequences.”
“What happened?”
“The same thing that happened with you,” Dr. Venn says. “As soon as Edgar brought himself back out, it was as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to his head, he told me. He collapsed. Because he was in his private room at the time, he lay suspended in his machine for half a day and most of the night before he was well enough to contact me. Then I bilocated to where he was and helped him back to his office where he could lie down. We didn’t dare go for medical help. I took care of him as best I could.
“We tried to analyze what had gone wrong,” Dr. Venn continues. “Just as you did—was there some noise? Some distraction? Something that interfered with the effects of the machine? But then it happened again, with another visit to a different us, and then we knew for sure.
“You can’t invade the territory of someone else’s mind, Audie. The brain won’t allow it. It treats the invader as a virus. And it attacks ruthlessly and viciously. Mortally.
“Edgar Venn, my original self, a man who had become my brother, my best friend, my colleague, and my fellow explorer for twenty-three years, died within two weeks.”
Dr. Venn has tears in his eyes. He also looks pale and exhausted. I realize I’ve let him go on too long. But there was no way I was going to stop him.
“Sir, can I get you some water?”
His voice is hoarse. “Some tea would be welcome. Thank you.” He points to a thermos on the shelf behind his desk. “Madeline brings me some in the afternoons. I forgot to have it.”
I’m happy for a task to do. I don’t know what to say to him. Everything he’s told me today—retro-causation, time loops, and now all of this—is so large, so mind-shaking, I almost don’t want him to say anything else until I have time to process it all. As in home in the Everett-Wheeler’s tub taking a long, contemplative bath.
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