* * * *
We pause here and consider marriage as a dynamic system operating under a potential. It, too, is manifold and it is hypothesized that a wrinkle must necessarily exist in it, and that if one difficulty is resolved, another must inevitably take its place. A suitable stabilizing strategy might then be the introduction of a permanent difficulty. The truly destructive strategy is the expectation that there ought to be none.
However, the existence of these local catastrophes, which we may term “spats,” depends on a combination of technical and geometric considerations involving the regions of the marital parameter space where the catastrophes happen. A million variables affect the emergence of form within the envelope of the marriage, all working to minimize its potential. These variables include genes, chemicals, environmental conditions, space, and time. At any given time, only one or two are likely to change in a discontinuous manner, arguing that while the phenomenon is global, the precise shape of the catastrophe may depend on local conditions. So may a hitherto-faithful spouse suddenly engage in a destructive affair for reasons of long, if obscure standing; or a sweet young boy alter into a surly adolescent. This being the case, the passage of time (and, with it, the alteration of the local conditions that precipitated the discontinuity) may rectify the anomaly.
Yet, to analyze the system in such dispassionate terms may earn the sobriquet of a “passionless little prick” lacking “any semblance of human feelings.” Such a judgment would be mistaken, as it refers only to the expression of, and not the impression of, passion. The mousiest man may seethe with murderous rage; an undemonstrative man, with tender love. When once it is said, “I love you,” no additional information is transmitted by endless repetitions. Logic teaches us that. Better to spend words on increasing the information content of the system, such as by noting that “we are out of bread” or “the car needs washing.” Because a thought has not been spoken, it would be illogical to conclude that it has not been thought. Would the household be not short of bread were it unmentioned? Likewise, would a spouse be short of love were it not mentioned? The analogy is precise; the parallel, instructive. But the results have proven upon inspection wholly divergent, suggesting the applicability of chaos theory.
And now they are gone, Becky and little Kyle and Agnes alike, fallen into a hole that has no bottom, creating a similar hole in the author's life. Would it have made any difference if the author had said “I love you” at the pier-side? Would they be less completely gone? Perhaps. Perhaps she would have turned back at the words, as to a strange attractor, and stepped off the gangplank and into my arms as she once did when she and I and all the world were younger.
But time is the one asymmetric parameter governing the state space. Which is just another way of saying that there is “no turning back the clock."
Unless there is something on the other fold. It would be pleasant to believe that those who have “passed over” to the other sheet have found a new life there, but science tells us nothing, and nothing is little comfort.
God damn this paper and this conference.
* * * *
The author has found the preparation of this paper difficult. Select all. Delete.
Does that not sum up the entire phenomenon of the Disappearance? “Select all. Delete."
* * * *
Axel Moller
Scene: the living room of a small three room apartment in downtown Seattle. A hexagonal table covered by a green felt is situated in the center of the room but with only five chairs spaced around it. Four men sit at the table, one of them stacking poker chips of assorted colors. Behind them, the window looks out on tall, anonymous buildings, but in the gap between two of them lies a slice of Elliott Bay. It is dusk, just going on to evening.
Enter Axel Moller.
Axel: I brought the beer. I hope you have the cards. (Places six-pack on the table. Removes jacket and tosses it on the nearby sofa.)
Luis: Long as you brought money and an inclination to lose.
Axel: In your dreams, Luis. (Sits.) Hey, Beef, Gordo, Chen, how're they hanging?
Various hand-slaps and exclamations of masculine greetings.
Gordo: (Gathers cards into deck, squares deck, begins to shuffle) Seven card stud. Ante up, boys.
They throw chips into the pot and Gordo deals the cards.
Gordo: We gotta jack showin.’ Your bet, Chen.
Chen: (Throws in another chip) Five.
Beef: Sure you can afford it? (The others match the bet and Gordo deals the next round.)
Gordo: Hey, Axe, you plan on drinkin’ all that yourself ?
(Axel breaks open the six-pack and hands out the cans. Then he sits staring dumbly at the sixth can, which he has just placed at the empty sixth side of the hexagon.)
Axel: Shit. Oh, shit. (He turns away from the table.) Damn.
(The others look at Axel, at the can, at the empty space, at each other. Axel goes to the window and leans his arm against the sash, staring out toward Elliott Bay. He rests his head upon his arm.)
Life's a bitch.
Beef: And then you ... (He shuts up abruptly.)
Axel: (Without turning) You think you get over it, but you don't, really. You forget for one little second, and some old habit pops up and reminds you.
Gordo: Paul was our friend, too.
Axel: Yeah. Yeah, I know.
Beef: (Lifts his beer can in salute) Absent friends. (No one joins the toast. Beef shrugs and drinks alone.)
Axel: I saw the fog come in yesterday. Another one of those “Bermuda” fogs.
Chen: (Shakes head) Bermuda Fog. In Seattle harbor.
Axel: And there's always some moron, he rows out or he swims out into it because he wants to visit another plane of existence.
Gordo: It's a helluva thing, all right. People got no sense.
Luis: No one ever come back and said where the “drainhole” goes—
Chen: If that's what it is.
Luis:—so why are they so freaking sure they want to go there?
Axel: (With quiet vehemence) What difference does it make what it is or where it goes or even if it “goes” anywhere at all? Paul's gone. They're all gone. And no one thinks they're ever coming back.
Beef: ‘Cept that loony-kazoony over in Bremerton, goes down to the dock every morning. Hey, remember how Paulie used to rig the big arc lamps when we worked night crew. And he'd aim them so's any gal walking past the site, the light would shine right through their dresses and you could see ‘em all like in silhouette? (Laughs)
Luis: He was a funny guy.
Beef: Sometimes what was under those dresses shouldn'ta been seen. Geez. Supersize those fries. That's why Paulie always was working out at the gym, pumping iron and firming up the old pecs.
Chen: Hey, Ax, that's where you met Paul, wasn't it? Down at the gym.
Axel: (Turning from the window) About a year ago. I was in physical therapy, for my ankle. We used to chat in the cardio room when we had treadmills side by side.
Beef: Bet he raced you. That's the kinda guy he was. Real competitive. Bet he cranked up the revs on that treadmill to see if you could keep it up.
Axel: (Looks out window once more) Yeah. He always wanted to see if I could keep it up.
Gordo: Hey, c'mon. St. Paul was the guy wrote all those letters. Paulie was a stand-up guy, but he wasn't Mr. Perfect. Blanche said—
Chen: Poor Blanche! I wonder if she's gotten over it yet.
Gordo: She sort of noticed that none of you guys come round any more.
Beef: (Defensively) Well, she wasn't the one playing cards, was she?
Axel: (From window, but without turning) You see her lately, Gordo?
Gordo: (Sips from can, puts it down) Yeah. Lately.
Beef: Comfortin’ the ol’ widow, Gordo? (Winks to others; Chen turns away.)
Luis: Look, can we play cards?
Chen: Hey, remember when our guys played Axel's team in the softball league and Paul—
Beef: Hey,
Axel, you warehouse guys are pussies! You know what we do in construction?
Luis: Yeah, we make big erections. You tell that joke every time, Beef, and it wasn't funny after the first thirty-two times.
Axel: (Turns a little toward Luis and smiles faintly) Paul was good at that.
Luis: Axel, sit your ass down so I can like deal this hand?
Axel: You think it's really a drainhole like they say? (He lingers by the window gazing out.)
Beef: No, it's an asshole. That's why everyone on that boat wound up feeling like shit.
(Axel takes two steps and grabs Beef by the shirtfront and yanks him to his feet. His biceps bulge and tremble under his tight-fitting shirt. He holds Beef for a moment as if he will shake him to pieces. The others look on with varying degrees of shock and surprise. Finally Luis and Chen stand and separate the two. Beef sinks back to his seat; Axel returns to his vigil by the window.)
Chen: Like, who says it's a drainhole? I've heard a dozen theories. It's a wormhole to somewhere else in the universe. Or it's a doorway to another dimension—
Luis: That's the Twilight Zone, Chen. What the hell difference does it make? Look, the best way we can honor Paulie's memory is to drink a toast and play a hand. And maybe take up a collection for Blanche. Gordo's right. The girls have as much fun as us at the summer picnics and stuff. Why should Blanche be out of it now just because Paulie's dead?
Gordo: Don't bother. She's not exactly broke up about it.
Luis: Now that's a helluva thing to say.
Gordo: (Shrugs) Paulie and Blanche hadn't been in the sack together for a long time.
Chen: What, they were having a fight and ... ?
Gordo: No, it was the other way ‘round. She was upset because he wasn't coming through in the husband department. So she figured he had a little something on the side and that pissed her off.
Luis: Paulie?
Beef: Well, he was always checking out the girls. You know. “Hey, get a load of that set.” Maybe he just wanted a closer look.
Axel: (To Gordo) She say who Paulie was seeing?
Gordo: Nah. Blanche figured he was catting around until about a year or so ago, then he found someone steady. She didn't mind it too much when she thought he was playing the field, but she hated the idea that there was someone else special in his life. Some poker nights he wouldn't come home until way after the game broke up.
Axel: (Slowly) Maybe he thought he'd picked up a disease and didn't want to give it to her, and that's why he stopped sleeping with her.
Gordo: And so he's still St. Paulie? Excuse me if I quit the church. Blanche is a special lady and he treated her like she didn't even exist.
Beef: (After a pause) You seem to know a lot about how Blanche feels.
Gordo: (Throws cards down on table)
Luis: Christ ... ! You're porkin’ Paulie's widow, aren't you?
Chen: She's not exactly his wife any more, Luis.
Gordo: And not for a long time, even before he died.
Chen: (To Gordo) You mean ... Before? Well, shit!
Gordo: What's sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose, isn't it? He wasn't having any of her, and neither me or her saw any reason to let it go to waste.
Luis: (Drops his cards, too) I don’ feel like playin’ no more.
Chen: Me neither. Jesus, Gordo. He was our pal. You don't go doing that to your buddy.
Gordo: How was I hurting him? If Paulie didn't want no one in bed with Blanche, he shoulda stayed there himself, ‘stead o’ running around trying to prove what a man's man he was. I didn't take a damn thing from him that he hadn't already tossed aside. Aren't I right, Axel?
Axel: (By window, wipes cheek with sleeve, turns to face group) Yeah. That's right. He was a man's man.
* * * *
The Adventure Club
There were seven of them and they all lived in the neighborhood except for Jimmy, so it was never any problem to get together after school. They usually met in Denny's basement because that was where they kept the club's flag and Denny's dad had helped set up a laboratory. They had racks of chemicals that they used to experiment with different rocket fuels, and an electrical bench where they worked on ignition systems. One time they had blown all the fuses in the house and Denny's dad had made them promise not to test a circuit until they had shown him the schematics and he had inspected their work. Mr. Collingwood worked at Boeing and knew all sorts of stuff about electronics.
But developing a rocket ship had taken a back seat to the Seattle Drainhole. They even held some club meetings down near the old ferry dock because they hoped to see the hole open up, which would have been seriously cool.
“But there's no periodicity to it,” the twins said, after Denny had called the meeting to order and they were all sitting around the old table in the basement with cans of pop and a big bag of chips. Frank and Harry were identical twins, and no one was ever sure which one was talking. SciAm and the other science mags had reported the lack of periodicity, but the club's rule was never to trust authority. Frank (unless it had been Harry) had compiled a list of all confirmed events, starting with the initial tragedy. And Harry (unless it had been Frank) had analyzed the time series.
“It's a chaotic system,” said Jimmy. “I knew it."
“Everybody knows it, dummy,” said Red. “That Timmer guy proved it. It was in Science News."
“Besides,” Denny said, “you can have irregular time series without chaos. Look at eclipses."
“Solar system is chaotic,” said the twins. “Poincare proved it."
“Ah, screw you."
“Up yours."
“S'what are we gonna do about it?” Red asked. The others all looked at him.
“I dunno, Red,” Jimmy said, scratching his head. “Get a really big freaking cork?"
Red's face illustrated his nickname. “Naw, I mean those people on the boat. Somebody's gotta get them outta the hole."
“You crazy, dude?” said Denny. “They're croakers, for sure. If the singularity didn't crush them, they've run out of food and water by now."
“Hey!” said Jimmy, with a nod toward Red. “Watch your mouth."
“Aw, shit, Red,” the club president said. “You know I didn't mean nothing by it."
Red wiped his eye, which had gotten something in it. “I can deal with it."
“Your brother was a really neat guy,” Denny insisted.
“I know that!” said Red. “But who's doing squat to rescue him?"
The club fell silent as each contemplated how a rescue might be achieved through a singularity. Finally, one of the twins broke the silence.
“What if it isn't? A singularity, I mean. Frank and I lurk on a physics usenet newsgroup out in dot-uni. It's the real thing, not dot-com crap. Anyhow, this one physicist named Janatpour, he said that physics ought to make sense, and singularities were just artifacts of the math, not real things."
“Oh, that's convincing,” said Jimmy.
“No, he pointed out that sunspots are caused by differential rotation of the sun. The northern and southern hemispheres rotate at different speeds, and that sets up eddies in the electromagnetic field."
“You might have noticed,” Jimmy pointed out, “that the drainhole is here on Terra, not on Sol."
“Sure,” said Harry. “But Terra has a molten core. What if that has differential rotation? That could put twists into Terra's electromagnetic field, too."
“Umm,” said Denny. “You saying the Drainhole is a sunspot?"
“Earthspot, dummy,” said Red, who had recovered his composure.
“Well,” said Frank, taking the handoff from his brother, “if Terra was a ball of plasma, it would be. But it's the same kind of thing. At least this Janatpour guy says so, and Timmer and Whistler both think he might be on to something."
“Those two are too emotionally involved,” said Denny. “You need complete detachment to do science."
Red leaned forward and the card table rocked a little from the wei
ght. “So, if the drainhole is a vortex, not a singularity...."
“...it's gotta open up somewhere else. Not on Terra, or we woulda heard something. But somewhere."
Visions of gateways, of alternate universes, of time portals danced in their heads. Denny's dad came to the head of the cellar stairs. “What are you kids up to?” he called.
A chorus of “Nothing,” “Just talk,” “We're cool, Dad,” and “We're gonna rescue the Ferry People."
“Okay,” Mr. Young replied. “Just don't run any experiments without my okay."
Another chorus of “okay” and then they all turned to Red.
“Whaddaya mean we're gonna rescue the people on the ferry?"
* * * *
If the Adventure Club had owned a submersible, they might have sent it into the drainhole. But their club treasury, Jimmy reported, could not take the hit. So they did the next best thing.
“If we can just get a message back from them,” Red insisted, “the grownups would get off their butts and do something.” He meant a message back from his brother Steve, but he didn't say that. The others, dazzled by the headlines they could read afterward, set themselves to planning.
First, they needed a lot of rope. And a container of some sort for the message. They needed a boat so they could get close enough to the drainhole when it opened to throw the container into it, and to give them a base to haul it back out again. That was conceptual engineering.
Details. They bought a lockbox with a combination lock on it so it wouldn't open up accidentally during transit. Red wrote a message to put inside, and they added extra paper and pens so the Ferry People could write an answer. Denny painted the combination for the lock on the outside—they left it at 0-0-0—so they could open it up at the other end.
How much rope would they need? How deep was the hole? “'Deep’ is the wrong word,” Jimmy said. “The vortex goes along Kaluza-Klein dimensions, not up or down or nothing.” They bought as much clothesline as the treasury could afford, nearly a thousand feet, and coiled it around a garden hose windlass so they could crank it back out. Denny was a Boy Scout, so he tied the ends of the different coils together with knots guaranteed not to come loose.
Asimov's SF, October-November 2006 Page 15