The Cusanus Game

  “No,” said Abe.

  Her hands had sunk into her lap, and her gaze rested on me. I don’t think she even blinked. Her dark eyes, usually so lively, were completely fixed. It seemed to me as if all the sounds around us had died away and time had slowed down. Nothing seemed to be moving. Even the light seemed to have somehow grown fainter, as if an invisible haze were enveloping us. Fear overcame me.

  Suddenly she raised her small, clawlike hand and pointed at me with her knife. The mother-of-pearl handle sparkled, and the dangling little silver chain flashed.

  “Nothing will happen to you,” she croaked, “as long as you do not stray too far from yourself. It won’t always be easy, but you can return to your world. You only have to want to. Look at me, I did it too. The same goes for you, Renata. Keep that in mind.”

  She closed her eyes and sank back into her cushioned seat hollow, as if that advice had completely exhausted her.

  “Come on, Abe,” she said softly, “bring me upstairs.”

  Abe rose and headed, rustling and scraping, toward the entrance to the stairwell.

  * * *

  “WE’RE CONCERNED SOLELY with addressing here, ladies and gentlemen,” said Ishida, leaning back in his seat at the front of the old lecture hall and folding his hands behind his head.

  The four of us sat in a light-flooded semicircle, feeling somewhat lost in the ascending benches. The professor wore a ceremonial robe in classic Japanese style made of heavy dark blue material with silver edging and had taken a seat with his legs crossed on a snow-white tatami.

  “These addresses consist of data packets, each of which reproduces a sufficiently accurate scene from the past of a specially selected place: the target point in time for the traveler. I emphasize ‘sufficiently’ as opposed to ‘exactly.’ An exact copy is in principle impossible, but also unnecessary, as it has turned out. It’s not about the production of identity, but rather the production of equality, or to be precise: the production of association. Association—as in art—is the connective element. Above all—but not only—it’s about optic correspondence. This is achieved through holographic and other simulation techniques. To put it crudely: We produce the match, which aligns the here and now with the there and then—from a purely technical point of view.

  “In the case of a sufficient association, a sort of entanglement occurs between the two space-time states, the simulated state and the real one. Regardless of the temporal and spatial distance between the two points, a connection is produced that we have learned how to use—even if we don’t understand how it arises. This connection can be compared to an EPR Bridge, or an Einstein-Podolsky-Rosen Bridge, which occurs in the subatomic realm. Einstein, incidentally, called the phenomenon spooky action at a distance—and far be it from me to contradict him. Before Hla Thilawuntha no one suspected that a similar phenomenon could be possible in the macroscopic realm as well.”

  The tatami had risen from the focal point of the hall and had come to a standstill halfway up.

  “The optic correspondence or association seems to be the most important precondition for this bridge, which allows the traveler to reach the selected place at a selected time. The importance of the optic correspondence might be due to the fact that photons stand in an instantaneous relation to each other. That is, for them time does not exist. The structural similarity of optic scenarios leads—according to the hypothesis—to the quasi-suspension of the time in between.

  “This theory is based on a tradition that goes back to Leibniz and Mach, Boltzmann and Barbour. It rejects the hypothesis of a Newtonian ‘flow’ of time, which one-dimensionally follows a time-arrow, and defines time as sequential similarities in the arrangement of matter in the universe, as structural associations. Imagine a mountain of moments layered like rock strata. Those moments are not units of time, however, but rather, so to speak, snapshots of the same landscape from different perspectives. Each snapshot is thus a description of the state of the universe, which contains the respective coordinates of all the particles in this universe in their relation to one another—seen from a particular angle. Those coordinates form structures that adjoin according to their similarity. Their sequence is interpreted by human consciousness as a time ‘flow,’ but they are only paths that consciousness clears for itself through the mass of sense data, that is, through the mountain of coordinates. There are, however, a great number of such paths through the mountain landscape. Our job here is to search for the shortcuts and make them traversable.”

  Ishida raised his hands in a balancing gesture. His palms shimmered in the colors of the rainbow.

  “This theory is controversial,” he went on. “Most brane physicists flatly reject it and cling to Einstein’s conception of the classic space-time continuum. They trace the phenomenon of the transition from here and now to there and then back to a side effect of the passage of so-called time solitons; those are wavefronts that, at irregular intervals, pass through our present toward the past and future, thereby deforming space-time. Those deformations produce so-called gap junctions in the p-membrane enfolding our universe. Thus they break open the boundary layers of the here and now and make them permeable for a brief time—both toward the temporal dimension and, perpendicular to that, into the so-called Everett worlds, that is, into the parallel universes that are constantly emerging and accumulate at the periphery of our reality like the molecules of growing crystals. The representatives of this theory imagine the movement of the time travelers as a sort of surfing on these solitons and indeed regard our work here as nothing but addressing, so that this mysterious delivery service knows on what beach to drop off the surfer.

  “Probably both hypotheses contain part of the truth. In any case, the works of the Burmese mathematician Hla Thilawuntha, which appeared in the twenties on the Web and caused a stir among experts, can be interpreted in both directions.”

  Ishida rubbed his hands together. He was now floating above us and looking down at us. We looked up at him raptly.

  “At bottom, all this is of course pure speculation, for we don’t know how the transition technology we use—or rather: in the use of which we are permitted to share—works, for it was not developed in our present, but rather in the future. Probably in the distant future, to stick to the classic parlance, or, to be syntactically consistent: It will be developed.

  “Its use extends to our present and to the past. By chance we discovered the possibility of the transition and learned to avail ourselves of it. Thilawuntha’s mathematics provided the key to that. So basically we are the beneficiaries of a foreign technology that we do not yet grasp in all its particulars. That is by no means unusual: For centuries we have made use of electric energy without yet having totally unraveled the nature of the electron. I mention that merely as an aside.”

  Ernesto laughed. We laughed too. Ishida waved his iridescent hand.

  “Our knowledge of the transition technology is, as said, pretty sketchy, but what we’ve figured out about it is extremely complicated. I won’t delve into those theoretical explanations. You—or at least the physicists among you—will learn enough about that at the CIA, the Hendrik Casimir Institute for Quantum Gravity and Multidimensional Boundary Layer Studies in Amsterdam, and at the Christiaan Huygens Institute for Temporal Stratimetry and Structural Virtuality in The Hague, where you will have your practical training. There you will become acquainted with Kaku’s quantum mechanical spaghettini and Ed Witten’s cat’s cradles, with string loops smaller than protons but with the mass of suns and other monsters of quantum gravity. You will also be tortured … with the calculation of the past endpoint of a null geodesic of the universal hyperbolicity, the development of a future Cauchy horizon, and with terminal indecomposable past sets. The pleasure, ladies and gentlemen, will be all yours.”

  Laughing, he raised his chin, and the ruffled-collar beard gleamed in the backlight like a halo that had slipped out of place.

  “Nor do we know anything about the inventors and operator
s of this future technology. There are time travelers who claim to have encountered on their excursions strange beings from the distant future, but let us consider that those people were usually under extreme stress. So let’s take their words with a grain of salt when they speak of angels and talking rats.

  “Why don’t we travel into the future to clarify things? Quite simple: The future is not accessible to us, because we do not possess any corresponding optic coordinates there. It is impossible for us to simulate a sufficient association. So we simply don’t know who these future dwellers are who grant us a free ride—whether they are distant human descendants or aliens, whether they are cyborgs or supercomputers, intergalactic intelligence clusters or merely an automatic repair program of the multiverse for the self-preservation of the future, constantly at work on its optimization. Professor Auerbach in Amsterdam will eagerly explain that to you, and Professor van Waalen will elucidate the fabulous ‘brushing out’ theory of the multiverse he has come up with.

  “But what we do know—and this is important for our practical work—is the strong interest of the, let’s call it—whatever it may be that’s sitting there in the future—ENTITY in a fundamentally undisturbed course of history on this Earth, with tolerance for deviations within a certain margin—which indeed suggests a sort of self-acting repair program. That is, if a time traveler intentionally or inadvertently precipitates a change of the established historical reality that goes beyond the fixed margin, the transition into the past does not take place, even if the rest of the preconditions have been met. The logic is clear: A parallel universe comes into existence, in which the transition ensues. The undesired result occurs; it is rejected post factum; in our universe the transition ad hoc does not take place.

  “Nor does the transition take place if we make a grave error during the addressing of the spatiotemporal target coordinates or if the person who is to be transported has not been sufficiently fit into the target point in time. The same logic comes into action: parallel world / assessment of the situation post factum / rejection of the result / denial ad hoc.

  “Borderline cases might be interesting, in which an oscillation in the border area of the fixed margin might occur. That could lead to a repeated emergence of parallel worlds. However, up to now we have not encountered such a case. That’s all for today. I thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Ishida spread his hands and disappeared in a violet flash of light. A gong sounded as in a Shinto temple, and suddenly it smelled like incense.

  “Was he never even here?” Renata asked in amazement.

  “It’s all part of the show,” Ernesto asserted.

  Marcello chuckled and said, “And I was wondering the whole time how he does that with the levitation.”

  “Joking aside,” I interjected. “Did you understand that?” My head was spinning.

  Ernesto shrugged. “Did you have problems with that? It wasn’t so hard to understand.”

  “Well, I expect that from you,” I said. “Can you explain to me what a soliton is?”

  “Send your Scarabeo to dig it up, Domenica,” he urged me.

  “Okay, I’ll do that. But I have to listen to all that closely again.”

  “That couldn’t hurt.”

  “Stop being such a know-it-all, Ernesto,” Marcello snapped.

  “Okay, okay.”

  “That seems absolutely unreal to me,” Renata said, shaking her head. “You go into a sort of holoshow, then a wave comes and washes you into the Middle Ages or wherever.”

  Ernesto gave her an appalled look. “Do you have any idea how much lies behind all that? How much math? And brane physics? And cosmology?”

  “But that’s what it boils down to. She’s right.” I came to Renata’s defense. “We surf into the Middle Ages, pick a few flowers and collect seeds from plants that no longer exist in the present, wait for the next wave in the opposite direction, and surf back. Show’s over.”

  Ernesto eyed me reprovingly. “You’ll be surprised, my dear,” he said. “You might be in for some nasty shocks.”

  I could not have suspected how right he would turn out to be.

  “What’s going to happen, when a dozen first-class scientists are sitting at the monitors watching over you?” Marcello said airily.

  “They can watch over you for only so long, as long as you’re still here,” Ernesto replied. “The moment the transition has taken place, you’re completely on your own. Then you’re stumbling around in the seventeenth century…”

  “I’m supposed to go to the eighteenth century.”

  “All right. Do you think that’s better?”

  “No time is easy,” I broke in.

  “But some are really bad,” said Renata.

  How right she was.

  “I don’t envy all of you,” Ernesto asserted. “But, thank God, that’s not my job.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Marcello. “Do you want to frighten us? I’ll look for a job as a court jester and give my master wise counsel, maybe play the prophet a bit and without much trouble prove right. In short, be indispensable to him. Or I’ll tour Europe as a dottore, as an herbalist…”

  “Specialist in love potions,” I suggested. “Dangerous! Dangerous!”

  “Don’t get involved with alchemy! You can easily lose your head with that,” said Renata. “And keep your good advice to yourself. In the royal courts of that time, paranoia reigned. You could easily come under suspicion of being a spy. They made short work of them.”

  Grabbing our hair, Marcello pushed Renata and me ahead of him through the corridor to the exit.

  “You’re no longer allowed to cut your hair, my dears, or else you’ll arouse suspicion,” he said.

  “How come?” I asked.

  “They sheared the heads of witches and sinners.”

  I tousled his black ringlets. “And what about you? Will you get away with this?”

  “They’ll put a powdered wig over his head,” declared Ernesto.

  “As behooves a man of the world and esteemed scholar,” replied Marcello, raising his chin arrogantly. “Jealous?”

  “Don’t make me laugh. At that time every puny village schoolteacher walked around with one of those lice-ridden things on his head.”

  We were meanwhile walking along the Fondamenta Santa Giustina to our accommodations. It was a warm, late-autumn day. The sun was shining.

  “What did the professor mean when he said that time didn’t really exist?” I asked Renata. “I get older every day, damn it!”

  “Probably that’s just a bad habit,” she replied with a laugh.

  * * *

  “LUIGI.”

  “Yes, Domenica.”

  “Wake up our Scarabeo.”

  “That is not necessary. It is always in standby mode.”

  “What does it do the whole time?”

  “It tests servers, checks its connections to data storage devices, follows links and organizes them into priority hierarchies; it also assembles expert programs and keeps them up to date. As a SuperGrid browser, it has access to the Grid, of course, and because it is a level-four AI, it makes independent decisions regarding the weeding out of unimportant data.”

  I detached the device from my wrist and placed it on the table.

  “A diligent little guy,” I noted.

  “One can put it that way, Domenica.”

  “I have a question for it: What is a soliton?”

  “The word designates a solitary wave. The term stems originally from fluid dynamics. In the seventies of the twentieth century, it was imported into particle and quantum physics and at the beginning of this century into boundary layer or dimensional brane physics and redefined accordingly.”

  “I would have liked to know more about it.”

  “The Scarabeo asks whether it should present the data in infotainment, high, or top.”

  “It should just show me something.”

  I put the audiovid band over my eyes and leaned back on the sofa. Formulas
and three-dimensional graphics immediately stacked up in my field of vision and scrolled down.

  “The form of a soliton is optimal when the sum of potential and kinetic energy is smallest, and it is smallest precisely when the curve crosses the wave crest at an angle that lies exactly between the extremes. The equation says that for any value phi of the field you get the internal energy by squaring the sine of phi. A field that satisfies this equation is called a sine-Gordon field. Transferred to quantum physics, this means that in a matter field coupled to a Yang-Mills field, three-dimensional solitons can be generated as well. Four-dimensional solitons emerge when—”

  “Stop! — Well, I’m reluctant to admit it, but I don’t understand a word. I need a little bit of basic knowledge. When was the soliton discovered? Where was it? What does the thing look like? Try it with infotainment.”

  The graphics and equations dispersed and trickled away before my eyes like ice chips evaporating in an instant. Mist rose, enveloping a flat landscape. Poplar alleys, willows, alders. It was early in the morning. At first the bumpy visual field confused me, until I realized that I was sitting on a horse and riding at half-gallop on a path along the right bank of a canal or a diked small river.

  In the murky brownish water next to me I saw an odd phenomenon: a single, roughly knee-high wave, moving along soundlessly at a speed with which my horse, despite its brisk pace, could scarcely keep up. The strangest thing was that this swelling of the water glided on and on, without even a suggestion of gradual flattening or flagging—as if it were kept in motion by a mysterious force emanating from something racing along below it on the bottom of the canal. The movement was completely soundless; only when an irregularity interrupted the smooth course of the banks could a soft burbling or lapping be heard. The snorts and coughing gasps of the horse, which seemed to be at the end of its strength, sounded all the louder. I reined it in. The wave glided on and disappeared from my sight.

  “The phenomenon was first described in 1840 by the hydraulic engineer John Scott Russell,” explained a male voice-over, “who regularly inspected the Glasgow Canal and the Ardrossan Canal in Scotland. ‘I was watching the motion of a barge,’ he reported, ‘which a pair of horses was pulling at great speed along a narrow canal, when suddenly the barge stopped sharply. But the mass of water it had set into motion in the canal was by no means stopped. Violently seething, it began to gather around the prow of the boat, and then suddenly, abandoning the boat, it rolled off ahead with tremendous speed, having taken the form of an isolated large mound—a roundish, smooth, and sharply outlined mass of water which continued its path along the canal without any noticeable change of form or slackening of speed. I rode after it on horseback and when I caught it, it continued to roll forward at a speed of eight to ten miles an hour, preserving its initial form in the shape of a figure about thirty feet long and one and a half feet high. The height of the water gradually decreased, and after pursuing it for one or two miles, I lost it in the windings of the canal.’”