by Trevor Hoyle
‘It’s a question of empathy,’ Brenton insisted, rocking back and forth, ‘a sympathetic understanding. Virtually anyone can be matched with her, the mechanics are fairly simple, but she isn’t insensitive to body chemistry and metabolism. It’s possible that an adverse reaction could be set up giving rise to malfunction.’
It occurred to Queghan that Brenton’s attitude towards the system was almost that of a husband’s solicitude for his wife. He wondered whether it would be possible to have a sexual relationship with a cyberthetic machine; there would be nothing physical, of course, but each would be able to achieve sensory stimulation. And a machine having an orgasm was an interesting idea – if one of somewhat dubious morality.
‘I think we can rely on the Director to make the right decision,’ Queghan said. He had nothing to offer the younger man in the way of consoling phrases; it perplexed him that Brenton should have sought him out and been so confiding. ‘You’re not married, are you?’
Brenton shook his head.
‘Then you have an advantage. You’re almost certain to be short-listed, and no doubt Johann will take all the factors into account.’
‘There was something else,’ Brenton said warily. He slid down from the sill, looking at Queghan properly for the first time. His face was too unmarked to be so serious; it was as though he’d bought the expression second-hand and it wasn’t a particularly good fit.
‘Yes?’ Queghan said, waiting.
‘Do you think you could interpret a coincidence for me? I wouldn’t normally impose in this way but I think – well, it might be important. It’s something quite ridiculous,’ he added in an apologetic tone.
‘They often are. Was there a casual relationship that you could see?’
‘I don’t think so. It’s to do with dates. A couple of weeks ago I made a note in my diary – some engagement or other – and a few days later I was told it had been put back. When I checked my diary I found that I’d actually entered the engagement on the correct date, the revised one. I couldn’t possibly have known at the time I made the original entry, yet there it was in black and white.’
Queghan was timing his own heartbeat. There was no perceptible change in rhythm or rate. He said, ‘Was the second date, the correct one as it turned out, significant in any way? I mean, in some way not directly connected with the engagement?’
Brenton seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then he said, as if reluctantly, ‘It’s the date of selection.’
‘For Project Tempus?’
‘Yes.’
‘We must consider the rational explanation first,’ Queghan said. ‘And the rational explanation is that the selection date was on your mind and you inadvertently entered the engagement on the same date. Doesn’t that fit the facts?’
‘It would do,’ Brenton admitted grudgingly, ‘except for one thing.’
‘And that is?’
‘Nobody knew the selection date at the time. The Director didn’t make the announcement until a week later.’
‘There would seem to be a strong precognitive element there,’ Queghan said abstractedly; inwardly he was perfectly calm. There were none of the usual tell-tale symptoms. He went on, ‘In any case, if it is meaningful, it would appear to be in your favour.’
‘Is there no way you can tell for certain? Isn’t there a test of some kind, a procedure …’
‘I’m afraid not. The whole basis of detecting psi phenomena is that their availability for testing is in inverse ratio to the sophistication of the techniques employed to test them: the nearer we get in scientifically establishing their existence the further away they recede. It’s like testing someone’s sexual prowess. The fact of telling someone that you’re going to evaluate his sexual performance under laboratory conditions is the one thing guaranteed to defeat the purpose of the exercise.’
‘But that’s the dilemma I’m facing!’ Brenton said hopelessly. ‘You have the faculty to understand, to appreciate it, whereas I find the whole proposition untenable. Where’s the proof, I keep asking myself. I need to see the equations, to analyse and interpret them.’
‘Well there we are,’ Queghan said, and he shrugged. ‘If that were feasible, if the equations could be formulated, you and I would become mere abstractions, a neat mathematical formula and not much else. We would cease to exist in any real sense. We’d have as much substance, say, as two fictional characters existing as mind-waves in someone’s brain. I can’t prove that I exist and neither can you; but we think that we do and that’s what matters.’
‘I think therefore I am,’ Brenton said. ‘That’s a very shaky scientific proposition,’ and Queghan could only agree.
*
He travelled home in the litter – litter being the LST, or Light Steam Transport. It was noiseless, gave off no fumes, and had a closed energy system that recycled its own waste material. He kept to the controlled M-grid because it was easier to let the litter follow the beam and not have to worry about other vehicles that might get in the way. It was safer, too, just in case he went suddenly into projection. This sometimes happened when he was least expecting it and he didn’t relish the thought of being the victim of a litter smash.
It had always seemed, ever since he was a child, that the ability to project himself into heightened states of consciousness was very much a mixed blessing. It was a gift not readily understood outside the Institute, and even there it was regarded by some with envy, suspicion, even hostility. It was still, even now, ‘unscientific’, which was odd when it was considered that psi awareness was really quite common and not confined to a special category of ‘gifted’ people. It was highly developed in children, for example, but gradually atrophied as they grew older through non-use, in much the same way that a muscle becomes flaccid if not exercised regularly. This general misunderstanding led to resentment, for many people believed that a richness and variety of extrasensory perception was being denied them.
The reality was more prosaic. In most instances, the evidence presented to Queghan’s senses was only a piece, a fragment, of a larger, deeper, unfathomable mystery. They thought him capable of miraculous insights which was a simplistic view of what actually happened; true, he was open to the symbols all around, but it was the interpretation of those symbols which was difficult, for they rarely, if ever, formed themselves into a coherent pattern.
As he had tried to explain to Brenton, such manifestations as meaningful coincidence, precognition and the laws of causality (in fact, the entire bag of tricks known as parapsychological phenomena) by their very nature defied assembly into a logical and scientifically-based rationale. This in fact was the aim of the Unified Psychic Field Theory – to establish a structure as the foundation for experimental research. The problem lay in explaining to scientists like Brenton the inherent limitations of any system which tried to impose ‘rules’ on something so evanescent and intangible as the projection of mind-waves from the one hundred thousand million cells in the human brain.
That this figure approximated to the number of galaxies in the observable universe was one more example of meaningful coincidence. Could it be that the galaxies represented individual cells in one gigantic hyper-brain? Did all energy and matter and its interrelation constitute a single consciousness? If so, then that consciousness was – could only be – God’s. And inside his own head the 100,000,000,000 cells might represent another universe, complete with galaxies, nebulae, solar systems and intelligent life-forms.
In Myth Technology this was known as the concept of the Conscious Universe, though no one had managed to devise a theoretical model which could encompass something of such vast proportions and possibilities.
He came off the metalled M-grid and the road became a sandy track which wound between artificial groves fed by an underground piped water supply. The houses were surrounded by electrified fences, and some residents kept dogs, though attacks hadn’t been reported for some time. Everyone was mindful of the Manson syndrome, a psychotic illness which seemed to affli
ct all industrialized societies.
The litter stopped and Queghan opened the canopy. It was like climbing out of a Hurricane. He stepped on to the vinyl driveway, stretching himself under the pleasant warmth of the sun; it seemed the weather bureau had got it right at last. From the audio grill Oria’s voice said, ‘Black Fox to Red Leader. Rendezvous nineteen hundred hours due west at angles one-seven.’
Queghan smiled and went across the lawn to where his wife lay on the striped lounger; she was naked, on her side, and he could see the dark-brown mole on her left buttock. He kissed her shoulder and moved his hand from her hip to the taut distended belly. ‘Has she been troublesome?’
Oria turned to lie on her back. Her breasts had grown over the last month or so. ‘No cause for alarm,’ she said lightly, smiling up at him. And then, ‘Didn’t he say so?’
‘Who?’ Queghan said guiltily.
‘The man in the moon.’
‘You knew I’d call him.’
‘And you knew I’d know.’
‘I had to make sure.’
‘Yes,’ she said pleasantly, closing her eyes.
After a moment, ‘The treatment seems simple enough,’ Queghan remarked, sitting on the grass at her feet. He plucked a blade of grass and began to chew it. ‘When you’ve had the baby we’ll go away.’ His grey eyes watched her. ‘The three of us.’
‘That will be nice,’ Oria said. She said this as though he had told her a lie to which she was was politely responding. She could have said anything and it would have meant the same. He had the same feeling as when they’d had an argument, and the areas of blame, forgiveness and remorse hadn’t been clearly delineated. There was a distance separating them that was needless and futile; he loved this woman deeply, more than anything on this earth.
‘You’ve never been abroad.’ He removed the blade of grass and tickled her foot. ‘I could arrange a leave of absence and—’
‘Don’t you think I ought to have the baby first?’
‘That wouldn’t be a bad idea.’
‘Then why are we talking about it?’ she said with ominous quietness. ‘We can discuss trips abroad in good time; I don’t see the hurry.’
‘All right, all right.’
Oria closed her eyes. Her long blonde hair was tied back so that the side of her head gleamed like silver in the sunlight. Before their marriage she had worked at MyTT as a collator in the Archives under Professor Castel; he had few close friends, even among his colleagues, yet Oria had come to like him, and now and then he was invited to dinner. Queghan thought him a cold fish, humourless and rather wearing, but had to admit that in his job he was outstandingly efficient, keeping an eagle eye on the one-and-a-half-million newstapes, audiovisual reels and reference works in the Institute Archives.
Now, watching her, Queghan knew she would resent any attempt on his part at bland consolation: it wasn’t only the baby she was worried about.
Oria opened her eyes and looked at him along the length of her body. She said, ‘If it was just the baby …’
‘I know,’ Queghan said. ‘I know.’
‘There’s also the fucking Project.’
‘The Project isn’t that important that we have—’
Oria interrupted him. ‘If you’re chosen you’ll have no alternative but to accept.’
‘I can refuse.’
‘But you won’t.’
‘I can always say no,’ Queghan insisted patiently.
‘We both know that you won’t, Chris.’ She sat up, her body large and tanned in the direct sunlight. ‘We both understand very well that if you’re selected you will have to go. There’s no alternative.’
Queghan pressed his forehead to the soles of her feet. They were smooth and cool. Her anxiety was because she knew that the odds of the injectee returning were no better than fifty-fifty. This was not an arbitrary computation. It had been calculated with exactitude and certainty. There were conflicting ideas as to why this precise heads-or-tails situation should be: some explained it as a consequence of the Geometrodynamic Law while others thought it more likely to be due to the Theory of Synchronicity*. Queghan felt on a purely intuitive basis that it derived in natural progression from the Lorentz Transformations; in any event the actual cause was irrelevant – it was an inescapable and irreducible mathematical fact, bound up in some way with the physical laws of the Metagalaxy.
The most mysterious aspect was that the odds would never change, neither increase or decrease, no matter how many missions were undertaken. Each mission would be decided on the knife-edge uncertainty of the spin of a coin, irrespective of whether it was the first attempt or the fiftieth or the trillionth. Thus it was pointless to wait until the technology of Temporal Flux injection had exceeded a certain level of sophistication, for this would have zero qualitative effect on the success or failure of any one mission. The phrase ‘no time like the present’ took on a new aptness, as Johann Karve had been the first to point out.
The sun had fallen below the ragged outline of the trees, throwing long spiky shadows across the lawn. Some of them crept surreptitiously on to the striped lounger, and Queghan felt a shiver of premonition. He got to his feet and stooped to lift Oria into his arms, cradling the swell of her belly against his own. As he did this he was aware that he might never see the child she carried. He had seen it in silhouette, encased in its fluid mucous envelope, and listened to its heartbeat, but perhaps that was all he would ever see or hear or know.
Oria spoke softly, as if there was an eavesdropper nearby – the trees or the creeping shadows. ‘There is no alternative, Chris. It isn’t technical expertise or knowledge Karve is looking for. The Vehicle is self-programmed, she doesn’t require an engineer or a scientist.’
‘Brenton – wants to go very badly. He’s married to the machine. The thought of someone else using her is like seeing his wife being raped.’
‘Brenton won’t be selected,’ Oria said. Her head lay against his shoulder as he carried her up to the house.
‘Perhaps not.’ Queghan stepped through the sliding door.
‘And when you return we will go away, the three of us.’
‘Yes,’ Queghan said. He stood in the middle of the room, holding his wife and child, knowing (all three of them knowing) that in the existing future he would not return.
*
Johann Karve had made his reputation at the age of thirty-six when his popular science book The Hidden Universe had been published. The ideas he set forth had been current for many years in scientific circles, but it was the first time anyone had brought them together and made any attempt to interrelate them and then to interpolate a whole series of probable consequences. From this he went on to lay the foundation for the field of study which was to become known as Myth Technology, and later he was responsible for the setting up of the Myth Technology Research Institute.
Although superseded by later research, much of the material in The Hidden Universe was still relevant, and occasionally Queghan glanced through his well-worn copy in the spirit of someone seeking to retrace the original steps of a scientific discipline for the sheer pleasure it gave him. The early chapters dealt with the origin of Temporal Flux Centres, those areas in space which resulted from the collapse of a neutron star in which the electrons and protons of molecular structure had been crushed by immense gravitational forces to form neutrons – and then crushed yet again to a point of infinite mass and density. Once such a body had formed – a singularity of spacetime curvature – nothing, not even light, could ever escape. Anything nearby would be sucked into this cosmic plughole and crushed out of existence.
The boundary surrounding this spacetime singularity was the event horizon: this was the point of no return and, once inside it, communication with the outside universe was no longer possible.
Karve’s analogous explanation of the event horizon was still the clearest and most graphic Queghan had ever come across; it was now classically known as the ‘ripple analogy’. Karve pictured a smo
oth, almost stationary stretch of water which gradually accelerated as it moved downstream towards a weir. If you were to throw a pebble into the water upstream – the still water – the ripples would spread out evenly in all directions, as yet unaffected by the current. Now walk downstream, tossing in pebbles as you go, and as you approach the weir and the flow of water increases, the ripples will cease to make any progress upstream and be pulled downstream: at some point you will have passed the event horizon. The ripples (ie lightwaves) cannot resist the downward flow (ie gravitational pull), and therefore can no longer travel to or communicate with the world upstream – the outside universe. At the event horizon itself the speed of the ripple is equal to the downward flow of water and will appear, to the observer on the bank, to stand still; in the same way lightwaves at the event horizon of a Temporal Flux Centre will appear to the outside observer to stand still. It can be seen that any material object caught in the downward flow, or gravitational pull, will be unable to resist the force acting upon it and will be dragged inexorably towards the singularity of infinite spacetime curvature.
Although the earlier chapters were interesting, it was towards the end of The Hidden Universe, the chapters dealing with the wider philosophical implications of Temporal Flux, that Queghan now found most stimulating, and in particular the section devoted to the probability of multiple universes as constituent parts of a greater all-embracing Metagalaxy. Karve had written:
‘In our investigation of Temporal Flux situations throughout the observable universe we must be aware that our attention is inward-directed. In other words, we are assuming that our universe is an infinite spatio-temporal structure and not, as we know it to be, one universe of a multiple series existing in the total Metagalaxy, which comprises all matter which is visible, invisible, and anti-matter. Expressed in simple terms, we are like a man on a small desert island, surrounded by many more islands, who busies himself only with what is happening on his own island and is oblivious to those all around. His gaze is inward-directed, and until he simply turns and looks out to sea he will remain in ignorance of the larger world outside which contains many more, similar islands.