by Неизвестный
A hand went up.
“Glenda?”
“But when talking about the photon and the slits, you said the only way the two universes could rejoin is if there was no way to tell which slit the photon had taken in each universe.”
“Exactly. But if we could devise a method by which it made no difference whatsoever which way Kyle went in this universe—indeed, a method by which Kyle himself didn't know which way he had gone, and no one saw him during his journey—then, at the end of it all, the two universes might stitch back together. But in the rejoined universe, Kyle would know the answer to both problems, even though he'd really only had time to solve one of them.”
Papineau grinned at the class.
“Welcome,” he said, “to the world of quantum computing.” He paused. “Of course, there were really more than two possible universes for Kyle—he could have stayed home, he could have driven to work, he could have taken a cab. Likewise, it's possible to envision the lightbulb experiment with dozens or even hundreds of slits. Well, suppose each of the photons coming off the lightbulb represented a single bit of information. Remember, all computing is done with glorified abacuses; we actually move things around in order to compute, whether it's pebbles or atoms or electrons or photons. But if each of those things could simultaneously be in multiple places at once, across parallel universes, extraordinarily complex computing problems could be solved very, very quickly.
“Consider, for instance, the factoring of numbers. How do we do that? Essentially by trial and error, although there are a few tricks that help. If we want to determine the factors of eight, we start dividing numbers into it. We know that one goes evenly into eight—it goes evenly into every whole number. What about two? Yes, it's a factor: it goes in four times. Three? No—it doesn't go in evenly.
Four? Yes, it goes in twice. That's how we do it: by brute-force computing, testing every possible factor in turn. But as numbers get bigger, the number of factors they have get bigger. Earlier this year, a network of sixteen hundred computers succeeded in finding all the factors of a 129-digit number—the largest number ever factored. The process took eight months.
“But imagine a quantum computer—one that was in touch with all the possible alternative computers in parallel universes. And imagine a program that factors large numbers by working on all the possible solutions simultaneously. Peter Shor, a mathematician at AT&T Bell Laboratories, has worked out a program to do just that; it would try every possible factor of the big number simultaneously by testing just one possible factor in each of many parallel universes. The program outputs its results as interference patterns, sent to a piece of photographic film. Shor's algorithm would cause those numbers that aren't factors to cancel out in the interference pattern, leaving darkness. The patterns of light and dark would form a sort of barcode that could be read to indicate which numbers actually are factors of the big number you started with. And since the calculations are performed across parallel universes, in the time it takes for our universe to test any one number, all the other numbers are tested as well, and we have the result. So long as it makes no difference which number our own computer calculated, the result should be achieved almost instantaneously; what normal computers took eight months to do, quantum computers could do in a matter of seconds.”
“But there's no such thing as a quantum computer,” said Kyle.
Papineau nodded at him. “That's right, at least not yet. But someday someone is going to build a quantum computer. And then we'll know for sure.”
6
Kyle and Heather had dinner together every Monday night.
They'd been separated for a year now. It had never been intended to be permanent—and they'd never mentioned the D-word. They'd just needed some time, they both felt, to come to terms with Mary's death. They'd both been on edge, sniping at each other, little things that shouldn't have mattered at all escalating into huge fights, unable to console each other, unable to comprehend why it had happened.
They'd never missed a Monday dinner together, and although tensions were high since Becky's visit four days ago, Kyle assumed that Heather would show up at their usual restaurant, a Swiss Chalet franchise a few blocks from their house.
Kyle stood outside, enjoying the warm evening breeze. He couldn't bring himself to go in yet;
Heather's car wasn't in the lot, and if she didn't show, the embarrassment would be too much.
At about 6:40—ten minutes late—Heather's powder-blue skimmer floated into the lot.
Still, things were different. For an entire year now, they'd greeted each other on Monday nights with a quick kiss, but this time—this time they both hesitated. They entered the restaurant, Kyle holding the door for Heather.
The server tried to seat them beside another couple, even though there was no one else in the place. Kyle hated that at the best of times, and this evening he did protest. “We'll sit over there,” he said, pointing to a distant corner.
The server acquiesced, and they were escorted to a booth at the back. Kyle ordered red wine;
Heather asked for a glass of the house white.
“I was beginning to think you weren't coming,” said Kyle.
Heather nodded, but her face was impassive. The lamp hanging above their table made her normally pleasant features look severe. “I'm sorry I was late.”
There was silence for a time.
“I don't know what we're going to do about this,” said Kyle.
Heather looked away. “Me neither.”
“I swear to you—”
“Please,” said Heather, cutting him off. “Please.”
Kyle nodded slowly. He was quiet for a moment longer, then: “I went to see Zack on Saturday.”
Heather looked apprehensive. “And?”
“And nothing. I didn't get into a fight with him, I mean. We talked a bit. I wanted him to agree to come to the forensics lab at the university. I was going to take a lie-detector test, prove that I didn't do it.”
“And?” said Heather again.
“He refused.” Kyle lowered his eyes, looking at the paperite place mat with the current month's chicken promotion illustrated on it. He looked up again and sought Heather's eyes. “I could do the same thing for you,” he said. “I could prove my innocence.”
Heather opened her mouth, but immediately closed it.
It was a turning point, a crux. Kyle knew it, and he was sure Heather knew it, too. The future depended on what would happen next.
She had to be thinking it all through. . .
If he was innocent—
If he was innocent, she must know he'd never be able to forgive her for demanding proof, for her lack of faith. If he was innocent, then surely their marriage should survive this crisis. They'd both thought they would get back together again, sooner or later. If not by the beginning of the coming school year, surely by its end.
If he was innocent, the marriage should survive, but if Heather had doubt, and admitted it, admitted the possibility, would he ever be able to hold her again, to love her again? When he'd needed her most, had she believed in him?
“No,” she said, closing her eyes. “No, that won't be necessary.” She looked at him. “I know you didn't do anything.” Kyle kept his expression neutral; he knew she must be searching his face for any sign that he thought the words might be insincere.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
The server returned with their drinks. They ordered: a grilled chicken breast and plain baked potato for Kyle; the quarter barbecue chicken dinner with fries for Heather.
“Did anything else happen with Zack?” asked Heather.
Kyle took a sip of his wine. “He told me that Becky is in therapy.”
Heather nodded. “Yes.”
“You knew that?”
“She started seeing someone after Mary died.”
“It was the same therapist Mary had been going to,” said Kyle. “Zack told me that.”
“Mary was in therapy, too? Goo
d God, I didn't know that.”
“I was shocked, too,” said Kyle.
“You'd think she'd have told me.”
“Or me,” said Kyle, forcefully.
“Of course,” said Heather. “Of course.” She paused. “I wonder if it had anything to do with Rachel?”
“Who?”
“Rachel Cohen. Remember? Mary's friend—she died of leukemia when Mary was eighteen.”
“Oh, yes. Poor girl.”
“Mary had been quite distraught about that. Maybe she started seeing a therapist over it—a little grief counseling, you know?”
“Why wouldn't she have come to you?” asked Kyle.
“Well, I'm hardly a clinician. Besides, no girl wants her mother for a therapist—and I suspect she wouldn't have wanted anyone I might have recommended, either.”
“So how would Mary find a therapist?” asked Kyle.
“I don't know,” said Heather. “Maybe Dr. Redmond recommended somebody.” Lloyd Redmond had been Kyle's physician, and later, the whole family's physician, for nearly thirty years. “I'll call him in the morning and see what I can find out.”
Their meals arrived. They ate mostly in silence, and afterward went to their separate homes.
The phone rang in Kyle's lab at 10:30 Tuesday morning. A couple of grad students were present, working quietly inside Cheetah's console; the console's faceplate, including Cheetah's eyes, had been removed and was leaning now against the curving outer wall.
The Caller ID showed it was Heather, calling from her office in Sidney Smith Hall on the west side of St. George Street, a block farther south.
“I was right,” said Heather. “Dr. Redmond did recommend a therapist to Mary several months before she died.”
“What's the therapist's name?
“Lydia Gurdjieff.” She spelled the unusual last name.
“Ever heard of her?”
“No. I've checked the online directory for the OPA; she's not listed.”
“I'm going to go see her,” said Kyle.
“No,” said Heather. “I think I should go—alone.”
Kyle opened his mouth to object, but then realized his wife was right. Not only was he the enemy in this therapist's eyes, but Heather, not Kyle, was the trained psychologist.
“When?” he asked.
“Today, if possible.”
“Thanks,” said Kyle.
Heather might have shrugged or nodded, or even smiled encouragingly; there was no way for Kyle to tell. Sometimes he wished video phones had taken off.
“Hello, Ms. Gurdjieff,” said Heather, walking into the therapist's consulting room. The walls were covered with blue wallpaper but it was curling a bit at the seams, revealing the painted surface beneath.
“Thank you for seeing me.”
“My pleasure, Ms. Davis—or may I call you Heather?” Heather wasn't taking any special pains to disguise her identity; she used her own last name, but Rebecca and Mary had shared Kyle's last name.
There was no reason to think this Gurdjieff person would make the connection. “Heather is fine.”
“Well, Heather, we don't often have a cancellation, but I guess today is your lucky day. Please, have a seat, or use the couch if you prefer.”
Heather considered for a moment, then, with a little shrug, lay down on the couch. Even with all her training in psychology, she'd never actually lain on a therapist's couch before and it seemed an experience not to be missed.
“I'm not sure why I'm here,” Heather said. “I haven't been sleeping well.” She looked beyond the therapist to the walls; there were framed diplomas on them. The highest degree seemed to be a master's.
“That's surprisingly common,” said Gurdjieff. Her voice was warm and pleasant, with perhaps a trace of a Newfoundland accent.
“I also don't have much of an appetite,” said Heather. Gurdjieff nodded and took a datapad off her desk. She started writing on it with a stylus. “And you think there's a psychological cause for this?”
“At first I thought it was some kind of flu,” said Heather, “but it's been going on for months.”
Gurdjieff made another note on her pad. She was putting too much pressure on the stylus; it made a slight chalk-on-blackboard screech against the glass plate.
“You're married, aren't you?”
Heather nodded; she still wore a plain wedding band.
“Children?”
“Two boys,” said Heather, although she regretted it at once. She probably should have included at least one daughter. “Sixteen and nineteen.”
“And they're not the source of the problem?”
“I don't think so.”
“Are your parents still alive?”
Heather saw no reason not to answer that truthfully. “No.”
“I'm sorry.”
Heather tilted her head, accepting the comment.
They talked for another half hour, the therapist's questions seemingly innocuous.
And then she said it: “A classic case, really.”
“What?” asked Heather.
“Incest survivor.”
“What?”
“Oh, you don't consciously remember it—that's not at all unusual. But everything you've said suggests that's what happened.”
Heather tried to keep her tone flat. “That's ridiculous.”
“Denial is natural,” said Gurdjieff. “I don't expect you to come to terms with it right away.”
“But I wasn't abused.”
“Your father is dead, you said?”
“Yes.”
“Did you cry at his funeral?”
That struck a little too close to home. “No,” Heather said softly.
“It was him, wasn't it?”
“It was nobody.”
“You didn't have a much-older brother, did you? Or a grandfather who visited a lot? Maybe an uncle you were often alone with?”
“No.”
“Then it was probably your father.”
Heather tried to make her voice sound firm. “He couldn't possibly have done anything like that.”
Gurdjieff smiled sadly. “That's what everyone thinks at first. But you're suffering from what we call post-traumatic stress disorder. It's the same thing that happened to those vets from the Gulf and Colombian Wars, only instead of reliving the memories, you're repressing them.” Gurdjieff touched Heather's hand. “Look, it's nothing to be ashamed of—you have to remember that. It's nothing you did.
It's not your fault.“
Heather was quiet.
Gurdjieff lowered her voice. “It's more common than you think,” she said. “It happened to me, too.”
“Really?”
The therapist nodded. “From when I was six or so until when I was fourteen. Not every night, but often.”
“That's—that's terrible. I'm so sorry for you.”
Gurdjieff held up her left hand. “Don't feel sorry for me—or for yourself. We have to take strength from this.”
“What did you do?”
“It's too bad your father is dead; you can't confront him. That's the best thing, you know: confronting your abuser. It's enormously empowering. It's not for everyone, of course. Some women are afraid to do it, afraid that they will end up being disinherited, or cut off from the rest of their family. But when it works, it's terrific.”
“Oh?” said Heather. “You've had other patients go through this?”
“Many.”
Heather wasn't sure how hard to push it. “Anyone recently?”
“Well, I can't really talk about other patients. . .”
“Of course not. Of course not. Just in general terms, I mean. What happens? An average case.”
“Well, one of my patients did confront her abuser just last week.”
Heather felt her heart begin to race. She tried to be very careful. “Did it help him?”
“Her, actually. Yes.”
“In what way? I mean, is she free of whatever was bothering her?”
; “Yes.”
“How do you know? I mean, how can you tell it made a difference?”
“Well, this woman—I guess it won't hurt to tell you she had an eating disorder. That's common in cases like this; the other common symptom is trouble sleeping, like what you're having. Anyway she was bulimic—but she hasn't had to purge since then. See, what she really wanted to purge, what she really wanted to get out of her system, is out now.”
“But I don't think I was abused. Was she like me, unsure?”
“At first, yes. It was only later that it all came out. It'll come out for you, too. We'll find the truth and we'll face it together.”
“I don't know. I don't think this happened. And—and—I mean, come on. Incest—sexual abuse.
That's the stuff of tabloids, no? I mean, it's practically a cliché.“
“You're so wrong, it's staggering,” said Gurdjieff sharply “And it's not just you—it's society in general. You know, in the nineteen-eighties, when we really started talking about sexual abuse and incest, the topic did get a great deal of exposure. And for people like me—people who had been abused—it was a breath of fresh air. We weren't a dirty little secret anymore; the horrible things that had been done to us were out in the open, and we finally understood that it wasn't our fault. But it's an unpleasant truth, and people like you—people who saw their neighbors and their fathers and their churches in a whole new light—were uncomfortable with it. You liked it better when it was hidden away, something you didn't have to deal with. You want to force it into the background, marginalize it, remove it from the agenda, prevent it from being discussed.”
Heather thought about this. Incest, pedophilia, child abuse—they were all things that might naturally come up in psychology classes. But how often did she mention them? A passing reference here, a brief aside there—and then moving on quickly before it got too unpleasant, to Maslow's drive for self—actualization, to Adler's introverts and extroverts, to Skinner's operant conditioning. “Perhaps,” she said.