"Now, theoretical physicist Oleg Zaslavskii ... is suggesting that the ambiguity surrounding his fate was part of an elaborate illusion engineered by Majorana himself to demonstrate quantum superposition.... Majorana wanted to mirror the paradox with events in his own life...."
—"The man who was both alive and dead,” New Scientist, 5 August 2006.
* * * *
Covering the religion beat for a big city newspaper, I thought I had encountered pretty much every possible variation in mainstream faith, and every minor cult imaginable. Among the major religions, I had interviewed and sympathetically written up worshippers from Jehovah's Witnesses to Mormons, Transcendental Meditators to Wiccans, Nichiren Buddhists to Scientologists, Moslems to Shintoists. Once I had even spoken to Cardinal Ratzinger, before he became the Pope. We had been at a charity banquet together and I had asked him to pass the salt. But still....
Yet none of my fieldwork had prepared me for the Majoranists.
My editor called me in that eventful day and brusquely gave me my new assignment.
"Apparently there's some kind of strange new church on the corner of Hoyle and Wickramasinghe. Why don't you check it out?"
Armed with a small digital voice recorder, a backup notebook, and my tattered copy of Larson's New Book of Cults, I set out.
As soon as the taxi discharged me, I knew I was in for a unique experience.
The building hosting the new church literally hurt my eyes.
I couldn't seem to focus on its shape. Rooms and wings and extensions appeared to sprout and dissolve, coming and going. Eventually I gathered an impression of some kind of matrix of cubes adjoining each other at impossible angles.
Finally, by closing my eyes and advancing blindly up the walkway, I was able to attain the front door and ring a bell.
When I sensed the door swinging open, I raised my eyelids.
The person facing me, with an utterly normal reception room backgrounding him, was a young, brown-haired man of average appearance, wearing a white robe. The front of his robe bore a single large black lowercase “n."
"Hello,” said the man pleasantly. “I'm Nick, a Neutron. Welcome to the First Majoranist Temple. Won't you come in, please?"
I stepped inside and the door swung closed.
I introduced myself to Nick and explained my mission. He reacted very enthusiastically.
"This is wonderful! Our religion has never had any publicity before, and we're eager to attract converts. I'll be happy to answer any questions you might have."
"Well, first—what kind of structure is this?"
"Oh, that's simple. It's a four-dimensional tesseract. A hypercube. Have you ever read Heinlein's ‘—And He Built a Crooked House—'?"
"No, I can't say I have...."
"Well, do so! You'll learn all you need to know. But surely our church building is less interesting than our congregation and beliefs."
"Yes, you're right of course. I believe you called yourself a ‘Majoranist'...?"
"That's correct.” Nick proceeded to explain the life story of Ettore Majorana, the man who had inspired their cult.
"So,” I said, “you worship this scientist for his dedication to his field...?"
"Not at all. We merely regard him as a prophet and saint, the rock upon which our church was founded. What we worship is the Standard Model."
"The Standard Model of what?"
Nick made an exasperated face. “There is only one Standard Model, and that's the current consensus paradigm of modern physics."
"You mean, all that stuff about subatomic particles?"
"Precisely. Although your crude summary of the subject of our faith hardly does it justice. The Standard Model is, more elegantly put, mankind's best apprehension and summation and understanding of how creation works. Can you conceive of a better text for governing one's life, or a more fit object of worship?"
"I don't make judgments about anyone's beliefs, Nick. Why don't you just continue to explain things to me, as you'd like our readers to hear?"
"Very well. I'll give you a tour of our various halls of worship."
We set off across the reception room, heading toward an arched exit. When I stepped through the arch, I felt twisted through a dozen different dimensions. Suddenly I found myself in a dimly lit room not previously visible through the opening.
Tightly bunched trios of people, all in white robes adorned with various Greek and Roman letters, interspersed the room.
"All of our postulants begin as quarks,” explained Nick. “The most primal particles. Strange, charm, up, down, top, bottom. They seek to shape their mentalities so as to empathetically grok this lowest level of creation."
"Why are they all knotted up in threes?"
"Because that's how real quarks aggregate, in unbreakable sets of three."
Peering through the dimness, I realized that each knot of three concealed a fourth person in the middle. I inquired about the identity of these hidden souls.
"Oh, those are W and Z bosons. They mediate the weak force that holds the quarks together."
It all looked and sounded rather kinky to me, and I suspected that perhaps the Majoranists were another sex cult like so many before them.
But if these were orgiasts, they were stolid and dispassionate, standing motionless with no groping. I felt very confused.
Leaving the bland groups behind, we made another shocking transition, and this time I found myself in a large, bright, airy hall. The hall was filled with a tremendous number of people, most of them zipping to and fro.
"We call this room the ‘Cloud Chamber.’ After graduating from quark status,” explained Nick, “our postulants become fermions and bosons of various sorts, depending on their innate qualities. Electrons, muons, protons, leptons. Photons, gravitons and Higgs bosons. At least we think there are some Higgs bosons present—no one's ever quite seen one. But in any case, they mingle in a kind of undifferentiated cosmic soup, akin to the universal cosmic state some time after the Big Bang. Then, gradually, they settle out into atoms and molecules."
I observed the chaotic scene for a while. It resembled recess at a Montessori school. Then I asked, “Can I see the next stage too, please?"
Nick waved me off. “Oh, it's very boring at that point, I'm afraid. After the phase change, it's all mere chemistry and biology."
"Do you mind if I interview another Majoranist?"
"Well, most of my co-religionists are very energetic at this stage, but you're welcome to try."
I approached several candidates, but they all ignored me and raced off, hither and thither. Nick laughed at my efforts.
"Good luck capturing a neutrino! They don't interact with anyone! We neutrons are about the only ones who are slow and solid enough to conduct a conversation."
So I sought out another Majoranist wearing a lowercase “n” and interviewed her. She confirmed everything that Nick had told me.
The tumult of the Majoranist “service” was giving me a headache. I asked Nick if we could adjourn to the reception area, and he agreed.
Back in the anteroom, alone with Nick, I said, “It seems as if your church features no hierarchy. Don't you have leaders of any sort? Wise men and women who decide matters of doctrine?"
"Why, yes, we do. The Constants."
"The Constants?"
"The Standard Model acknowledges several universal constants. The speed of light in a vacuum, the fine-structure constant, Newton's gravitational constant. Then there are the ones named after Planck, Dirac, Boltzmann, Bohr, von Klitzing, Josephson, Fermi, and others."
"You're saying that certain Majoranists attain the rank of Constant then?"
Nick's face acquired a dreamy, reverential look, like that of a teenager coming face-to-face with a pop idol. “Yes. It's a status all of us aspire to. But although many are called, few are chosen."
"Well, I believe I've learned enough to write a feature on your church. If you'd show me out now, please...."
"Certai
nly."
Nick conducted me to what appeared to be the same door through which I had entered from the corner of Hoyle and Wickramsinghe. But when I stepped through, I found myself in Chicago, half a continent away.
After some tribulations I eventually made my way back home and began to write up my piece on the Majoranists. But in researching the Standard Model I discovered some puzzling things that caused me to return to the church.
Nick greeted me on the doorstep once again. I cautiously did not enter.
"Nick, I need to ask you some questions. What about string theory? What about quantum loop gravity? What about various GUTs? These are all rival theories that contradict the Standard Model."
Nick became enraged. He wiggled his hands through the air, sketching out what I later discovered was a complex Feynman diagram.
"Heretics! Blasphemers! Go! You are no longer welcome here!"
So I left. And because I never got my questions answered, I never wrote the article.
I was just thankful I wasn't attending a Majoranist service when their temple folded up and vanished.
[Back to Table of Contents]
[Back to Table of Contents]
Red Card by S. L. Gilbow
A proud owner of a first edition of Gravity's Rainbow, S. L. Gilbow says that he considers Thomas Pynchon to be something of an extrovert. This story marks his first published story. (Mr. Gilbow's first, that is, not Pynchon's.)
Late one April evening, Linda Jackson pulled a revolver from her purse and shot her husband through a large mustard stain in the center of his T-shirt. The official after-incident survey concluded that almost all of Merry Valley approved of the shooting. Sixty-four percent of the townspeople even rated her target selection as “excellent.” A few, however, criticized her, pointing out that shooting your husband is “a little too obvious” and “not very creative."
Dick Andrews, who had farmed the fertile soil around Merry Valley for over thirty years, believed that Larry Jackson, more than anyone else in town, needed to be killed. “I never liked him much,” he wrote in the additional comments section of the incident survey. “He never seemed to have a good word to say about anybody."
"Excellent use of a bullet,” scrawled Jimmy Blanchard. Born and raised in Merry Valley, he had known Larry for years and had even graduated from high school with him. “Most overbearing person I've ever met. He deserved what he got. I'm just not sure why it took so long."
Of course, a few people made waves. Jenny Collins seemed appalled. “I can hardly believe it,” she wrote. “We used to be much more discerning about who we killed, and we certainly didn't go around flaunting it the way Linda does.” Jenny was the old-fashioned kind.
Linda would never have called her actions “flaunting it.” Of course she knew what to do after shooting Larry. She had read The Enforcement Handbook from cover to cover six times, poring over it to see if she had missed anything, scrutinizing every nuance. She had even committed some of the more important passages to memory: Call the police immediately after executing an enforcement—Always keep your red card in a safe, dry place—Never reveal to anyone that you have a red card—Be proud; you're performing an important civic duty.
But flaunting it? No, Linda blended in better than anyone in town, rarely talked and never called attention to herself. She spent most of her days at the Merry Valley Public Library, tucked between rows of antique shelves, alone, organizing a modest collection of old books. In the evening she fixed dinner. After Larry had eaten, cleaned up, and left the house for “some time alone,” Linda would lie in bed reading Jane Austen. No, Linda never flaunted anything—never had much to flaunt.
* * * *
After she shot her husband, Linda returned the revolver to her purse and collapsed onto her oversized couch. She then picked up the telephone, set it in her lap, and tugged at her long, pale bangs—a nervous habit that drove Larry crazy. She had once considered cutting them to make him happy, but Sarah Hall from across the street had commented on how nice they looked. “They really bring out your eyes,” Sarah had said. “They make you look as pretty as a princess."
Linda would never have called herself pretty, but she always looked as nice as she could. Her makeup—tasteful and modest—came straight out of page twenty-seven of the current issue of Truly Beautiful. She applied her eyeliner, mascara, lipstick, and blush precisely according to the instructions, copying every detail of the model's face, framing each eye with two delicate, taupe lines. But she realized she could do no better than pass as the model's homely cousin.
Linda let go of her bangs, lifted the receiver and dialed a number from a yellow sticker plastered across the phone; the sticker doubled as an ad for Bob's Pizza Heaven, so she dialed carefully.
"Merry Valley Police Department."
"I'd like to report an enforcement,” said Linda.
"Linda?"
"Yes,” she replied, trying to recognize the voice.
"This is Officer Hamilton."
"Oh, thank goodness,” she said, unable to hide her relief. She admired Officer Hamilton. Once, while making his usual patrol through Merry Valley, he had pulled over to help her carry two bags of groceries, heavy with the dead weight of frozen meat and canned vegetables. He was probably just fighting boredom, but she still appreciated the help. You rarely found that kind of service anymore.
Linda paused, wondered what tone to strike, and settled on matter-of-fact. “I've just shot someone. The Enforcement Handbook says I'm supposed to call you."
"That's right,” said Officer Hamilton. “Chapter Three, I think. Who did you shoot?"
"My husband."
"Is he dead?” he asked.
Linda studied Larry, sensitive to any movement, the slightest twitch. “He's not moving.” she said. “He hasn't moved since I shot him."
"How many times did you shoot him?"
"Once,” she said.
"I'd recommend you shoot him one more time just to be sure,” said Officer Hamilton.
"No,” said Linda, “I'm sure he's dead enough.” The Enforcement Handbook recommended at least two shots, but the thought of shooting Larry again bothered Linda. The first shot hadn't been easy, in spite of what the handbook said.
"Fine then, but you'll need to come down to the station to fill out the paperwork."
"Of course,” she said. “Do I need to call someone to pick him up?” The handbook hadn't mentioned how to remove the body.
"We'll take care of that,” said Officer Hamilton. “Just come down to the station and don't forget to bring your red card. You do have a red card, don't you?"
"I do,” she said.
"Wonderful,” said Officer Hamilton.
"And I'll bring the revolver,” she said, paraphrasing a portion from chapter two of the handbook.
"And any spare ammunition you didn't use,” said Officer Hamilton. “We can reissue it with the card."
* * * *
Linda hung up, set the phone on the floor, and rose from the couch. She looked at Larry, and the longer she looked at him the more she expected him to move; it seemed so unnatural for him to be so still, so silent—he had always been in motion. Early in their courtship she pictured him as a hummingbird—a large, gawky hummingbird—but lately she saw him as something else—perhaps a mongoose.
"Larry,” she said without taking her eyes off him. She wondered if she should follow Officer Hamilton's advice and shoot him again. But there was no movement, no sound. She thought he looked like he was asleep, but then she remembered the constant rolling and snoring that marked his nights. No second shot would be needed.
Linda felt an urge to wash. She stepped around Larry's body, crossed the living room and passed through the spare bedroom into the bathroom. Linda filled the sink with warm water, adding a delightful mixture of strawberry and watermelon soap. The crimson color had never bothered her before, but now she braced herself as she plunged her hands into the water. She scrubbed her hands for more than a minute; it seemed like
the right thing to do.
After she dried her hands on a monogrammed towel, Linda went to her bedroom. Larry and Linda referred to it as the “spare bedroom,” but it was the one room Linda had all to herself, her refuge from Larry when he got wild—even wilder than usual. The room became her sanctuary, and Larry rarely entered it. Not that Linda forbade him to do so. It was just that Linda had filled it with things that made him uncomfortable. A large four-poster bed dominated the center of the room. On top of the bed were a handmade quilt, a pile of embroidered throw pillows, and a stuffed animal Larry had given to Linda years ago. Linda called the animal “Sally Cat” but lately had considered the possibility that it might be a ferret. Beside the bed stood an antique vanity bordered by two windows, each framed with lace curtains adorned with a delicate tea rose pattern. The room radiated Linda; there was little about Larry in it.
Linda scanned her closet and filtered through a row of clothes she had worn only once—a wedding dress, a pink prom dress, and an evening gown. She finally settled on a gathered lavender dress. She had once worn it to The Merry Valley Bistro, the one restaurant in town Linda looked forward to. Larry criticized her for being overdressed, and she hadn't worn the dress since. But tonight it seemed right—the lavender dress and a matching pair of high-heeled shoes. Linda wasn't sure who might be at the police station, but crowds had a way of forming in Merry Valley, and she wanted to be presentable. “Besides,” she thought, “there's no chance of Larry objecting."
When she finished dressing, Linda gathered the red card, the government revolver, and the last two rounds of ammunition, and dropped them into her purse. She checked her makeup in the vanity mirror and then, deciding she was in no mood to drive, called a taxi.
She opened the front door, paused, and surveyed the living room one last time. “Damn it, Larry,” she said. “I gave you fair warning."
FSF Magazine, February 2007 Page 14