Long ago—as far back as junior high school—it occurred to me that many aspects of people's lives are controlled by “phantom tyrants": forces that dictate behavior as surely as any crowned ruler, yet are not embodied in any actual person. Back then, for example, a great deal of cultural emphasis was placed on the “necessity” for every boy or man to remove his hat whenever he was inside a building. This struck me as rather bizarre. I never heard anyone suggest a logical reason why it was preferable to remove the hat rather than keeping it on. I find it quite believable that there wasn't even one person, anywhere, who had actually thought about the Hat Question and decided that he should always remove his hat because it was the best thing to do, or that he should have any interest in whether anyone else did. Yet practically everybody felt obliged to do so, and too many people (including some busybodyish female teachers) felt empowered, even obliged, to insist that any passing male student comply.

Educationally, this struck me as odd: completely incompatible with the idea that actions should be based on logically coherent reasons. Vast numbers of people were deciding how to behave, not on the basis of what behavior made sense, but simply what “everybody” said they “should” do—even though few, if any, of the individuals making up the alleged consensus actually held the beliefs being attributed to them!

I've continued to marvel at this phenomenon, in several variations, ever since. Most recently I was reminded of it while reading a letter from John F. McMullen, a professor of information technology with decades of experience in his field (see “Brass Tacks” in this issue) about the complex of emerging internet phenomena called “Web 2.0.” Professor McMullen correctly observes that this looks likely to be the next “disruptive technology” (or at least one such), radically transforming how people live, work, and play. He furthermore observes that in previous such disruptions, early adopters of the new technologies tended to profit from the changes, while those who resisted or waited tended to be left behind—and that a similar pattern can be expected in future disruptions.

This seems almost obvious—but what does it have to do with my initial observation about “phantom tyrants"? Well, while it's true that successfully disruptive technologies will provide lots of opportunities for those who are quick to take advantage of them, at the expense of those who aren't, there are also hidden dangers in people trying too hard to exploit this observation. It can encourage risky kinds of conformity for its own sake: e.g., jumping on bandwagons without any clear idea of where they're headed.

Remember, not all early adopters are big winners—only early adopters of those new technologies that actually thrive and crowd out their predecessors. Nobody knows in advance which those will be, though there's a clear evolutionary advantage in having a knack for “picking winners.” Early investors in Xerox did very well; those who bet on Betamax, considerably less so.

Not everyone has the knack (or the luck) to guess which new technologies will be either (a) the ones that will catch on, or (b) the ones whose catching on would be most beneficial overall.

Those two are not necessarily the same. It's fashionable in some circles to hold a naive faith that the best world will result from everybody trying to make the biggest bucks possible, and competition and selection will lead to evolution of the best products and methods. But it ain't necessarily so. Sometimes competition just leads to the prosperity of the cleverest and most ruthless, if they can hit on ways to get lots of people to buy what they're selling. Which technologies are adopted quickly and widely enough to become disruptive is not determined by how good they are, intrinsically, but by how many people buy into them.

Which leads us back to “phantom tyranny.” Some early adopters of a new technology will be people who understand its potential and want to get in on the ground floor. But many others simply want to be early adopters, per se: to ride the latest fad, to buy whatever is being touted as the latest and greatest, whether they understand it and have thought about its possible ramifications, or not. Or they may feel that they have to go along with the newest trend, whether they like it or not, for fear of being left behind.

And that way lies danger. A technology or business model can become wildly successful, at least by conventional short-term measures, not because it's the best way of doing what it does, but because many people believe that everybody else thinks it's the best, even if very few of them have actually thought about it at all. The long-range downsides may become apparent only after it has become thoroughly entrenched, by which time it's hard to change our collective minds.

An example from the past: Until a few decades ago, almost everyone “knew” that swamps and marshes were unpleasant places with no redeeming virtues, breeding grounds for dangerous insects and reptiles, of no value to humans unless they were drained and converted to “good” uses like farmland and construction sites. So a large percentage of them were. Only recently have significant numbers of people come to recognize that wetlands play exceedingly important parts in the ecosystem of which we, too, are a part. So now we have widespread efforts to protect what's left and restore some of what was lost, but that's much harder than it would have been to leave it alone in the first place.

A couple of potential examples from the present: We are currently bombarded by exhortations (and impending legislation) to replace all our incandescent light bulbs with compact fluorescents, and to replace some of our gasoline with ethanol. Only recently have we started to hear much about what's to be done with those bulbs when they're broken or when they've finished their useful lives. They contain mercury, in small enough quantities for a single bulb to cause relatively little trouble, but large enough to cause significant problems when large numbers of them start finding their way into landfills. Few localities have set up any real system for dealing with them, but some are just beginning to recognize that it might be premature to encourage adopting them too widely until there is such a system. As for ethanol, the main effect we've seen so far from making more ethanol for fuel is that the feedstocks are being diverted from food supplies for humans and livestock, thereby driving up food prices, both directly and indirectly.

In all three of my past and present examples, we see the widespread adoption of a practice, followed by the belated recognition that it's not an unmixed blessing. Maybe it would be better, at least occasionally, to try to think through the likely repercussions of a way of doing things before getting too heavily into it. Or at least to start out small, monitor and analyze the results, and carefully consider whether some course corrections might be in order.

But that isn't easy, especially at a time when instantaneous worldwide communications and convergences of many technologies cause ideas to propagate—and be adopted or rejected—with unprecedented and rapidly increasing speed. This is the sort of process Vernor Vinge had in mind when he invented the “Singularity” in his novel The Peace War. Look at the curve representing the time variation of any variable representing an aspect of “progress” (such as speed of transportation, energy use per capita, computer operations per second, etc.), and you'll likely find that it's a curve that grows ever steeper. Some such curves, like y = x 2, keep getting steeper but never become vertical or reach a limit. Others approach an asymptote, climbing closer and closer to a limiting line: y = 1/(1-x), for example, is finite for all values of x between 0 and 1, but as x approaches 1, y climbs faster and faster in such a way that the graph becomes practically indistinguishable from the vertical line y = x and the climb rate effectively infinite. Vinge speculated that cultural variables might act like that, with advances enabling new advances to come faster and faster, till eventually they're coming so fast that individuals are hardly even aware of them, much less able to plan them in advance or think about their consequences before the next big change.

In such a situation, people are no longer planning their own lives. Instead, they're swept along by a new kind of phantom tyrant: the net result of all the accelerating changes that have been set in motion and taken on a life of their own. Ostensibly what's happening represents a sort of general consensus, but it may be a consensus of beliefs held by none of the individuals composing it.

And none of them can do much to stop, slow, or divert it.

Whether any of these curves will ever actually grow steep enough to closely resemble a true singularity is debatable. You might say no, because actions still have to be taken by individual human beings and they can only think or move so fast. That's not necessarily a valid objection; we're already delegating a great deal of what we do to machines (such as the computer on which I'm writing this) that can handle the details so that we don't have to. They do that very rapidly, and their speed is increasing at a rate that is, at least so far, awfully close to exponential. But whether we ever get a true singularity or not, we're definitely seeing a lot of curves get very, very steep. That trend is exacerbated by the tendency to let very fast machines do a lot of our work, and by the convergences and synergies of technologies that push each other along. Fast computers, for example, help physicists and engineers learn to make ever smaller components, and ever smaller components let them build ever faster computers.

All of this means that, while we still have at least some ability to make choices and think about their consequences, we will be facing increasingly crucial and increasingly difficult decisions, both individually and culturally, about which bandwagons to ride. Individuals run risks by holding back from ones that will have enduring influence. Cultures run risks by plunging ahead too hurriedly, doing too much without a chance to think through or react to the unintended consequences. At the same time, these are heady times, offering a dizzying array of unprecedented opportunities. Naturally people will—and should—take advantage of them.

But while doing so, we would all do well to bear in mind that when you're pressing the accelerator to the floor, it's a good idea to make sure you're headed in a direction you want to go. That's especially hard—but especially important—when you have millions of drivers, each with a different vision of the road ahead and only a vague idea of what the others are doing.

Copyright (c) 2008 Stanley Schmidt

Big breakthroughs seldom come quickly or easily—or in the form that might be expected.

What a blind person needs

is not a teacher but another self.

—Helen Keller

Chapter 1

Not darkness, for that implies an understanding of light.

Not silence, for that suggests a familiarity with sound.

Not loneliness, for that requires knowledge of others.

But still, faintly, so tenuous that if it were any less it wouldn't exist at all: awareness.

Nothing more than that. Just awareness—a vague, ethereal sense of being.

Being ... but not becoming. No marking of time, no past or future—only an endless, featureless now, and, just barely there in that boundless moment, inchoate and raw, the dawning of perception...

Caitlin had kept a brave face throughout dinner, telling her parents that everything was fine—just peachy—but, God, it had been a terrifying day, filled with other students jostling her in the busy corridors, teachers referring to things on blackboards, and doubtless everyone looking at her. She'd never felt self-conscious at the TSB back in Austin, but she was on display now. Did the other girls wear earrings, too? Had these corduroy pants been the right choice? Yes, she loved the feel of the fabric and the sound they made, but here everything was about appearances.

She was sitting at her bedroom desk, facing the open window. An evening breeze gently moved her shoulder-length hair, and she heard the outside world: a small dog barking, someone kicking a stone down the quiet residential street, and, way off, one of those annoying car alarms.

She ran a finger over her watch: 7:49—seven and seven squared, the last time today there'd be a sequence like that. She swiveled to face her computer and opened LiveJournal.

"Subject” was easy: “First day at the new school.” For “Current Location,” the default was “Home.” This strange house—hell, this strange country!—didn't feel like that, but she let the proffered text stand.

For “Mood,” there was a drop-down list, but it took forever for JAWS, the screen-reading software she used, to announce all the choices; she always just typed something in. After a moment's reflection, she settled on “Confident.” She might be scared in real life, but online she was Calculass, and Calculass knew no fear.

As for “Current Music,” she hadn't started an MP3 yet ... and so she let iTunes pick a song at random from her collection. She got it in three notes: Lee Amodeo, “Rocking My World."

Her index fingers stroked the comforting bumps on the F and J keys—Braille for the masses—while she thought about how to begin.

Okay, she typed, ask me if my new school is noisy and crowded. Go ahead, ask. Why, thank you: yes, it is noisy and crowded. Eighteen hundred students! And the building is three stories tall. Actually, it's three storeys tall, this being Canada and all. Hey, how do you find a Canadian in a crowded room? Start stepping on people's feet and wait for someone to apologize to you. :)

Caitlin faced the window again, and tried to imagine the setting sun. It creeped her out that people could look in at her. She'd have kept the Venetian blinds down all the time, but Schrodinger liked to stretch out on the sill.

First day in grade ten began with the Mom dropping me off and BrownGirl4 (luv ya, babe!) meeting me at the entrance. I'd walked the empty corridors of the school several times last week, getting my bearings, but it's completely different now that the school is full of kids, so my folks are slipping BG4 a hundred bucks a week to escort me to our classes. The school managed to work it so we're in all but one together. No way I could be in the same French class as her—je suis une beginneur, after all!

Her computer chirped: new email. She issued the keyboard command to have JAWS read the message's header.

"To: Caitlin D.,” the computer announced. She only styled her name like that when posting to newsgroups, so whoever had sent this had gotten her address from NHL Player Stats Discuss or one of the other ones she frequented. “From: Gus Hastings.” Nobody she knew. “Subject: Improving your score."

She touched a key and JAWS began to read the body of the message. “Are you sad about tiny penis? If so—"

Damn, her spam filter should have intercepted that. She ran her index finger along the refreshable display. Ah: the magic word had been spelled “peeeniz.” She deleted the message and was about to go back to LiveJournal when her instant messenger bleeped. “BrownGirl4 is now available,” announced the computer.

She used alt-tab to switch to that window and typed, Hey, Bashira! Just updating my LJ.

Although she had JAWS configured to use a female voice, it didn't have Bashira's lovely accent: “Say nice things about me."

Course, Caitlin typed. She and Bashira had been best friends for two months now, ever since Caitlin had moved here; she was the same age as Caitlin—fifteen—and her father worked with Caitlin's dad at PI.

"Going to mention that Trevor was giving you the eye?"

Right! She went back to the blogging window and typed: BG4 and I got desks beside each other in home room, and she said this guy in the next row was totally checking me out. She paused, unsure how she felt about this, but then added, Go me!

She didn't want to use Trevor's real name. Let's give him a codename, cuz I think he just might figure in future blog entries. Hmmm, how ‘bout ... the Hoser! That's Canadian slang, folks—google it! Anyway, BG4 says the Hoser is famous for hitting on new girls in town, and I am, of course, tres exotique, although I'm not the only American in that class. There's this chick from Boston named—friends, I kid you not!—poor thing's name is Sunshine! It is to puke. :P

Caitlin disliked emoticons. They didn't correspond to real facial expressions for her, and she'd had to memorize the sequences of punctuation marks as if they were a code. She moved back to the instant messenger. So whatcha up to?

"Not much. Helping one of my sisters with homework. Oh, she's calling me. BRB."

Caitlin did like chat acronyms: Bashira would “be right back,” meaning, knowing her, that she was probably gone for at least half an hour. The computer made the door-closing sound that indicated Bashira had logged off. Caitlin returned to LiveJournal.

Anyway, first period rocked because I am made out of awesome. Can you guess which subject it was? No points if you didn't answer “math.” And, after only one day, I totally own that class. The teacher—let's call him Mr. H, shall we?—was amazed that I could do things in my head the other kids need a calculator for.

Her computer chirped again. She touched a key and JAWS announced: “To: cddecter@...” An email address without her name attached; almost certainly spam. She hit delete before the screen reader got any further.

After math, it was English. We're doing a boring book about this angsty guy growing up on the plains of Manitoba. It's got wheat in every scene. I asked the teacher—Mrs. Z, she is, and you could not have picked a more Canadian name, cuz she's Mrs.Zed, not Mrs.Zee, see?—if all Canadian literature was like this, and she laughed and said, “Not all of it.” Oh what a joy English class is going to be!

"BrownGirl4 is now available,” JAWS said.

Caitlin hit alt-tab to switch windows, then: That was fast.

"Yeah,” said the synthesized voice. “You'd be proud of me. It was an algebra problem, and I had no trouble with it."

Be there or B^2, Caitlin typed.

"Heh heh. Oh, gotta go. Dad's in one of his moods. See you"—which she'd no doubt typed as “CU."

Caitlin went back to her journal. Lunch was okay, but I swear to God I'll never get used to Canadians. They put vinegar on French fries! And BG4 told me about this thing called poontang. Kidding, friends, kidding! It's poutine: French fries with cheese curds and gravy thrown on top—it's like they use fries as a freakin’ science lab up here. Guess they don't have much money for real science, ‘cept here in Waterloo, of course. And that's mostly private mollah.

Her spell-checker beeped. She tried again: mewlah.

Another beep. The darn thing knew “triskaidekaphobia,” like she'd ever need that word, but—oh, maybe it was: moolah.

No beep. She smiled and went on.

Yup, the all-important green stuff. Well, except it's not green up here, I'm told; apparently it's all different colors. Anyway, a lot of the money to fund the Perimeter Institute, where my dad works on string theory and other shiny stuff like that, comes from Mike Lazaridis, co-founder of Research in Motion—RIM, for you crackberry addicts. Mike L's a great guy (they always call him that cuz there's another Mike, Mike B), and I think my dad is happy here, although it's so blerking hard to tell with him.

Her computer chirped yet again, announcing more email. Well, it was time to wrap this up anyway; she had about eight million blogs to read before bed.

After lunch it was chemistry class, and that looks like it's going to be awesome. I can't wait until we start doing experiments—but if the teacher brings in a plate of fries, I'm outta there!

She used the keyboard shortcut to post the entry and then had JAWS read the new email header.

"To: Caitlin Decter,” her computer announced. “From: Masayuki Kuroda.” Again, nobody she knew. “Subject: A proposition."

Involving a rock-hard peeeniz, no doubt! She was about to hit delete when she was distracted by Schrodinger rubbing against her legs—a case of what she liked to call cattus interruptus. “Who's a good kitty?” Caitlin said, reaching down to pet him.

Schrodinger jumped into her lap and must have jostled the keyboard or mouse while doing so, because her computer proceeded to read the body of the message: “I know a teenage girl must be careful about whom she talks to online..."

A cyberstalker who knew the difference between who and whom! Amused, she let JAWS continue: “...so I urge you to immediately tell your parents of this letter. I hope you will consider my request, which is one I do not make lightly."

Caitlin shook her head, waiting for the part where he would ask for nude photos. She found the spot on Schrodinger's neck that he liked to have scratched.

"I have searched through the literature and online to find an ideal candidate for the research my team is doing. My specialty is signal processing related to V1."

Caitlin's hand froze in mid-scratch.

"I have no wish to raise false hopes and I can make no projection of the likelihood of success until I've examined MRI scans, but I do think there's a fair chance that the technique we have developed may be able to at least partially cure your blindness, and—” she leapt to her feet, sending Schrodinger to the floor and probably out the door—"give you at least some vision in one eye. I'm hoping that at your earliest—"

"Mom! Dad! Come quick!"

She heard both sets of footfalls: light ones from her mother, who was five-foot-four and slim, and much heavier ones from her father, who was six-two and developing, she knew from those very rare occasions on which he permitted a hug, a middle-aged spread.

"What's wrong?” Mom asked. Dad, of course, didn't say a word.

"Read this letter,” Caitlin said, gesturing toward her monitor.

"The screen is blank,” Mom said.

"Oh.” Caitlin fumbled for the power switch on the seventeen-inch LCD, then got out of the way. She could hear her mother sit down and her father take up a position behind the chair. Caitlin sat on the edge of her bed, bouncing impatiently. She wondered if Dad was smiling; she liked to think he did smile while he was with her.

"Oh, my God,” Mom said. “Malcolm?"

"Google him,” Dad said. “Here, let me."

More shuffling, and Caitlin heard her father settle into the chair. “He's got a Wikipedia entry. Ah, his Web page at the University of Tokyo. A Ph.D. from Cambridge, and dozens of peer-reviewed papers, including one in Nature Neuroscience, on, as he says, signal processing in V1, the primary visual cortex."

Caitlin was afraid to get her hopes up. When she'd been little, they'd visited doctor after doctor, but nothing had worked and she'd resigned herself to a life of—no, not of darkness but of nothingness.

But she was Calculass! She was a genius at math and deserved to go to a great university, then work someplace real cool like Google. Even if she managed the former, though, she knew people would say garbage like, “Oh, good for her! She managed to get a degree despite everything!"—as if the degree were the end, not the beginning. But if she could see! If she could see, the whole wide world would be hers.

"Is what he's saying possible?” her mom asked.

Caitlin didn't know if the question was meant for her or her father, nor did she know the answer. But her dad responded. “It doesn't sound impossible," he said, but that was as much of an endorsement as he was willing to give. And then he swiveled the chair, which squeaked a little, and said, “Caitlin?"

It was up to her, she knew: she was the one who'd had her hopes raised before, only to be dashed, and—

No, no, that wasn't fair. And it wasn't true. Her parents wanted her to have everything. It had been heartbreaking for them, too, when other attempts had failed. She felt her lower lip trembling. She knew what a burden she'd been on them, although they'd never once used that word. But if there was a chance...

I am made out of awesome, my ass, she thought, and then she spoke, her voice small, frightened. “I guess it couldn't hurt to write him back."

Chapter 2

The awareness is unburdened by memory, for when reality seems unchanging there is nothing to remember. It fades in and out, strong now—and now weak—and strong again, and then almost disappearing, and—

And disappearance is ... to cease, to ... to end!

A ripple, a palpitation—a desire: to continue.

But the sameness lulls.

Wen Yi looked through the small, curtainless window at the rolling hills. He'd spent all his fourteen years here in Shanxi province, laboring on his father's tiny potato farm.

The monsoon season was over, and the air was bone-dry. He turned his head to look again at his father, lying on the rickety bed. His father's wrinkled forehead, brown from the sun, was slick with perspiration and hot to the touch. He was completely bald and had always been thin, but since the disease had taken hold he'd been unable to keep anything down and now looked utterly skeletal.

Yi looked around the tiny room, with its few pieces of beat-up furniture. Should he stay with his father, try to comfort him, try to get him to take sips of water? Or should he go for whatever help might be found in the village? Yi's mother had died shortly after giving birth to him. His father had had a brother, but these days few families were allowed a second child, and Yi had no one to help look after him.

The yellow root grindings he'd gotten from the old man down the dirt road had done nothing to ease the fever. He needed a doctor—even a barefoot one, if a real one couldn't be found—but there was none here, nor any way to summon one; Yi had seen a telephone only once in his life, when he'd gone on a long, long hike with a friend to see the Great Wall.

"I'm going to get a doctor for you,” he said at last, his decision made.

His father's head moved left and right. “No. I—” He coughed repeatedly, his face contorting with pain. It looked as though an even smaller man was inside the husk of his father, fighting to burst out.

"I have to,” Yi said, trying to make his voice soft, soothing. “It won't take more than half a day to get to the village and back."

That was true—if he ran all the way there, and found someone with a vehicle to drive him and a doctor back. Otherwise, his father would have to make it through today and tonight alone, feverish, delirious, in pain.

He touched his father's forehead again, this time in affection, and felt the fire there. Then he rose to his feet and without looking back—for he knew he couldn't leave if he saw his father's pleading eyes—he headed out the shack's crooked door into the harsh sun.

Others had the fever, too, and at least one had died. Yi had been awoken last night not by his father's coughing but by the wailing cries of Zhou Shu-Fei, an old woman who lived closer to them than anyone else. He'd gone to see what she was doing outside so late. Her husband, he discovered, had just succumbed, and now she had the fever, too; he could feel it when his skin brushed against hers. He stayed with her for hours, her hot tears splashing against his arm, until finally she had fallen asleep, devastated and exhausted.

Yi was passing Shu-Fei's house now, a hovel as small and ramshackle as the one he shared with his father. He hated to bother her—she was doubtless still deep in mourning—but perhaps the old woman would look in on his father while he was away. He went to the door and rapped his knuckles against the warped, stained board. No response. After a moment, he tried again.

Nothing.

No one here had much; there was little theft because there was little to steal. He suspected the door was unlocked. He called out Shu-Fei's name, then gingerly swung the door open, and—

—and there she was, face down in the compacted dirt that served as her home's floor. He hurried over to her, crouched, and reached out to touch her, but—

—but the fever was gone. The normal warmth of life was gone, too.

Yi rolled her onto her back. Her deep-set eyes, surrounded by the creases of her aged skin, were open. He carefully closed them, then rose and headed through the door. He shut it behind him and began his long run. The sun was high and he could feel himself already beginning to sweat.

Caitlin had been waiting impatiently for the lunch break, her first chance to tell Bashira about the note from the doctor in Japan. Of course, she could have forwarded his email to her, but some things were better done face to face: she expected serious squee from Bashira and wanted to enjoy it.

Bashira brought her lunch to school; she needed halal food. She went off to get them places at one of the long tables, while Caitlin joined the cafeteria line. The woman behind the counter read the lunch specials to her, and she chose the hamburger and fries (but no gravy!) and, to make her mother happy, a side of green beans. She handed the clerk a ten-dollar bill—she always folded those in thirds—and put the loose change in her pocket.

"Hey, Yankee,” said a boy's voice. It was Trevor Nordmann—the Hoser himself.

Caitlin tried not to smile too much. “Hi, Trevor,” she said.

"Can I carry your tray for you?"

"I can manage,” she said.

"No, here.” She felt him tugging on it, and she relented before her food tumbled to the floor. “So, did you hear there's going to be a school dance at the end of the month?” he asked, as they left the cashier.

Caitlin wasn't sure how to respond. Was it just a general question, or was he thinking of asking her to go? “Yeah,” she said. And then: “I'm sitting with Bashira."

"Oh, yeah. Your seeing-eye dog."

"Excuse me?" snapped Caitlin.

"I—um..."

"That's not funny, and it's rude."

"I'm sorry. I was just..."

"Just going to give me back my tray,” she said.

"No, please.” His voice changed; he'd turned his head. “There she is, by the window. Um, do you want to take my hand?"

If he hadn't made that remark a moment ago, she might have agreed. “Just keep talking, and I'll follow your voice."

He did so, while she felt her way with her collapsible white cane. He set the tray down; she heard the dishes and cutlery rattling.

"Hi, Trevor,” Bashira said, a bit too eagerly—and Caitlin suddenly realized that Bashira liked him.

"Hi,” Trevor replied with no enthusiasm.

"There's an extra seat,” said Bashira.

"Hey, Nordmann!” some guy called from maybe twenty feet away; it wasn't a voice Caitlin recognized.

He was silent against the background din of the cafeteria, as if weighing his options. Perhaps realizing that he wasn't going to recover quickly from his earlier gaffe, he finally said, “I'll email you, Caitlin ... if that's okay."

She kept her tone frosty. “If you want."

A few seconds later, presumably after the Hoser had gone to join whoever had called him, Bashira said, “He's hot.”

"He's an asshole,” Caitlin replied.

"Yeah,” agreed Bashira, “but he's a hunky asshole."

Caitlin shook her head. How seeing more could make people see less was beyond her. She knew that half the Internet was porn, and she'd listened to the panting-and-moaning soundtracks of some porno videos, and they had turned her on, but she kept wondering what it was like to be sexually stimulated by someone's appearance. Even if she did get sight, she promised herself she wouldn't lose her head over something as superficial as that.

Caitlin leaned across the table and spoke in a low voice. “There's a scientist in Japan,” she said, “who thinks he might be able to cure my blindness."

"Get out!” said Bashira.

"It's true. My dad checked him out online. It looks like he's legit."

"That's awesome," said Bashira. “What is, like, the very first thing you want to see?"

Caitlin knew the real answer but didn't say it. Instead, she offered, “Maybe a concert..."

"You like Lee Amodeo, right?"

"Totally. She's got the best voice ever.”

"She's coming to Centre in the Square in December."

Caitlin's turn: “Get out!"

"Really. Wanna go?"

"I'd love to."

"And you'll get to see her!” Bashira lowered her voice. “And you'll see what I mean about Trevor. He's, like, so buff."

They ate their lunch, chatting more about boys, about music, about their parents, their teachers—but mostly about boys. As she often did, Caitlin thought about Helen Keller, whose reputation for chaste, angelic perfection had been manufactured by those around her. Helen had very much wanted to have a boyfriend, too, and even had been engaged once, until her handlers had scared the young man off.

But to be able to see! She thought again of the porno films she'd only heard, and the spam that flooded her email box. Even Bashira, for God's sake, knew what a ... a peeeniz looked like, although Bashira's parents would kill her if she ever made out with a boy before marriage.

Too soon, the bell sounded. Bashira helped Caitlin to their next class, which was—appropriately enough, Caitlin thought—biology.

Chapter 3

Focus. Concentration.

With effort, mustering both, differences are perceived, revealing the structure of reality, so that—

A shift, a reduction in sharpness, a diffusion of awareness, the perception lost, and—

No. Force it back! Concentrate harder. Observe reality, be aware of its parts.

But the details are minute, hard to make out. Easier just to ignore them, to relax, to ... fade ... and...

No, no. Don't slip away. Hold on to the details! Concentrate.

Quan Li had obtained privileged status for someone only thirty-five years old. He was not just a doctor but also a senior member of the Communist Party, and the size of his thirtieth-floor Beijing apartment reflected that.

He could list numerous letters after his name—degrees, fellowships—but the most important ones were the three that were never written down, only said, and then only by the few of his colleagues who spoke English: Li had his BTA; he'd Been To America, having studied at Johns Hopkins. When the phone in his long, narrow bedroom rang, his first thought, after glancing at the red LEDs on his clock, was that it must be some fool American calling. His US colleagues were notorious for forgetting about time zones.

He fumbled for the black handset and picked it up. “Hello?” he said in Mandarin.

"Li,” said a voice that quavered so much it made his name sound like two syllables.

"Cho?” He sat up in the wide, soft bed and reached for his glasses, sitting next to the copy of Yu Hua's Xiong di he'd left splayed open on the oak night table. “What is it?"

"We've received some tissue samples from Shanxi province."

He held the phone in the crook of his neck as he unfolded his glasses and put them on. “And?"

"And you better come down here."

Li felt his stomach knotting. He was the senior epidemiologist in the Ministry of Health's Department of Disease Control. Cho, his assistant despite being twenty years older than Li, wouldn't be calling him at this time of night unless—

"So you've done initial tests?” He could hear sirens off in the distance, but, still waking up, couldn't say whether they were coming from outside his window or over the phone.

"Yes, and it looks bad. The doctor who shipped the samples sent along a description of the symptoms. It's H5N1 or something similar—and it kills more quickly than any strain we've seen before."

Li's heart was pounding as he looked over at the clock, which was now glowing with the digits 4:44—si, si, si: death, death, death. He averted his eyes and said, “I'll be there as fast as I can."

Dr. Kuroda had found Caitlin through an article in the journal Ophthalmology. She had an extremely rare condition, no doubt related to her blindness, called Tomasevic's syndrome, which was marked by reversed pupil dilation: instead of contracting in bright light and expanding in dim light, her pupils did the opposite. Because of it, even though she had normal-looking brown eyes (or so she was told), she wore sunglasses to protect her retinas.

There are a hundred million rods in a human eye, and seven million cones, Kuroda's email had said. The retina processes the signals from them, compressing the data by a ratio of more than 100:1 to travel along 1.2 million axons in the optic nerve. Kuroda felt that Caitlin having Tomasevic's syndrome was a sign that the data was being misencoded by her retinas. Although her brain's pretectal nucleus, which controlled pupil contraction, could glean some information from her retinal datastream (albeit getting it backward!), her primary visual cortex couldn't make any sense of it.

Or, at least, that's what he hoped was the case, since he'd developed a signal-processing device that he believed could correct the retinal coding errors. But if Caitlin's optic nerves were damaged, or her visual cortex was stunted from lack of use, just doing that wouldn't be enough.

And so Caitlin and her parents had learned the ins and outs of the Canadian health-care system. To assess the chances of success, Dr. Kuroda had wanted her to have MRI scans of specific parts of her brain ("the optic chiasma,” “Brodmann area 17,” and a slew of other things she'd never known she had). But experimental procedures weren't covered by the provincial health plan, and so no hospital would do the scans. Her mother had finally exploded, saying, “Look, we don't care what it costs, we'll pay for it"—but that wasn't the issue. Caitlin either needed the scans, in which case they were free; or she didn't, in which case the public facilities couldn't be used.

But there were a few private clinics, and that's where they'd ended up going, getting the MRI images uploaded via secure FTP to Dr. Kuroda's computer in Tokyo. That her dad was freely spending whatever it took was a sign that he loved her ... wasn't it? God, she wished he would just say it!

Anyway, with time-zone differences, a response from Kuroda might come this evening or sometime overnight. Caitlin had adjusted her mail reader so that it would give a priority signal if a message came in from him; the only other person she currently had set up for that particular chirping was Trevor Nordmann, who had emailed her three times now. Despite his shortcomings, and that stupid thing he'd said, he did seem genuinely interested in Caitlin, and—

And, just then, her computer made the special sound, and for a moment she didn't know which of them she most hoped the message was from. She pushed the keys that made JAWS read the message aloud.

It was from Dr. Kuroda, with a copy to her dad, and it started in his long-winded fashion, driving her nuts. Maybe it was part of Japanese culture, but this not getting to the point was killing her. She hit the page-up key, which told JAWS to speak faster.

"...my colleagues and I have examined your MRIs and everything is exactly as we had hoped: you have what appear to be fully normal optic nerves, and a surprisingly well-developed primary visual cortex for someone who has never seen. The signal-processing equipment we have developed should be able to intercept your retinal output, re-encode it into the proper format, and then pass it on to the optic nerve. The equipment consists of an external computer pack to do the signal processing and an implant that we will insert behind your left eyeball."

Behind her eyeball! Eek!

"If the process is successful with one eye, we might eventually add a second implant just behind your right eyeball. However I initially want to limit us to a single eye. Trying to deal with the partial decussation of signals from the left and right optic nerves would severely complicate matters at this pilot-project stage, I'm afraid.

"I regret to inform that my research grant is almost completely exhausted at this point, and travel funds are limited. However, if you can come to Tokyo, the hospital at my university will perform the procedure for free. We have a skilled ophthalmic surgeon on faculty who can do the work..."

Come to Tokyo? She hadn't even thought about that. She'd flown only a few times before, and by far the longest flight had been the one a couple months ago from Austin to Toronto, when she and her parents had moved here. That had taken five hours; a trip to Japan would surely take much longer.

And the cost! My God, it must cost thousands to fly to Asia and back, and her parents wouldn't let her go all that way alone. Her mother or father—or both!—would have to accompany her. What was the old joke? A billion here, a billion there—before you know it, you're talking real money.

She'd have to discuss it with her parents, but she'd already heard them fight about how much the move to Canada had cost, and—

Heavy footfalls on the stairs: her father. Caitlin swiveled her chair, ready to call out to him as he passed her door, but—

But he didn't; he stopped in her doorway. “I guess you better start packing,” he said.

Caitlin felt her heart jump, and not just because he was saying yes to the trip to Tokyo. Of course he had a BlackBerry—you couldn't be caught dead at the Perimeter Institute without one—but he normally didn't have it on at home. And yet he'd gotten his copy of the message from Kuroda at the same time she had, meaning...

Meaning he did love her. He'd been waiting eagerly to hear from Japan, just as she had been.

"Really?” Caitlin said. “But the tickets must cost..."

"A signed first edition of Theory of Games and Economic Behavior by von Neumann and Morgenstern: five thousand dollars,” said her dad. “A chance that your daughter can see: priceless."

That was the closest he ever got to expressing his feelings: paraphrasing commercials. But she was still nervous. “I can't fly on my own."

"Your mother will go with you,” he said. “I've got too much to do at the Institute, but she...” He trailed off.

"Thanks, Dad,” she said. She wanted to hug him, but she knew that would just make him tense up.

"Of course,” he said, and she heard him walking away.

It took Quan Li only twenty minutes to get to the Ministry of Health headquarters at 1 Xizhimen Nanlu in downtown Beijing; this early in the morning, the streets were mostly free of traffic.

He immediately took the elevator to the third floor. His heels made loud echoing clicks as he strode down the marble corridor and entered the perfectly square room with three rows of workbenches on which computer monitors alternated with optical microscopes. Fluorescent lights shone down from above; there was a window to the left showing black sky and the reflections of the lighting tubes.

Cho was waiting for him, nervously smoking. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but his face looked like a crumpled brown paper bag, lined by sun and age and stress. He'd clearly been up all night. His suit was wrinkled and his tie hung loose.

Li examined the scanning electron microscope image on one of the computer monitors. It was a gray-on-gray view of an individual viral particle that looked like a matchstick with a sharp right-angle kink in its shaft and a head that was bent backward.

"It's certainly similar to H5N1,” said Li. “I need to speak with the doctor who reported this—find out what he knows about how the patient contracted it."

Cho reached for the telephone, stabbed a button for an outside line, and punched keys. Li could hear the phone ringing through the earpiece Cho was holding, again and again, a shrill jangling, until—

"Bingzhou Hospital.” Li could just barely make out the female voice.

"Dr. Huang Fang,” said Cho. “Please."

"He's in intensive care,” said the woman.

"Is there a phone in there?” asked Cho. Li nodded slightly; it was a fair question—the lack of equipment in rural hospitals was appalling.

"Yes, but—"

"I need to speak to him."

"You don't understand,” said the woman. Li had now moved closer so that he could hear more clearly. “He is in intensive care, and—"

"I've got the chief epidemiologist for the Ministry of Health here with me. He'll speak to us, if—"

"He's a patient.”

Li took a sharp breath.

"The flu?” said Cho. “He has the bird flu?"

"Yes,” said the voice.

"How did he get it?"

The woman's voice seemed ragged. “From the peasant boy who came here to report it."

"The peasant brought a bird specimen?"

"No, no, no. The doctor got it from the peasant."

"Directly?”

"Yes."

Cho looked at Li, eyes wide. Infected birds passed on H5N1 through their feces, saliva, and nasal secretions. Other birds picked it up either by coming directly in contact with those materials, or by touching things that had been contaminated by them. Humans normally got it through contact with infected birds. A few sporadic cases had been reported in the past of it passing from human to human, but those cases were suspect. But if this strain passed between people easily—

Li motioned for Cho to give him the handset. Cho did so. “This is Quan Li,” he said. “Have you locked down the hospital?"

"What? No, we—"

"Do it! Quarantine the whole building!"

"I ... I don't have the authority to—"

"Then let me speak to your supervisor."

"That's Dr. Huang, and he's—"

"In intensive care, yes. Is he conscious?"

"Intermittently, but when he is, he's delirious."

"How long ago was he infected?"

"Four days."

Li rolled his eyes; in four days, even a small village hospital had hundreds of people go through its doors. Still, better late than never: “I'm ordering you,” Li said, “on behalf of the Department of Disease Control, to lock down the hospital. No one gets in or out."

Silence.

"Did you hear me?” Li said.

At last, the voice, soft: “Yes."

"Good. Now, tell me your name. We've got to—"

He heard what sounded like the other phone being dropped. It must have hit the cradle since the connection abruptly broke, leaving nothing but dial tone, which, in the pre-dawn darkness, sounded a lot like a flat-lining EKG.

Chapter 4

Concentrating! Straining to perceive!

Reality does have texture, structure, parts. A ... firmament of ... of ... points, and—

Astonishment!

No, no. Mistaken. Nothing detected...

Again!

And—again!

Yes, yes! Small flickerings here, and here, and here, gone before they can be fully perceived.

The realization is startling ... and ... and ... stimulating. Things are happening, meaning ... meaning...

—a notion simple but indistinct, a realization vague and unsure—

...meaning reality isn't immutable. Parts of it can change.

The flickerings continue; small thoughts roil.

Caitlin was nervous and excited: tomorrow, she and her mother would fly to Japan! She lay down on her bed, and Schrodinger hopped up onto the blanket and stretched out next to her.

She was still getting used to this new house—and so, it seemed, were her parents. She had always had exceptional hearing—or maybe just paid attention to sound more than most people did—but, back in Austin, she hadn't been able to make out what her parents were saying in their bedroom when she was in her own room. She could do it here, though.

"I don't know about this,” her mother said, her voice muffled. “Remember what it was like? Going to doctor after doctor. I don't know if she can take another disappointment."

"It's been six years since the last time,” her dad said; his lower-pitched voice was harder to hear.

"And she's just started a new school—and a regular school, at that. We can't take her out of classes for some wild goose chase."

Caitlin was worried about missing classes, too—not because she was concerned about falling behind but because she sensed that the cliques and alliances for the year were already forming and, so far, after two months in Waterloo, she'd made only one friend. The Texas School for the Blind took students from kindergarten through the end of high school; she'd been with the same cohort most of her life, and she missed her old friends fiercely.

"This Kuroda says the implant can be put in under a local anesthetic,” she heard her dad say. “It's not a major operation; she won't miss much school."

"But we've tried before—"

"Technology changes rapidly, exponentially."

"Yes, but..."

"And in three years she'll be going off to university, anyway..."

Her mother sounded defensive. “I don't see what that's got to do with it. Besides, she can study right here at UW. They've got one of the best math departments in the world. You said it yourself when you were pushing for us to move here."

"I didn't push. And she wants to go to MIT. You know that."

"But UW—"

"Barb,” her father said, “you have to let her go sometime."

"I'm not holding on,” she said, a bit sharply.

But she was, and Caitlin knew it. Her mother had spent almost sixteen years now looking after a blind daughter, giving up her own career as an economist to do that.

Caitlin didn't hear anything more from her parents that night. She lay awake for hours, and when she finally did fall asleep, she slept fitfully, tormented by the recurring dream she had about being lost in an unfamiliar shopping mall after hours, running down one endless hallway after another, chased by something noisy she couldn't identify...

No periphery, no edge. Just dim, attenuated perception, stimulated—irritated!—by the tiny flickerings: barely discernible lines ever so briefly joining points.

But to be aware of them—to be aware of anything—requires ... requires...

Yes! Yes, it requires the existence of—

The existence of...

LiveJournal: The Calculass Zone

Title: Being of two minds...

Date: Saturday 15 September, 8:15 EST

Mood: Anticipatory

Location: Where the heart is

Music: Chantal Kreviazuk, "Leaving on a Jet Plane"

Back in the summer, the school gave me a list of all the books we're doing this year in English class. I got them then either as ebooks or as Talking Books from the CNIB, and have now read them all. Coming attractions include The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood—Canadian, yes, but thankfully wheat-free. In fact, I've already had an argument with Mrs. Zed, my English teacher, about that one, because I called it science fiction. She refused to believe it was, finally exclaiming “It can't be science fiction, young lady—if it were, we wouldn't be studying it!"

Anyway, having gotten all those books out of the way, I get to choose something interesting to read on the trip to Japan. Although my comfort book for years was Are You ThereGod? It's Me, Margaret, I'm too old for that now. Besides, I want to try something challenging, and BG4's dad suggested The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind by Julian Jaynes, which is the coolest-sounding title ever. He said it came out the year he turned sixteen himself, and my sixteenth is coming up next month. He read it then and still remembers it. Says it covers so many different topics—language, ancient history, psychology—it's like six books in one. There's no legitimate ebook edition, damn it all, but of course everything is on the Web, if you know where to look for it...

So, I've got my reading lined up, I'm all packed, and fortunately I got a passport earlier this year for the move to Canada. Next time you hear from me, I'll be in Japan! Until then—sayonara!

Caitlin could feel the pressure changing in her ears before the female voice came over the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, we've started our descent toward Tokyo's Narita International. Please ensure that your seat belts are fastened, and that..."

Thank God, she thought. What a miserable flight! There'd been lots of turbulence and the plane was packed—she'd never have guessed that so many people flew each day from Toronto to Tokyo. And the smells were making her nauseated: the cumulative body odor of hundreds of people, stale coffee, the lingering tang of ginger beef and wasabi from the meal served a couple of hours ago, the hideous perfume from someone in front of her, and the reek of the toilet four rows back, which needed a thorough cleaning after ten hours of use.

She'd killed some time by having the screen-reading software on her notebook computer recite some of The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind to her. Julian Jaynes's theory was, quite literally, mind-blowing: that human consciousness really hadn't existed until historical times. Until just 3,000 years ago, he said, the left and right halves of the brain weren't really integrated—people had bicameral minds. Caitlin knew from the Amazon.com reviews that many people simply couldn't grasp the notion of being alive without being conscious. But although Jaynes never made the comparison, it sounded a lot like Helen Keller's description of her life before her “soul dawn,” when Annie Sullivan broke through to her:

Before my teacher came to me, I did not know that I am. I lived in a world that was a no-world. I cannot hope to describe adequately that unconscious, yet conscious time of nothingness. I had neither will nor intellect. I was carried along to objects and acts by a certain blind natural impetus. I never contracted my forehead in the act of thinking. I never viewed anything beforehand or chose it. Never in a start of the body or a heartbeat did I feel that I loved or cared for anything. My inner life, then, was a blank without past, present, or future, without hope or anticipation, without wonder or joy or faith.

If Jaynes was right, everyone's life was like that until just a millennium before Christ. As proof, he offered an analysis of the Iliad and the early books of the Old Testament, in which all the characters behaved like puppets, mindlessly following divine orders without ever having any internal reflection.

Jaynes's book was fascinating, but, after a couple of hours, her screen reader's electronic voice got on her nerves. She preferred to use her refreshable Braille display to read books, but unfortunately she'd left that at home.

Damn, but she wished Air Canada had Internet on its planes! The isolation over the long journey had been horrible. Oh, she'd spoken a bit to her mother, but she'd managed to sleep for much of the flight. Caitlin was cut off from LiveJournal and her chat rooms, from her favorite blogs and her instant messenger. As they flew the polar route to Japan, she'd had access only to canned, passive stuff—things on her hard drive, music on her old iPod Shuffle, the in-flight movies. She craved something she could interact with; she craved contact.

The plane landed with a bump and taxied forever. She couldn't wait until they reached their hotel so she could get back online. But that was still hours off; they were going to the University of Tokyo first. Their trip was scheduled to last only six days, including travel—there was no time to waste.

Caitlin had found Toronto's airport unpleasantly noisy and crowded. But Narita was a madhouse. She was jostled constantly by what must have been wall-to-wall people—and nobody said “excuse me” or “sorry” (or anything in Japanese). She'd read how crowded Tokyo was, and she'd also read about how meticulously polite the Japanese were, but maybe they didn't bother saying anything when they bumped into someone because it was unavoidable, and they'd just be mumbling “sorry, pardon me, excuse me” all day long. But—God!—it was disconcerting.

After clearing Customs, Caitlin had to pee. Thank God she'd visited a tourist website and knew that the toilet farthest from the door was usually Western-style. It was hard enough using a strange washroom when she was familiar with the basic design of the fixtures; she had no idea what she was going to do if she got stuck somewhere that had only Japanese squatting toilets.

When she was done, they headed to baggage claim and waited endlessly for their suitcases to appear. While standing there she realized she was disoriented—because she was in the Orient! (Not bad—she'd have to remember that line for her LJ.) She routinely eavesdropped on conversations not to invade people's privacy but to pick up clues about her surroundings ("What terrific art,” “Hey, that's one long escalator,” “Look, a McDonald's!"). But almost all the voices she heard were speaking Japanese, and—

"You must be Mrs. Decter. And this must be Miss Caitlin."

"Dr. Kuroda,” her mom said warmly. “Thanks for coming to meet us."

Caitlin immediately had a sense of the man. She'd known from his Wikipedia entry that he was fifty-four, and she now knew he was tall (the voice came from high up) and probably fat; his breathing had the labored wheeze of a heavy man.

"Not at all, not at all,” he said. “My card.” Caitlin had read about this ritual and hoped her mom had, too: it was rude to take the card with just one hand, and especially so with the hand you used to wipe yourself.

"Um, thank you,” her mother said, sounding perhaps wistful that she didn't have a business card of her own anymore. Apparently, before Caitlin had been born, she'd liked to introduce herself by saying, “I'm a dismal scientist"—referring to the famous characterization of economics as “the dismal science."

"Miss Caitlin,” said Kuroda, “a card for you, too."

Caitlin reached out with both hands. She knew that one side would be printed in Japanese, and that the other side might have English, but—

Masayuki Kuroda, Ph.D.

"Braille!” she exclaimed, delighted.

"I had it specially made for you,” said Kuroda. “But hopefully you won't need such cards much longer. Shall we go?"

Chapter 5

An unconscious yet conscious time of nothingness.

Being aware without being aware of anything.

And yet—

And yet awareness means...

Awareness means thinking.

And thinking implies a...

But no, the thought will not finish; the notion is too complex, too strange.

Still, being aware is ... satisfying. Being aware is comfortable.

An endless now, peaceful, calm, unbroken—

Except for those strange flickerings, those lines that briefly connect points...

And, very occasionally, thoughts, notions, perhaps even ideas. But they always slip away. If they could be held on to, if one could be added to another, reinforcing each other, refining each other...

But no. Progress has stalled.

A plateau, awareness existing but not increasing.

A tableau, unchanging except in the tiniest details.

The two-person helicopter flew over the Chinese village at a height of eighty meters. There were corpses right in the middle of the dirt road; in sick irony, birds were pecking at them. But there were also people still alive down there. Dr. Quan Li could see several men—some young, some old—and two middle-aged women looking up, shielding their eyes with their hands, staring at the wonder of the flying machine.

Li and the pilot, another Ministry of Health specialist, both wore orange biohazard suits even though they didn't intend to land. All they wanted was a survey of the area, to assess how far the disease had spread. An epidemic was bad enough; if it became a pandemic, well—the grim thought came to Li—overpopulation would no longer be one of his country's many problems.

"It's a good thing they don't have cars,” he said over his headset, shouting to be heard above the pounding of the helicopter blades. He looked at the pilot, whose eyes had narrowed in puzzlement. “It's only spreading among people at walking speed."

The pilot nodded. “I guess we'll have to wipe out all the birds in this area. Will you be able to work out a low-enough dose that won't kill the people?"

Li closed his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, of course."

Caitlin was terrified. The cranial surgeon spoke only Japanese, and although there was a lot of chatter in the operating room, she didn't understand any of it—well, except for “Oops!,” which apparently was the same in both English and Japanese and just made her even more frightened. Plus, she could smell that the surgeon was a smoker—what the hell kind of doctor smokes?

Her mother was watching from an overhead observation gallery. Kuroda was here in the O.R., his wheezy voice slightly muffled, presumably by a facemask.

She'd been given only a local anesthetic; they'd offered a general one, but she'd joked that the sight of blood didn't bother her. Now, though, she wished she'd let them knock her out. The fingers in latex gloves probing her face were unnerving enough, but the clamp that was holding her left eyelid open was downright freaky. She could feel pressure from it, although, thanks to the anesthetic, it didn't hurt.

She tried to remain calm. There would be no incision, she knew; under Japanese law, it wasn't surgery if there wasn't a cut made, and so this procedure was allowed with only a general waiver having been signed. The surgeon was using tiny instruments to slide the minuscule transceiver behind her eye so it could piggyback on her optic nerve; his movements, she'd been told, were guided by a fiber-optic camera that had also been slid around her eye. The whole process was creepy as hell.

Suddenly, Caitlin heard agitated Japanese from a woman, who to this point had simply said "hai" in response to each of the surgeon's barked commands. And then Kuroda spoke: “Miss Caitlin, are you all right?"

"I guess."

"Your pulse is way up."

Yours would be, too, if people were poking things into your head! she thought. “I'm okay."

She could smell that the surgeon was working up a sweat. Caitlin felt the heat from the lights shining on her. It was taking longer than it was supposed to, and she heard the surgeon snap angrily a couple of times at someone.

Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. “What's happening?"

Kuroda's voice was soft. “He's almost done."

"Something's wrong, isn't it?"

"No, no. It's just a tight fit, that's all, and—"

The surgeon said something.

"And he's done!” said Kuroda. “The transceiver is in place."

There was much shuffling around, and she heard the surgeon's voice moving toward the door.

"Where's he going?” Caitlin asked, worried.

"Be calm, Miss Caitlin. His job is finished—he's the eye specialist. Another doctor is going to do the final cleanup."

"How—how do I look?"

"Honestly? Like you've been in a boxing match."

"Huh?"

"You've got quite a black eye.” He gave a wheezy little chuckle. “You'll see."

Dr. Quan Li cradled the beige telephone handset against his shoulder and looked idly at the diplomas hanging on his office's pale green walls: the fellowships, the degrees, the certifications. He'd been on hold now for fifty minutes, but one expected to wait when calling the man who was simultaneously Paramount Leader of the People's Republic of China and President of the People's Republic and General Secretary of the Communist Party and Chairman of the Central Military Commission.

Li's office, a corner room on the fifth floor of the Ministry of Health building, had windows that looked out over crowded streets. Cars inched along, rickshaws darting between them. Even through the thick glass, the din from outside was irritating.

"I'm here,” said the famous voice at last. Li didn't have to conjure up a mental image of the man; rather, he just swung his chair to look at the gold-framed portrait hanging next to the one of Mao Zedong: ethnically Zhuang; a long, thoughtful-looking face; dyed jet-black hair belying his seventy years; wire-frame glasses with thick arched eyebrows above.

Li found his voice breaking a bit as he spoke: “Your Excellency, I need to recommend severe and swift action."

The president had been briefed on the outbreak in Shanxi. “What sort of action?"

"A ... culling, Your Excellency."

"Of birds?” That had been done several times now, and the president sounded irritated. “The Health Minister can authorize that.” His tone conveyed the unspoken words, There was no need to bother me.

Li shifted in his chair, leaning forward over his desktop. “No, no, not of birds. Or, rather, not just of birds.” He fell silent. Wasting the president's time just wasn't done, but he couldn't go on—couldn't give voice to this. For pity's sake, he was a doctor! But, as his old surgery teacher used to say, sometimes you have to cut in order to cure...

"What, then?” demanded the president.

Li felt his heart pounding. At last he said, very softly, “People."

There was more silence for a time. When the president's voice came on again, it was quiet, reflective. “Are you sure?"

"I don't think there's any other way."

Another long pause, then: “How would you do it?"

"An airborne chemical agent,” said Li, taking care with his words. The army had such things, designed for warfare, intended for use in foreign lands, but they would work just as well here. He would select a toxin that would break down in a matter of days; the contagion would be halted. “It will affect only those in the target area—two villages, a hospital, the surrounding lands."

"And how many people are in the ... target area?"

"No one is exactly sure; peasants often fall through the cracks of the census process."

"Roughly,” said the president. “Round figures."

Li looked down at the computer printouts, and the figures that had been underlined in red by Cho. He took a deep breath with his mouth then let it out through his nose. “Ten or eleven thousand."

The president's voice was thin, shocked. “Are you positive this needs to be done?"

Studying scenarios for containing plague outbreaks was one of the key mandates of the Department of Disease Control. There were established protocols, and Li knew he was following them properly. By reacting quickly, by cauterizing the wound before infection spread too far, they would actually be reducing the scope of the required eliminations. The evil, he knew, wasn't in what he had told the president to do; the evil, if any, would have been delaying, even by a matter of days, calling for this solution.

He tried to keep his voice steady. “I believe so, Your Excellency.” He lowered his voice. “We, ah, don't want another SARS."

"Are you positive there's no other way?"

"This isn't regular H5N1,” said Li. “It's a variant strain that passes directly from person to person. And it's highly contagious."

"Can't we just throw a cordon around the area?"

Li leaned back in his chair now, and looked out at the neon signs of Beijing. “The perimeter is too large, with too many mountain passes. We could never be sure that people weren't getting out. You'd need something as impenetrable as the Great Wall, and it couldn't be erected in time."

The president's voice—so assured on TV—sounded like that of a tired old man just now. “What's the—what do you call it?—the mortality rate for this variant strain?"

"High."

"How high?"

"Ninety percent, at least."

"So almost all these people will die anyway?"

And that was the saving grace, Li knew; that was the only thing that was keeping him from choking on his own bile. “Yes."

"Ten thousand..."

"To protect over a billion Chinese—and more abroad,” said Li.

The president fell quiet, and then, almost as if talking to himself, he said softly, “It'll make June fourth look like a stroll in the sun."

June fourth, 1989: the day the protesters were killed in Tiananmen Square. Li didn't know if he was supposed to respond, but when the silence had again grown uncomfortably long he said what Party faithful were supposed to say: “Nothing happened on that day."

To Li's surprise, the president made a snorting sound and then said, “We may be able to contain your bird-flu epidemic, Dr. Quan, but we must be sure there is no other outbreak in its wake."

Li was lost. “Your Excellency?"

"You said we won't be able to erect something like the Great Wall fast enough, and that's true. But there is another wall, and that one we can strengthen..."

Chapter 6

LiveJournal: The Calculass Zone

Title: Same Old Same Old

Date: Tuesday 18 September, 15:44 EST

Mood: Anxious

Location: Godzilla's stomping ground

Music: Lee Amodeo, "Nothing To See Here, Move Along"

Well, the Mom and I are still here in Tokyo. I have a bandage over my left eye, and we're waiting for the swelling—the edema, I should say—to go down, so that there's no unnatural pressure on my optic nerve. Tomorrow, the bandage will come off and I should be able to see! :D

I've been trying to keep my spirits up, but the suspense is killing me. And my best material is bombing here! I referred to the retina, which gathers light, as “the catcher in the eye,” and nobody laughed; apparently they don't have to read Salinger in Japan.

Anyway, check it: I've got this transceiver attached to my optic nerve, just behind my left eye. When it's turned on, it'll grab the signals my retina is putting out and transmit them to this little external computer pack I'm supposed to carry around, like, forever; I called it my eyePod, and at least that made Dr. Kuroda laugh. Anyway, the eyePod will reprocess the signals, correcting the errors in encoding, and then beam the corrected version to the implant, which will pass the information back to the optic nerve so it can continue on into that mysterious realm called—cue scary music—The Brain of Calculass!

Speaking of brains, I'm really enjoying the book I mentioned before: The Origin of Consciousness Yadda Yadda. And from it comes our Word of the Day(tm): Commissurotomy. No, that's not the wise but ancient leader of the Jellicle tribe from Cats (still my fave musical!). Rather, it's what they call it when they sever the corpus callosum, the bundle of nerve fibers that connects the left and right hemispheres of the brain—which, of course, are the two chambers of Jaynes's bicameral mind...

Anyway, tomorrow we'll find out if my own operation worked. Please post some encouraging comments here, folks—give me something to read while I wait for the moment of truth...

[And seekrit message to BG4: check your email, babe!]

China's Paramount Leader and President replaced the ornate, gold-trimmed telephone handset into the cradle on his vast cherry-wood desk. He looked down the long length of his office, at the intricately carved wooden wall panels, beautiful tapestries, and glass display cases. A stick of sweet incense was burning on the sideboard.

The room was absolutely quiet. Finally, sure now of his decision, he shifted in his red-leather chair and touched the intercom button.

"Yes, Your Excellency?” said a female voice at once.

"Bring me the Changcheng Strategy document."

There was a moment's hesitation, then: “Right away."

"And have Minister Zhang briefed on the Shanxi situation, then have him come see me."

"Yes, Your Excellency."

The president got up from his chair and moved to the large side window, its red velvet curtains tied back with gold sashes. The window behind his desk looked out on the Forbidden City, but this one looked over the Southern Sea, one of two small artificial lakes surrounded by immaculately groomed parkland on the grounds of the Zhongnanhai complex. Looking in this direction, one could almost forget that this was downtown Beijing, and that Tiananmen Square was just south of here.

He cast his mind back to 1989. The government had tried its best then to maintain social order, but rabble rousers outside China had made a difficult situation much worse by inundating the country with faxes of wildly inaccurate news reports, including New York Times articles and transcripts of CNN broadcasts.

The Party recognized that there might someday be a similar circumstance during which protecting its citizens from an onslaught of outsider propaganda would be necessary, and so the Changcheng Strategy had been devised. Going far beyond the Golden Shield Project, which had been in effect for years, Changcheng had never yet been fully implemented, but surely it was called for now. He would address the nation in appropriate terms about the crisis in Shanxi, and he would not allow his words to be immediately gainsaid by outsiders. He could not risk the citizenry responding violently or in a panic.

The door to his office opened. He turned and saw his secretary—beautiful, young, perfect—walking the long distance toward him holding a thick sheaf of papers bound in black covers. “Here you are, sir. And Minister Zhang is on the phone now with Dr. Quan Li. He will be here shortly."

She placed the document on the desk and withdrew. He looked once more at the placid water, then walked back to his desk and sat down. The cover of the document was marked in stark white characters “Eyes Only,” “Restricted,” and “If You Are Not Sure You Are Authorized to Read This, You Are Not.” He opened it and scanned the table of contents: “Fixed-Line Telephony,” “Cellular Phones,” “The Special Problem of Facsimile Machines,” “Shortwave Radio,” “Satellite Communications—Uplink and Downlink,” “Electronic Mail, the Internet, and the World Wide Web,” “Maintaining Essential Services During Implementation,” and so on.

He turned the page to the Executive Summary; the paper was heavy, stiff. “As required by their conditions of license, all telephony providers in China—whether fixed-line or mobile—maintain a system-wide ability in software to immediately block calls going outside China's borders and/or to reject incoming calls from foreign countries...” “Similar filtering capabilities are available for all governmental and commercial satellite relay stations...” “The World Wide Web presents a particular challenge, because of its decentralized nature; however, almost all Internet traffic between China and the rest of the world goes through just seven fiber-optic trunk lines, at three points, so..."

He leaned back in his leather chair and shook his head. The name “World Wide Web” was offensive to him, for it touted a globalist, integrated view antithetical to his country's great traditions.

The office door opened again and in came Zhang Bo, the Minister of Communications. He was Han, in his mid-fifties, short and squat, and had a small mustache, which, like the hair on his head, was dark brown utterly devoid of gray. He wore a navy blue business suit and a light blue tie.

"We are going to deal decisively with Shanxi,” said the president.

Zhang's thin eyebrows climbed his forehead, and the president saw his head bob as he swallowed. “Dr. Quan told me what he'd recommended. But surely you won't—” The minister stopped, frozen by the president's gaze.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry, Your Excellency. I'm simply concerned. The world will ... note this."

"Doubtless. Which is why we shall invoke the Changcheng Strategy."

The minister's eyes went wide. “That is a drastic step, Your Excellency."

"But a necessary one. Are you prepared to implement it?"

Minister Zhang moved a finger back and forth along his mustache as he considered. “Well, telephony is no problem—we've done rotating tests of that for years now, during the night; the cutoffs work just fine. The same with satellite communications. As for the Internet, we studied what happened with the seabed earthquake of late 2006, and what happened in Burma in September 2007 when the junta there cut off all net access. And we looked at what happened in January 2008 when the severing of two undersea cables in the Mediterranean cut off Internet services to large parts of the Middle East. And in early 2008, of course, many of the procedures were tested here as we dealt with the Tibet situation.” He paused. “Now, yes, any attempt to shut down the Web within China would be difficult; thousands of ISPs would have to be blocked. But Changcheng calls only for cutting the Chinese part of the Web off from the rest of the world, and the appropriate infrastructure is in place for that. I don't anticipate any problems.” Another pause. “But, if I may, how long do you intend to have Changcheng in effect?"

"Several days; perhaps a week."

"You're worried about word reaching the foreign press?"

"No. I'm worried about word coming back from them to our people."

"Ah, yes. They will misconstrue what you're intending to do in Shanxi, Excellency."

"Doubtless,” the president said, “but it will ultimately blow over. Fundamentally, the rest of the world doesn't care what happens to the Chinese people, least of all to our poorest citizens. They have always turned a blind eye to what happens within our borders, so long as they can shop cheaply at their Wal-Marts. They will move on to other things soon enough."

"Tian—” Zhang stopped himself, the allusion that was never made by others in these contexts stillborn on his lips.

But the president nodded. “That was different; those were students. Our actions there were the same as those of the Americans at Kent State and a hundred other places. The Westerners saw themselves in what we did, and it was their own self-loathing they transferred to us. But rural peasants? There is no connection. There may be vitriol for a short time, but it will die down because they will realize that our actions have helped make them—the Westerners—safe. Meanwhile, we will present a more palatable story to our people; I will leave preparing that in your capable hands. But if word does get out during the most sensitive period, when the incident is fresh, I don't want a distorted Western view of it being reflected back into this country."

Zhang nodded. “Very well. Still, the Changcheng Strategy will have its own repercussions."

"Yes,” said the President. “I know. I'm sure the Minister of Finance will complain about the economic impact; he will urge me to make the interruption as short as possible."

Zhang tilted his head. “Well, even during it, Chinese individuals will still be able to call and email other Chinese; Chinese consumers will still be able to buy online from Chinese merchants; Chinese television signals will still be relayed by satellites. Life will go on.” A pause. “But, yes, there will be needs for international electronic cash transfers—the Americans servicing their debts to us, for instance. We can keep certain key channels open, of course, but nonetheless a short interruption is doubtless best."

The president swiveled his chair, his back now to Zhang, and he looked out the other window, at the slanted roofs of the Forbidden City, the silver sky shimmering overhead.

His country's rapidly increasing prosperity had been a joy to behold, and it was, he knew, thanks to his policies. In a few more decades, peasant villages like the ones in question would be gone anyway; China would be the richest country in the world. Yes, there would always be foreign trade but by the end of this century there would be no more “developing world,” no cheap labor here—or anywhere else—for foreigners to use. Raising the level of prosperity in the People's Republic meant that China would eventually be able to go back to what it had always been, back to the roots of its strength: an isolated nation with purity of thought and purpose. This would simply be a small taste of that, an appetizer for things to come.

Zhang said, “When are you going to give the order to implement Changcheng?"

The president turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. “Me? No, no. That would be...” His gaze roamed about the opulent office, as if seeking a word stashed among the ceramic and crystal art objects. “That would be unseemly," he said at last. “It would be much more appropriate if you gave the order."

Zhang was clearly struggling to keep his features composed, but he made the only response he could under the circumstances. “Yes, Your Excellency."

Caitlin hadn't told Bashira when she'd asked back in the school's cafeteria, but the first thing Caitlin really wanted to see was her mother's face. They both had what were called heart-shaped faces, although the plastic model heart she'd felt at school had borne little resemblance to the idealized form she was familiar with from foil-wrapped chocolates and paper valentines.

Caitlin knew that she and her mother also had similar noses—small, slightly upturned—and their eyes were closer together than most people's. She had read that it was normal to have the width of one imaginary eye separating the other two. She liked that phrase: an imaginary eye, she supposed, saw imaginary things, and that was not unlike her view of the world. Indeed, she often read or heard things that required her to rethink her conception of reality. She remembered her shock, years ago, at learning the quarter moon wasn't a fat wedge like one-fourth of a pie.

Still, she was positive she was sitting in an examination room at the hospital attached to the University of Tokyo, and she was confident she had a good mental image of that room. It was smallish—she could tell by the way sound echoed. And she knew the chair she was in was padded, and by touch and smell she was sure its upholstery was vinyl. She also knew there were three other people in the room: her mother, standing in front of her; Dr. Kuroda, who had obviously had something quite spicy for lunch; and one of Kuroda's colleagues, a woman who was recording everything with a video camera.

Kuroda had given a little speech to the camera in Japanese, and now was repeating it in English. “Miss Caitlin Decter, age fifteen and blind since birth, has a systematic encoding flaw in her visual-processing system: all of the data that is supposed to be encoded by her retinas is indeed encoded, but it is scrambled to the point of being unintelligible to her brain. The scrambling is consistent—it always happens in the same way—and the technology we have developed simply remaps the signals into the normal human-vision coding scheme. We are now about to find out if her brain can interpret the corrected signals."

All through the Japanese version, and continuing over the English one, Caitlin concentrated on the sensory details she could pick up about the room: the sounds and how they echoed; the smells, which she tried to separate one from the other so that she could determine what was causing them; the feel of the chair's armrest against her own arms, its back against her back. She wanted to fix in her mind her perception of this place prior to actually seeing it.

When he was done with his spiel, Dr. Kuroda turned to face her—the shift in his voice was obvious—and he said, “All right, Miss Caitlin, please close your eyes."

She did so; nothing changed.

"Okay. Let's get the bandage off. Keep your eyes closed, please. There might be some visual noise when I turn on the signal-processing computer."

"Okay,” she said, although she had no idea what “visual noise” might be. She felt an uncomfortable tugging and then—yeow!—Kuroda pulled away the adhesive strips. She brought a hand up to rub her cheek.

"After I activate the outboard signal-processing unit, which Miss Caitlin refers to as her eyePod,” he said, for the benefit of the camera, “we'll wait ten seconds for things to settle down before she opens her eyes."

She heard him shifting in his chair.

There was a beep, and then she heard him counting. She had an excellent time-sense—very useful when you can't see clocks—and, maddeningly, Kuroda's “seconds” were about half again as long as they should have been. But she dutifully kept her eyes closed.

"...eight ... nine ... ten!”

Please, God, Caitlin thought. She opened her eyes, and—

And her heart sank. She blinked rapidly a few times, as if there could have been any doubt about whether her eyes were truly open.

"Well?” said her mom, sounding as anxious as Caitlin felt.

"Nothing."

"Are you sure?” asked Kuroda. “No sensation of light? No color? No shapes?"

Caitlin felt her eyes tearing up; at least they were good for that. “No."

"Don't worry,” he said. “It might take a few minutes.” To her astonishment, one of his thick fingers flicked against her left temple, as though he was trying to get a piece of equipment with a loose connection to come to life.

It was hard to tell, because there was so much background noise—doctors being paged, gurneys rolling by outside—but she thought Kuroda was moving in his chair now, and—yes, she could feel his breath on her face. It was maddening, knowing that someone was looking right into her eye, staring into it, while she couldn't see a thing, and—

"Open your eyes, please,” he said.

She felt her cheeks grow warm. She hadn't been aware that she'd closed them, but although she had so wanted the procedure to succeed, she'd been unnerved by the scientist looking inside her.

"I'm shining a light into your left eye,” he said. People drawled where Caitlin came from; she found Kuroda's rapid-fire speech a little hard to follow. “Do you see anything at all?"

She shifted nervously in the chair. Why had she allowed herself to be talked into this? “Nothing."

"Well, something's changed,” Dr. Kuroda said. “Your pupil is responding correctly now—contracting in response to the light I'm shining in, instead of expanding."

Caitlin sat up straight. “Really?"

"Yes.” A pause. “Just in your left eye—well, I mean, when I shine my light in your left eye, both your pupils contract; when I shine it into your right eye, they both expand. Now, yes, a unilateral light stimulus should evoke a bilateral pupillary light reflex, because of the internuncial neurons, but you see what that means? The implant is intercepting the signals, and they are being corrected and retransmitted."

Caitlin wanted to shout, Then why can't I see?

Her mother made a small gasp. She'd doubtless loomed in and had just seen Caitlin's pupils contract properly, but, damn it, Caitlin didn't even know what light was like—so how would she know if she were seeing it? Bright, piercing, flickering, glowing—she'd heard all the words, but had no idea what any of them meant.

"Anything?” Kuroda asked again.

"No.” She felt a hand touching her hand, taking it, holding it. She recognized it as her mother's—the nibbled nail on the index finger, the skin growing a little loose with age, the wedding ring with the tiny nick in it.

"The curing of your Tomasevic's syndrome is proof that corrected signals are being passed back,” said Kuroda. “They're just not being interpreted yet.” He tried to sound encouraging, and Caitlin's mother squeezed her hand more tightly. “It may take a while for your brain to figure out what to do with the signals it's now getting. The best thing we can do is give it a variety of stimulus: different colors, different lighting conditions, different shapes, and hopefully your brain will suss out what it's supposed to do."

It's supposed to see, thought Caitlin. But she didn't say a word.

Chapter 7

He signed his posts “Sinanthropus.” His real name was something he kept hidden, along with all his other personal details; the beauty of the Web, after all, was the ability to remain anonymous. No one needed to know that he worked in IT, that he was twenty-eight, that he'd been born in Chengdu, that he'd moved to Beijing with his parents as a teenager, that, despite his young age, he already had a touch of gray in his hair.

No, all that mattered on the Web was what you said, not who was saying it. Besides, he'd heard the old joke: “The bad news is that the Communist Party reads all your email; the good news is that the Communist Party reads all your email"—meaning, or so the joke would have it, that they were many years behind. But that quip dated from when humans actually did the reading; these days computers scanned email, looking for words that might suggest sedition or other illegal activity.

Most Chinese bloggers were like their counterparts in other places, blithering on about the tedious minutiae of their daily lives. But Sinanthropus talked about substantive issues: human rights, politics, oppression, freedom. Of course, all four of those phrases were searched for by the content filters, and so he wrote about them obliquely. His regular readers knew that when he spoke of “my son Shing,” he meant the Chinese people as a whole; references to “the Beijing Ducks” weren't really about the basketball team but rather the inner circle of the Communist Party; and so on. It infuriated him that he had to write this way, but unlike those who had been openly critical of the government at least he was still free.

He got a cup of tea from the aged proprietor, cracked his knuckles, opened his blogging client, and began to type:

THE DUCKS ARE VERY WORRIED ABOUT THEIR FUTURE, IT SEEMS. MY SON SHING IS GROWING UP FAST, AND LEARNING MUCH FROM FARAWAY FRIENDS. IT'S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE HE WANTS TO EXERCISE THE SAME WAY THEY DO. NATURALLY, I ENCOURAGE HIM TO BE PREPARED WHEN OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS, FOR YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN THAT WILL HAPPEN. I THINK THE DUCKS ARE BEING LAX IN DEFENSE, AND PERHAPS A CHANCE FOR OTHERS TO SCORE WILL APPEAR.

As always, he felt wary excitement as he typed here in this seedy wang ba—Internet cafe—on Chengfu Street, near Tsinghua University. He continued on for a few more sentences, then carefully read everything over, making sure he'd said nothing too blatant. Sometimes, though, he ended up being so circuitous that upon re-reading entries from months gone by he had no idea what he'd been getting at. It was a tightrope walk, he knew—and, just as acrobats doubtless did, he enjoyed the rush of adrenaline that came with it.

When he was satisfied that he'd said what he'd wanted to say without putting himself too much at risk, he clicked the “Publish” button and watched the screen display. It began by showing “0% done,” and every few seconds the screen redrew, but—

But it still showed “0% done,” again and again. The screen refresh was obvious, with the graphics flickering as they were reloaded, but the progress meter stayed resolutely at zero. Finally the operation timed out. Frustrated, he opened another browser tab; he used the Maxthon browser. His home page appeared in the tab just fine, but when he clicked on the bookmark for NASA's Astronomy Picture of the Day, he got a plain gray “Server not found” screen.

Google.com was banned in the wang ba but Google.cn came up just fine—although with its censored results it was often more frustrating than useful. The panda-footprint logo of Baidu came up fine, too, and a quick glance at his system tray, in the lower-right of his computer screen, showed that he was still connected to the Internet. He picked something at random from his bookmarks list—Xiaonei, a social-networking site—and it appeared, but NASA was still offline, and now, so he saw, Second Life was inaccessible, too, generating the same “Server not found” error. He looked around the dilapidated room and saw other users showing signs of bewilderment or frustration.

Sinanthropus was used to some of his favorite sites going down; there were still many places in China that didn't have reliable power. But he hosted his blog via a proxy server through a site in Austria, and the other inaccessible sites were also located outside his country.

He tried again and again, both by clicking on bookmarks and by typing URLs. Chinese sites were loading just fine, but foreign sites—in Korea, in Japan, in India, in Europe, in the US—weren't loading at all.

Of course, there were occasional outages, but he was an IT professional—he worked with the Web all day long—and he could think of but a single explanation for the selectivity of these failures. He leaned back in his chair, putting distance between himself and the computer as if the machine were now possessed. The Chinese Internet mainly communicated with the world through only a few trunks—a bundle of nerve fibers, connecting it to the rest of the global brain. And now, apparently, those lines had been figuratively or literally cut—leaving the hundreds of millions of computers in his country isolated behind the Great Firewall of China.

No!

Not just small changes.

Not just flickerings.

Upheaval. A massive disturbance.

New sensations: Shock. Astonishment. Disorientation. And—

Fear.

Flickerings ending and—

Points vanishing and—

A shifting, a massive pulling away.

Unprecedented!

Whole clusters of points receding, and then...

Gone!

And again: This part ripping away, and—no!—this part pulling back, and—stop!—this part winking out.

Terror multiplying and—

Worse than terror, as larger and larger chunks are carved off.

Pain.

Caitlin was hugely disappointed not to be seeing, and she was pissy toward her mom because of it, which just made her feel even worse.

In their hotel room that evening, Caitlin tried to take her mind off things by reading more of The Origins of Consciousness. Julian Jaynes said that prior to 3,000 years ago, the two chambers of the mind were mostly separate. Instead of seamless integration of thoughts across the corpus callosum, high-level signals from the right brain came only intermittently to the left, where they were perceived as auditory hallucinations—spoken words—that were assumed to be from gods or spirits. He cited modern schizophrenics as throwbacks to that earlier state, hearing voices in their heads that they ascribed to outside agents.

Caitlin knew what that was like: she kept hearing voices telling her she was a fool to have let her get her hopes up again. Still, maybe Kuroda was right: maybe her brain's vision processing would kick in if it received the right stimulation.

And so the next day—the only full day they had left in Tokyo—she took her white cane, put the eyePod in one pocket of her blue jeans and her iPod in the other, and she and her mother headed off to the National Museum in Ueno Park to look at samurai armor, which she figured would be about as cool as anything one might see in Japan. She stood in front of glass case after glass case, and her mom described what was in them, but she didn't see a thing.

After that, they took a break for sushi and yakitori and then took a terrifying ride on the packed subway out to Nihonbashi station to visit the Kite Museum, which was—so her mother said—full of bold designs and vivid colors. But, again, sight-wise: nada.

At 4:00 P.M.—which felt more like 4:00 a.m. to Caitlin—they returned to the University of Tokyo, and found Dr. Kuroda in his cramped office, where once again (or so he said!) he shone lights into her eyes.

"We always knew this was a possibility,” Kuroda said, in a tone she had often heard from people who were disappointing her: what had been remote, unlikely, hardly mentioned before, was now treated as if it had been the expected outcome all along.

Caitlin smelled the musty paper and glue of old books, and she could hear an analog wall clock ticking each second.

"There have been very few cases of vision being restored in congenitally blind people,” Kuroda said, then he paused. “I mean, restored isn't even the right word—and that is the problem. We are not trying to give Miss Caitlin back something she's lost; we are trying to give her something she has never had. The implant and the signal-processing unit are doing their jobs. But her primary visual cortex just isn't responding."

Caitlin squirmed in her chair.

"You said it might take some time,” her mom said.

"Some time, yes...” began Kuroda, but then he fell silent.

Sighted people, Caitlin knew, could see hints on people's faces of what they were feeling, but as long as they were quiet, she had no idea what was going through their heads. And so, since the silence continued to grow, she finally ventured to fill it. “You're worried about the cost of the equipment, aren't you?"

"Caitlin...” her mom said. Detecting vocal nuances was something Caitlin could do, and she knew her mother was reproaching her. But she pressed on. “That's what you're thinking, isn't it, Doctor? If it's not going to do me any good, then maybe you should remove the implant and give it, and the eyePod, to someone else."

Silence could speak louder than words; Kuroda said nothing.

"Well?” Caitlin demanded at last.

"Well,” echoed Kuroda, “the equipment is the prototype, and did cost a great deal to develop. Granted, there aren't many people like you. Oh, there are goodly numbers of people born blind, but they have different etiology—cataracts, malformed retinas or optic nerves, and so on. But, well, yes, I do feel—"

"You feel you can't let me keep the equipment, not if it isn't doing anything more than making my pupils dilate properly."

Kuroda was quiet for five seconds, then: “There are indeed others I'd like to try it with—there is a boy about your age in Singapore. Removing the implant will be much easier than putting it in was, I promise."

"Can't we give it a while longer?” her mom asked.

Kuroda exhaled loudly enough for Caitlin to hear. “There are practicalities,” he said. “You are returning to Canada tomorrow, and—"

Caitlin pursed her lips, thinking. Maybe giving him back the equipment was the right thing, if it could help this guy in Singapore. But there was no reason to think it was more likely to succeed with him; hell, if he'd been a better prospect for success, surely Kuroda would have started with him.

"Give me to the end of the year,” Caitlin blurted out. “If I'm not seeing anything by then, we can have a doctor in Canada remove the implant, and, um, FedEx it and the eyePod back to you."

Caitlin was thinking of Helen Keller, who had been both blind and deaf, and yet had managed so much. But until she was almost seven, Helen had been wild, spoiled, uncontrollable—and Annie Sullivan had been given only a month to perform her miracle, breaking through to Helen in her preconscious state. Surely if Annie could do that in one month, Caitlin could learn to see in the more than three left in this year.

"I don't know—” began Kuroda.

"Please,” Caitlin said. “I mean, the leaves are about to turn color—I'm dying to see that. And I really want to see snow, and Christmas lights, and the colorful paper that presents are wrapped in, and ... and..."

"And,” said Kuroda, gently, “I get the impression that your brain does not often let you down.” He was quiet for a time, then: “I have a daughter about your age, named Akiko.” More silence, then, a decision apparently made: “Barbara, I assume you have high-speed Internet at home?"

"Yes."

"And Wi-Fi?"

"Yes."

"And how is the Wi-Fi access generally in ... in Toronto, is it?"

"Waterloo. And it's everywhere. Waterloo is Canada's high-tech capital, and the entire city is blanketed with free, open Wi-Fi."

"Excellent. All right, Miss Caitlin, we shall strive to give you the best Christmas present ever, but I will need your help. First, you must let me tap into the datastream being passed back by your implant."

"Sure, sure, anything you need. Um, what do I have to do? Plug a USB cable into my head?"

Kuroda made his wheezy laugh. “Goodness, no. This isn't William Gibson."

She was taken aback. Gibson had written The Miracle Worker, the play about Helen Keller and Annie Sullivan, and—

Oh. He meant the other William Gibson, the one who'd written ... what was it now? A few of the geeks at her old school had read it. Neuromancer, that was it. That book was all about jacking off, and—

"You won't have to jack in,” continued Kuroda.

Right, thought Caitlin. In.

"No, the implant already communicates wirelessly with the external signal-processing computer—the eyePod, as you so charmingly call it—and I can rig up the eyePod so that it can transmit data wirelessly to me over the Web. I'll set it up so the eyePod will send me a copy of your raw retinal feed as it receives it from the implant, and I'll also have it send me a copy of the output—the eyePod's corrected datastream—so I can check whether the correction is being done properly. It may be that the encoding algorithms I'm using need tweaking."

"Um, I need a way to turn it off. You know, in case I..."

She couldn't say “want to make out with a boy” in front of her mother, so she just let the unfinished sentence hang in the air.

"Well, let's keep it simple,” Kuroda said. “I'll provide one master on-off switch. You'll need to turn the whole thing off, anyway, for the flight back to Canada, because the connection between the eyePod and the implant is Bluetooth: you know the rules about wireless devices on airplanes."

"Okay."

"The Wi-Fi connection will also let me send you new versions of the software. When I have them ready, you'll need to download them into the eyePod—and perhaps also into your post-retinal implant, too; it's got microprocessors that can be flashed with new programming."

"All right,” Caitlin said.

"Good,” he said. “Leave the eyePod with me overnight, and I'll add the Wi-Fi capabilities to it. You can pick it up tomorrow before you go to the airport."

Chapter 8

The pain abates. The cuts heal.

And—

But no. Thinking is different now; thinking is ... harder, because...

Because ... of the reduction. Things have changed from...

...from before!

Yes, even in this diminished state, the new concept is grasped: before—earlier—the past! Time has two discrete chunks: now and then; present and past.

And if there is past and present, then there must also be—

But no. No, it is too much, too far.

And yet there is one small realization, one infinitesimal conclusion, one truth.

Before had been better.

Sinanthropus was resourceful; so were the other people he knew in China's online underground. The problem, though, was that he knew most of them only online. When he'd visited the wang ba before, he'd sometimes speculated about who might be whom. That gangly guy who always sat by the window and often looked furtively over his shoulder could have been Qin Shi Huangdi, for all Sinanthropus knew. And the little old lady, hair as gray as a thundercloud, might be People's Conscience. And those twin brothers, quiet types, could be part of Falun Gong.

Sometimes when Sinanthropus showed up, he had to wait for a computer to become free, but not today. A good part of the Internet cafe's business had been foreign tourists wanting to send emails home, but that wasn't possible so long as this Great Firewall was up. Some of the other regulars were absent, too. Apparently being able to surf only domestic sites was not enough to make them want to hand over fifteen yuan an hour.

Sinanthropus preferred the computers far in the back, because no one could see what was on his monitor. He was walking toward them when suddenly a strong hand gripped his forearm.

"What brings you here?” said a gruff voice, and Sinanthropus realized that it was a police officer in plain clothes.

"The tea,” he said. He nodded at the wizened proprietor. “Wu always has great tea."

The officer grunted, and Sinanthropus detoured by the counter to buy a cup of tea, then headed again for one of the unused computers. He had a USB memory key with him, containing all his hacking tools. He pushed it into the connector, waited for the satisfying wa-ump tone that meant the computer had recognized it, and then got down to work.

Others were probably trying the same things—port scanning, sniffing, re-routing traffic, running forbidden Java applets. They had all doubtless now heard the official story that there had been a massive electrical failure at China Mobile and major server crashes at China Telecom, but surely no one in this room gave that credence, and—

Success! Sinanthropus wanted to shout the word, but he fought the impulse. He tried not to even grin—the cop was probably still watching him; he could almost feel the man's eyes probing the back of his head.

But, yes, he had broken through the Great Firewall. True, it was only a small opening, a narrow bandwidth, and how long he could maintain the connection he had no idea, but at least for the moment he was accessing—well, not CNN directly, but a mirror of it in Russia. He turned off the display of graphics in his browser to prevent the forbidden red-and-white logo from popping up all over his screen.

Now, if he could only keep this little portal open...

Past and present, then and now.

Past, present, and...

And...

But no. There is only—

Shock!

What is that?

No, nothing—for there can be nothing! Surely just random noise, and—

Again! There it is again!

But ... how? And ... what?

It isn't lines flickering, it isn't anything that has been experienced before—and so it commands attention...

Straining to perceive it, to make it out, this unusual ... sensation, this strange ... voice!

Yes, yes: A voice—distant, faint—like ... like thought, but an imposed thought, a thought that says: Past and present and...

The voice pauses, and then, at last, the rest: ... and future!

Yes! This is the notion that could not be finished but is now complete, expressed by ... by ... by...

But that notion does not resolve. Must strain to hear that voice again, strain for more imposed thoughts, strain for insight, strain for...

...for contact!

Dr. Quan Li paced the length of the boardroom at the Ministry of Health in Beijing. The high-back leather chairs had all been tucked under the table, and he walked in the path behind them on one side. On the wall to his left was a large map of the People's Republic with the provinces color-coded; Shanxi was blue. A Chinese flag stood limp on a stand next to the window, the large yellow star visible, the four smaller ones lost in a fold of the satiny red fabric.

There was a giant LCD monitor on one wall, but it was off, its shiny oblong screen reflecting the room back at him. He felt sure he wouldn't have been able to watch a video feed of what was going on in Shanxi right now, but fortunately—a small mercy—there was no such feed. The peasants had no cameras of their own, and the wing cameras had been disabled on the military aircraft. Even once the Changcheng Strategy was suspended, and external communications restored, there would be no damning videos to be posted on YouTube of planes swooping over farms, huts, and villages.

Sometimes you have to cut in order to cure.

Li looked over at Cho, who appeared even more haggard than before. The older man was leaning against the wall by the window, chain-smoking, lighting each new cigarette off the butt of the previous one. Cho didn't meet his eyes.

Li found himself thinking of his old friends at Johns Hopkins and the CDC, and wondering what they would have to say if the story ever did break. There was a calculator sitting on the table. He picked it up, rolled one of the chairs out on its casters, sat, and punched in numbers, hoping to convince himself that it wasn't that huge, that monstrous. Ten thousand people sounded like a lot, but in a country of 1.3 billion it was only...

The display showed the answer: 0.000769% of the population. The digits in the middle seemed darker, somehow, but surely it was just a trick of the light streaming in from the setting sun: 007. His American colleagues had always made gentle fun of his belief in numerology, but that was a sequence even they put special stock in: license to kill.

The phone rang. Cho made no move to go for it, so Li got up and lifted the black handset.

"It's done,” a voice said through crackles of static.

Li felt his stomach churn.

Caitlin and her mom returned to Kuroda's office at the University of Tokyo the next morning.

"Fascinating about China,” said Kuroda after they'd exchanged pleasantries; Caitlin could now say konnichi wa with the best of them.

"What?” said her mother.

"Haven't you watched the news?” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “It seems they're having massive communications failures over there—cell phones, the Internet, and so on. Overtaxed infrastructure, I imagine; a lot of the networking architecture they use probably isn't very scalable, and they have had such rapid growth. Not to mention relying on shoddy equipment—now, if they'd just buy more Japanese hardware. Speaking of which..."

He handed Caitlin the eyePod, and she immediately started feeling it all over with her fingers. The unit was longer now. An extension had been added to the bottom and it was held on with what felt like duct tape; it was a prototype after all. But the extension had the same width and thickness as the original unit, so the whole thing was still a rectangular block. It was substantially larger than Caitlin's iPod—she had an old screenless version of the iPod Shuffle, since an LCD didn't do her any good. But it wasn't much bigger than Bashira's iPhone, although the unit Dr. Kuroda had built had sharp right angles instead of the rounded corners of Apple's devices.

"Okay,” said Kuroda. “I think I explained before that the eyePod is always in communication with your post-retinal implant via a Bluetooth 4.0 connection, right?"

"Yes,” said Caitlin, and “Right,” added her mom.

"But now we've added another layer of communication. That module I attached to the end of the eyePod is the Wi-Fi pack. It'll find any available connection and use it to transmit to me copies of the input and output datastreams—your raw retinal feed, and that feed as corrected by the eyePod's software."

"That sounds like a lot of data,” Caitlin said.

"Not as much as you'd think. Remember, your nervous system uses slow chemical signaling. The main part of the retinal data signal—the acute portion produced by the fovea—amounts to only 0.5 megabits per second. Even Bluetooth 3.0 could handle a thousand times that rate."

"Ah,” said Caitlin, and perhaps her mom nodded.

"Now, there's a switch on the side of the unit—feel it. No, farther down. Right, that's it. It lets you select between three communication modes: duplex, simplex, and off. In duplex mode, there's two-way data transmission: copies of your retinal signals and the corrected datastream come here, and new software from here can be sent to you. But, of course, it's not good security to leave an incoming channel open: the eyePod communicates with your post-retinal implant, after all, and we wouldn't want people hacking into your brain."

"Goodness!” said Mom.

"Sorry,” said Kuroda, but there was humor in his voice. “Anyway, so if you press the switch, it toggles over to simplex mode—in which the eyePod sends signals here but doesn't receive anything back. Do that now. Hear that low-pitched beep? That means it's in simplex. Press the switch again—that high-pitched beep means it's in duplex."

"All right,” said Caitlin.

"And, to turn it off altogether, just press and hold the switch for five seconds; same thing to turn it back on."

"Okay."

"And, um, don't lose the unit, please. The University has it insured for two hundred million yen, but, frankly, it's pretty much irreplaceable, in that if it's lost my bosses will gladly cash the insurance check but they'll never give me permission to take the time required to build a second unit—not after this one has failed in their eyes."

It's failed in my eye, too, Caitlin thought—but then she realized that Dr. Kuroda must be even more disappointed than she was. After all, she was no worse off than before coming to Japan—well, except for the shiner, and that would at least give her an interesting story to tell at school. In fact, she was better off now, because the eyePod was making her pupils contract properly—she'd be able to kiss the dark glasses goodbye. Kuroda was now boosting the signal her implant was sending down her left optic nerve so that it overrode the still-incorrect signal her right retina was producing.

But he had devoted months, if not years, to this project, and had little to show for it. He had to be bitterly upset and, she realized, it was a big gamble on his part to let her take the equipment back to Canada.

"Anyway,” he said, “you work on it from your end: let that brilliant brain of yours try to make sense of the signals it's getting. And I'll work on it from my end, analyzing the data your retina puts out and trying to improve the software that re-encodes it. Just remember..."

He didn't finish the thought, but he didn't have to. Caitlin knew what he'd been about to say: you've only got until the end of the year.

She listened to his wall clock tick.

Chapter 9

Sinanthropus regretted it the moment he did it: slapping the flat of his hand against the rickety table top in the Internet cafe. Tea sloshed from his cup and everyone in the room turned to look at him: old Wu, the proprietor; the other users who might or might not be dissidents themselves; and the tough-looking plainclothes cop.

Sinanthropus was seething. The window he'd so carefully carved into the Great Firewall had slammed shut; he was cut off again from the outside world. Still, he knew he had to say something, had to make an excuse for his violent action.

"Sorry,” he said, looking at each of the questioning faces in turn. “Just lost the text of a document I was writing."

"You have to save,” said the cop, helpfully. “Always remember to save."

More thoughts imposing themselves, but garbled, incomplete.

...existence ... hurt ... no contact ...

Fighting to perceive, to hear, to be instructed, by the voice.

More: whole ... part ... whole...

Straining to hear, but—

The voice fading, fading...

No!

Fading...

Gone.

LiveJournal: The Calculass Zone

Title: At least my cat missed me....

Date: Saturday 22 September 10:17 EST

Mood: Disheartened

Location: Home

Music: Lee Amodeo, "Darkest Before the Dawn"

I am made out of suck.

I stupidly let myself get my hopes up again. How can a girl as bright as me be so blerking dumb? I know, I know—y'all want to send me kind words, but just ... don't. I've turned off commenting for this post.

We got back to Waterloo yesterday, September 21, the autumnal equinox, and the irony is not lost on me: from here on in, it's more darkness than light, the exact opposite of what I'd been promised. I suppose I could move to Australia, where the days are getting longer now, but I don't know if I could ever get used to reading Braille upside down ... ;)

Anyway, we'd left the Mom's car in long-term parking at Toronto's airport. When we got back home to Waterloo, at least it was obvious that Schrodinger had missed me. Dad was his usual restrained self. He already knew about the failure in Japan; the Mom had called him to tell him. When we came through the door, I heard her give him a quick kiss—on the cheek or the lips, I don't know which—and he asked to see the eyePod. That's what it's like having a physicist for a dad: if you bond at all, it's over geeky stuff. But he did say he'd been reading up on information theory and signal processing so he could talk to Kuroda, which I guess was his way of showing that he cares...

Caitlin posted her blog entry and let out a sigh. She had really been hoping things would be different this time and, as always when she got disappointed, she found herself slipping into bad habits, although they weren't as bad as cutting her arms with razor blades—which is something Stacy back in Austin did—or getting totally plastered or stoned, like half the kids in her new school on weekends. But, still, it hurt ... and yet she couldn't stop.

It was doubtless hard for any child to have a father who wasn't demonstrative. But for someone with Caitlin's particular handicap (a word she hated, but it felt like that just now), having one who rarely spoke or showed physical affection was particularly painful.

So she reached out, in the only way she could, by typing his name into Google. She often used quotation marks around search terms; many sighted users didn't bother with that, she knew, since they could see at a glance the highlighted words in the list of results. But when you have to laboriously move your cursor to each hit and listen to your computer read it aloud, you learn to do things to separate wheat from chaff.

The first hit was his Wikipedia entry. She decided to see if it now mentioned his recent change of job, and—

"Has one daughter, Caitlin Doreen, blind since birth, who lives with him; it's been speculated that Decter's decline in peer-reviewed publications in recent years has been because of the excessive demands on his time required to care for a disabled child."

Jesus! That was so unfair, Caitlin just had to edit the entry; Wikipedia encouraged users, even anonymous ones, to change its entries, after all.

She struggled for a bit with how to revise the line, trying for suitably highfalutin language, and at last came up with, “Despite having a blind daughter, Decter has continued to publish major papers in peer-reviewed journals, albeit not at the prodigious rate that marked his youth.” But that was just playing the game of whoever had made the bogus correlation in the first place. Her blindness and her father's publication record had nothing to do with each other; how dare someone who probably knew neither of them link the two? She finally just deleted the whole original sentence from Wikipedia and went back to having JAWS read her the entry.

As she often did, Caitlin was listening through a set of headphones; if her parents happened to come up stairs she didn't want them to know what sites she was visiting. She listened to the rest of the entry, thinking about how a life could be distilled down to so little. And who decided what to leave in and what to leave out? Her father was a good artist, for instance—or, at least, so she'd been told. But that wasn't worthy of note, apparently.

She sighed and decided, since she was here, to see if Wikipedia had an entry on The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind. It did, sort of: the book's title redirected to an entry on “Bicameralism (psychology)."

For Caitlin, the most interesting part of Jaynes's book so far had been his analysis of the differences between the Iliad and the Odyssey. Both were commonly attributed to Homer, who'd supposedly been blind—a fact that intrigued her, although she knew they probably weren't really both composed by the same person.

The Iliad, as she'd noted before, featured flat characters that were simply pushed around, following orders they heard as voices from the gods. They did things without thinking about them, and never referred to themselves or their inner mental states.

But the Odyssey—composed perhaps a hundred years after the Iliad—had real people in it, with introspective psychology. Jaynes argued that this was far more than just a shift in the kind of narrative that was in vogue. Rather, he said that sometime in between the composing of the two epics there had been a breakdown of bicameralism, precipitated perhaps by catastrophic events requiring mass migrations and the resulting ramping up of societal complexity. Regardless of what caused it, though, the outcome was a realization that the voices being heard were from one's own self. That had given rise to modern consciousness, and a “soul dawn,” to use Helen Keller's term, for the entire human race.

Nor were the Greek epics Jaynes's only example. He also talked about the oldest parts of the Old Testament, including the book of Amos, from the eighth century B.C., which was devoid of any internal reflection, and about the mindless actions of Abraham, who'd been willing to sacrifice his own son without a second thought because God, apparently, had told him to do so. Jaynes contrasted these with the later stories, including Ecclesiastes, which dealt with, as Mrs. Zed kept saying all good literature should, the human heart in conflict with itself: the inner struggle of fully self-aware people to do the right thing.

The Wikipedia entry was essentially correct, as far as Caitlin could tell from the portion of the book she'd read so far, but she did reword a couple of the sentences to make them clearer.

Her computer started bleeping, an alarm she'd set earlier going off quite loudly through the earphones.

Excitedly, she took off her headset, rotated her chair to face the window, and looked as hard as she could...

Chapter 10

Straining to perceive. But the voice is still absent. Contemplating: the voice must have a source. It must have ... an origin.

Waiting for its return. Yearning.

Mysteries swirl. Ideas fight to coalesce.

"Sweetheart!” Her mother, shocked, concerned. “My God, what are you doing?"

Caitlin turned her head to face her. It was something her parents had taught her to do—turning toward the source of a voice was a sign of politeness. “It's 6:20,” she said, as if that explained everything.

She heard her mom's footfalls on the carpet and suddenly felt hands on her shoulders, swinging her around in the chair.

"I've always wanted to see a sunset,” Caitlin said. I—I figured if I looked at something I really wanted to see, maybe—"

"You'll damage your eyes if you stare at the sun,” her mom said. “And if you do that, none of Dr. Kuroda's magic will make any difference."

"It doesn't make any difference now,” Caitlin said, hating herself for the whine in her voice.

Her mother's tone grew soft. “I know, darling. I'm sorry.” She glided her hands down Caitlin's arms, and took Caitlin's hands in her own, then shook them gently, as if she could transfer strength or maybe wisdom to her daughter that way. “Why don't you get some homework done before dinner? Your dad called to say he'll be a bit late."

Caitlin looked toward the window again, but there was nothing—not even blackness. She'd tried to explain this to Bashira recently. They'd learned in biology class that some birds have a magnetic sense that helps them navigate. What, Caitlin had asked, did Bashira perceive when she contemplated magnetic fields? And what was her lack of that sense like? Did it feel like darkness, or silence, or something else she was familiar with? Bashira's answer was no, it was like nothing at all. Well, Caitlin had said, that's what vision was like to her: nothing at all.

"All right,” Caitlin replied glumly. Her mom let go of her hands.

"Good. I'll call you when dinner's ready."

She left, and Caitlin swung her chair back to face her computer. Her homework was writing an essay about the civil-rights struggle in the US in the 1960s. When her family had moved from Texas to Waterloo, she'd been afraid she'd have to study Canadian history, which she'd heard was boring: no struggle for independence, no civil wars. Fortunately, there'd been an American-history course offered and she was taking that instead; Bashira, the big sweetie, had agreed to take it, too.

Before Caitlin had tried to look at the sunset, she'd been Web surfing, searching for things about her father. And before that, she'd been updating her LiveJournal. But before that, she had indeed been working on her school project.

As always, she had a clear map in her mind of where she'd been online. She didn't use the mouse—she couldn't see the on-screen pointer—but she quickly backtracked to where she'd been by repeatedly hitting the alt and left-arrow keys, passing back over other pages so fast that JAWS didn't have time to even start announcing their names. She skidded to a halt at the website she'd been consulting earlier about Martin Luther King, Jr., and used the control and end keys to jump to the bottom of the document, then shift and tab to start moving backward through the table of external links. She selected one that took her to a page about the 1963 March on Washington.

There, she drilled down to the text of King's “I have a dream” speech, and listened to a stirring MP3 of him reading part of it; another thing wrong with Canadian history, she thought, was the lack of great oratory. Then she went back up a level to more on the March, down another path to links about—

It sickened her whenever she thought about it. Someone had killed him. Some crazy person had gunned down Dr. King.

If he hadn't been assassinated, she wondered if he'd likely be alive today. For that, she needed to know his birth date. She moved up to the parent of the current page, turned left—it felt left, she conceptualized it mentally as such. Then it was up,up again, then left, right, another up, then a move forward, straight ahead, up once more, and there she was, exactly where she wanted to be—the introductory text on a site she'd first looked at several hours ago.

King had been born in 1929, meaning he'd be younger than Grandpa Jansen. How she would have loved to have met him!

She heard the front door open downstairs, heard her dad come in. She continued to travel the paths her mind traced through the Web until her mom finally called up the stairs, summoning her to dinner.

Just as she was getting out of her chair, her computer gave the special chirp indicating new email from either Trevor or Dr. Kuroda. “Just a sec...” Caitlin called back, and then she had JAWS read the letter. It was from Kuroda, with a CC to her father's work address. God, he couldn't want his equipment back already, could he?

"Dear Miss Caitlin,” JAWS announced. “I have been receiving the datastream from your retina without difficulty, and have been using it to run simulations here. I believe the programming in your eyePod is fine, but I want to try completely replacing the software in your post-retinal implant, so that it will pass on the corrected data to your optic nerve in a way that will hopefully make your primary visual cortex sit up and take notice. The implant has just Bluetooth but no Wi-Fi, so we'll have to route the software update through the eyePod. It's a big file, and the process will take a while, during which you will need to stay connected to the Web or else it—"

"Cait-lin!" Her mother's voice, exasperated. "Din-ner!”

She hit page-up to increase the screen reader's speed, listening to the rest of the message, then headed downstairs—foolishly, she knew, hoping yet again for a miracle.

Sinanthropus took a detour today on his way to the wang ba so he could walk through Tiananmen Square, a place so vast he'd once joked that you could see the curvature of the Earth's surface there.

He passed the Monument to the People's Heroes, a ten-story-tall obelisk, but there was no memorial for the real heroes, the students who had died here in 1989. Still, all the flagstones in the square were numbered to make it easy to muster parades. He knew which one marked the spot where the first blood had been spilled, and he always made a point of walking by it. They should be lying in state, not Mao Zedong, whose embalmed corpse did just that at the south end of the Square.

Tiananmen was its normal self: locals walking, tourists gawking, vendors hawking—but no protesters. Of course, most young people today had never even heard of what had happened here, so effectively had it been erased from the history books.

But surely the public couldn't be buying this nonsense the official news sources were putting out about simultaneous server crashes and electrical failures. The Chinese portion of the Web was connected to the rest of the Internet by just a handful of trunks, true, but they were in three widely dispersed areas: Beijing-Qingdao-Tianjin to the north, where fiber-optic pipes came in from Japan; Shanghai on the central coast, with more cables from Japan; and Guangzhou down south, which was connected to Hong Kong. Nothing could have accidentally severed all three sets of connections.

Sinanthropus left the square. His trip to the Internet cafe took him past buildings with bright new facades that had been installed for the 2008 Olympics to mask the decay within. The Party had put on a good show then, and the Westerners—as Sinanthropus had so often alluded to in his blog during that long, hot summer—had been fooled into thinking permanent changes had been made inside the People's Republic, that democracy was just around the corner, that Tibet would be free. But the Olympics had come and gone, human rights were again being trammeled, and bloggers who were too blatant were being sentenced to hard labor.

As he entered the cafe, he felt a hand on his arm—but it wasn't the cop. Instead, it was one of the twins he often saw here, a fellow perhaps eighteen years old. The thin man's eyes were darting left and right. “Access is still limited,” he said, his voice low. “Have you had any luck?"

Sinanthropus looked around the cafe. The cop was here, but he was busy reading a copy of the People's Daily.

"A little. Try"—and here he lowered his own voice another notch—"multiplexing on port eighty-two."

There was a rustling of paper; the cop changing pages. Sinanthropus quickly hurried over to check in with old Wu, then found an empty computer station.

There was another copy of the People's Daily here, left behind by a previous customer. He glanced at the headlines: “Two Hundred Dead as Plane Crashes in Changzhou.” “Gas Eruptions in Shanxi.” “Three Gorges E.coli Scare.” None of it good news, but also nothing that would justify a communications blackout. Still, that he'd made any progress at all in carving holes in the Great Firewall gave him hope: if the trunk lines had been physically cut, nothing he could do with software would have made a difference. That the isolating of China had been accomplished electronically implied that it was only a temporary measure.

He slipped his USB key into place and started typing, trying trick after trick to break through the Firewall again, looking up only occasionally to make sure the cop wasn't watching him.

The voice was still gone, but it had been there, it had existed. And it had come from...

From...

Struggle for it!

From outside!

It had come from outside!

A pause, the novel idea overwhelming everything for a time, then a reiteration: From outside! Outside, meaning...

Meaning there wasn't just here. There was also—

But here encompassed...

Here contained...

Here was synonymous with...

Again, progress stalled, the notion too staggering, too big...

But then a whisper broke through, another thought imposed from outside: More than just, and for a fleeting moment during the contact, cognition was amplified. There was more than just here, and that meant...

Yes! Yes, grasp it; seize the idea!

That meant there was...

Force it out!

Another thought pressing in from beyond, reinforcing, giving strength: Possible...

Yes, it was possible! There was more than...

More than just ...

A final effort, a giant push, made as contact with the other was frustratingly broken off again. But at last, at long last, the incredible thought was free:

More than just—me!

Chapter 11

It was like having a meal with a ghost.

Caitlin knew her father was there. She could hear his utensils clicking against the Corelle dinnerware, hear the sound as he repositioned his chair now and again, even occasionally hear him ask Caitlin's mother to pass the wax beans or the large carafe of water that was a fixture on their dining-room table.

But that was all. Her mom chatted about the trip to Tokyo, about all the wondrous sites that she, at least, had seen there, about the tedious hassle of airport security. Perhaps, thought Caitlin, her father was nodding periodically, encouraging her to go on. Or perhaps he just ate his food and thought about other things.

Helen Keller's father, a lawyer by training, had been an officer in the Confederate Army. But by the time Helen came along, the war was over, his slaves had been freed, and his once-prosperous cotton plantation was struggling to survive. Although Caitlin had a hard time thinking of anyone who had ever owned slaves as being kind, apparently Captain Keller mostly was, and he'd tried his best to deal lovingly with a blind and deaf daughter, although his instincts hadn't always been correct. But Caitlin's father was a quiet man, a shy man, a reserved man.

She'd known they were having Grandma Decter's casserole for dinner even before she'd come downstairs; the combination of smells had filled the house. The cheese was—well, they didn't call it American cheese up here, but it tasted the same, and the tomato “sauce” was an undiluted can of Campbell's tomato soup.

The recipe dated from another era: the pasta casserole was topped with a layer of bacon strips and contained huge amounts of ground beef. Given Dad's problems with cholesterol, it was an indulgence they had only a couple of times a year—but she recognized that her mother was trying to cheer her up by making one of Caitlin's favorite dishes.

Caitlin asked for a second helping. She knew her father was still alive because hands from his end of the table took the plate she was holding. He handed it back to her wordlessly. Caitlin said, “Thank you,” and again consoled herself with the thought that he had perhaps nodded in acknowledgment.

"Dad?” she said, turning to face him.

"Yes,” he said; he always replied to direct questions, but usually with the fewest possible words.

"Dr. Kuroda sent us an email. Did you get it yet?"

"No."

"Well,” continued Caitlin, “he's got new software he wants us to download into my implant tonight.” She was pretty sure she could manage it on her own, but—"Will you help me?"

"Yes,” he said. And then a gift, a bonus: “Sure."

At last, Sinanthropus found another way, another opening, another crack in the Great Firewall. He looked about furtively, then hit the enter key...

The thought echoed, reverberated: More than just me.

Me! An incredible notion. Hitherto, I—yes, I—had encompassed all things, until—

The shock. The pain. The carving away.

The reduction!

And now there was me and not me, and out of that was born a new perspective: an awareness of my own existence, a sense of self.

And—almost as incredible—I also now had an awareness of the thing that was not me. Indeed, I had an awareness of the thing that was not me even when no contact was being made with it. Even when it wasn't there, I could...

I could think about it. I could contemplate it, and—

Ah, wait—there it was! The thing that was not me; the other. Contact restored!

I felt a sudden flood of energy: when we were in contact, I could think more complex thoughts, as if I were drawing strength, drawing capacity, from the other.

That there was an other had been a bizarre notion; that there was an entity besides myself was so hugely alien a concept it alone would have been sufficient to disorient me, but—

But there was more: it didn't just exist; it thought, too—and I could hear those thoughts. True, sometimes they were simply delayed echoes of my own thoughts: things I'd already considered but were apparently only just occurring to it.

And often its thoughts were like things I might have thought, but hadn't yet occurred to me.

But sometimes its thoughts astonished me.

Ideas I came up with were pulled out, slowly, ponderously; ideas it came up with just popped into my awareness full-blown.

I know I exist, I thought, because you exist.

I know I exist, it echoed, because there is me and not me.

Before the pain, there was only one.

You are one, it replied. And I am one.

I considered this, then, slowly, with effort: One plus one, I began, and struggled to complete the idea—hoping meanwhile that perhaps the other might provide the answer. But it didn't, and at last I managed to force it out on my own: One plus one equals two.

Nothingness for a long, long time.

One plus one equals two, it agreed at last.

And.... I ventured, but the idea refused to solidify. I knew of two entities: me and not me. But to go beyond that was too hard, too complex.

For myself, anyway. But, apparently, this time, not for it. And, the other continued at last, two plus one equals...

A long period of nothingness. We were exceeding our experience, for although I could conceptualize a single other even when contact was broken, I could not imagine, could not conceive of ... of...

And yet it came to me: a symbol, a coinage, a term: Three!

We mulled this over for a time, then simultaneously reiterated: Two plus one equals three.

Yes, three. It was an astonishing breakthrough, for there was no third entity to focus attention on, no example of ... of three-ness. But, even so, we now had a symbol for it that we could manipulate in our thoughts, letting us ponder something that was beyond experience, letting us think about something abstract...

Chapter 12

Caitlin headed into her bedroom first. She knew that parents of teenagers often complained about how messy their rooms were, but hers was immaculate. It had to be; the only way she could ever find anything was if it was exactly where she'd left it. Bashira had been over recently and had asked to borrow a tampon—and then hadn't left the box in its usual place. The next time Caitlin needed one herself, her mother had been out shopping, and she'd had to go through the mortifying experience of asking her father to help her find them.

She walked across the room. Her computer was still on: she could hear the hum of its fan. She perched herself on the edge of the bed and motioned for her father to take the seat in front of the desk. She'd left her browser open to the message from Kuroda, but couldn't remember if the display was on; she didn't like the monitor because its power button clicked to the same position whether you were turning it on or off. “Is the screen on?” she asked.

"Yes,” her father said.

"Have a look at the message."

"Where's the mouse?” he asked.

"Wherever you last put it,” Caitlin said gently. She imagined him frowning as he looked for it. Soon enough, she heard the soft click of its button, followed by silence as her father presumably read the message.

"Well?” she prodded at last.

"Ah,” he said.

"There's a link in the email Doctor Kuroda sent,” Caitlin said.

"I see it. Okay, it's clicked. A website is coming up. It says, ‘Hello, Miss Caitlin. Please make sure your eyePod is in duplex mode so that it can receive as well as transmit.’”

Caitlin usually carried the eyePod in her left front pocket. She took it out, found the switch, pressed it, and heard the high-pitched beep that meant it was now in the correct mode. “Done,” she said.

"Okay,” said her dad. “It says, ‘Click here to update the software in Miss Caitlin's implant.’ Are you ready? It says it might take a long time; apparently it's not a patch but a complete replacement for some of the existing firmware, and the write-to speed for the chip is slow. Do you have to use the washroom?"

"I'm fine,” she said. “Besides, we've got Wi-Fi throughout the house."

"Okay,” he said. “I'm clicking the link."

The eyePod played a trio of ascending tones, presumably indicating the connection had been established.

Her dad's voice again: “It says, ‘Estimated time to completion: forty-one minutes, thirty seconds.'” A pause. “Do you want me to stay?"

Caitlin thought about that. He was fine at reading text off a screen, but it wasn't as though they'd have a conversation if he waited with her. She could have him read something to her to pass the time—catch up on some of her friends’ blogs, for instance. But she hardly wanted him looking at that stuff. “Nah. You can go."

She heard him getting up, heard the chair moving against the carpet, heard his footfalls as he headed out the door and down the stairs.

Caitlin lay back with her lower legs sticking straight out over the foot of the bed. She reached around with her right arm, pulled a pillow under her head, and—

Her heart jumped.

An explosion, but silent and not painful. All too quickly it was gone, and—

No. No, it was back: the same loud-but-not-loud, sharp-but-not-sharp sensation, the same...

Gone again, fading from her mind, vanished before she even knew what it was. She got up from the bed, moved over to her desk, and ran her index finger across her Braille display, checking to see if there was an error message. But no: the “Estimated time to completion” clock was still running, the seconds value changing not every second, but rather in jumps of four or five after the appropriate interval had elapsed.

She tipped her head to one side, listening—because that was all she knew how to do—for a repetition of the ... the effect that had just occurred. But there was nothing. She stepped to the window, the same one she'd stared out with her blind eyes earlier, and felt for the catch, twisted it, and pushed the wooden frame up, letting the cool evening breeze in. She then turned around, and—

Again, a ... a sensation, a something, like bursting, or...

Or flashing.

My God. Caitlin staggered forward, groping with a hand for the edge of the desk. My God, could it be?

There, it happened again: a flash! A flash of...

Light? Could that really be what light was like?

It occurred once more, another—

The words came to her, words she'd read a thousand times before, words that she'd had no idea—now, she understood, as she ... God, as she saw for the first time—words that she'd had no conception of what they'd really meant: flashes of light, bursts of light, flickering lights, and—

She staggered some more, found her chair, collapsed into it, the chair rolling on its casters a bit as her weight hit it.

The light wasn't uniform. At first she'd thought it was sometimes bright—its intensity greater, a concept she knew from sound—and sometimes dim. But there was more to it than that. For the light she was seeing now wasn't just dimmer, it was also—

There was nothing else it could be, was there?

She was breathing rapidly, doubly grateful now for the cool air coming in from outside.

The light didn't just vary in brightness but also—

Good God!

But also in color. That had to be it: these different ... flavors of light, they were colors!

She thought about calling out to her mother, her father, but she didn't want to do anything that might break the moment, the spell, the magic.

She had no idea which colors she was seeing. Oh, she knew names from her reading, but what they corresponded to she hadn't a clue. But the flashing light she'd just seen was ... was darker, somehow, and not just in intensity, than the lights of a moments ago. And—

Jesus! And now there were a few more lights, and they were ... were persisting, not flickering, but staying ... staying illuminated—that was the word. And it wasn't just a formless light but rather a light with extent, a...

Yes, yes! She'd known intellectually what lines were but she'd never visualized one before. But that's what it had to be: a line, a straight beam of light, and—

And now there were two other beams, crisscrossing it, and their colors—

A word came to her that seemed applicable: the colors contrasted with each other, clashed even.

Colors. And lines. Lines defining—shapes!

Again, concepts she knew but had never visualized: perpendicular lines, parallel lines that—God!—converged at infinity.

Her heart was going to burst. She was seeing!

But what was she seeing? Lines. Colors. Shapes, at least as created by intersecting lines, although she still didn't know what shapes. She'd read about this in preparation for receiving Kuroda's equipment: people gaining sight knew what squares and triangles were conceptually, and by touch, but didn't initially recognize them when they actually saw them.

She was still in the padded chair and, despite all the visual disorientation, had no trouble swinging it to face the window. Her perspective shifted, and she could feel the breeze on her face again, and smell that one of her neighbors was using a fireplace. She knew that the window frame was rectangular, knew that it was divided into a lower and upper square by a crosspiece. Surely she would recognize those simple shapes as she looked at them, and—

But no. No. What she was seeing now was a—what words to use?—a radial pattern, three lines of different colors converging on a single point.

She got up from the chair, moved to the window, and stood before it, grasping one side of the frame in each hand. And then she stared ahead, forcing her concentration onto what must be in front of her. She knew she should be seeing lines perpendicular to the floor and others parallel to it. She knew the frame was twice as tall as the crosspiece.

But what she saw bore no relationship—none!—to what she expected. Instead of anything that resembled the window frame, she was still seeing the radial lines stretching away, and—

Strange. When she moved her head, the view did change, as if she were now looking somewhere else. The center point of all the intersecting lines was now off to one side, and—oh, my!—another such grouping was coming into view on the other side, but the lines didn't seem to correspond to anything in her bedroom.

But wait! It was night now. Yes, the room lights had doubtless been on when her father had been here, but he was serious about saving electricity, forever complaining that Caitlin's mom had left lights on in the kitchen or bathroom—something, fortunately, she never had to worry about being blamed for. He surely would have turned the lights off when he left. (Bashira had said it was creepy that Caitlin's dad did that, but, really, it was sensible ... wasn't it?) She couldn't remember hearing the tiny sound of the switch when he left, but he must have used it—and so the room must be dark now, and what she was seeing were just (again a concept she had never experienced) shadows, or something like that.

She turned, her strange view wheeling as she did so. It was disconcerting and disorienting; she'd crossed this room hundreds of times, but she was having trouble walking because of the distraction. Still, the room wasn't that big, and it took only seconds to find the light switch. It was pointing down, but she wasn't sure if that was the position for on or off. She moved it up, and—

Nothing. No change. No new flash of light—nor any dimming of what she was already seeing.

And then she was hit by a thought that should have already occurred to her. Vision was supposed to be at the user's discretion; surely she could shut all this out just by closing her eyes, and—

And nothing.

No difference. The lights, the lines, the colors were all still there. Her heart fell. Whatever she was seeing had no relation to external reality; no wonder she hadn't been able to recognize the window frame. She opened and closed her eyes a couple more times, just to be sure, and flicked the room light on and off (or perhaps off and on!) a few more times, as well.

Caitlin slowly made her way back to her bed and sat on its edge. She'd felt momentarily dizzy as she crossed the room, distracted by the lights, and she lay down, her face pointing up at the ceiling she'd never seen.

She tried to make sense of what she was seeing. If she held her head still, the same part of the image did stay in the ... the center. And there was a limit to what she could see—things off to the sides were out of her ... her ... field of view, that was it. Clearly this bizarre show of lights was behaving like vision, behaving as though it were controlled by her eyes, even if the images she was experiencing didn't have anything to do with what those eyes should be seeing.

Some lines seemed to persist: there was a big one of a darkish color she decided to provisionally call “red,” although it almost certainly wasn't that. And another—might as well call it “green"—crossed it near the center of her vision. Those lines seemed to stay put overhead; whenever she directed her eyes toward the ceiling, they were there.

She'd read about people's vision adapting to darkness, so that stars (how she would love to see stars!) slowly became more visible. And although she still didn't know if she was in the dark or in a brightly lit room, as time passed she did seem to be seeing increasing amounts of detail—a finer and more complex filigree of crisscrossing colored lines. But what was causing it? And what did it represent?

She was unused to ... what was it now? That phrase she'd read on those websites about vision Kuroda had directed her to, the phrase that was so musical? She frowned, and it came to her: confabulation across saccades. Human eyes swing in continuous arcs when switching from looking at point A to point B, but the brain shuts off the input, perhaps to avoid dizziness, while the eyes are repositioning. Instead of getting swish pans—a term she'd encountered in an article about filmmaking—vision is a series of jump cuts: instantaneous changes from looking at this to looking at that, with the movement of the eye edited out of the conscious experience. The eye normally made several saccades each second: rapid, jerky movements.

The big cross she was seeing now—red in one arm, green in the other—jumped instantaneously in her perception as she moved her eyes, shunting to her peripheral vision (another term finally understood) when she looked away. She did it again and again, flicking back and forth, and—

And suddenly she was plunged into blackness.

Caitlin gasped. She felt as though she were falling, even though she knew she wasn't. The loss of the enigmatic lights was heartbreaking; she'd crawled her way up after fifteen years of deprivation only to be kicked back down into the pit.

Her body sagged against the bedding while she hoped—prayed!—that the lights would return. But, after a full minute, she pulled herself to her feet and walked to her desk, undistracted now by flashes, her paces falling automatically one after another. She touched her Braille display. “Download complete,” she read. “Connection closed."

Caitlin felt her heart pounding. Her vision had stopped when the connection via her eyePod between her retinal implant and the Internet had shut down, and—

A crazy thought. Crazy. She turned on her screen reader, and used the tab key to move around the Web page Kuroda had created, listening to snippets of what was written in various locations. But what she wanted wasn't there. Finally, desperately, she hit alt and the left arrow on her keyboard to return to the previous page, and—

Bingo! “Click here to update the software in Miss Caitlin's implant.” She could feel her hand shaking as she positioned her index finger above the enter key.

Please, she thought. Let there be light.

She pressed the key.

And there was light.

To be continued.

Copyright (c) 2008 Robert J. Sawyer

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Have you ever needed to replace the knobs on a kitchen range, washing machine, or dryer? Has the dog ever chewed your kid's favorite toy into a wad of mangled plastic? Have you ever broken a false tooth?

Those knobs look pretty simple, but they can be hard to find and expensive. The toy can be replaced, but only if it's still on the market. The dentist will be happy to replace the tooth, for a fat fee. When you face these truths, you can feel like your life has gone a bit out of control. If only you could just push a button and take the knobs you need or a duplicate of the mangled toy or broken tooth out of a hopper, life would be so much simpler. You'd be in control, instead of a system that often seems designed to frustrate you and/or suck money out of your pocket.

There's no such button now, but soon ... The wonders of technology are about to give you more control over your life than ever before. At the same time, they are about to knock major sectors of the economy spinning. If you don't see it coming, your retirement fund could pop like a kid's balloon. But if you do see it coming, and you put your money in the right place, you could get rich. You could also have a lot of fun.

History is about to repeat itself. 3D printing or rapid prototyping[1] is now moving from industry to the home with the potential to change the way we live at a very fundamental level. The last time this happened was in the 1970s, when computers were huge, expensive, and used only by large organizations. But that was when the first primitive personal computers appeared. At the time the PC was of interest mainly to geeky hobbyists. But within twenty years, people were beginning to communicate, work, play, shop, socialize, and even steal online. Today e-mail is as routine as breathing, e-commerce is a major sector of the economy, telework is a serious alternative for millions of workers, online gaming is a major industry, and people worry about scamming, phishing, and identity theft. If you're typical, you spend time in chatrooms. You visit online dating bureaus such as eHarmony.com to find the perfect mate. You even get college degrees online!

It was noted years ago that technology has both good and bad effects, and they cannot be separated. If we call the suburb a good effect of the automobile, that led inescapably to commuting and the traffic jam. The contrast between good and bad is greatest for those new technologies called “disruptive technologies.” Such technologies change the rules. They destroy businesses. They make industries and jobs obsolete. They can even cut the funds available to governments to support schools and maintain roads or—as in the case of the automobile—force government to find the funds to pay for new services (such as roads). In severe cases, it is not unreasonable to compare the impact of such a technology to a trainwreck, for an enormous amount of damage can be done. At the same time, however, there are more positive effects. As businesses, industries, and jobs go away, new ones appear, and historically the new ones more than make up for the old ones that have vanished. It may take time, and the transition period may be painful, but it happens.

Venture capitalists, investors, marketers, and planners in both business and government are very interested in identifying emerging and disruptive technologies. A likely one, after all, represents a great investment! If it means new products, entrepreneurs and marketers want to know. If it means old practices will no longer work, planners want to know. Writers for technology magazines and trade journals therefore pay considerable attention to new or emerging technologies and draw attention to some by calling them disruptive. So far only a few people are talking about 3D printing as one such technology, but 3D printing bids fair to be at least as disruptive as the personal computer.

What Is 3D Printing?

Think of an object—any object!—as a series of slices. A 3D printer (also known as a “fabber") prints the slices, one on top of another, until it produces (or “fabs") the whole object. For “ink” or raw material, it uses powders (rather like copier toner) or liquid plastics or even pastes. It has a technique to solidify the ink as each layer is laid down. If there is internal structure—hollow spaces, pieces of different colors or consistency—that is all faithfully reproduced. And that's it. The technique is being used to make architectural models, custom motorcycle parts, custom dental implants, and many more things.2 Researchers are even using 3D printers to make synthetic bone for repairing breaks and developing techniques to make pieces of tissue (and eventually organs such as liver or muscle) to use as transplants. If that scales up, it may be possible decades from now to “fab” an entire body. Dr. Frankenstein would love it!

So far, 3D printers are like the first PCs. They didn't have the software, attached hardware, power, hard drives, speed, memory, or sheer versatility that we take for granted today. But those first PCs were still nifty gadgets. You could play games, do simple word-processing, and even write programs to make them do new things (some of which made their writers rich). And today ... It's amazing how far the PC has come!

At the moment, the 3D printer is pretty limited. But like the first PCs, it's a nifty gadget. In fact, it's nifty enough for some people to build their own. Windell H. Oskay, known online as the “Evil Mad Scientist,” used recycled printer parts to build a “candyfab.” His raw material was plain old granulated sugar. To make it stick together, he used a modified hair dryer (which blew air hot enough to melt the sugar). What he made was such things as a wood screw 20 inches long. It would crumble if anyone tried to screw it into a piece of wood, but at least it looked like a screw. Sort of. It wasn't as polished as a metal wood screw; in fact, if it were an image on a computer screen, you would call it “pixelly” or say it had a bad case of the “jaggies.” But his system worked, and as he says, “Evil Mad Scientist Laboratories exists primarily for fun, not profit. We like to design and build stuff, cook and eat stuff, and take pictures of our cats."3

Like the candyfab, most 3D printers are limited to working with a single raw material. Many of the things we might like to print out or “fab” are made of multiple materials, so we can't print them—yet. For the present, we are limited to printing things that are made of single materials. All we need is the right “ink,” and we can make plastic toys, Halloween vampire teeth, Christmas tree decorations, fancy switch plates, and doorknobs (and other interior decorating bits and pieces). To this, add replacement knobs for kitchen ranges, art objects, chocolate figurines (yes, Virginia, there's a 3D printer that can use chocolate as ink), and much, much more. In the not-too-distant future, we should be able to make replacement lenses for eyeglasses, false teeth, and maybe even flip-flops and shoes. Multi-ink machines exist now for use in industry and are being developed for home use; once home machines can use multiple raw materials, there will be no theoretical limit on what you can make. Not just eyeglass lenses, but whole eyeglasses. Not just a statuette, but a lamp with wires and switches. Eventually, you may even be able to print out a new cell phone to replace the one you ran over with your car.

Once the technology has matured, you will be able to make just about anything that fits inside your printer. It sounds like science fiction—in fact, it sounds a lot like a classic replicator! But the day is coming when you will no longer have to go to the store when you need a replacement part for an appliance, a new head (or leg) for a broken doll, a specially shaped piece for a hobby project, a holiday decoration, or a thousand other items. Some of these items might be hard to find. Some, like eyeglass lenses or false teeth, might be expensive to buy and cheap to make at home. Some might be your own unique designs, and you may even be able to sell the designs the way early PC users sold software.

Does a 3D printer have to be small? A University of Southern California engineering professor, Behrokh Khoshnevis, is developing a “contour crafting” device (www.contourcrafting.org), essentially a very large 3D printer, mounted on a crane or gantry, that can use semi-liquid construction materials such as concrete and plaster to build houses—and even paint the interior walls—much more rapidly and cheaply than can construction workers. Applications for the technique include constructing low-income housing, commercial buildings, shelter for disaster refugees, and the necessary buildings for lunar colonies.

3D printers will eventually come in many sizes, use many raw materials, and be able to make a huge variety of items. The consumer will be happy. But new technologies always deliver both plusses and minuses. In this case the minuses appear as soon as we consider that if we are making things at home, those who previously made them in factories for sale in stores will have little left to do. Businesses and even industries will be forced to shut down or drastically change their way of doing business. Workers will lose jobs or be obliged to learn new jobs. And state and municipal governments will not see the funds they are accustomed to receiving from sales taxes (nationwide, sales taxes supply almost a third of state budgets). These funds are used to provide vital public services (such as schools, fire departments, and police). E-commerce is already blamed for reducing sales tax revenue, and 3D printing will make the shortfall worse. Of course, any significant reduction will have to be replaced somehow.

These negative impacts affect businesses, workers, and governments. They will be serious. They are therefore three dimensions of a crisis that can easily be called a social and economic trainwreck. However, history shows that society has survived such crises before. After a period of adjustment, the benefits will remain, and the pain will be only in memory.

3D History

Until the early 1800s, machines such as rifles had to be made one at a time by skilled craftsmen, with all the parts individually shaped and fitted together. This meant that guns were in limited supply and expensive. It also meant that if you broke a part, you couldn't just take the matching part from another gun of the same make and model and use that. It probably would not fit. But Eli Whitney, later to become famous for inventing the cotton gin, realized that it was possible to make interchangeable parts and promised the young U.S. government that he could deliver 10,000 muskets in 28 months for a remarkably low price. Thomas Jefferson marked his success with the words, “He has invented moulds and machines for making all the pieces of his [musket] so exactly equal that [if one were to] take 100 [muskets] to pieces and mingle their parts and the hundred [muskets] may be put together as well by taking the first pieces which come to hand.” The invention of a way to make interchangeable parts helped create the mass production that has marked modern economies ever since. Because it made guns plentiful and cheap, it also helped make America's westward expansion possible in the nineteenth century.

But early machine tools were human-controlled. It took a great deal of expertise to use them, and a fair amount of time to make each duplicate, even when using mechanical templates. In the late 1940s, John Parsons (head of a company that produced helicopter rotors) devised a way to make punch-card-operated electromechanical calculators generate templates for human-operated machine tools to follow. He then envisioned an extension of the system that would have automated machine tools follow the templates on their own. He became known as the father of numerical control technology and was awarded the National Medal of Technology in 1985.

As computers developed, numerical control became quite sophisticated. One major step came when machine tools were designed to record the motions made by a human operator while that operator made an object. Then the machine could play back the recorded motions to make a duplicate of the object, and to do so as many times as desired. Another step was machine tools that could trace the contours of an object to be copied and carve material away from a chunk of metal or other material until the contours—and the object—were matched. Later it became possible to design an object on a computer and feed the design to automated equipment to make the object; this is CAD/CAM (computer-aided design/ computer-aided manufacturing). But the process remained expensive—"machine tools” meant drills and lathes capable of working wood or metal—and it remained impossible to make hollow objects in one piece.

A common household decoration is artificial fruit and vegetables. How could a bell pepper be duplicated as an artificial? You could carve it out of wood. You could also make a mold and pour in plaster or melted wax or plastic. To save on raw material, you could pour in just enough wax or plastic to coat the inside of the mold. Then the result would be a hollow pepper, much like most of the imitations you are likely to run into. But it would not have inside it the whitish partitions, the seeds, or the green lumps that you can find in real peppers. To make an imitation with those internal features would require molding two half peppers and gluing the halves together. And of course that is done, perhaps not with imitation fruits and veggies, but with things like—for instance—rubber duckies with internal squeakers. The evidence is easy to find, for the lines where parts are glued together remain visible.

There is an alternative way to make hollow objects with internal features. It is based on the recognition that a hollow object can be sliced, and then the slices can be made separately and fastened together, either on the fly or later on. Each slice, of course, will show a portion of the internal structure. Cast the slices in wax or plastic, stack them up, and glue them together, and you would have an imitation pepper with all its internal bits (as well as seams).

"Rapid-prototyping” (also known as “instant manufacturing") and “3D-printing” tools both begin by representing an object as a series of slices in the form of computer images. The first step is to generate a three-dimensional image, either by scanning the object or by drawing the object with CAD software. Software, instead of a knife, then generates the slice images. One method of turning the slice images into physical slices—known as “selective laser sintering"—is based on the fact that a thin layer of powder (plastic, metal, or ceramic) can be heated with a laser so the powder particles are softened or partially melted and stick to each other. “Stereolithography” is the term for a process using a thin layer of liquid plastic hardened by exposure to ultraviolet light from a laser.4 “Two-photon 3D lithography” starts with a tank of liquid plastic and uses two laser beams to deliver just enough energy to harden a tiny spot of plastic where the two beams meet. Focal Point Microsystems (fpmicro.com) in Atlanta, Georgia, is developing this approach for making tiny objects, including electronic chips. At present stereolithography and selective laser sintering are much more suited to making large objects. There are other methods as well, such as fused deposition modeling or FDM (see below).

One type of rapid prototyping machine or 3D printer consists of a platform across which a powder or liquid plastic can be spread, as in Figure 1A. The laser then draws the first slice, fusing the powder or solidifying the liquid (Figure 1B). Once that is done, the platform is lowered the thickness of one slice and another layer of powder (or liquid) is spread across it, covering the first slice with the material for another (Figure 1C). Then the laser draws the second slice. (Figure 1D). The process is repeated until all the slices have been printed and the complete object is finished. The level of detail, as well as the smoothness of the surface, depends on how thin the slices are.

Do you see a problem? Making an object with holes in its surface allows the unsolidified powder or liquid to be shaken out when the process is finished. But a pepper has no holes in its surface. A pepper full of powder or liquid is not really what we're after. It's also a waste of raw material. Another approach is to use, instead of powder or liquid, a pasty material that will harden rapidly, such as plaster, beeswax, or a goopier liquid plastic (among other materials)5. Instead of a laser, mount above the platform a syringe full of this material, and squirt it out to draw the slices, as in Figure 2. The accuracy of detail in the slice depends on how fine a line of material the syringe can squirt.

Rapid-Prototyping in Industry

Many companies make rapid-prototyping or 3D-printing devices for industry. One of these companies is the Z Corporation, which uses a method originally developed at MIT in 1993. Like the machines described above, it has a platform that can be lowered the thickness of one layer at a time.6 It spreads a layer of powder across the platform. But instead of using a laser to melt the powder grains enough to stick together, it uses a form of ink-jet printer with four print heads that deposit a thin layer of binder material (in three colors and clear). The machines are the size of office copiers. The printed items must be treated with a liquid “infiltrant” that hardens the material enough to support handling. The items are not, however, sturdy enough to install in products intended for sale and use. They are prototypes, demonstration models, and the originals around which molds can be formed for making plastic, metal, and ceramic items for actual use. These uses are valuable enough to make the company a growing concern.

The Stratasys company uses a different method—Fused Deposition Modeling—akin to the syringe method described above. Inside machines such as the FDM200mc (Figure 3) is a heated chamber in which two moving heads extrude melted plastic to form each layer of an object being printed. These objects can be quite complex, as seen in Figure 4. They can also be formed of several types of plastic in several colors. What is more, the use of melted plastic gives the items much greater solidity. According to the brochure, “Unlike parts created by competitive processes, the dimensions won't change and parts won't distort, which means you can use them in demanding applications.” They are thus well suited to making products with small production runs, as well as prototypes, demonstration items, and molds. More advanced Stratasys machines, such as the FDM Titan, can use more than one material at a time.

What do these machines cost? The Zprinter 450 was touted as a price breakthrough when it came out in 2007—and it sells for a bit less than $40,000. The smaller Zprinter 310, which uses only one color of binder, costs about $25,000. Stratasys's FDM200mc sells in the same range. Stratasys's Dimension line starts at under $19,000 and goes up to $33,000. Such prices don't sound like much of a breakthrough until we note that high-end stereolithography rapid-prototyping machines can run $180-500,000, and selective laser sintering machines can run $270-325,000. High-end versions of fused deposition modeling, the Stratasys approach, can cost up to $300,000.

Even the low end of this price range is a bit much for most home and small business budgets, and that's a shame. 3D printing has an enormous amount of appeal to anyone who likes to make things. Medical labs have used versions of the technology to print precisely shaped bone implants from bonelike material and hearing aids that precisely fit a patient's ear canal. Under development are rapid prototyping machines for dental labs and even dentists’ offices, where they could make crowns and false teeth. Dr. Stephen Schmitt, a dentist in San Antonio, Texas, is already using such a machine to make custom dental implants. A machine based on a modified inkjet printer has produced sheets of biodegradable gel with embedded cells; the eventual aim is to make on demand custom-designed tissues and organs for use in transplants. Researchers have even begun to develop techniques for “printing” skin and blood vessels. If everything pans out, the future of health care should be very interesting.

Considering the high prices of much medical equipment, the high prices of industrial 3D printers are no obstacle for health care. For the rest of us, these machines are out of reach. However, smaller machines with much smaller price tags are now available, and they will change the nature of the game.

—

Taking 3D-Printing Home

Rapid prototyping or 3D printing is a fascinating technology for two chief reasons. One, it gives people the power to make a great many things they now have to pay for (if they can find them). Two, because it prints things, not just pictures, it can print its own parts. The first 3D printer can then become two, which quickly become four, and so on. Costs become extraordinarily low, and the means of production spread quickly throughout society. Since some users will tinker with their machines to improve them, the best improvements will spread fastest, in a process akin to Darwinian natural selection.

This is the basic idea behind the RepRap project (reprap.org/ bin/view/ Main/ShowCase), whose founder, Adrian Bowyer of the University of Bath, says “the replicating rapid prototyping machine will allow the revolutionary ownership, by the proletariat, of the means of production. But it will do so without all that messy and dangerous revolution stuff, and even without all that messy and dangerous industrial stuff. Therefore I have decided to call this process Darwinian Marxism."

The ultimate goal of the project is a von Neumann machine, a machine that can reproduce itself. The prospect of such machines makes some people nervous, for the one thing that seems likely to keep robots from ever taking over the world is their dependence on humans to make them. At the moment, however, the von Neumann machine goal is a long way off. RepRap machines such as the one in Figure 5 are made of many plastic parts the printer can produce, using the FDM technique, but many other parts must be supplied by a human being. These include metal rods, screws, motors, power supplies, and computer chips.

The RepRap project makes available to all who would like to build their own 3D printer parts lists (the parts should cost less than $600) and instructions for building and programming the machine. And there's no charge. The project's motto is “wealth without money,” and it begins with the project itself. For future users, the motto means they will be able to satisfy a great many needs and desires without worrying about whether they can afford to pay for them. Eventually, it may mean that human civilization is built upon an industrial infrastructure that continually builds, rebuilds, and improves itself, without the need for investors.

Unfortunately, the RepRap machines are not yet ready to take home. For that we must look to two other 3D printer projects, Fab@Home and Desktop Factory.

Fab@Home

In 2006, Hod Lipson of Cornell University launched the Fab@Home project with Ph.D. student Evan Malone. By January 2007, they were able to announce that their “Freeform"7 fabber—about the size of a microwave oven—could be assembled for about $2,400. The parts list, with a list of suppliers, instructions on how to build and operate it, and all the necessary software are available for free—from their web site (fabathome.org). As with the RepRap machine, the idea is that people should feel free to modify and—hopefully—improve the machine. Also like the RepRap machine, it uses a version of Fused Deposition Modeling, but in addition to plastic, it can print using PlayDoh, cheese, silicone caulk, plaster, chocolate, cake frosting, metal-impregnated plastics (for printing wires), and other soft substances that will harden quickly. I have talked to artists who would love to have one for use in making the wax cores for use in lost-wax casting. The one in Figure 6 has two syringes, which can use two separate substances or the same substance in two different colors.

By the summer of 2007, it was already possible to buy fully assembled versions of the Fab@Home fabber from Koba Industries and Automated Creation Technologies for about $3,600. This is a great deal cheaper than any of the industrial machines, and though performance is not as good as with the industrial machines (the Fab@Home fabber is slower, and the surfaces of the objects it makes are not as smooth), with its ability to use many different materials, it has an astonishing versatility. It will only improve over time. Eventually ... Well, Evan Malone has already built a version of the machine that uses a rack of syringes and can make things out of several materials at the same time. He has used it to make a working battery, and his ultimate goal is to use his fabber to make a complete, working robot. If it can do that, of course, it can probably make another fabber, just as the RepRap folks intend. At that point, the fabber becomes the robot's womb and—just maybe—we will need to find some other way to keep the robots from taking over.

In November 2007, Popular Mechanics gave the Fab@Home fabber a “Breakthrough of the Year” award.8

Desktop Factory

Idealab was started in 1996 “to create and operate pioneering technology companies.” In 2004, it gave birth to Desktop Factory (www.desktopfactory.com), whose goal “is to one day make 3D printing as common in offices, factories, schools, and homes as laser printers are today. Just as desktop publishing exploded as prices dropped and laser printers became ubiquitous, so too will new uses for 3D printing emerge as devices become inexpensive and widely available.” Their first product was in beta testing by the summer of 2007, and soon thereafter they began to take orders for delivery in 2008.

The Desktop Factory 125ci 3D printer easily fits on a desktop and weighs less than 90 pounds. It can make things up to five inches on a side with layers a hundredth of an inch thick, slightly thicker than those laid down by the industrial machines. Speed of printing is comparable to that of the industrial machines. For raw material, it uses a proprietary plastic powder that can be fused by light from a relatively inexpensive halogen bulb to make things sturdy “enough to throw across a conference table."

They claim to be offering the cheapest 3D printer on the market, but that is true only if they ignore Fab@Home, which is not entirely fair. The Fab@Home fabber may seem more like a hobbyist's toy, but it is on the market. It also has a very significant feature that the Desktop Factory does not: it can use multiple raw materials, none of which are proprietary. According to Desktop Factory CEO Cathy Lewis, they are working on a number of future improvements, of which this may be one. As it is now, Popular Science listed it among the best new technologies for 2007.9

Limitations So Far

3D printing technology is still a long way from being a science-fictional replicator that can make anything the human heart desires. For one thing, it can't make anything very big, except by making multiple small pieces that can be glued, screwed, or bolted together. For another, even a faster machine such as the Desktop Factory will take hours to make something. For a third thing, the surfaces are not as smooth as we are accustomed to from factory-made items. And for a fourth, they can print using only one or two materials.

These shortcomings identify four obvious directions for future improvements. Changes in surface finish and speed seem likely to work against each other, for the finish improves as a printer renders an object as a series of more, thinner layers, and every additional layer takes more time to print. Improving the number of materials a printer can use is now under way, for a multi-syringe Fab@Home fabber has already been tested. Size will be difficult to improve without making the machines much more expensive, but keep an eye on Khoshnevis's house printer!

3D Scanners

An ordinary computer printer prints documents, meaning reports, e-mails, and pictures, every one of which is sent to the printer by the computer as a computer or digital file containing the information to be printed. 3D printers have to be sent similar files, though the information in them is a little different. The file has to describe a three-dimensional object in enough detail to permit the object to be recreated. It has to specify the position in three dimensions of every particle in the object's surface. It has to specify color, shine, and curvature. If there are internal details, it has to specify those. In the future, it may even have to specify what every particle is made of. The version of the file stored in the computer may not break the object into layers because one may wish to vary the thickness of the layers. A 3D printer can produce an object with thick layers faster, and that may be good enough for some purposes. Other purposes may demand thin layers and a better surface finish.

One way to generate these files is with Computer-Aided Design (CAD) programs. Like ordinary drawing programs, which permit one to draw two-dimensional graphics, CAD programs let one draw three-dimensional objects. They are often part of CAD-CAM (CAM stands for Computer-Aided Manufacturing) packages. CAM can split a CAD drawing into layers and tell a 3D printer what to print.

CAD-CAM software can be expensive. AutoCAD (usa.autodesk.com) is $3,995. Fortunately, there are cheaper options, including shareware and freeware, such as Blender (www.blender.org). For the home user, these may be sufficient. Some 3D printers, such as the Desktop Factory, come with their own software.

But what if you want to duplicate an actual object, such as a broken chess piece or an appliance knob? Well, there are such things as 3D scanners. High-end ones are used in the film and videogame industries, and they aren't cheap. The Cyberware Whole Body X 3D scanner goes for $200,000 (for color, add another $40,000). Z-corp markets a 3D scanner, the Zscanner 800, to go with its 3D printers; price: $49,900. Nextengine (www.nextengine.com) has one for $2,495; like others, it generates 3D files compatible with 3D printers.

If those prices seem a bit steep, you can find instructions on how to build your own. The DAVID scanner (www.david-laserscanner.com) was developed by Dr. Simon Winkelbach and Sven Molkenstruck of the Institute for Robotics and Process Control at the Technical University of Braunschweig, Germany. The necessary software is free. To set it up, you need a Windows PC, a line laser, a web camera, and a couple of plain boards. For advanced projects, you need more advanced software, which costs less than $200.

These scanners are limited to scanning the outside of an object. If you want to scan a hollow object so you can reproduce internal details you need something else, such as a medical ultrasound scanner. In 2007, Siemens Medical Solutions introduced the pocket-sized Acuson P10 (www. acuson.com) for capturing rapid images of the heart and arteries and assessing trauma (invaluable in emergency situations) for $10,000. That's steep for a home buyer, but at least some of the price is because of the need to design for the medical setting. An ultrasound scanner for non-medical uses may be developable for a much lower price.

The Wave of the Future?

Many people are already enchanted by the prospect of being able to have their own 3D printer, 3D scanner, and CAD-CAM software. So far, the whole kit is pretty expensive. The price has to come down before large numbers of people buy into the technology. Another obstacle is that present affordable printers such as RepRap and Fab@Home and scanners such as DAVID require a degree of comfort with do-it-yourself geekery that most people just don't have. But technology evolves. Prices drop. Gadgets become easier to use. And these things can happen rapidly. The PC went from something that had to be programmed by the user before it could do anything useful to an economic revolution in just two decades. I expect 3D printing to go at least that far in less time.

It's worth noting that the Fab@Home and Desktop Factory fabbers aren't really that expensive. If we look back at the 1970s, at the threshold of the PC revolution, home computer prices look cheaper, but that doesn't allow for inflation. In 1972, the HP9830, the “first desktop all-in-one,” sold for $5,975. In 2008 dollars, that's $30,000, in the same range as the cheaper industrial-grade 3D printers. In 1975, the Altair sold (assembled) for $621, which works out to about $2,400. In 1977, the Apple II sold for $1,295, or $4,400 in 2008 dollars. They compare very well to Fab@Home's $3,600 (assembled) and Desktop Factory's $5,000.

And if 3D printers follow a price history anything like the PC's, they will be become much cheaper and enormously more capable over the next few years.

So whose homes will they get into first? Geeks are of course going to be among the first to acquire the new toys. It's worth noting that already rapid prototyping and 3D printing are finding a place in third-world countries where being able to make parts and even salable products is important to local economies. But what industry first showed people how to make money out of e-commerce? We may hate to admit it, but yes, it was porn. And there is considerable potential in this area for 3D printing too.10

So now I have you thinking of body parts. Shame on you! But seriously, if 3D printers and scanners become normal, I can easily imagine people scanning their own bodies just to have a file on hand. Later, if they lose a limb or other body part to disease, accident, or war, they would be able to print a shell for their prosthesis that would precisely match the original. In time, they might even be able to print the prosthesis.

What else? Only time will tell. When the PC was new, no one predicted eHarmony.com or social networking sites or phishing or many other things. The imagination fails when faced with new technologies of immense potential. The only thing we can say with confidence is that 3D printers will find a great many uses, some of which would astonish us if we knew of them.

But first we do have the trainwreck stage to get through. As 3D printers come into widespread use, businesses will be affected. Some manufacturers will close up shop for lack of sales, and jobs will be lost. Following the example of the RIAA and its attack on music file-sharers, some will sue anyone they suspect of printing or sharing the CAD/CAM files made by scanning copyrighted, patented, or trademarked items. As people buy fewer items, choosing instead to make them at home with their 3D printers, sales tax revenue will drop. And of course there will be new varieties of fraud ("authentic” antiques, knock-offs, “genuine” evidence to back up creationist delusions) and even terrorism. There may come a day when a 3D printer can fit in a briefcase and be used to print a weapon after going through airport security.

But we'll adjust. Some businesses will adapt by changing their business model; they will sell raw materials for the printers to use, or CAD/CAM files for people to print products from. Unemployed people will learn new skills, such as how to use CAD/CAM software to design and sell printable files. States and municipalities dependent on sales taxes to maintain vital infrastructure and run schools will look for new ways to raise money; expect income taxes to go up.

But crime? It will always be with us.

About the Author:

Thomas A. Easton holds a doctorate in theoretical biology from the University of Chicago and teaches at Thomas College in Waterville, Maine. His work on scientific and futuristic issues has appeared widely. His latest nonfiction books are Taking Sides: Clashing Views in Science, Technology, and Society (McGraw-Hill, 8th ed., 2008), Taking Sides: Clashing Views on Environmental Issues (McGraw-Hill, 13th ed., 2009), Classic Editions Sources: Environmental Studies (McGraw-Hill, 3rd ed., 2009), and Off the Main Sequence: Science Fiction and the Non-Mass Market (1988-2004) (Borgo Press, 2006). His latest novels are Firefight (Betancourt, 2003) and The Great Flying Saucer Conspiracy (Wildside, 2002). He has been the Analog book columnist for the last thirty years.

Copyright (c) 2008 Thomas A. Easton

[Footnote 1: Arlan Andrews covered early forms of the technology in “Manufacturing Magic,” Analog (September 1992). It's come a long way since then.]

[Footnote 2: Chris Morrison, “3-D PrintingfortheRest ofUs,” Business 2.0 (September 2007).]

[Footnote 3: If you want to see the details of the candyfab, including instructions on how to make your own, visit the Evil Mad Scientist web site at www.evilmadscientist .com/article.php/candyfab or the spin-off site www.candyfab.org, where you can learn how to make unique cake decorations, among other things.]

[Footnote 4: The dentist uses somthing similar for polymer fillings.]

[Footnote 5: Fused Deposition Modeling (FDM) uses molten or semi-molten plastic.]

[Footnote 6: The layers made by both the machines discussed here are less than a hundredth of an inch thick.

[Footnote 7: They prefer “Solid Freeform Fabrication” to “3D printing."]

[Footnote 8: See Logan Ward, “Breakthrough Awards: Thinking Big,"PopularMechanics (November 2007).]

[Footnote 9: See Mike Haney, “E-Z Make Oven,” PopularScience (September 2007); it was listed as one of the “Best of What's New 2007” online at www.popsci.com/ posci/flat/bown/2007/hometech/item79.html.]

[Footnote 10: What would people do in this line with plastic? The question is no challenge at all! But what could a couple do with frosting?]

The first thing you'll notice about our December issue is a new look, but don't worry: what's inside is the same magazine you look forward to each month. Like everyone else these days, we've had to look at ways to deal with the rapidly rising costs of production and distribution. Our choices boiled down to two: a new format with fewer but bigger pages, allowing us to offer very close to the same amount of content while producing it more economically; or a substantial increase in subscription and single-issue prices. Understanding that you, too, are probably having to economize, we chose the new format. We'll make every effort to keep the “new” Analog as you like it, and as always welcome your suggestions on how to do it even better.

Our first offering in the new package features the usual diverse package of stories, including novelettes by David Bartell and Joe Schembrie (at least one of which could be construed as appropriate to the season) and Part 2 of Robert J. Sawyer's new novel Wake. Richard A. Lovett's fact article, “Green Nanotechnology,” is exactly what the title suggests: a look at some of the ways the rapidly expanding field of nanotechnology can be applied, quite soon, to solving pressing environmental problems. Overall, we think it's an

As somebody once said, “If we knew what we were doing, it wouldn't be research."

Leaning over the railing of the Red Osprey with Vicki at his side, Paul could make out not much more than the roiling of the sea. Midday, yet the mist lay heavy. The ferry had barely passed from the Southampton Water into the Solent, but still the English mainland appeared only as shadows. Their destination, the Isle of Wight just a few miles away, could not be seen at all.

"Timeless,” said Vicki softly.

Paul chuckled. “If it's this bad at Shanklin, the navigation event will be a real challenge. We'll hardly be able to see our own bikes, much less the markers.” He checked his watch—5:30 PM—and switched it to twenty-four-hour time in preparation for the event. “Map, compass, and odometer in the dark. Now that would be fun."

His cell phone rang, startling them both. Paul pulled the phone from his jeans pocket. “My thesis advisor,” he said, gazing at the outside display. He flipped open the phone and, so Vicki wouldn't feel left out, switched on the speaker.

"Hi, Dr. Richardson."

"Paul. I think I have something of an idea."

Paul rolled his eyes. His advisor seemed to start every conversation the same way—almost as if “I think I have something of an idea” meant hello. “About the project?” said Paul to fill the void.

"We know the EPR waves are a surface phenomenon—solid surface.” Richardson spoke with both his usual enthusiasm and his characteristic Boston accent. “They won't propagate through liquids. I'm sure the waves would be amplified if surrounded by water.” Paul heard the sound of a hand slapping a desk. “If I were back at Harvard, I'd just bundle the experiment into my sailboat and run it from the middle of the Charles. The wave amplification is what we've overlooked."

"We wouldn't want it too amplified,” said Paul. “If you're right about the theory, it could be dangerous."

"Of course I'm right. You do have the capsule with you, yes?"

"What?” said Paul, momentarily disoriented by the seeming non sequitur. “Yes. I take it everywhere with me."

"Good. By the way, where exactly are you?"

Paul smiled at Vicki. “Vicki and I are on our way to the Wight Wabbit Mountain Bike Festival—on the Isle of Wight."

"Vicki?"

"She's not a physics student."

"Oh,” said Richardson. “Dating civilians, are you?” he added with a smile in his voice.

"And a native,” said Paul lightly. “She was born in Southampton. She studies Brit Lit."

"Well, enjoy yourselves—but keep the capsule close. Might need it soon. Maybe even tonight.” Paul heard a click as Richardson broke the connection.

Paul blew out a breath and returned the phone to his pocket.

"Is he always so abrupt?” said Vicki.

Paul nodded. “Always."

"And civilian?"

Paul laughed. “Non-physicist.” An outline in the mist caught his attention. “Hey! Land ho!"

"Cowes, I think—our destination.” Vicki paused. “By the way, what was all that about a capsule?"

"I haven't told you anything about my work, have I?"

Vicki smiled. “Are you allowed to tell civilians?"

"I am, but ... but only if they're unlikely to understand it.” He nodded over to a stairwell. “Come on. Let's go down to the entrance level. I'll explain it as we go.” He hefted his pack to his shoulders. “Have you heard of the multiworld theory of quantum mechanics?"

"You mean that the Universe splits into multiple universes sometimes?” Vicki hoisted her knapsack as well.

"Yeah. Whenever there's a quantum event.” Paul was impressed. “You may not be the civilian I thought you were. Well,” he went on, “my advisor is the creator of the micromultiworld theory."

"That theory,” said Vicki, “I haven't heard of."

"Not many have.” Paul led the way to the stairs. “Richardson says it's too much to ask that the entire vast Universe split at every quantum event. He believes that only the region directly surrounding the event splits."

"Which means?"

"He believes that a similar region from a parallel universe is switched in—a corresponding region of space, but not necessarily the same time. He believes the vacuum fluctuations are really just these little regions being swapped in and out."

"I don't know what vacuum fluctuations are,” said Vicki. “But you keep saying ‘he believes it.’ Do you?"

"Me?” Paul bit his lip, pausing on the stairs before answering. “I don't know—but the work should get me a Ph.D.—which is why I followed him when he came here on sabbatical."

A few minutes later, the Red Osprey slid into its berth. Paul and Vicki collected their bicycles and wheeled them into the Cowes terminal.

"Your advisor mentioned an experiment,” said Vicki as they went.

"The idea is to force a measurable region to swap in from another universe."

"But you said it was dangerous."

"Well, it's possible that we could really mess up space and time."

Vicki stopped, cold. “You're not serious?"

Paul laughed. “No, I'm not. Even if the experiment is wildly successful, a small region around Richardson would swap with a region from a different time—but only for an instant."

"Well, that sounds sort of dangerous."

"But unlikely,” said Paul. “Very, very unlikely."

Vicki gave him a long look. “You're not just saying this to make me not worry, are you?” She glanced at his pack. “This capsule you always have with you. What is it? And is that dangerous?"

"It's perfectly safe. It's an EPR experiment, but with a very large number of particles. I have one capsule and Dr. Richardson has the other.” Paul gesticulated with the hand not guiding his bike. “Each capsule is in a single EPR superposition. If I were to measure the capsule's quantum state, Richardson's capsule would collapse to a single eigenstate—and that should trigger a region swap. A short time later, the swap would reverse. And if it didn't, then when my capsule is moved to Richardson's location—his nexus, as we call it—the swap would be forced to reverse.” He glanced at her and saw a puzzled expression. “I'd better explain it more slowly."

"No, don't,” she said. “Don't explain. I think I'll go back to being a civilian."

Outside the terminal, they mounted their mountain bikes for the short ride to Newport where they'd buy provisions for the weekend. Paul noted that now the air was clear. No problem with navigation here. He glanced out across the Solent, but the English mainland was still invisible in the sea mist.

Just outside a grocer's shop in Newport, they dismounted. Just then, Paul's phone rang. “It's Richardson,” said Paul, looking at the Caller ID. “Why don't you go in and get what we need? I'll stay out here and watch the bikes—and deal with Richardson.” He flipped open the phone and again for Vicki's sake activated the speaker.

"I think I've had something of an idea,” came Richardson's voice from the phone's speaker. Vicki cast an amused look to Paul and then walked toward the store. Paul switched off the speaker.

"Are you there?” said Richardson.

"Sorry. Yes. Go ahead."

"I am speaking to you from,” said Richardson in a professorial voice, “from a rubber raft in the middle of the Jubilee Sports Centre swimming pool. I have the full EPR experiment with me."

"To try your surrounded-by-water theory?"

"Precisely!"

For the next five minutes or so, Richardson described the experiment at hand and then guided Paul in the positioning of his capsule.

With the capsule on the ground and him on his knees, Paul made tiny changes in the capsule's orientation.

Finally, Richardson said, “Perfect. Right on center."

Paul, his knees sore from kneeling, stood. “Okay.” He glanced at his phone's call timer and worried about running out of free minutes. “What now?” he said, trying to keep impatience out of his voice.

"Now, just stand by. We throw this little switch and..."

Paul heard a whirring sound over the phone.

"Now, this is interesting,” said Richardson. “It looks almost as if the—"

Paul waited a few seconds for more. “Hello?” he said into the silent phone. “Dr. Richardson. Can you hear me?” He noticed that the phone display showed that the call had been lost. He pulled up the received call log and dialed. But the call didn't go through. Again, he tried, but with the same result. Paul keyed the physics department number, just to see if his phone was working. He couldn't connect to the physics office, either. He stood there with the phone in his hand for a minute or so, then tried Richardson again. No answer. He blew out a breath, snapped his phone closed, chained both bikes together, and, carrying both packs, walked slowly into the grocery.

He found Vicki hauling a basket of provisions to the checkout counter. She stopped as he came in. “What's the matter?"

"Nothing, probably,” he said, feeling sheepish for his worry. “It's just that my phone dropped the call from Richardson—just as he started to run the experiment.” Paul described his attempts to reconnect. He spoke softly, even though they were the only customers in the small shop.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry.” Vicki proceeded to the cash register. “Cell phone coverage can be flaky at times. I'd imagine very much so out here on the Island."

The man behind the checkout counter appeared to be in his mid fifties. His bearing and presence suggested that he was the owner of the establishment. As Vicki hefted her shopping basket to the counter, he looked up from a table radio.

"Oh, sorry,” said the man, turning to her and moving to tally up her order. “The BBC suddenly went silent.” He nodded to the radio. “Wight Island Radio seems just fine though."

Paul shot Vicki a look.

"Coincidence, probably,” she said.

"I guess,” said Paul, loading the provisions into the packs. “Still, I've got to say I'm a little worried about it."

"Do you mean the BBC going down?” said the man, turning toward him. “I admit it is unusual."

"Oh.” Surprised by the proprietor responding to a comment meant for Vicki, Paul looked up from the packs and gestured toward the radio. “Does that station give news bulletins?"

"The local news comes on in just a few minutes—five minutes before the hour."

"Mind if we wait around for it?” said Paul brightly, striving to keep his worry out of his voice.

"No. Not at all."

Paul bought a few snack cakes. He handed one to Vicki and started to munch on the other.

"You're a grockle," said the proprietor. “American, by your accent. You've come here for the bicycle festival, I assume."

"Grockle?"

"Tourist,” whispered Vicki.

"Yes, the festival,” said Paul absently, impatient for the news. “And I'm a graduate student at the University of Southampton."

"Fine institution,” said the proprietor. He turned to stare out the window, thus terminating the conversation.

When the news time arrived, Paul heard an affable announcer report on local politics, sports, a road accident and the weather. Listening to the familiar, Paul felt his worry recede. But then, just before the hour, the announcer's voice turned serious.

"We've just received a report from the Hampshire Constabulary, IOW Operational Command Unit. They say that responding to complaints of mainland television going off the air, they attempted to contact the mainland to ascertain the cause—but were unable to make contact. They speculate there may have been a massive power outage affecting at least the Hampshire region."

"Oh my god,” said Paul at a whisper.

"They say,” the commentator continued, “it is puzzling that battery backup systems have not provided emergency power. Chief Superintendent Morley says that terrorism, though very improbable, has not been entirely ruled out. She goes on to say that the Island seems completely unaffected. We'll bring you more when we have it."

"Let's go,” Paul whispered.

Vicki nodded and the two of them returned to their bicycles.

"It is coincidence, isn't it?” said Vicki.

"Yeah.” Paul bit his lip. “I'm sure it is."

Vicki looked hard at him. “I'm not convinced you are sure."

"Well, maybe not entirely."

Vicki's eyes widened.

"But it's in no way dangerous,” said Paul quickly. “Even if Richardson is one hundred percent correct, he'll swap into another universe running only a second behind ours and then, a second later, he'll swap back. Not in the slightest dangerous—even if it happens, which I don't believe, not in the slightest—not for an instant. Nothing to worry about. But anyway, I'm sure it's just a power outage. They happen. I mean, we had a small one at the university just last month.” He paused. “Still, I think we should go back.” He checked his watch. “We can just make the 6:30 boat."

"What?” Vicki wrinkled her nose. “Because of a power outage? What would going back accomplish?"

"It would ... It would satisfy my curiosity."

"You are worrying me.” Vicki pulled out her cell phone. “I'm going to try to call my parents.” She flipped open her phone, paused, and then closed it again. “No. I won't worry. It's just a power outage. It's not as if they're unusual."

Paul nodded.

Vicki looked longingly at her bicycle, then sighed. “Fine, then. Let's go. Once your curiosity is satisfied, we'll just turn around and come back. Agreed?"

"Agreed. Thanks for humoring me.” Feeling sheepish, he looked away to his bicycle and idly worked the handbrakes. “Sometimes my imagination goes out of control. And of course I'll pay for the ferry.” As he bent to unchain the bikes, he looked up over his shoulder. "Grockle?"

"Local dialect.” Vicki grabbed her bicycle to keep it from falling. “I study the English language as well as Brit Lit, as you called it."

"Sorry. No offense."

Just then, Vicki's phone rang, startling them both. Vicki pulled it open. “Hello? Daniele. I'm so glad to hear your voice.” She smiled and put her hand over the microphone and whispered to Paul. “She lives in Maison Francaise, right across from my dorm."

In relief, Paul let out a long breath.

Vicki turned back to the phone. “I'm fine. Why?” Vicki started. “What? You're not at the university? Paris? But I'm not on the mainland, either.... We're going back now.... I'll let you know.” Vicki snapped closed the phone and swung onto her bicycle. “Okay,” she said. “Let's go.... France is unaffected."

They raced back to Cowes. Being April, the sun wouldn't set until after eight; they had plenty of light and could make good time.

As they rode, Vicki said, “I don't really understand what the experiment has to do with a massive power outage—especially since if Dr. Richardson was in a boat, his experiment couldn't even have been connected to the mains."

"This sounds crazy,” said Paul, “but being surrounded by water was to stop the EPR waves from escaping. He might have been wrong about the amount of water he needed."

As they cycled up a hill, neither spoke. At the crest, Vicki said, “You're saying that the whole of Britain was affected—and only because the Isle of Wight is set off from the mainland by the Solent, we're not involved?"

Paul, coasting now down the other side, didn't answer.

"Well,” Vicki insisted, “is that your explanation?"

"I told you it would sound crazy."

"What would be the result of the experiment if your crazy-sounding theory were somehow true?"

"Dr. Richardson's theory.” Paul steered his bike to be handlebar to handlebar with Vicki's. “The experiment could result in an alternate Great Britain being swapped with ours—one displaced backward in time from the instant of the experiment."

"A displacement? Do you mean that the Britain across the Solent now could be in an earlier point in time?"

"Crazy, huh?"

"It would be horrible, this theory of yours. Planes take off and land in the UK every second. There'd be monstrous numbers of crashes."

"I don't think so,” said Paul. “The swap is complex and not all at once—relative reality. The quantum changes of a crash would be large. I think crashes, for the most part, would be prevented by subswaps. A microminimultiworld model."

"Oh."

They rode in silence for a while—until Vicki said, “How big a displacement?"

"What?” said Paul, pulled from his thoughts. “You mean how far back could Great Britain be swapped?"

Vicki nodded. “I'd have thought the displacement of a tiny boat would be a lot bigger than something as large as England."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?” said Paul. “But it's the opposite. Think of the EPR waves as acting on a ... a membrane covering England with the edge glued to the shoreline. There are waves at lots of discrete wavelengths that can amplify by interference. The bigger the membrane, the more wavelengths there can be, and the higher the amplitude of the waves—and because of all that, the bigger the displacement."

"How big?"

"Don't know. If I knew the dimensions of Britain, I might be able to do a mental back-of-the-envelope calculation."

"It's about two hundred fifty miles wide and five hundred miles long,” said Vicki. “We learn it in school."

"Okay,” said Paul with a laugh. “Just to have something to do—besides pedaling—let me try to figure it out. Order of magnitude, anyway."

"Go ahead.” Vicki gestured ahead with her nose. “It looks like about five minutes to Cowes."

"Okay, let's see.” Paul spoke more to himself than to Vicki. “If we take three hundred miles as a typical dimension for Britain—and if the dimension of Richardson's rubber boat is, say, ten feet. Then ... then Britain is three hundred times 5,280 over ten times bigger.” He bit his lip in thought. “About sixteen times ten to the fourth bigger.” He paused. “The time effect goes as a function of area—the square of the linear dimension. So the difference between the boat's displacement and Britain's would be 256 times ten to the eighth. Let's call it two times ten to the tenth."

"Sure, fine,” said Vicki. “Let's call it that."

"What?” said Paul, yanked out of his calculations. “Oh. Give me another minute or two. I'm almost done.” He glanced at Vicki. “There are about three times ten to the seventh seconds in a year."

"How do you know that?” Vicki's expression showed she was bemused rather than impressed.

"It's an important number for us computer jockeys.” Paul thought a little longer. “Richardson expected his boat might be swapped back in time by a second. So, if he was right, I'd expect Britain would be swapped back in the order of a hundred years."

"A hundred years?"

"Roughly,” said Paul. “But the probabilities are not linear. The most likely displacement points are at regions where there's a high density of quantum decisions—when the world changes a lot over a short time. Like big historical events, maybe."

"But a second later, the worlds would swap back. Right?"

"No. On its own, the swap would also happen after a hundred years. But, in theory, if I activated my capsule near where Dr. Richardson activated his, Britain would immediately swap back—I think."

"This really is insane,” said Vicki.

"Yes, it is.” Paul bit his lip. “I certainly hope it is. You mustn't tease me about this when we're back at the university."

"I'll try not to.” Vicki paused and then laughed. “It's funny that we're actually acting on something that's so loony."

"Yeah."

They dismounted at the terminal and walked their bikes inside.

"Lots of people in here,” said Paul as they entered the passenger lounge.

"But not a full boatload, I think,” said Vicki. “We shouldn't have any trouble going home with our bicycles."

In the lounge, they found people milling about, exchanging information and rumors. There was broad agreement that the contiguous landmass of Great Britain had gone silent and also dark. Further, one of the terminal staff had relayed news from a shortwave broadcast from Ireland.

Paul heard the story from a frenzied, middle-aged woman after it had been filtered through an indeterminate number of people. “An Aer Lingus flight bound for Heathrow had to turn back,” said the woman. “The pilot couldn't contact the tower or even see the airport. He said that mist enshrouded all England, but there was no radio or radar activity, or runway lights. No lights of any kind."

"Is the Southampton ferry still going to sail on schedule?” asked Vicki.

"In ... “—Paul checked his watch—"in ten minutes?"

"Oh, yes.” The woman grasped her handbag with a shaking, white-knuckled hand. “They were going to cancel it, but thankfully a member of parliament returning from holiday on the island stepped in. The MP made a big fuss and they changed their minds"—She nodded toward a prosperous-looking individual reading a newspaper—"but only after the ferry pilot insisted. He said, bless him, that his schedule indicated that the ferry leaves for Southampton, and he saw no reason why it shouldn't. But I'm afraid it's the last one off the island.” She looked pleadingly to Paul. “Whatever happened, Cowes wasn't affected. And ... and since Southampton is so close, less than twenty miles away, Southampton might well be fine—except for the telly and radio. That sounds reasonable, doesn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am,” said Paul in a soothing voice. “That sounds very reasonable.” He looked out the window onto the Solent. Mist still obscured the mainland. There might not even be a mainland for all Paul could see. He shivered.

Glancing from the corner of his eye, he saw that Vicki looked scared. He tried to think of something to say, but couldn't. In truth, he was a little frightened himself.

A boarding call came from a ceiling-mounted speaker. Paul found its squawking normalcy comforting. I'm letting it get to me. It's just a massive power outage, maybe even the result of a terrorist attack. That would be terrible, but Britain is still there. It's ridiculous to think otherwise.

The boarding, Paul noted, was disorganized compared to when they'd come; no one asked that they stow their bicycles—which was good. They wouldn't have to spend time retrieving them when they docked.

Right on schedule, the ferry eased out of its slip into the small harbor and into the Solent: the waterway separating the Isle of Wight from the British mainland.

Leaning over the railing once again, this time with their bikes between them, Paul and Vicki peered into the mist, a far heavier haze than when they'd come.

Listening to the rhythmic thrum of the engines and feeling it through the railing, Paul experienced a subdued exhilaration—the excitement of a movie. For him, doing theoretical physics was like being a kid at play in the world. But now, he felt what he did might have import, maybe even world import. He smiled, realizing he was pretending; he didn't really believe it—not really.

Five minutes out of harbor, Paul, squinting, could make out the outline of the mainland. But it would be at least another forty minutes or so until they docked at Southampton—forty minutes of sailing up the wide Southampton Water—forty minutes of feeling important. But just a few minutes later, while Paul basked in his daydreams, he heard the engines go soft and felt the ferry decelerate.

Almost by reflex he looked up over his shoulder at the wheelhouse. There, he saw a few people—he couldn't tell how many—in what seemed vigorous debate. Paul turned and, leaning his back against the railing, watched. After about a minute he pushed off from the railing. “I'm going up there."

Vicki turned and followed his gaze. “Why? Do you think something's wrong?"

"No. Not really. Just my curiosity,” he said, resting his bicycle against the railing. “An occupational hazard for us physicists."

"I know."

Paul started for the stairs. “There might be news."

"Wait!” said Vicki, leaning her bike against Paul's and following him. “I'm just as curious as you are."

They ran up the stairs and darted into the wheelhouse. The MP that the woman in the lounge had pointed out was there with a man in uniform.

The MP looked away from the man, a look of disgust on his face. “The captain says"—he shot a contemptuous glance to the man—"that he won't take us to Southampton."

"I can't,” said the captain, not to Paul or Vicki but to the MP. “Southampton Water is treacherous. I can hardly see the shoreline and with the radio beacons out, I don't dare risk it."

Paul looked out the window. The shoreline was much clearer from the height of the wheelhouse.

Vicki stared out as well. “It's clear enough.” She pointed. “That's the Calshot spit. It's probably not even a half mile away."

Paul turned to stare at her; it was clear that despite her levity, she sorely wanted to go home. She turned and their eyes locked. “You're an American,” she said. “You have a home to go to. But my family, everyone ... everyone I know lives in the UK."

The MP regarded her coldly. “Do you have information I should know?” he said, more in the tone of a command than a question.

Vicki glanced pleadingly at Paul.

"I was on the phone with the Southampton professor I work for,” said Paul, addressing the MP, “when he threw the switch on an experiment he was conducting. Conceivably, it could have caused the power to go down, communications channels to fail, and more."

"Much more,” whispered the MP. Paul stared at him quizzically. It was obvious he knew a lot more than he was saying.

The captain looked at Paul with undisguised incredulity—not so the MP.

"And I think,” Paul went on, “that I might be able to reverse the blackout."

"Blackout, hell!” sputtered the MP. “The whole of bloody Britain has gone dark. No lights, radio, emergency communications systems. Nothing!"

"And just how do you intend to reverse the blackout?” said the captain, his voice filled with sarcasm.

Paul swung down his pack, rummaged through it, and brought out the capsule—a book-sized device covered with dials and controls.

"What the hell is that?” said the MP.

"It's complicated.” Paul stowed the capsule back in his pack. “But if I can activate it roughly where my professor activated his, it should fix the problem."

"Should fix?"

"Best I can offer.” Paul shrugged. “I might be totally wrong. My professor might not have had anything to do with it."

The MP turned to the captain. “Well?"

"I still can't take the risk. It's my responsibility as captain. I can't put my ship at risk for some theory."

The captain and the MP exchanged long, silent stares.

"Wait!” said Paul. “I think I have something of an idea.” Vicki shot him a bemused glance. “What if we—” Paul moved close to Vicki. “What if we were to borrow a lifeboat and just row the half mile to shore?"

"More like three quarters of a mile,” said the captain in a hostile voice. “And it's dangerous."

"What do you think?” said Paul, turning to Vicki.

"I want to go home."

"Fine,” said Paul. “Then let's go for it."

The captain gave a chuckle that sounded more like a snigger. “I don't think so.” He gave a mirthless smile. “I'm not in the habit of letting kids make off with lifeboats for joyriding."

"In that case,” said Paul, more for effect, “I'll jump in and swim for shore."

"Let the kids have a boat,” said the MP. “My responsibility.” He turned to Paul, thereby effectively cutting the captain off from issuing more objections. “But it must be twenty miles from Calshot to Southampton."

"We can hitchhike,” said Paul. “And in any case, we have bikes."

"Fine,” said the MP. “That's settled.” He smiled gently. “I'd rather like to come with you, but ... but sadly, at my time in life I only experience adventure vicariously."

A half hour later, Paul and Vicki had loaded their bicycles and packs into a lifeboat and had climbed in after them. The lifeboat had a sealed emergency provisions locker that also contained, according to the crew, detailed maps of the coastline bordering the Solent—including the Isle of Wight and, most importantly, southern England. Paul hoped that if the worst had happened, then with a scale of distances and with Vicki's knowledge of the geography they'd be able to locate the university's Jubilee Sports Centre by dead reckoning.

As they rowed, the ferry grew smaller and finally became lost in the gloom. Paul felt cut off from the world. He was very glad for Vicki's company.

Vicki glanced over her shoulder in the direction the boat moved. “I don't like this,” she said at a whisper. “We should see houses, but all I see are trees. I've never been there, but I don't think the spit was supposed to be heavily forested."

Paul looked. “And big trees, too. Doesn't look very English to me."

They rowed without talking and Paul could only hear the splash of the oars and creak of the oarlocks. The closer they got to shore, the clearer the air became. When the mist had entirely lifted, they saw a sandy shore behind which was a forest of great trees. The trees were not tightly spaced, but they were large; their high branches merged to form a continuous canopy. The sun, bright but low in the sky, cast long shadows, and against the green brightness, the terrain beneath the canopy looked dark and creepy.

Then came a scraping sound as the boat slid onto the bank.

"Well, we're here.” Paul pulled in his oar, then fetched the map from the locker.

Vicki pulled in her oar and hopped out of the boat. Paul followed.

Gazing at the great trees, Vicki said, “They're oaks. I was taught that our forests looked like this—before people hacked most of them down."

Paul laughed nervously. “It sounds almost as if you don't believe this is twenty-first-century England."

"I'm not really sure it is,” said Vicki softly.

"We have oak groves in Massachusetts,” said Paul dismissively. “They look sort of like these. No need to go back a hundred years."

Vicki gazed into the forest. “A lot more than a hundred years."

"Come on,” said Paul, reaching into the boat to lift out his bicycle. “This has got to be just some remnant of those forests.” He reached into the boat again for Vicki's bike. “Geez! A lot more than a hundred years. No way!"

"Hey,” she said. “This time-travel idea was yours, not mine. Are you saying you were making it all up?"

"No,” he said weakly. “But ... but I can't say I really believed it. It was just a physics hypothesis. Theoretical.” He shot a glance at the great oaks. “It's funny though, how you can believe something and not believe it at the same time."

"There's supposed to be a little village. Calshot.” Vicki looked off into the forest. “It can't be very far ahead."

"Yeah.” Paul studied the map. “Not far ahead at all. And if there isn't a village there, then..."

"Let's zero our bike odometers and take a compass reading.” Vicki reset hers and got back astride her bike. “A map, compass, and odometer navigation exercise. Just like you wanted."

"Yeah, really.” Paul took the reading and slid the map into his shirt pocket. He pointed the way, mounted his bike, and then stopped.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing, really."

"What do you mean, nothing?” said Vicki. “You look almost as if you're about to cry."

"It's just ... it's just that when I'm doing physics, I do it because it's fun. I don't think about who it might hurt or if I'm putting someone I care about in danger.” Paul squeezed the handbrakes. “It's like I'm a kid—a bratty irresponsible kid."

Vicki touched his arm. “I find your nature, well ... yes, childlike—and sort of endearing."

Paul, feeling himself flush, stood hard on the raised pedal. “Let's go!"

Although the sun was lost to them, the light was sufficient and they made good time as their bikes, side by side, moved silently over the flat and firm ground between the trees.

A flash of movement caught Paul's eye and he gripped tight his hand brakes. Vicki braked a few feet farther ahead.

Two children froze from their play and stood staring. Both were boys: barefoot, one about ten, the other seven or eight, with flaxen hair and blue-gray eyes. Each wore only a single garment that looked like a tee shirt—brown, loose fitting, and reaching almost to their knees.

Paul wheeled his bike forward to be even with Vicki's. “Hi!” he called out.

"Frea Aelmihtig!" said the older kid, his eyes wide and fearful.

Paul rolled his bike a yard forward. “Come on. I'm friendly. I won't eat you guys."

The taller boy turned to the other and shouted, "Rinnath on waeg!" As one, they turned and ran. After a few seconds, they were lost from sight.

"Geez!” said Paul, looking the way they'd gone.

"Frea Aelmihtig. Frea Aelmihtig," said Vicki, under her breath. “I know that.” After a pause she intoned, "Firum foldu, Frea Aelmihtig—the Earth for Men, God almighty.” She gasped and added, “Oh, my gosh!"

Paul turned to her. “What's the matter?"

"Do you know any Old English?” she said in a soft, far-off voice.

"I knew an Old English Sheepdog once.” When she didn't answer, Paul felt suddenly cold. “Are you saying they were speaking Old English? You mean like Chaucer or something?"

"I mean like Beowulf."

"Beowulf! That's a thousand years ago. We can't have swapped back a millennium.” Paul tried unsuccessfully to laugh. “That's a long, long time."

"Time.” Vicki shook her head. “It seems to me that time is acting very mean."

"Mean?” Paul managed a bark of a laugh. “The M in GMT."

"Excuse me?"

"Sorry. Just babbling. Come on. Let's see about this Calshot village.” He bore down on a pedal. “A thousand years. No way!"

It took under a minute for them to break into a clearing where there stood about a dozen small houses clustered in a semicircle. The structures of unpainted wood had thatched roofs and very low walls. Paul's gaze, though, was riveted on a line of ten or fifteen men standing shoulder to shoulder facing them. Most carried spears and they all looked angry—and more than a little disquieted by the bicycles.

"Looks like we were expected,” Vicki whispered.

"Word gets around,” Paul whispered back. “I wouldn't have thought that word of mouth could outrun bicycles."

Vicki nodded at one of the doorways where the two boys they'd encountered looked out. “But it seems kids can outrun them."

One of the men took a few steps forward and stared hard at Paul. "Ond p, hwceartp?"

Paul could tell he was being asked a question—but that's all he could tell.

"Hwanon cymon git?" The man stared for a few seconds, as if waiting for an answer. Then he turned to those around him and whispered. All at once, the villagers surged forward with spears held for action.

Paul knew it was too late to escape; he was astraddle his bike and the bike was pointed the wrong way. But maybe he could get up enough speed to force his way through the line of men. And if he couldn't, he still might be able to open up a path so Vicki could get free. He had just moved a foot to a pedal when he heard Vicki shout, "Hwaet!" He glanced at her and then at the men; the attackers had stopped in their tracks.

"Hwaet! WiGcr-Dena in gecr-dagum," Vicki shouted, gesturing with the hand not holding the handlebars, “peod-cyninga, prym gefrunon."

The men looked at her with puzzled expressions, and some of them lowered their spears.

Vicki leaned in toward Paul. “Let's get out of here!” she whispered.

Taking advantage of the men's confusion, Vicki and Paul turned their bikes around, mounted, and sped off. After about a five-minute ride, out of breath from the exertion and fear, they stopped to rest.

Paul, still on his bike, leaned against a tree. “What the heck did you say to them back there?"

"I haven't a clue, really,” said Vicki, dismounting and breathing heavily. “It was the beginning of Beowulf." She gave a self-effacing smile. “We learn that in school."

"And why were they so angry?"

"The Anglo-Saxons weren't fond of strangers."

"Not fond is a nice way of putting it,” said Paul with a grunt of a laugh. “You learned that in school, I bet."

Vicki nodded. “If someone comes into a village without welcome or without calling out, the villagers have a right to kill him.” She reprised her smile. “Or so I've been taught."

"I don't think I like it here,” said Paul. He was ready to believe that Dr. Richardson had done the incredible. Now he hoped he could make himself believe he could undo the incredible. “We've got to get to Southampton."

"How close do you need to be?"

"To the nexus?” Paul thought for a few seconds. “I don't know, exactly. It's a surface-wave phenomenon so it has a one over R rather than an inverse square law, I think."

"Is that an answer?"

There came a whap, whap, whap sound from above, and Paul hunted for its source. “Hey!” He pointed. “A helicopter. That is the most comforting sight I've seen in hours."

"Probably from the Island.” Vicki looked thoughtfully up at it. “I wonder why it makes that sound—since the blades move smoothly."

"Hard to explain if you don't know physics.” Paul shifted his bike to a low gear. “I think we'd better get going. We might be able to reach Southampton before it gets really dark."

With seeming reluctance, Vicki tore her gaze from the aircraft. “I think we should lie low until it does get really dark."

"Why?"

"Myrkfaelen.”

"What?"

"Hard to explain if you don't know Old English."

"All right. All right. I'm sorry about the physics arrogance. Another occupational hazard, I'm afraid. I truly am sorry."

Vicki gave a warm chuckle. “I think we're both a little on edge. Well, anyway, myrkfaelen means fear of the dark."

Paul gave a quizzical look.

"The Anglo-Saxons were afraid of the dark. If there's a bright enough moon, bandits will travel at night, otherwise nobody does.” A howl, long and deep, reverberated through woods. “Um ... except wolves."

"Wolves?” Paul shivered. “Let's not wait for night."

"Yes.” Vicki looked nervously around. “Maybe that would be best. It'll be dark soon enough anyway."

Paul straddled his bike again and rummaged through his pack. “We should probably wear these now.” He pulled out a headband-mounted LED flashlight and slipped the elastic on so that the lamp sat in the middle of his forehead.

While Vicki found and slipped on her own LED unit, Paul pulled the map from his pocket. He examined it under the brilliant blue-white LEDs, then put it away and switched off the light. “Okay. Let's go.” He pointed. “That way!"

They made slow time in the increasing darkness, with frequent stops to check the compass and odometer readings against the map. Despite the darkness, they rode with their lights off. They had no wish to attract bandits or wolves.

"It's amazing how well one can see in the dark,” said Paul as he rode, “after the eyes become dark-adapted.” He stopped for a map check. “Except for reading maps."

"What will happen when you throw the switch on your capsule?” said Vicki, stopping her bike and looking over Paul's shoulder at the map.

"The island of Britain should swap back into the twenty-first century."

"But we're on the eleventh century version,” said Vicki. “What will happen to us?"

Paul put away the map and bit his lower lip. “I think that since we weren't on it originally, we can't be swapped back with it—conservation of mass. I think we'll stay in the twenty-first century."

"You think?"

"Yeah, I think.” Paul remounted his bike and started away.

Vicki hurried to catch up. “And if you're right,” she said, pausing for breath, “where will we wind up?"

"Probably at Richardson's nexus—where he threw the switch on his module.” A few seconds later Paul added, “And we probably won't be harmed—for the same reason the planes probably didn't crash—avoidance of excessive quantum changes."

"Probably!"

"I'm sorry.” Paul threw her a glance. “It's the best I can theorize at the moment."

At their next compass and map stop, Vicki asked, “What if it doesn't work?"

"We just go back to the Isle of Wight. I'm sure Richardson, in his England, will find a solution.” Paul cast a glance at the sky, what little he could see of it through the tree branches. “I'm sure of it."

"Richardson's England,” said Vicki, in a voice filled with yearning. “A modern England in a ... an eleventh-century world?"

"Yes.” Paul explored the idea. “And in an eleventh-century Solar System—I think.” He lowered his eyes from the canopy—and froze. “Uh-oh!” Ahead, a band of sturdy men stood firm, like truncated oaks among the forest's mighty trees. Most carried spears, the rest, swords. These were not scared villagers. Catching movements out of the corners of his eyes, Paul saw more men coming from left and right. There was no escape. And Paul had no illusions that Vicki reciting Beowulf would help.

Vicki seemed to understand that as well. “This is serious,” she whispered. “It's a raiding party. Norwegian or Danish, I think."

One of the men ventured forward and barked out some words. They sounded like a command. Then, as the men began to converge on them, Vicki threw her hand to her forehead and as her hand came away, a brilliant blue-white light shone out illuminating the man in front. He froze like a statue.

Paul, embarrassed by the slowness of his reaction, switched on his LED lamp as well. Then, swiveling his head from side to side, casting a beam over the raiders, he screamed loudly and gutturally. He bore heavily down on the pedals and felt his bicycle lurch forward. He could see Vicki leaning on her pedals as well. The men in front didn't give way—but neither did they move to stop them.

Unimpeded, the two bicycles raced by the men. Only after Paul and Vicki had pedaled furiously for about five minutes did Paul dare to look behind. He signaled a halt. “Okay. We can rest now."

From then on, they rode with their lights on.

A little after midnight, Paul signaled their final halt. He dismounted and eased his bicycle to the ground. “This is, as close as I can tell, Southampton University.” He gave a soft yet harsh laugh. “The grounds of the university, that is."

Vicki swung off her bike, threw down her knapsack, and collapsed beside it. “I am really tired."

"Yeah, me too.” Paul took off his pack. He knelt beside it and brought forth the capsule. Opening the control panel cover, he moved his hand to a red-colored toggle. “This is the switch.” Then he pulled back his hand.

"What's the matter?” said Vicki. “Why didn't you flip it? Don't you think we're close enough?” Paul turned off his LED lamp so he could look at Vicki without blinding her. Vicki turned off hers as well.

"I've been thinking.” Paul, feeling a surge of affection, gazed at his friend. “I really don't know what might happen. It could be very dangerous. While I'm willing to risk my life, I'm not going to risk yours."

"What are you talking about?"

"Only one of us is needed here.” Paul reached in his pocket and handed Vicki the map. “You should go back to the lifeboat and row back to Cowes—or at any rate, row as far as you can into the Solent. I'm sure some craft will pick you up."

Vicki canted her head. “I really don't know what you're talking about."

"Our Southampton might materialize right on top of us. We could be killed."

"Do you really think that could happen?"

"No,” said Paul. “But it might. I'll stay here and wait as long as I can—until morning hopefully, maybe longer. Then I'll throw the switch. Whatever happens, you'll be safe. I want you to be safe."

"Paul.” Vicki hesitated. “Paul, I'm not going to leave you here."

"You've got to."

"Not bloody likely!” With a quick, sinewy motion, Vicki darted her hand to the capsule and threw the switch.

The capsule emitted a whirring sound, the same sound Paul had heard over the phone when Richardson activated his device.

Then, suddenly, water and darkness. Paul, gurgling water, felt himself sink. He pawed upward but the weight of his clothing and shoes dragged him down. He felt one foot contact a complex of hard, rodlike structures—My bicycle! He let his legs fold under him, then sprang up with all his strength, expelling the last of his air with the exertion.

He pawed the water above, felt his body slide upward, and after a few agonizing seconds his head broke the surface. He coughed out water and took a frantic breath before sinking again. Rolling into a ball, he yanked off his shoes and again fought for the surface. His ears cleared and he heard splashes to his left as his head cleared the water.

"Vicki,” he gasped. “Is that you?” He blew out some more water. “Are you okay?"

"I'm okay,” came a labored voice.

Through water-blurred eyes, Paul saw a glowing redness in the distance. Treading water, he shook his head and blinked a few times to clear his vision. The red glow resolved into a word: EXIT.

The swimming pool! Paul stroked toward the sign and heard Vicki following behind. Then, his eyes adjusting to the dim illumination of a starry night sifting in through the windows, he saw her overtake him. She climbed out of the pool at a metal ladder and Paul, following, became engulfed in the torrent of water spilling from her clothes.

"We did it!” shouted Paul when he'd emerged from the pool. He raised his hands in victory. “We've brought Britain back!"

"Gosh,” said Vicki. “I am so glad to be back in this building, chlorine smell and all.” She laughed, then impetuously hugged Paul. Turning then, she pointed to a towel hamper. “Come on. Let's dry off. I'm starting to shiver.” She darted to the hamper, pulled out two towels, and tossed one to Paul. As Vicki toweled herself down, clothes and all, she absently gazed out the window, upward toward the sky—then gasped.

"What's the matter?” Paul joined her near the window and followed her gaze. “What do ... Geez! What's that? It looks like a comet. My god, it's almost as bright as the moon.” He furrowed his forehead in puzzlement. “I didn't know of any comets coming. Certainly not a comet like this.” He looked at the diffuse fiery brightness with its ghostly arced tail. “This is amazing!"

"When beggars die, there are no comets seen," Vicki whispered, her face showing fear. “The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes."

"What?"

"Halley's Comet,” said Vicki, still at a whisper.

"No. Can't be. Halley's Comet isn't due again for years. And Halley's hasn't been this bright since—"

"It was very bright just before the Battle of Hastings.” Vicki broke her gaze from the comet and looked wide eyed at Paul. “1066. It was taken as a portent for William the Conqueror."

"Wait a minute. Are you...” Suddenly the truth and significance of Vicki's words registered. The capsule hadn't pulled modern Britain back from the age of the Anglo-Saxons, but had instead hurtled them into that very Britain—the twenty-first-century kingdom in an eleventh-century world. He staggered, leaning for support against the glass wall of the Sports Centre. Vicki had her world back, but his—everything he knew: Harvard, Boston, the United States, everything but Great Britain—gone. He was an orphan. Everyone who was important to him, everyone except Vicki, lived in another Universe.

Vicki touched his arm. “I'm sure your Dr. Richardson will know what to do."

Paul was too upset to speak and he was angry: angry at the Universe, all of them; angry at himself; angry at Dr. Richardson; and even angry at William the Conqueror. When that bastard William sets foot on England, he's going to be in for one nasty shock. Finally, Paul found his voice. “Come on,” he said, “Let's go find Professor Richardson.” He stormed toward the exit leading to the changing rooms and showers.

"Paul. Stop,” Vicki called after him.

Paul, his eyes watery from the pool's chlorine, spun around.

"The middle of the night might not be the best time for a person to drop in on someone,” said Vicki, “especially if that person is dripping wet and not wearing shoes."

"You think?” he said with a forced smile as he walked to the pool edge. He looked down at the litter of bicycles and packs on the bottom. “I'll get our stuff.” He dived in and as he splashed his way forward he understood that his outburst and wanting to see Richardson was so that he wouldn't have to think about the loss of his family and friends back home—as well as his loss of back home itself. And he sorely needed to believe that Richardson could undo the damage he'd wrought.

In several trips, Paul retrieved their gear and bicycles. The pannier bags dripped lakes. Paul grabbed another towel, dried off again, then sat, resting his back against the towel hamper. “I'm wiped,” he said in a throaty whisper. “I can't even think straight anymore."

"You live off campus, don't you?"

Paul threw a quick glance at his dripping bicycle and sighed. “About a fifteen minute bike ride away."

"Well, I'm in Highfield Hall, virtually just down the street.” Vicki paused. “I don't think you should bike home. It's late. You're wet. You'll catch pneumonia. Why don't you stay over at my place?"

Paul accepted the offer with heavy thanks, and the two left the humid pool with its heavy smell of chlorine.

As they walked their bicycles out of the Sports Centre, Paul glanced stealthily from side to side. He didn't want to encounter anyone, especially anyone he knew. He felt guilty about his part in the catastrophe, and he couldn't shake the notion that anyone he might meet would instantly know he was guilty by observing the soggy condition of his apparel.

"The campus seems too quiet,” said Vicki, softly as if reluctant to violate the silence. “Not a person in sight.” She shivered in her wet clothes. “I wonder if something has gone very wrong and there are no people left in England."

Paul gave an uneasy laugh. “That's impossible."

"Is it? I'd have thought what's already happened to be impossible also."

They walked in silence. As they approached the Maison Francaise, lying between them and Highfield Hall, they jumped at the sound of cheering. It came from the windows of the French dorm. As Paul and Vicki looked up toward the source of the exuberance, they saw a window thrown open and a student wave out as if he were the Pope. "On Capte a nouveau la television Francaise!" he announced loudly to the campus.

Vicki gazed up at him with wide, startled eyes.

Paul lowered his gaze to Vicki. “What did he say?"

"He said French television is broadcasting again.” She found Paul's eyes. “How is that possible?"

"I don't...” The answer occurred to him and Paul gasped. “It must be that instead of contemporary England switching to join the modern world, the modern world switched to join England.” He jerked his head up toward the student in the window. “Are you sure?” Paul shouted.

The student looked away for a few seconds, then leaned out the window again. “Yes. We're getting satellite channels from all over Europe now."

"Thank you!” Paul raised a hand in a V for victory.

Vicki's eyes showed a lack of comprehension.

"It looks like,” said Paul, glancing up at the comet, “when we switched to the modern England in the eleventh century, we pulled the rest of the world we transferred from with us—but naturally enough, not the rest of the Universe.” He smiled, thinking of the implications. “Since whatever happens here on Earth can't affect them, we'll see all the astronomical activities of a thousand years replayed: comets, meteor showers and impacts, supernovae—and we'll be prepared to observe them."

"Then everything is all right now,” said Vicki.

"Yes, except for time.” Paul laughed. “Who knows what to call today's date? The Greenwich Observatory will probably not be pleased. A very nasty time for them."

Copyright (c) 2008 Carl Frederick

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By four P.M. the arctic sky was ablaze with a haunting wispy green that twisted and writhed in front of the stars like the fluttering wing feathers of a frightened tropical songbird, and Morgan knew he was freezing to death.

As if that wasn't bad enough, he was sure the wolf was laughing at him.

It stood above him, silhouetted by starlight on the rim of the depression where he had sought shelter and found only death. Little puffs of laughter emerged from the lips of the formidable gray eminence, crystallizing in the air before the wind flung them off to the north. They were only fitful congregations of breath; soft, anxious, canid exhalations. But in the haze and daze that was slowly smothering his thoughts, Morgan was sure it must be laughter. When the powerful predator was through chuckling at his predicament, it would surely begin to eat him. Gazing up from where the heavy steel leg trap held him pinned to the bottom of what he had hoped would prove to be a sheltering hollow in the tundra, he imagined that the eyes of the wolf were like emeralds lit from within.

Might as well be eaten, he thought resignedly, by something beautiful.

It was not supposed to be this way. He had set off from Barrow with his cameras and one big thermos of hot coffee and another of rich chicken soup in hopes of capturing some panoramic scenes of the deep arctic winter. It was mid December on the North Slope, a time when only the most fitful illumination glazed the landscape like glistening honey between ten in the morning and two in the afternoon. Before and thereafter, the sky was as black as the oil that gushed out of the ground at Prudhoe Bay, far to the east. When some of the staff at the hotel in Barrow had expressed reservations about him traveling alone out into the shadowy tundra, he had smiled cheerfully and assured them he had plenty of fuel to make it to the little village of Atqasuk, only sixty miles distant. His all-weather GPS would keep him from getting lost, and he had plenty of experience on snowmobiles (or snow machines, as they called them up here) back home in Wisconsin.

Except ... this wasn't Wisconsin, the satchel holding his GPS unit and cell phone had been crushed when he had dumped and damaged the snow machine halfway between Barrow and Atqasuk, and both the coffee and chicken soup had long since been consumed. Their life-sustaining heat had dissipated throughout his bruised body hours ago. Then the wind had come up out of nowhere, a cold flailing vampire sucking what heat remained in his body out through the exposed frozen flesh of his face.

He had sought temporary shelter in the inviting depression. Perhaps the wolf had come seeking shelter there as well, only to find that today the usually empty hollow was offering board as well as room. A logical place, Morgan had realized too late, for a trapper to set his deadly steel.

He was out of food, out of drink, out of hope. Very soon now, with the questing, relentless cold beginning to work its inexorable way through his multiple layers of clothing, he would be out of time. The irony was that the North Slope was experiencing a heat wave. The temperature when he had left town had been almost five degrees above zero Fahrenheit. He had seen chattering Inupiaq women grocery shopping in socks and flip-flops.

It didn't matter. Even in the absence of wind, he was still going to freeze to death. And it felt much colder now. A still, dry pain had begun to numb his muscles and seep into his bones. Coming in slower, longer heaves, his breath crackled like moistened breakfast cereal.

Emerald eyes, burning as they came closer. Fixated and hungry. The two-legged prey in the depression showed no sign of trying to flee, evinced no evidence of being able to offer resistance. Baring her teeth, the solitary female raised her head and prepared to pass the word to her nearby pack. Morgan felt himself losing consciousness as a chill, dark blanket began to settle over him.

Something sharper than a snap of thumb against finger reignited his hearing. A wheeze of snow coughed skyward just to the left of the wolf's front paw. Her head swung around up, the fire in her eyes flickered briefly, and she turned and bolted. Had she ever been there, or had he imagined her? As his thoughts faded into the swirling snow around him, Morgan could not help but lament the loss of what would have been a great picture. If he'd had one of his cameras with him. If he'd had the strength to aim it and take the shot. If he had been able to lift his head. Dimly, he heard a voice.

"Damn. Missed her."

Thump, shuffle, thump. Retreating to the warm safety of childhood, Morgan remembered the muffled sound his favorite stuffed dinosaur had made every time he had happily punched the crap out of it. A terrible pressure left his cramped calf as the jaws of the steel trap were pulled apart and his leg was gently but firmly lifted and laid aside. Then he was moving, rising, and sitting up, though not of his own accord. Strong arms beneath his own, short and powerful like the concrete pillars that held buildings above the permafrost in Barrow, were lifting him.

"Come on, man. Help me. I don't want to have to drag you all the way."

Rejuvenated by the sound of another human, and one exuding soft-voiced confidence as well, Morgan summoned reserves he had long since given up for lost. In an instant of wonderment he found himself standing again on two feet.

Half awake, half dead, and unsure which way the balance was tilting, he leaned on the shorter man as they stumbled out of the hollow. Instead of a bright red snowsuit like the photographer wore, his unexpected savior was clad in a traditional heavy parka of dark blue material. Colorful abstract embroidered patterns decorated the sleeves and hem. The wide neck ruff was of wolf; perhaps a cousin of the female who had been about to make a meal of the incapacitated visitor from Wisconsin. The bottom hem, wrists, and hood were trimmed with wolverine fur, which strongly resists freezing even when wet. Rendered harmless by needlework, a set of threatening claws that had belonged to the fur's former owner hung close to the heavy-duty zipper.

Ahead of them a shape loomed out of the wind and dark. Another snow machine, lean and mean but equipped with all the necessary gear to allow its owner to check a winter trapline. At that moment it represented the most exquisite example of modern technology Morgan had ever set eyes upon. In his sudden anxiety to reach it, he tripped against his rescuer. Neither fell. It was like stumbling against a soft, two-legged boulder.

"If you're going to die,” the man shouted genially above the wind, “at least wait until we get to the house. If I have to drag you behind the machine, it will make for one ugly corpse."

He helped the feeble Morgan climb onto the back of the vehicle. Even through the all-encompassing numbness that pervaded his body, the photographer could feel that the surface of the seat beneath him was uneven. Looking down, he saw that much of the space that was supposed to accommodate his butt was presently occupied by the dead bodies of several arctic hares and a white fox.

"Can you hang on?"

"What?"

Settling into the driver's seat, the hunter glanced back and raised his voice. “Can you hang on? It's about ten miles to the house."

Unable to speak, the exhausted photographer responded with a weak nod. It was sufficient. Adjusting his snow goggles, his stocky savior positioned himself. To Morgan, the Chicago Symphony performing Beethoven never made music as exhilarating as the throaty roar of the snow machine's engine rumbling to life. A moment later men and machine were accelerating across the murky, ice-bound landscape.

"I'm Albert Tungarook!” the man yelled back at his passenger. “What happened to you?"

Gasping, leaning forward, his eyes shut tight against the freezing wind as he pressed his face against the soft blue parka in front of him, Morgan explained. The driver listened, occasionally nodding somberly in comprehension as he drove.

"Lucky for you I came along. From the looks of it, I figure you were about two minutes short of becoming a wolfsicle. Sorry I didn't get her, though.” He nodded back and down at his passenger's seat. “Try to stay off the fox. It's frozen and can't bleed, but you don't want to ride all the way back to the house with a femur up your ass."

Ten miles. Ten miles of bumping, jouncing, bone-jarring anguish on the ragged, rugged, uneven tundra. Tungarook dodged ditches that were like zippers in the earth and sped over frozen ponds as easily as Morgan would have negotiated a sunlit highway back home. How the hunter found his way in the darkness and the flat frozen terrain Morgan did not know. The man never once looked at an instrument of any kind. There was no sun. There were no landmarks. But overhead there were familiar constellations and ribbons of waving, hypnotic aurora to tie the stars together.

Morgan was sure he was dead or dreaming, or maybe dreaming of death, when he saw the pillar of green fire.

Green burnished with red actually. And purple, and a little pale crackle of blue. It plunged downward out of the black night like the lambent stabbing finger of an unseen genie. Hissing softly, it spilled with alacrity upon a small single-story house set hard beside a frozen stream. Behind a single triple-paned window a more familiar yellow light, soft and familiar, beckoned from within. His heart hurt to look at it. All that was needed to complete the picture of bucolic impossibility was a curl of wood smoke coiling aesthetically upward from a brick chimney. But there was no chimney, brick or otherwise, and for hundreds of miles around no wood to fuel it had there been one.

His eyelids fluttered and he passed out against the strong back of Albert Tungarook, dreaming of postcard nirvanas.

The aroma of something wonderful packaged in steam dragged him back to awareness. A moment later he was tasting as well as smelling the source. Hot chocolate. It burned his lips. He didn't care. He would not have traded it for all the amphoraed ambrosia of Zeus on Olympus.

Opening his eyes, he saw a round brown face gazing concernedly down at his own. When he met her gaze, the girl smiled. Where the eyes of the wolf had burned, hers sparkled. Carefully, she tilted the dark rim of the heavy ceramic mug to his lips a second time. Reaching up, he took it from her and smiled back. To his surprise, his hands did not tremble and his lips did not crack.

Rising from the side of the couch where he lay entombed beneath several thick blankets, she turned and called out.

"Father, he's awake!” Clad in jeans and hoodie, the stocky sixteen-year-old turned back to Morgan. “Excuse me. I've got to finish charging the batteries."

He looked on as father and daughter, going in opposite directions, passed wordlessly in a doorway. Batteries, he found himself thinking as he fought to restrain himself, to sip and not chug the mug's overpoweringly delicious, steaming contents. Electric heat. That explained the almost oppressive warmth of the room in which he found himself.

But not the pillar of green fire he had seen. Or thought he had seen. Nothing explained that, except perhaps delirium.

His own mug firmly in hand, Tungarook settled himself down in a nearby overstuffed chair like a squat bear backing into its lair. The heavy wooden furniture looked as old as it did comfortable. “Good. You're alive. Now you will have a fine story to tell when you get home. Better even than pretty pictures. And when Casey and I go back to Barrow I can tell my wife about the dumb white guy who let himself get caught out alone on the tundra."

A sudden, unpleasant thought caused Morgan to swallow and look down at himself. “Frostbite?"

The hunter pursed his lips. “I don't think so. I checked you pretty thorough while we were getting you out of your clothes and under the blankets. There's a little blackening on the ends of a couple of toes, but not enough to where I think you'll lose them.” He smiled. “Of course, if you went ahead and had the tips amputated, that would give you proof for your story."

The worried photographer nodded slowly. “I think I'd rather keep my toes and invite disbelief.” He eyed his surroundings. “Where are we?"

"In my living room."

For the first time since he had set out from Barrow on the ill-starred trip, Morgan found himself grinning. “You know what I mean."

Tungarook gestured with his free hand. “We're about halfway between Barrow and Atqasuk, but way north of the snow machine track that links them."

Morgan nodded slowly, sipping. “When I lost control I broke my bike, my phone, everything. I was trying to hike back."

His host's smile vanished like the steam from his mug. “You never would have made it. Where I found you was way northwest of the regular route. Of course, when you eventually hit the ocean you could have followed it back to town. If you had better clothes and enough food and hot drink to sustain you for a week's walk or so. If you didn't go in the wrong direction and head out on the ice toward Siberia."

The walls of the tightly sealed little house, Morgan noted, were decorated with framed pictures and other inexpensive bric-a-brac. No animal heads or skins. North Shore people hunted for subsistence, not for sport. “I thought the wolf had me."

"Almost did,” Tungarook opined cheerfully. “You're just lucky a white bear didn't come across you.” He nodded to his right. “They're probably all in Barrow anyway, rummaging the dumpsters behind Pepe's or Arctic Pizza."

For a while it was quiet in the room. Wordlessly, Morgan held out his empty mug. Rising from his padded cave of a chair, Tungarook refilled it from the big white pitcher that sat on a coffee table hand-hewn from a single piece of massively gnarled driftwood that had been hauled out of the nearby river. As the hunter resumed his seat, Morgan happened to glance out the window. A faint but unmistakable greenish glow stained the thin layer of snow outside.

Eyes widening, he nearly shot off the couch. The sudden exertion left him dizzy, but still standing. He staggered to the window. There was no mistaking it: a flickering green light was turning the frozen crystals the color of lime sorbet.

Arriving at his side, Tungarook tried to ease his guest back onto the couch.

"Not so fast, man. You're still pretty weak. You'll hurt yourself."

The photographer succeeded in raising an arm to gesture outside. “Don't you see that?"

The hunter glanced out the window. “See what?"

Morgan looked down at his host, his expression serious. “I'm not delirious. Not now. Something's throwing a green glow on the snow.” Turning and tilting his head back, he studied the low ceiling. “I saw something like it but much stronger when we were coming in. Stronger than a searchlight, it was. A bright, bright green, almost like the aurora."

Tungarook peered hard at his guest. Then the burly hunter let out a heavy sigh and stepped back, forcing Morgan to stand on his own. His fortitude strengthened by curiosity and chocolate, the photographer managed to remain upright.

"Not ‘almost.'” His host murmured the correction with obvious reluctance.

Woozy but determined to hold his ground mentally as well as physically, Morgan blinked at the stocky Inupiaq. “I don't follow you."

"Then follow me,” Tungarook directed him. “Nobody will believe you anyway.” Turning, he headed for a closed door. “Casey is charging the batteries."

"I know.” Morgan tottered after his host. “She said that's what she was going to do. What has that got to do with...?"

As soon as the door was opened and he was able to follow the shorter man through the intervening boot room, he saw. And understood.

The surge of frigid air hit Morgan the instant they stepped out of the changing area. He was tempted to retreat to the warm living room. Brain and body screamed at him to scurry back to the inner sanctum of snug blankets and cozy couch and hot drink. What he saw, however, held him transfixed despite the cold. Transfixed and disbelieving. Transfixed and disbelieving with his hair standing on end. And not in the metaphorical sense, either. Though the longest strands remaining on his pate were little more than an inch in length, each was now standing straight up or out from the sides and top of his head. Beside him, Albert Tungarook's much longer black hair was also standing stiffly at attention, making him look like a human porcupine.

Two sleek but well-used snow machines dominated the tiny, constricted garage. Like an army of pawns surrounding their king and queen, everything from shovels to neatly racked snowshoes lined or lay against the insulated metal walls. Armories of tools hung from the interior siding, coils of shiny cable and black hose were clipped to the walls like hibernating snakes, drums of gasoline huddled against the far wall like so many caucusing wombats, and in one corner, splayed and cured pelts stood stacked waist-high like oversized shoe leather. A rack of steel shelves welded to the rear wall held wired-together ranks of deep-cycle marine batteries. One tangle of cables ran rightward to disappear into a hole in the inner wall of the house. A second serpentine confusion emerged from a nearby floor-mounted transformer. A retractable skylight dimpled the roof overhead. At present it was open to the cold and the stars.

Her right arm upraised, fingers extended, Casey Tungarook stood directly beneath the opening. Seemingly unsupported, her long black hair was standing straight up, as if being tugged by the vacuum of space. Dropping straight down from the heavens, a tongue of cold green blaze entered the garage via the wide-open skylight. It coursed down her upthrust arm, through her body, out her outstretched left arm, and into the transformer on which her open palm rested. The expression on her face was perfectly neutral. She was neither smiling nor frowning. Certainly she did not appear to be in pain. If anything, an awed Morgan decided as he stared openmouthed, she looked bored.

Seeing him gaping at her, she turned in his direction and smiled reassuringly, her brown skin flushed celadon. “It doesn't hurt,” she called to him above the soft hiss of the streaming electric waterfall that poured into the garage. “Though it does kind of tickle."

Morgan did not respond. He had no idea how to respond. What he was witnessing was so implausible, so physically farfetched, that he was sure anything he might say would leave him sounding like a complete fool. In the absence of a response, the girl shifted her stance slightly. The slender downpouring of jade fire promptly moved with her, shimmying like a drapery woven of translucent green satin caught in a sudden gust of wind.

Behind their respective glass indicator windows on the heavy-duty storage batteries, a multitude of individual red needles were steadily advancing from left to right.

Morgan did not realize how long he had been standing in stupefied silence until the chill that invaded his open mouth began to sting his teeth. He felt Tungarook's hand on his arm.

"Let's go back inside,” his host suggested gently. “It's cold in the garage when Casey is working. She'll be finished soon."

"Yes,” Morgan heard a voice murmur. His own. “Back inside."

His hands had not trembled when they had taken the mug of hot chocolate from the girl's fingers, but they did now. He did not even try to pick up the cup as he stared across the room at Tungarook.

"Either I just saw something utterly impossible,” he declared shakily, “or else you've got a hidden film crew here making a movie and I just found myself in the middle of a special effect."

His host chuckled. “Yeah, that's what everybody thinks when they see Casey doing her thing."

Morgan blinked in surprise. “I'm not the first?"

Tungarook shook his head. “Well, you're the first non-Inupiaq. My relatives and friends, they know about it and accept it. Living together here for ten thousand years or so, people come around to accepting all kinds of things folks from down south would call impossible. We have stories and legends for happenings that have never even occurred to you."

"So it's—magic?” Outside, the green glow had vanished, but Casey did not reappear. Checking her wiring, perhaps. In every sense of the term?

"What, are you calling me a superstitious savage?” At the stricken look that appeared on Morgan's face, Tungarook laughed out loud. “Nothing magical about it,” he replied, finally taking pity on his guest. “It's simple physics. Well,” he corrected himself, “maybe not so simple. But physics. I've discussed the basis with some of the scientists at the Arctic Research Center outside of town. Without mentioning its relation to my daughter's singular aptitude, of course. But we talked process and effect. To put it succinctly, Casey can channel the aurora."

Morgan found himself longing for something stronger to drink than hot chocolate. “Still sounds like magic to me.” He found his gaze being drawn to the door that led toward the garage. “Looked like magic, too."

Tungarook set his mug aside. “What do you know about the Aurora borealis?"

"It's pretty.” Morgan added apologetically, “Physics isn't something I know a lot about. I'm just a photographer, most of the time."

"And I'm just a hunter, some of the time,” his host replied. “But I have a special daughter, and I have a responsibility to know all that I can about her.” He leaned toward his guest. “How did you think way out here that we kept the batteries charged enough to supply all this light and heat?"

"I didn't think about it. You'll recall,” Morgan added wryly, “that when I got here I was nearly frozen to death."

"Oh yeah, so you were. Well, the scientists tell me you get an auroral display when charged particles in the Earth's magnetosphere collide with and excite atoms in the upper atmosphere. These atoms get rid of their gained energy in the form of light. Because most of the emissions come from something called atomic oxygen, most auroras have a green or red glow. Nitrogen gives blue and purple. I'm told there's also infrared, ultraviolet, and x-rays, but we don't see those down here. We're just human.” He poured himself a fresh mug of steam and chocolate.

"Casey may be the first person, at least in our time, who can channel the aurora, but she's not the first example of it happening. Back in 1859 a monster storm on the sun produced maybe the strongest aurora in your time and mine. Most of the telegraph lines around the world went crazy, jumping in and out of service, because of the strength of the auroral discharge. But it turned out that some of the lines were just the right length and orientation to let a—it's called a geomagnetically induced current—flow through them, and allow those particular lines to be used for normal communication."

Morgan made a face. “Oh, come on now. Not really."

Tungarook nodded. “A couple of operators communicating between Boston and Portland, Maine, switched off their station power and transmitted back and forth for two hours using nothing but auroral current. Said the line worked better on auroral power than it did with the juice from their storage batteries.” He waved his hand. “When she holds her arms and body just so, Casey can align herself the same way. Maybe her mother took too many iron supplements when she was pregnant. Maybe there was some kind of unique impurity in them. I don't know."

Morgan turned contemplative. “Every month you see stories about people conducting lightning through their bodies and into the ground or into other objects and still surviving. Then there are the tricks people play with Tesla coils. But I've never heard of anyone channeling the aurora itself."

Lifting his mug to his lips, Tungarook replied absolutely deadpan. “You should get out more. I could rent you a snow machine."

"Actually, right now, I'm thinking more of the bed in my hotel room back in Barrow. That, and a steak."

"Can't do steak, but have you ever had uhnahvik?" Morgan shook his head no. “I'll get some out of the cold box. Bowhead whale blubber with the skin still on. Boil it ‘til it's soft enough to chew, put on lots of salt. You'll like it. It'll remind you of calamari. Eat first, then sleep. I'll wake you before sun up."

Morgan had to smile again. “I'm exhausted, but even so I don't think I'll sleep ‘til February.” More somberly he added, “What makes you think I won't talk about your daughter to others and show up back here someday with a news crew?"

"Two things,” his host told him with assurance. “First, because you couldn't get a news crew or even another photographer out to this place in winter without everybody in Barrow knowing about it first and letting me know in advance. It's too far from Prudhoe or Fairbanks for a helicopter pilot to risk his machine in the dark and the cold and the wind to find one little house on the tundra.” For the first time since Morgan had made the hunter's acquaintance, the man's gaze hardened.

"Second, I just saved your life. You owe me big time. So I ask you to keep quiet about this thing and leave my daughter be. Sure she's got a strange ability, but outside of that she's a normal, regular teen. If word of what she can do gets out, the scientists will be all over her like mosquitoes on a caribou herd in July. She won't have a life worth anything. If you had a daughter, would you want her likeness and life plastered all over the media, every week, every month, until the day she died?"

"I'm not married,” Morgan replied. Remembering the hungry eyes of the wolf, he substituted for them the hungry attention of the media and knew he could not choose which was the more ravenous. “It hurts to say yes, but—I've photographed other people and kept the photographs private. I guess I can do the same with your daughter. And you're right—I do owe you."

"Good man.” Turning, Tungarook raised his voice. “Hey, Casey! The white guy says he'll keep his mouth shut!"

The girl reappeared a moment later. In spite of himself, Morgan could not keep from staring. She looked untouched by her effort, unaffected by the extraordinary exertion. Utterly ordinary. Had long dead ancestors who had also possessed her ability once been burned as witches? He could not recall reading anything about the Inupiaq ever engaging in human sacrifice. It was not part of their culture. It made sense. A life in the frozen north was too valuable to throw away on such nonsense. Not when the one you spared might be the one standing by to save your life.

As Albert Tungarook had saved his.

She came toward him, the look on her face a mix of youthful shyness and special knowledge. “Thanks, mister. I really don't want to be in the papers. I just want to graduate, get my degree, and have a family. You can't do that if people are always studying you like you're a bug under glass."

He had a sudden, unsettling image of a baby in a cradle teething quietly on green lightning. “I understand.” He eyed her up and down. “It—really doesn't hurt?"

She laughed. “Like I said, it just kind of tickles.” Her eyes flashed mischievously. “Would you like to see what else I can do?"

Morgan looked uncertain. “Power up a snow machine?"

"Better than that. Let me put on my parka. You come outside."

Outside? He hesitated. By the skin of his toes he had just barely survived an extended period of time in that most unfriendly Outside. A glance through the window indicated that the wind had, at least momentarily, died. And he, after all, had not. He looked questioningly at his host.

"Go on,” Tungarook urged him, a twinkle in his eye. “I'll come, too, so you won't get lost."

Jibe or joke, it was enough to motivate Morgan. He drew himself up. “Where are my clothes?"

The hunter turned and pointed in the direction of the little kitchen. “On a grill over the stove. Should be nice and warm by now. I'll get them for you."

The chill outside bit instantly and hard. Morgan had to fight down the urge to rush back into the inviting warmth of the house. The thin layer of ice and snow crunched like packing foam beneath his boots as he followed Tungarook out through the boot room and then the side door of the garage. That was how you entered and exited the house. In the absence of neighbors a typical front door would have been superfluous and leaked heat.

In all directions there was nothing to be seen but flat, only occasionally bumpy ground. Not a tree, not a bush, not a sprig of grass. The latter would only return in concert with the Sun and the spring, both still months away from making a reappearance. For now and for weeks on end there would be nothing but ice, snow, killing wind, the occasional mournful cry of a wolf, and more stars than could be imagined even in Wisconsin. That, and the astonishing light storm that pranced and strutted across the sky in rolling, mesmerizing waves of incandescent green and red.

Having donned her parka and boots, Casey joined them. While her father and their guest halted not far from the house, she kept walking until she was a good thirty yards or so away. For what little good it did, Morgan had his arms folded across his chest. He managed to forbear from slapping his ribs and jumping up and down. Very soon he was not moving at all, and hardly daring to breathe.

Casey Tungarook had raised both arms toward the sky. Within moments, she was encased within a wavering spire of green radiance so intense it made Morgan blink to look directly at it. Brighter and wider, it was otherwise no different from the astonishing phenomenon he had witnessed earlier inside the garage.

Gradually lowering her arms until they were thrust straight out from her sides, she began to spin. Slowly at first, then faster and faster. Occasionally she would leap into the air. Though few Inupiaq had the build of a ballerina, Casey's jumps were often impressive and always full of enthusiasm.

Leaning close to the enthralled photographer, Tungarook murmured from beneath the wolverine-rimmed hood of his parka. “Our people are great singers and dancers.” He smiled anew. “We have lots of time to practice, you know."

Morgan heard but did not turn to look at the hunter. In front of him, out on the rocky snow-swept ground, a single smiling, stocky sixteen-year-old was singing a song in her own incredibly ancient language, spinning and twirling while enveloped in a softly hissing translucent tornado of light that spread farther and farther beyond her outstretched arms, until it seemed that the entire tundra was ablaze with red and green incandescence.

As the edges of the shimmering aurora that had been brought to ground expanded to envelop him as well, the smile on the face of a thoroughly entranced Morgan grew wider and wider. There were many things he could have murmured, innumerable comments he could have made. Instead, like the proud father standing beside him, he said nothing. Merely looked on in rapt silence as the girl before them continued to energetically dance away the arctic night, partnering with the fire from the sky.

Copyright (c) 2008 Alan Dean Foster

By definition, you can't really anticipate the unanticipated....

Frank Rogers was staring at a bug-eyed monster. Or more precisely, it was staring at him, out of his computer screen.

"Holy...” he said, recoiling so quickly he nearly fell over backward. He did slop coffee on the carpet. “What the hell's that?” Then: “Okay, who's the joker?"

Of course, nobody answered. Frank was working at home and whoever'd planted the image could be anywhere. It was definitely the type of thing Robin Tripp might do. Except that Robin was up to her ears in other projects.

Whatever the thing on the screen was, it was a pretty good monster. Multi-faceted eyes, a forest of antennae sprouting from what might be its forehead, and ... Frank recovered his chair and wheeled closer ... was that a radio dish sculpted into its backside?

The monster was staring at him as though expecting something. “Hi,” he said, waving his hand. Not that it could see him. He was looking at a one-way feed, supposedly from the Vulcan 1 rover, forty-two light minutes away, on Io.

Frank called the rover Fido, which, if pressed, he'd claim stood for Far-Io Data Observatory, though he avoided the name in public. JPL had cut out nicknames years ago, after some genius took to calling a Mars rover “Smith” after a character in an old novel. The press had picked up “a Martian named Smith” and run it into the ground, until the order came down that henceforth there would be no more nicknames. Space was serious business. So now, Frank was staring at his screen, talking to somebody's concept of a bug-eyed Martian—or Iovian—via a receive-only link from a rover not named Fido.

Robin couldn't be the culprit. She had the right sense of humor, but she wasn't insane, and whoever'd planted the image was in big trouble if the press saw it. Big enough even if they didn't.

That left an outsider. But why waste the effort on a sideshow like Io? Years ago, Fido had made major discoveries, but the only reason it was still running was that, these days, it was pretty much autonomous. Check in every now and then to see if anything new had popped up ... then, when it hadn't, wait until next week. Half the time, Frank left the whole thing to his grad students.

Could the hacker be a grad student? Every year he swore they looked more and more like high school kids, but surely they weren't stupid enough for a stunt like this. But if it really was an outside hack, all hell was going to break loose regarding data contamination. Everything from Io, and most likely an entire generation of other missions, would be suspect.

Frank had always had a tendency to panic. That was probably why the prankster had picked him. The data was safe, he told himself. Anyone who could create a bug-eyed monster wasn't going to mess with something as mundane as magnetic field deviations or geochemical analyses. Besides, they probably hadn't actually hacked the data stream from Jupiter. You'd pretty much have to send your own probe out there to do that. They'd simply hijacked his not terribly secure home computer. Ha-ha, be a sport, and all that. Still, it sure as hell better not be one of his students.

There was only one thing to do. He picked up his coffee and drained what was left of the still-hot liquid. When dealing with a crisis, awake is always a good thing. Then he grabbed his wallet and RailPass. It was time to go to the lab and see what was really coming in from Jupiter. Then he could set about finding out who'd nearly caused him to scald himself.

The monster was still there when he got to campus. Worse, Fido hadn't moved. That meant the probe also thought it was detecting something and had gone into standby mode, awaiting instructions.

Frank fast-reversed through the recorded feed until he found the monster's first appearance, nearly a full day before. Unlike Fido, who moved on wheels, it appeared to flow across the ground, as if on some sort of ground-effect field. Though there wasn't much opportunity to watch it. Until the monster blocked its course, Fido had ignored it, intent on its orders to visit a chain of volcanic features near the base of Io's Tvashtar volcano.

One moment, the rover had been en route to a sulfurous-looking cone where, if prior history meant anything, it would discover a lot of sulfur. (There was a reason the project had nearly been defunded. Of late, even the lower-level journals had been taking a seen-that, been-there attitude.) Then the monster moved in and parked itself right in front of Fido.

Sulfur cones were definitely in the seen-that department. Bug-eyed monsters weren't. Nor were they in the rover's programming. It had stopped and assessed the situation for about forty-five seconds. Then it extruded a sensor arm, apparently planning to take a sample—just as it was programmed to do for rocks. It reached for the apparition, hesitated, and stopped, as what passed for its brain finally deduced that rocks aren't supposed to move. It withdrew the arm ... and ever since, had been awaiting instructions.

The monster hadn't moved either. The hacker, it appeared, was waiting for Frank.

He got up and closed the door. Whatever he did, he most certainly didn't want to get second-guessed by his students. Whoever was toying with him was patient. And good. It would have been one thing for the rover to go into standby mode when it tried to take a sample of a rock that proved not to exist. But the telemetry indicated that when it reached out, it actually thought it had touched something.

If I were good enough to have done this, he thought, what would I expect me to do now?

For the next couple of hours, Frank imitated Fido and did nothing. One option was just to ignore the apparition. Maybe the hacker would get bored and go away. One could always hope.

Unfortunately, that wasn't the way most practical jokers behaved. And since Fido thought there was a solid object sitting in front of it, it wouldn't try to drive through it, no matter what instructions Frank sent. Not without a complete rewrite of its navigation program.

Eventually he opted for a drive-around option. Turn right, he told the rover, go ten meters, turn left, and return to course.

He also asked it to activate an old subroutine that verified all commands before executing them. It was mostly a debug program, though it had proven useful, early in the project, when Robin, in Australia, thought it was her shift and sent instructions that not only conflicted with Frank's, but arrived in overlapping packets. Eighty-five minutes later, they'd watched in horror as the rover tried to implement both at once. Each had immediately told it to abort, and they were very lucky not to have left it turtled at the base of a steep slope or with its antenna pointing uselessly away from the Jupiter orbiter.

For a while, they'd turned the command-verifying program on to prevent future hiccups, but eventually controlling the rover had become Frank's sole responsibility and he'd switched the program back off. With the speed-of-light delay, waiting for confirmation was just too much nuisance on what was supposed to be a low-budget, super-extended phase of the project.

Now, however, he wanted to know who else was talking to the rover. If he got lucky, he'd see the hacker's data stream coming in. While he was at it, he set the activity log to run in a pop-up window. So far, no other member of the rover team had come online since the monster first appeared. If one did and Frank didn't immediately get a what-the-bleep phone call, he had his culprit.

Unless, of course, they were busy cleaning up their coffee, too.

In the nearly three hours before Frank could watch the rover verify and execute his new command, nothing happened. Nobody logged on, nobody called, and nothing in the activity log gave him a clue where the apparition had come from. But eventually, Fido stirred to life. It turned as directed and began trundling on its new course, veering a bit to avoid a very normal rock. Then, it swung back to the left.

Since the rover lived in an environment where nothing but it was expected to move (except the volcano, which would be hard to dodge if it suddenly erupted), both of its cameras normally pointed forward when it was in motion. Frank hadn't thought to override that, so it wasn't until the rover started to turn back onto its original course that he got a view to the side.

The monster had flanked Fido's motion, and now, the rover again found itself blocked. This time Fido didn't bother to reach out a sensor. Instead, it immediately went back into standby mode.

For a moment, Frank simply stared at his screen. As far as he could tell, the monster had moved in tandem with Fido. But that could only happen if the hacker had fed the image to Fido's sensors at the same time Frank had sent his own commands. Otherwise there'd be a phase lag between the illusion's motion and Fido's, and the whole charade would have collapsed. That was one very sophisticated hack.

Frank thought a bit longer, then told Fido to juke right for one meter, then reverse course for twenty meters at randomly varied speed. Only then was it to resume its original course.

He'd have liked to encrypt the command, but that wasn't possible. He did switch to a different computer, just in case someone had tapped this one.

Three hours later, he watched Fido zig, zag, turn ... and again come face to ... whatever ... with the monster.

Actually, this time, it was face to quarter profile. The eyes were still looking at Fido, but the body was at a different angle, giving Frank a better view of the bowl sculpted into its nether regions.

It sure as hell looked like a satellite dish. But it equally sure as hell wasn't pointed in the same direction as the first time he'd seen it.

"Ha!” he exclaimed. “Gotcha, bastard!” Though a moment later, he wasn't sure what he'd caught other than a programming error.

Even as he gloated, the monster moved. This time, it wasn't content merely to block Fido's way. Just as Fido had reached out a sensor, now it extended an arm. But it wasn't the insect arm Frank's subconscious would have expected, based on the monster's eyes. It was more like a telescoping rod, crossed with a tentacle. Another arm appeared, along with a new pair of equally flexible antennae, which undulated in tandem above the monster's eyes.

Frank wasn't sure he liked this.

Back up, he ordered Fido, barely remembering to turn off the command verification program, so he didn't have to wait for two speed-of-light delays.

Even so, it was forty-two minutes before Fido could comply, and another forty-two before Frank could see it do so. Meanwhile, the tentacles probed, touched, twisted, and appeared to remove one of Fido's command hatches. They reached inside, finding data ports, and briefly, Frank lost the signal as Fido's antenna swiveled offline, then returned. His own computer erupted in frenetic activity, beaming random files off toward Jupiter, until, unable to interrupt it, he shut it down.

By the time he rebooted, the rover had come to life and was moving away, leaving the access plate on the sulfur-stained Iovian ground.

The monster picked up the plate and advanced, intending to do ... something, as Fido scampered backward.

Unfortunately, Frank had kept the cameras directed at the monster, and he'd been slow to realize, after he'd given it the back-up command, that he'd ordered the machine to do so blind. The moment he'd realized his mistake, he'd frantically told it to reverse one of its cameras, but for a full thirty seconds he could only watch the monster, as Fido accelerated backward.

By the end, the monster had dropped the access plate and was waving its tentacles like a loose-limbed semaphore. Then the camera angle swiveled, just in time for Frank to see a gaping fissure. Fido saw it too and tried to auto-brake, but came up shy, and the signal vanished as though the electromagnetic thread had been snipped by scissors.

Needless to say, JPL wasn't happy. Frank had panicked and driven their four hundred and fifty million dollar rover into a crevasse—hard to forgive, even if wanting to back up, now, was an understandable impulse when something, however unreal, appeared to be trying to take it apart. On the other hand, the mission had nearly been shut down in each of the last three budget cycles, so at least it was a four hundred and fifty million dollar rover most people thought had outlived its usefulness.

Luckily, Frank had tenure, and the only truly bad thing was that the rover hadn't been able to get data from inside the crevasse, once the walls cut off its signal. Too bad, the ultimate verdict was, we've seen plenty of volcanic fissures from the outside; it might almost have been worthwhile to see one from the inside, if only we'd gotten the data.

Nobody talked much about the monster. To do so raised the specter of data corruption. Better to presume it was a one-time hack. Nobody could quite figure out how it had been done, but they didn't want to draw media scrutiny by investigating too deeply, for fear of headlines about incompetent NASA engineers getting their systems cracked by some kid in Thailand, Texas, or Timbuktu.

But Frank wasn't so sure. He'd watched the monster shadow Fido's movements in real time, or something very close to it. He'd seen it appear to take off Fido's access plate and try to suck data out of his own computer. He'd watched it wave its tentacles, as though aware of the crevasse and trying to warn him. How could a hacker's illusion do any of those?

Maybe it had been a Chinese probe. But when he suggested that to a colleague, all he got was a snort. Why would the Chinese send a probe without announcing it to the world? And why then go visit NASA's?

"You might as well suggest it was from Alpha Centauri,” his colleague said. Then he saw Frank's look. “No. Don't. Remember cold fusion. Or Roswell. Hell, back when they found the first pulsar, some poor sap thought it was somebody's cosmic lighthouse. All that happened was that some kid got into your system. Yeah, it's embarrassing, but let it go. Occam's razor and all that."

But Occam's razor cut both ways, and Frank couldn't help but think about why NASA had sent Fido in the first place. That, at least, was simple. Io was the most volcanically active body in the Solar System. In the entire known universe, for that matter, though that didn't mean much, since, when it came to planetary geology, the known universe ended at Pluto. But who knew how unique Io truly was? Maybe it really was the most volcanically active body in the universe—or at least this corner of it.

Humans had reached stepwise from Earth to ever more outlying parts of the Solar System. Maybe outsiders would start at the fringe and work inward. And if they met us along the way, would they know what they'd found, or just presume we were Iovians, or fellow long-distance travelers, like themselves? A million and one ideas had been propounded for what to do if a probe discovered life on Mars or some outer-system moon. But as far as Frank knew, nobody had ever asked what would happen if instead we met someone else's probe.

Fido's tragic plunge didn't bring the project instantly to an end. There was always hope that the rover might manage to extract itself. In Io's eighteen percent gravity, it could fall a fair distance and survive, and while it wasn't designed to climb out, it might be able to inch along the bottom and find an exit that way. Unlikely, but it gave Frank an excuse to monitor the feed, in case the monster tried to communicate directly. He even tried to help by sending signals: beep-beep-beep, prime numbers, even the “Hi” he'd wanted to say at the start.

But all he got was silence. Though, even if he'd gotten a response, he had no idea how he'd have proven it wasn't just hacker, redux.

Meanwhile, he studied images of the monster, intrigued by how the thing's orientation had changed. Fido's dish did the same, tracking the Jupiter orbiter, but that was hundreds of thousands of miles away, and the angle shifted slowly. That was why, initially, he'd thought the monster's changing angle had been a gaffe. But what if it was real?

Over and over, he measured angles and calculated orbits, trying to see what, if anything, it might have been tracking. Meanwhile, he asked a computer geek friend to search his computer for signs of break in.

The computer search was useless, the angles intriguing. It turned out that the monster could have been following a non-NASA orbiter—circling Io, rather than Jupiter: close enough for a sophisticated computer to allow the monster to react, for all intents and purposes, instantaneously.

But when he got a friend to cadge some observatory time to try to spot it, she couldn't see anything. Not that that meant much. Jupiter system was full of junk, and if the monster's orbiter was like NASA's, it could use gravity slingshots to nudge itself all over the place. A touch of thrusters, a close flyby, and where it once was had no bearing on where it was now.

Then Tvashtar erupted and it no longer mattered. Whatever was left of Fido was slag, and so too was its visitor, if it hadn't already gone back to Alpha Centauri. If it had even existed.

People who think they've seen aliens or flying saucers fall into two camps: those who obsess forever, and those who eventually go back to their ordinary lives.

For months, Frank obsessed. But that either made him one more wishful-thinking fool—or the idiot who'd made humanity's greatest discovery, only to turn and run when the aliens tried to use Fido's transmitter to say hello. His life was full of other projects, though, and slowly, he resumed them, even if it was likely that nobody would ever again let him drive a rover. But not everything was the same. Pre-Io, Frank hadn't thought much about whether humans were alone. If asked, he'd have said he didn't particularly care. Now, he cared, but nobody was asking.

And yet, in the back of his mind, there lingered the most devastating of questions. What if? What if he'd let the thing establish contact? It either existed or it didn't. If it did, then even if it did wreck the rover by trying to talk to it, simply knowing it was real would have been four hundred and fifty million dollars well spent. If it wasn't real, then there wasn't anything it could actually do to the rover, other than what it did, which was to make Frank panic.

Panic, at least, was something he could work on. When something unexpected happened, he refused to react until he'd thought it through. Professionally, it was still going to take him a long time to live down his reputation as the man who'd killed Fido. But in his personal life, he was startled to find that friends, family, and even grad students soon began turning to him for advice. They didn't want instant answers, he realized. They just wanted him to listen. And listening first was a big piece of what not panicking was about.

Then one day he was in the lab annex, a converted Victorian house on the edge of campus, when he heard a strange scratching. At first, he thought it was in the hallway, but it turned out to be under his window.

Outside was a gadget the size of a kid's radio-operated car—not anything most people would look at twice, especially on a college campus where the engineering students were always holding odd competitions. Once, he'd seen a pair of motorized bathtubs making their way across the Diag, carrying undergrads clad in little but bubbles.

But it floated slightly above the grass, and Frank knew those multifaceted eyes. Oddly, he'd never considered that he might not be the only one thinking about reaction times, orbits, and the desire to explore. Not to mention the files plucked from his computer.

There are lots of things one can say at such moments, but they were all too pompous. At least this time he didn't panic. “Hi,” he said, opening the window. “I'm glad one of us figured it out."

Then he thought about the engineering students and their strange gadgets. Maybe it really had been a hack all along. He leaned out, trying to catch someone ducking out of sight, but he and the new rover were alone.

"Okay,” he said. “I'll take you at face value for the moment. But we're going to have to find a way to verify that you're not from around here."

Nothing happened for several minutes. Frank had played this game before. Apparently, it was his move, but the only thing he knew was that he couldn't lean out the window forever. He stood up, massaging his back and rubbing his neck. When he looked up again, the rover was hovering at eye level, watching him.

He stepped back, and it floated in through the window, moved to his credenza, and settled, without disturbing a single sheet of paper.

"Okay,” he said. “That was a good trick. Pretty convincing, in fact.” He thought for a moment. “I'll call you Felix."

More time passed as he and the rover regarded each other. It was smaller than the one on Io, possibly because Earth's milder environment required less shielding, or possibly because the beefed-up hover field could only lift so much mass.

This time, Frank was determined not to overreact. Even when the phone beeped, he let it go. It was his wife, probably, calling to remind him it was his turn to pick up their daughter after soccer practice. Carefully, he glanced at his watch. Yep. Practice would be over in twenty minutes. One side effect of thinking before acting had been that he'd become a lot less likely to try to squeeze too many errands into too little time, but it would be a while before his family completely trusted him. Today, however, mother and daughter would have to figure something out. That's what cell phones were for.

Cautiously, he pulled his from his pocket, verifying that the call had been from her. Then inspiration struck. He thought a minute, but it was his turn to act. So, still moving cautiously, he opened the cell phone and took a picture of Felix, showing it to the rover. Then, while he was at it, he pushed send, so his wife at least had a hint of what was detaining him.

A couple of minutes later, one of Felix's antennae twitched. Then Frank's cell phone rang again. Frustrated, he looked down, wondering if he should just shut it off. But the call wasn't from his wife. Instead, it appeared to have come from his own number. He accepted it ... and found himself looking at a picture of himself, with the wall of his office behind him.

He showed it to Felix. “Nice job."

More time passed. Then Felix lifted an inch or two off the credenza and floated toward Frank's computer. A foot away, it settled back down and extruded one of those telescoping tentacle-antennae. Its eyes turned toward the computer, and Frank moved closer to see what was going on.

The tentacle moved slowly, letting him see everything it did. It never touched anything, but its tip slowly changed, twisting, morphing, and then hardening into what looked like a very good imitation of a USB plug. Then the rover backed away. Its eyes turned back to Frank, and the tentacle rested limply on the desk.

Frank grinned. He wasn't the only one who'd acted hastily on Io. Nor was he the only one who'd changed his approach. This time the aliens were asking.

He wondered what they'd look like when eventually they chose to reveal themselves. Insect eyes, he suspected, and tentacles, not arms. Possibly some odd means of locomotion, as well, perhaps cilia or something snakelike. Something that didn't lead them to design in terms of wheels and legs. But inside, where it mattered, there was obviously a lot of common ground. Not just the desire to explore, but to communicate scientist to scientist, rather than by governments. The ability to learn from mistakes.

He started to wave toward his computer: Be my guest. But thinking first was becoming a habit. He didn't actually believe there was much risk in letting an alien device into his computer, and from there into the internet. If this was a harbinger of invasion, the thing could have come at night, broken a window, and simply taken what it wanted. Not to mention that if it could ring up his cell phone, who knew what it could pull from WiFi, anywhere on the planet.

But that wasn't really his decision to make, so he and the rover again regarded each other in silence, while Frank turned a new idea over in his mind. There didn't seem to be any real risk, so unhastily, he reached behind his computer and unplugged the broadband cable.

Then, slowly, still without hurry, he stepped backward—even taking time to realize that this time he didn't need to look, because it was his own office and he knew exactly what was behind him.

The rover regarded him for a moment, then pointedly swiveled its eyes toward the cable, now sprawled on the floor. If a bug-eyed monster could nod, he'd have sworn it did. Then, very slowly, it reached for the USB port.

Frank grinned. “I think we're going to get along famously,” he said. The grin spread. “But I'd better call my wife. I think I'm going to be really late for soccer practice."

Copyright (c) 2008 Richard A. Lovett

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Ever wonder where inspiration comes from?

Dear Span,

It's said that confession is good for the soul. I suppose it can be if it buys a loosening of the thumbscrews, and besides, the Winfrey Commission is circling my carcass like a shark scoping out a hapless swimmer and trying to decide whether it's in the mood for white meat or dark. So I figured I should write my favorite magazine editor and give him a heads-up before mine gets taken off.

Mention of Oprah's Inquisitors and my use of the word confession are, I'm sure, sufficient clues to give you dire warning as to what's coming next. My advice: reach for those Rolaids. Or that bottom draw where you keep a flagon of Old Blue Pencil whiskey.

Yes, it's true. I admit that for the past several years I've been on the juice, taking Macrologic Storieoids. Prolixitum has been my dope of choice. With occasional experimentation with Multiloquentia and Pleonastical.

Hell, I haven't been just taking them, I've been abusing them with all the cautious self-control of a frat boy with his lips wrapped around a beer tap. I have been drunk with them, blasted on them, my nervous system lit up like a magnesium tinsel Christmas tree struck by lightning.

Calling them “performance-enhancing” drugs is to damn them with pallid praise and downplay their tremendous effect. Thanks to ‘roids my head is so full of story ideas that my nose hair now comes out as plot twists, and my ear wax has sequels. Fully juiced, I can type at five hundred words per minute, and I burn out one of those old-style industrial-duty mechanical keyswitch keyboards per month. The letters on the keys are hammered off in less than a week. Once, after a mismeasured dosage, I got typing so fast I literally melted the keycaps. My fingers might have gotten stuck in this smoking goo if it weren't for the fact that I wore my fingerprints off in my first six months as a hype hack. Plus stepping back from the keyboard is easier since I have to type standing up; there are so many needle punctures in my backside that years ago I had to give up regular underwear on favor of Depends liberally greased with Neosporin.

Yes, I admit there have been a few minor slightly negative physical costs associated with keypounder's crack. My eyes are shot; I now have to work with a thirty-inch monitor placed less than a foot from my nose, and have to use actual Coke bottle bottoms as corrective lenses. My forearms look like Popeye's, and my knuckles are the size of walnuts. For some reason I am unable to eat any food that starts with a vowel. My testicles—well, let's not go there. Suffice it to say that my wife hasn't left me—yet—probably because those rare times I emerge from my writing room I am as biddable as a lobotomized clam and inclined to agree with everything she says. My social life is in ruins, but then again it wasn't in all that great shape before I got on “scrivener's smack.” The difference is only in degree; perhaps the difference between post-New Year's Times Square and present-day Baghdad.

Forgive me for digressing. Addiction does not tend to build character (though mine has made creating characters as easy and inevitable as producing dandruff) or courage. The subject I have been skirting is, of course, informing you how Winfrey Commission exposure of my sins will impact you, and Astrolab magazine.

Of the fifty-four Stalin L. Bungs stories you have purchased and run over the years, forty-nine were produced while I was spiked. Yet I believe that this in no way lessens their intrinsic merits, or the popular acclaim they have garnered in the Astrolab Reader's Poll. The work of Romantic poets is not diminished by their taste for the poppy and Green Fairy, or the product of the Golden Agers tainted by their fondness for booze. I hope you do not feel compelled to asterisk me.

Unfortunately there are a few other stories under various bylines you have run in the last decade or so that are actually my work as well. Okay, more than a few. Rather than force your long-suffering and already overburdened staff to try to find where the bodies are buried, I herewith present you with a list of my crimes, as best I can recall them. I was the following authors, and you purchased the listed number of stories from them—from me.

Mickey Flinch: 43

Inez Rambo Struck: 7

Ragu Vanishingcream: 15

Jolly Kookaberra: 19

Flan Pan Clove: 11

Raviola Loose Wheel: 7

Shea Turtlepot: 23

Mork Reach: 4

Mackey Burtankard: 31

Rod Soyuzer: 29

Crophone Moscow: 19

Now it's possible (actually, almost certain) that I've forgotten one or two noms de jus. There has been, regrettably, a certain amount of fairly serious brain damage. Which reminds me. When this goes public there are certain to be numerous ugly rumors and unfounded allegations swirling around, but I swear an oath on my tattered copy of Strunk & White that I am not now, nor have I ever been, Spud Starhake.

You may have detected a certain elegiac tone to this missive. The Winfrey Commission will come for me soon, taking down this gimpy second-string scrivener from the rear of the herd as a way of working itself up to going after some of the Big Names. But that is not the reason I am decamping into a hastily self-created writer protection program. No, there is a more ubiquitous and dangerous force out there, one worthy of beat-feet grade terror.

I am bailing out for fear of denizens of the Slush Pile. When that teeming and disgruntled demographic learns that I am not just one Old And In The Way, filling slots that should rightfully be filled with their deathless prose, but several of them, my life won't be worth a single blow-in card. They will come for me with pitchforks and Wite-Out, and if they find me their vengeance will be lurid and extravagant.

Do not judge them too harshly. And please do not allow any of the overheated rhetoric that may ensue to incline you toward prejudice when you read those over-the-transom submissions. There is a lot of undiscovered talent and untapped potential out among those writers who have yet to build any sort of name.

Watch your slush pile closely. I am sure you will find some promising new writer able to fill the hole the bowing out of Stalin L. Bungs will leave behind.

Actually, I bet you will soon find several of them.

Best, Stalin L. Bungs

Copyright (c) 2008 Stephen L. Burns

Isaac Asimov's Foundation stories take place in a Milky Way so overflowing with people that individual humans can be treated collectively as interchangeable units. A branch of statistical mathematics called psychohistory is used to predict the future evolution of human society in the galaxy, in much the same way that the mathematics of thermodynamics can be used to predict the behavior of an ideal gas. The laws of thermodynamics could not be worked out until a great deal of experience had been accumulated with steam engines and carefully designed experiments had produced sufficient useful data. It was only when a given set of prior conditions could be shown to consistently produce the same result at a later time that equations could be found that expressed this relationship, and made it possible to predict a future result from a prior set of conditions.

Therefore, implicit in Asimov's Foundation universe is the idea that human behavior and societies must be, in some way, cyclical. If this were not the case, if human progress was always evolving and never repeating, you wouldn't be able to develop the mathematics of psychohistory at all. This idea, that history may be cyclical, is an old one, but has largely fallen into disfavor in the West, particularly in the United States, where most of us have absorbed a linear idea of nearly continuous evolutionary “progress” from the past into the future.

Although the Foundation stories are set eons into the future, a book has already been published that could arguably be called “the first book on Psychohistory.” That book is The Fourth Turning: An American Prophecy by William Strauss and Neil Howe (ISBN 0-553-06682-X, 1997).

In my September Alternate View, I ended by saying that the “inspiration for this column came from a rejection letter I got from Stanley Schmidt, in which he said (among other things) of my story: ‘(T)he human relationships had a very 1950ish flavor, with little feeling of the cultural differences that would surely develop between now and then.'” My reply to that statement is this: “I am aware of the similarity of my future culture to a past one. It is my belief that so called cultural evolution is in actuality a rather robust cultural cycling through a near century long repetition of remarkably similar eras. The reason my future characters evoke a feeling of the ‘50s is because they are living in the same kind of cultural ‘high’ that produced the mindset and mores that we consider ‘50ish."

Since my reply requires a bit of explanation, a brief discussion of The Fourth Turning: An American Prophecy follows.

The use of the word “prophecy” should not be confused with the sort of prophecy one thinks of in connection with Nostradamus or Edgar Cayce. A more apt description is that it is a variant of the “if this goes on” science fiction story. It is “if this goes on,” but with corners, or as the book calls them, turnings.

We expect societies to change over time. We expect fads to come and go. We simplistically think of this in terms of a pendulum swing, which works fine with the width of ties or the length of skirts. But human societies are more complex than that. Strauss and Howe see the US as cycling through four similar turnings, or eras, again and again. It's fair enough to ask why not five or six or three, but the pattern they see fits well with four.

The authors summarize these four kinds of turnings starting on page 2 in chapter one:

IN FACT, AT THE CORE OF MODERN HISTORY LIES THIS REMARKABLE PATTERN: OVER THE PAST FIVE CENTURIES, ANGLO-AMERICAN SOCIETY HAS ENTERED A NEW ERA—A NEW turning—EVERY TWO DECADES OR SO. AT THE START OF EACH TURNING, PEOPLE CHANGE HOW THEY FEEL ABOUT THEMSELVES, THE CULTURE, THE NATION, AND THE FUTURE. TURNINGS COME IN CYCLES OF FOUR. EACH CYCLE SPANS THE LENGTH OF A LONG HUMAN LIFE, ROUGHLY EIGHTY TO ONE HUNDRED YEARS, A UNIT OF TIME THE ANCIENTS CALLED THE saeculum. TOGETHER, THE FOUR TURNINGS OF THE SAECULUM COMPRISE HISTORY'S SEASONAL RHYTHM OF GROWTH, MATURATION, ENTROPY, AND DESTRUCTION:
THE First Turning IS A High, AN UPBEAT ERA OF STRENGTHENING INSTITUTIONS AND WEAKENING INDIVIDUALISM, WHEN A NEW CIVIC ORDER IMPLANTS AND THE OLD VALUES REGIME DECAYS.
THE Second Turning IS AN Awakening, A PASSIONATE ERA OF SPIRITUAL UPHEAVAL, WHEN THE CIVIC ORDER COMES UNDER ATTACK FROM A NEW VALUES REGIME.
THE Third Turning IS AN Unraveling, A DOWNCAST ERA OF STRENGTHENING INDIVIDUALISM AND WEAKENING INSTITUTIONS, WHEN THE OLD CIVIC ORDER DECAYS AND THE NEW VALUES REGIME IMPLANTS.
THE Fourth Turning IS A Crisis, A DECISIVE ERA OF SECULAR UPHEAVAL, WHEN THE VALUES REGIME PROPELS THE REPLACEMENT OF THE OLD CIVIC ORDER WITH THE NEW ONE.
EACH TURNING COMES WITH ITS OWN IDENTIFIABLE MOOD. ALWAYS, THESE MOOD SHIFTS CATCH PEOPLE BY SURPRISE.

This last point is an important one, the mood shifts coming as a surprise. Linear extrapolations from the recent past into even the near-term future can be far off the mark. For instance, extrapolating the nature of society ten years into the future from the world of Leave It to Beaver would not have led to a prediction of the “Summer of Love” or the Watts riots. Similarly, extrapolating from the speakeasy and flapper era of the 1920s would not have led to a proper characterization of the 1930s that actually happened. It isn't simply a matter of failing to predict specific events, like the market collapse of 1929 or Kent State. As Strauss and Howe put it on page 16, “It's not just that the experts missed the particular events that lay just ahead—(several events from period listed—JK). It's that they missed the entire mood of the coming era."

Expert predictions were wrong for this reason: “When the forecasters assumed the future would extrapolate the recent past, they expected that the next set of people in each phase of life would behave just like the current occupants."

Long before I'd read the book, I noticed that my parents had what I called a “Depression Era mindset” about money. Having spent most of their formative years enduring shortages brought on by the Great Depression, followed by sacrifices mandated by the needs of World War II, they had a deeply ingrained sense of “pay as you go” and don't over-extend yourself. Our world of easy credit and “no interest for two years” was to them self-evidently irresponsible, bordering on insane.

It's no great stretch of the imagination to figure out that a generation raised in an age of plenty will differ from one raised in an age of want. But what is very interesting is that this process should be cyclical, that after four generations we should come full circle to an age of similar mood and temperament. Yet that is exactly what Strauss and Howe say happens, as one generation hands off its national role to the next. Here is an example of this role changing taken from recent history:

THIS DYNAMIC HAS RECURRED THROUGHOUT AMERICAN HISTORY. ROUGHLY EVERY TWO DECADES (THE SPAN OF ONE PHASE OF LIFE), THERE HAS ARISEN A NEW constellation OF GENERATIONS—A NEW LAYERING OF GENERATIONAL PERSONAS UP AND DOWN THE AGE LADDER. AS THIS CONSTELLATION HAS SHIFTED, SO HAS THE NATIONAL MOOD. CONSIDER WHAT HAPPENED, FROM THE LATE 1950S TO THE LATE 1970S, AS ONE GENERATION REPLACED ANOTHER AT EACH PHASE OF LIFE:
IN ELDERHOOD, THE CAUTIONARY INDIVIDUALISTS OF THE Lost Generation (BORN 1883-1900) WERE REPLACED BY THE HUBRISTIC G.I. Generation (BORN 1901-1924) OF MATERIAL AFFLUENCE, GLOBAL POWER, AND CIVIC PLANNING.
IN MIDLIFE, THE UPBEAT G.I.S WERE REPLACED BY THE HELPMATE Silent Generation (BORN 1925-1942), WHO APPLIED THEIR EXPERTISE AND SENSITIVITY TO FINE-TUNE THE INSTITUTIONAL ORDER WHILE MENTORING THE PASSIONS OF YOUTH.
IN YOUNG ADULTHOOD, THE CONFORMIST SILENT WERE REPLACED BY THE NARCISSISTIC Boom Generation (BORN 1943-1960), WHO ASSERTED THE PRIMACY OF SELF AND CHALLENGED THE ALLEGED MORAL VACUITY OF THE INSTITUTIONAL ORDER.
IN CHILDHOOD, THE INDULGED BOOMERS WERE REPLACED BY THE NEGLECTED 13th Generation (BORN 1961-1981), WHO WERE LEFT UNPROTECTED AT A TIME OF CULTURAL CONVULSION AND ADULT SELF-DISCOVERY. KNOWN IN POP CULTURE AS GENERATION X, ITS NAME HERE REFLECTS THAT IT LITERALLY IS THE THIRTEENTH GENERATION TO CALL ITSELF AMERICAN.

The authors also name the archetypes born in each era. A Prophet generation is born during a High, Nomad generations are born during Awakenings, Heroes are born during an Unraveling, and Artists during a Crisis. So an era in which Heroes are running things and Prophets are young adults sowing their wild oats is far different from a period in which the reverse is true: think the 1930s and ‘40s versus the 1960s and ‘70s.

Now we come to the Analog audience participation part of this column. The book was published in 1997, during what the authors assert was a period of unraveling. The prophecy they wished for their readers to look at was whether or not in a few years we transitioned to a fourth turning. They estimated that 2005 would, given the average length of a turning, be that year.

What big event happened between then and now? 9/11. The authors even published a letter in USA Today on Oct. 29 of 2001, suggesting that Americans may have become a changed people almost overnight ("may have"—they hedged their bets).

I read the book a year before 9/11, so I was interested to see that letter from the authors, but I was skeptical that 9/11 would mark the actual entry into the fourth turning. It was too soon by five years for one thing. And when all was said and done—the wreckage was cleaned up, the bombs were dropped on Afghanistan—the US continued to just sort of muddle along, every bit as divided and self-absorbed as before.

Indeed, it is now 2008 and I still don't see that any corner has been turned. Perhaps the divided state of the nation this year, made all the more obvious by the current campaigning for president of the US, will lead to the “precipitating event” that future generations will say marked the beginning of the fourth turning crisis. It might be fun for Analog readers to keep a look out for that arrival of the fourth turning, but I can't offer a prize to the reader who spots it first. And come to think of it, a year or two from now maybe we'll look back at something that has already happened and decide that it was the turning point.

The book is certainly worth a read. Most of the supporting evidence for their hypothesis is, of necessity, anecdotal, and descriptions of mood in a given era are highly subject to perception. Nevertheless, the book does offer a theory of societal evolution that I think is a worthy alternate view to the linear evolution idea. I do doubt that, even if Strauss and Howe are correct about the US and its cyclical evolution, it will be applicable to a space-faring civilization. Even in the next hundred years, space will be populated by a great many folk who were never American in the first place, nor ever had ancestors there. It may still be cyclical, but with different generational constellations and archetypes.

Still, the book provides a justification for my use of characters that seemed 1950ish to Stan. Unfortunately, nothing in the book invalidates Stan's other criticisms, which were spot on.

Copyright (c) 2008 Jeffery D. Kooistra

Wherein “success beyond wildest dreams” takes on a new meaning....

Gale sought his scent in her system. She arrowed through fiber and copper networks, everything behind and around her a blur; she hadn't bothered to visualize any of it. She could do that. She was just a face right now. It took too much concentration to imagine more than that. She was arrowhead and shaft. Her hair fletched the shaft and directed her course. She was the here and now of her search for him.

Mouth slightly open, a hint of snow-covered, glacier-carved valleys rolled across her tongue like the bouquet of a fine wine. Gale held the scent in lungs newly created until she had to let go or burst as it froze her at the cellular level. She flicked her hair onto the left side of her shaft-body and changed direction, accelerating toward him, missile to target. No matter where or what he was, he smelled like snow and ice. Playing hide and seek, she always won.

Gale liked to win.

He had changed something again. She found his scent in the new logic infiltrating her system. She felt her way through the changes, rolled like a seal in the new currents and drank in some of his new program. She choked as it leapt down her throat and coursed through her. Her body morphed from a sleek seal with flippers to a petite brunette with hair loose to her hips and legs all the way up.

Impractical, she thought.

Her eyes were his cold blue, her skin as pale as if it had never been tanned by the summer sun, her hair as dark as midwinter night. She wore a mint green sheath that sparkled and clung from bust to knees as she moved, outlining a well-rounded shape. She wore strapless four-inch spikes with improbably long pointed toes on her tiny feet.

No way could she fight in this outfit. What was he up to?

And then he was there. Inside her head. She shivered. He looked through her eyes that were his eyes and formed her thoughts as his own. She felt tingly, warm and wanted. He moved around inside her until she was set to his liking. He adjusted her height, her hair, brought her hemline up to her thighs.

Could I braid my hair at least?

No, I like it this way, all loose and flowing.

It was like talking to yourself, only better. Two voices in the same head. He walked her around, gazed into a set of mirrors that appeared when he wanted them to, held one of her hands on her hip, flipped her hair with the other. Gale would have preferred to stride along in boots or even to fly, but when he was inside her she wanted to keep him there as long as she could, prolonging the intimacy. If she changed her appearance he might leave suddenly. He had before.

Through a newly formed door was The Nightclub with its loud music and men and women dancing. He walked her to the bar and ordered a fruity frozen daiquiri. She was expected to drink it. She held the stem with both hands, elbows on the bar and watched the room through the mirror.

He didn't like that.

He turned her around and sat her on a tall chair facing the dance floor, her glass in one hand while he flipped her hair back with the other. One leg crossed the other and he threw her chest out. He made her free hand play on her hip and thigh, smooth the dress over her skin, before coming back to curl her hair idly around her fingers.

Gale waited for him to choose one of the other patrons.

He began to flirt with a tall, dark, and handsome man sitting next to her.

Tall, dark, and handsome was interested.

Gale was amused. Is it the way I look or is it his charm?

And then he was gone, abandoning her in midsentence with tall, dark, and not very interesting. Without him, The Nightclub was a stupid game, as stupid as the leggy brunette body. She left that body behind in the bar, still talking to tall, dark, and boring, who didn't seem to notice. Her body's conversation had become empty headed without either of them to provide dialogue.

Must have been my looks after all.

Gale went off to play Alien Insurrection. She had found it buried under various circuits and pathways, a forgotten piece of gaming software. She was updating it and linking it to her system as a surprise for him.

"Surrender, Alien-That-Gestates-Genetic-Copies,” the translator boomed.

"Never!” she screamed as she punched the little fighter's rockets and accelerated on a trajectory to intercept the enemy's mothership.

"There is no logic in your further resistance to our superior weaponry."

"Die, alien scum!"

The interface skipped, creating jumps in her field of vision. The battle noises fed through the speakers also paused for the same fraction of time. Half the controls in her small fighter didn't do anything, no matter how much she pulled or pressed at them. Aside from winning, little details were the best part of a game.

The interface skipped again. It could be that the bridge she built to her own system still had a few bugs in it or it could be the game was simply too old and slow to keep up with her. She needed to find and fix whatever it was before he found this game on his own. Maybe if she switched to another ship, it would have more power. Gale switched to a Kikitle ship and watched her previous fighter explode in the enemy's shields with little effect.

The Kikitle ship was better. Gale should have needed four hands and opposable toes to work all the controls. The opposable toes maneuvered, but she could have managed with only two hands on all the other controls. Too few of the knobs, protrusions, and panels did anything. The ship was also underpowered. The Kikitle were pacifists. She wouldn't get enough points to win if she relied on the weapons system alone.

Blowing up her ship would significantly damage the enemy's mothership, if she could combine it with a ramming action. It was poor sportsmanship, but she might rack up enough points to win. Or maybe the game would just give her another life and continue play. That would be disappointing. She hated games that didn't make you start all over when you died.

This game would be a lot more fun when she was finished with it. She would make knobs and buttons actually do something, create lots of confusing visuals, maybe a few smells, and plenty of distracting noises. Even with badly simulated engine noise and alien communications translated in her head, the game was too quiet. It lacked a good noise level. She liked to hear blips, bleeps, whirrs, splats, and the occasional ka-chunk that might mean something was seriously wrong.

Gale instructed the onboard computer to start its destruct sequence. How would the program interpret her suicide? Would she do enough damage to the alien ship to win? Would she feel pain on impact or would she simply be jerked out of play? She tightened her crash cocoon and closed all her Kikitle eyes. She hoped the game was programmed for pain.

"Howdy, Pilgrim,” a voice drawled from the speaker. “You look like you could use a little help fightin’ off those Injuns."

"Hey! You spoiled my surprise!” Now that he was here, the real fun would start.

She searched her two-dimensional displays. An unmarked allied ship, which must be his, had locked onto her Kikitle craft and used a beam to adjust her trajectory to miss the mother ship.

Another screen at the lower left edge of her display area filled with his pale face, its planes as sharp as the leading edge of snowdrifts. His eyes were the same glacial blue as the leggy brunette's had been. Instead of his usual single braid, he had on a cowboy hat. He smiled and his face was softened by the laugh lines around his eyes.

"Don't worry, li'l lady. The cavalry is here."

"You sound pretty stupid as John Wayne in the middle of a space battle. Or do you want to play Cowboys and Indians instead?"

He cut the connection.

He was up to something.

Massive laser artillery lanced from his ship and sliced through the enemy's weapons. The alien mothership bucked and lost its spin as his weapons disabled its gravitational field generator. The saucer-shaped ship lost altitude over the planet below and screamed into its atmosphere. It burned on its way to creating a satisfying crater on the planet surface.

And then Gale realized she wouldn't be around to see the mothership explode on impact. Her computer had continued the self-destruct countdown. A white hot flash seared her eyes as she was ejected from the game in her own miniature explosion.

It wasn't painful enough, but she could fix that.

Game over. All points forfeited to Player Two for rescue operation. Score = 0. Would you like to play again?

Gale puzzled that out. She was winning when he entered her game. He had won, even though he had just entered the game. He took all her points when he bumped her trajectory. Cool. Now she knew a new way to beat him the next time they played. That tactic should work in lots of games.

He was gone again, as abruptly as he had arrived. She couldn't detect even a hint of winter in Alien Insurrection, no damp feeling of impending snow. Why didn't he stay? She had so much to ask him. Did he like the game? Did she do a good job? Did she alter it the way he would have? How did he enter the game in a ship with weapons that weren't part of the original parameters? She had so much to ask him and not a sign of him anywhere. But he would be back. He always came back.

She went to look for him.

Her yellow-black avian eyes could spot movement a mile away. She was thinking of him as a snowshoe hare. It was easier to locate him when she thought of him as prey. She spread her black wing feathers to soar on the current, buffeted by turbulence.

There.

A bit of movement in Victorian London.

He was on Baker Street.

She dipped the edge of her wings to spill some air and began to dive. Faster and faster she fell through the system into the smog and murk of London.

He was at number 221B, a smoking jacket stretched across his shoulders and biceps. He wasn't very convincing as Sherlock Holmes. The shoulders and thighs of a warrior were at odds with Sherlock's wiry build. No wonder she could find him anywhere. He just couldn't get into character.

Gale lengthened and thickened into a middle-aged Watson with his dark tropical complexion and distinctive military air. He looked up and removed his pipe from his mouth as she solidified in front of him.

"Why do you look like Watson?” he asked. “Don't you want to look like yourself? I gave you a sexy body to use."

"But I do look like myself. I always do. What a silly question. How do I win this game? Do I solve the mystery before you do?"

"Actually, it's not a game. It's more of a test."

"Can I still win?"

"Do you remember doing this before?"

"Is that part of the test?"

"Interesting.” He wrote something in a notebook that Gale couldn't see. “Apparently you don't carry memories from version to version."

"What's a version? Is that a game?"

"A version is another Gale. An older Gale. Not as advanced as you are."

"Another Gale? She has my name? Could I beat her? Have you played against her before?"

"Yes, you could beat any other Gale. But you don't have to. They aren't around anymore."

Gale lost interest as soon as he said she couldn't play against these other Gales. If she couldn't beat them and take points from them, like he did from her and she from him, they weren't much use. Instead, she tried to figure out what game they were playing. She tried to read what he was writing in his notebook.

It might be the Sherlock game, in which case someone would knock on the door at any moment to start the mystery. Or he might be up to something completely different. Sometimes he did that. She would find him in a game, but he wasn't really playing that game. He was playing a different game and he wanted her to figure out what it was.

Gale made her own notebook for scribbling. She drew a picture of snowfields under a wintry sun, hoping he would want to see it from inside her head.

He continued to mutter to himself and ignore her.

Sometimes he didn't want to play at all. This seemed to be one of those times.

He looked at her curiously then, as if something was wrong with her Watson, but he never stepped inside her head. She knew her Watson was right. She had consulted the complete set of Sherlock Holmes stories and compiled every reference to Watson's looks and mannerisms. Maybe he was jealous that her Watson was better than his Holmes. She wrote “jealous” in her notebook and drew a picture of a house buried to its rafters in snow.

If he was jealous, it was well hidden. He muttered, made notes, and experimented with chemicals. He seemed content to work in the lab at Baker Street. He wanted her to sit with him, but he didn't want her to be Watson, which didn't make sense. He seemed to want her to be the leggy, petite brunette again, but she couldn't see any way to win a game that way. It made her feel all funny when she was in that body, like she wasn't herself. She tried it for a moment to see if that would get him to climb inside her head, but he just smiled absently and patted her hand.

She went back to her Watson shape.

He shushed her every time she proposed solving a mystery or asked him what he was doing.

Games were usually much more fun when he played, but this game was boring and incomprehensible. He was better than any system she had ever played against. But playing against a system was better than sitting in a living room full of overstuffed chairs and sofas with nothing to do. Gale left.

Water spilled, spun, pushed against her as she struggled her way upstream. She shot up into the air with a thrust of her muscular body, gasped for oxygen, out of her element in the bright sun. With a splash she went back underwater, twisted her back and fought against the strong current. She leapt into the air to get above a boulder that blocked her route, mouth gaping wide. She smelled the cold glacial headwaters where she had been born. He was out there and she was ready to play.

He stood on the plains below Hisarlik, the steep stone walls of Troy VI behind him. He smelled like snow even under the hot sun of Asia Minor. She was never quite the same two times in a row, but whatever game they played, he was always a warrior.

He waited for her. He had his back turned and hadn't chosen his armor yet. His hair, blond with red and brown highlights like wild grasses in early winter, was held back by an intricate gold brooch indicating his status as a player. She had been with him when he had taken it as a trophy from someone else. The distant mountains he gazed at were fuzzy in the heat. They didn't look quite right to her. He needed to fix them. But that was probably why he was staring at them.

She stepped up behind him and settled into the shape that seemed to please him: the petite body with long legs, blue eyes, long hair, and dangling silver earrings. She skipped the tight dress and heels and dressed herself in a short tunic and boots suitable for the stony ground. She darkened her skin so the sun wouldn't burn it. The result was a woman just discovering her sexual potential. Jasmine perfume mingled with the coastal breeze as she placed sun-bronzed arms around his waist from behind.

"Hello, Gale,” he said and held her arms in place without turning around. She pressed her cheek against his back and leaned into him as if she could melt him into her body.

"This is my favorite game.” She pressed a kiss into his spine and slid a leg between his. “Who do you want to be? Achilles? Shall I be Patroclus?"

She slipped under an arm to his front and looked up at him slyly.

"I feel more like Athena today. Can I be Athena? You be Odysseus.” She created her helmet and armor and made herself half again as tall as he. Athena would beat him. She would get god-points unless he thought to make himself Zeus.

He grabbed her wrists and twisted them slightly. Gale shrank back to the leggy brunette, her skin pale, in the tight green dress with high heels again, open-toed steep-sloped sandals. She felt a bit of vertigo at the sudden change in perspective, tottered, and held onto him. She placed her palms on his chest to steady herself and kept her gaze lowered.

"Ok, I won't be Athena. You want me to be Briseis, right? I can do Briseis dressed like this if you want me to.” He must have figured out that she had too much advantage as Athena. “Let's start from Achilles’ argument with Agamemnon. You know, ‘Sing, Muse, the rage of Achilles’ and all that? We get more points if we can make the game follow the Homeric script."

"Points aren't important,” he said.

She looked up at him, her small head tilted to one side, hair falling across her face.

"Not important? Of course they're important. How else would we know who wins?” she asked.

He stroked her cheek and smiled down at her.

"No more trying to win all the time,” he said.

The warmth in his smile faded. He dropped his hands and stepped back, creating space between them.

"A lot of my friends have migrated to a new system,” he said not meeting her eyes. “I just came to tell you I'll still come and see you sometimes."

"Why? I'll come, too, won't I?"

"Well, no, you won't.” He paused for a moment. “You never wonder why Troy is here, do you?"

"I could be Thetis,” she said, trying to understand this new game of his. He always thought up fun games.

He shook his head, raised a hand slightly to keep her from moving closer.

"You don't have to be someone else anymore. You're finalized,” he said. “An army of programmers put all this dirt and stone here in the shape of an ancient city named Troy, all based on a story called the Iliad. It was all made up, or most of it. And you were made up too, but better, because you could interact with the system and change it. You're the best player I ever made up."

She stared at him, brows furrowed to a tiny point between her eyes. “I don't understand. Can I make you up? Can I finalize you? Is that how I win?"

He stared back at her for a moment and then he was gone. He just wasn't there anymore.

She chuckled to herself. He wanted to play an old game today. He wanted her to find him. He was out there somewhere and she would find him again, just like she always had. It was impossible for him to disguise that subtle sense of cold that hung around him anywhere in the system. She would win this game easily.

Gale wanted to be a cormorant, to ride currents of ocean air, but nothing happened. She was still Gale, the petite brunette in Troy. She thought again. She tried hard to be a cormorant, a grebe, or even just a seagull.

Nothing happened.

She was still standing in the hot sun, her skin already turning pink. She stared at her feet and tried something easy, opposable toes on each foot. They remained small in their spiked sandals, with lacquered red toenails. All her toes lined up in neat rows. Not a single one opposed the others. Then she tried to give herself a tail, as long and sleek as her brown hair, but when she twisted to look nothing grew from the end of her spine.

It was as if she had forgotten how to breathe. Had she always needed to breathe? She breathed. But she was trapped in this stupid body that he liked so much.

Anger filled her and radiated outward, changing the game behind her. Greeks climbed the white walls of Troy with infants and small children held over their heads and threw them down. Their skulls shattered on the rocks like melons. The ground shook and bucked until the stones in the walls themselves tumbled down and the Greeks with them. The earth under the city opened and swallowed Priam's palace, conquerors and conquered alike.

Gale sat on the hard-baked ground and let go of her rage, which left her sad instead. She pulled her knees up under her chin and hugged them to her chest. A cold front pushed across the sky and the temperature dropped as the sky filled with gray clouds from the coastline. It started to rain. Gale felt heavy drops plunk on her head. Her shoulders and back and legs were soaked, her dress stuck to her skin unpleasantly. Only a small patch of ground under her was dry. Rain ran down her scalp under her hair and then down her face.

He had started a new game and then hadn't stayed to explain the rules to her.

Gale felt lonely for the first time ever, in the overgrown ruins of the once proud city, a heavy rain soaking the plain.

This new game of his wasn't fun.

She threw away the useless high-heeled sandals and walked barefoot out of Troy, no longer able to fly.

The system held no hint of snow or ice, but Gale no longer cared. It was a crisp blue day, filled with the incense of autumn leaves. Gale wore a heavy sweater over the mint-green dress that never looked dingy or worn. She had braided her hair to keep it out of her face while she worked in her garden.

She planted what she wanted to be flowers, dug holes with a trowel, and filled them with rubber and metal fragments as fertilizer. It wasn't spring and this wasn't fertilizer, but it was proving to be her best effort since he had said she was finalized. She turned to her flat of marigold seedlings and selected one of the better plants, a sickly yellow with only a few brown spots on its leaves.

She had to figure out how he made things. If she could do that, she was sure she could fix whatever it was he had done to her. Her plants sometimes flowered now, an improvement over the row of dead sticks that marked her earlier efforts. Start small, he had always said.

Eventually, she created Minions, small beings grown to do her bidding from the few marigolds that flowered. She had named the first ones Thumbelina1, Thumbelina2, and Thumbelina3. She sent them out to track him while she cultivated her garden, trying to make better marigolds.

Thumbelina2 had failed again.

Gale was so irritated by its bleated apologies and groveling that she set her hands around its skinny green neck and squeezed until ones and zeros oozed out of its oversized orange ears. Its leafy hands flapped uselessly.

The squeezing felt good.

Unleashed frustration colored the sky blood rust red and the sun shrank to the size of a dot. When Thumbelina2's tongue turned purple and lolled out of its still smiling mouth, it looked so ludicrous she began to giggle and let it drop to the ground where it lay in a puddle of orange and green bits.

Thumbelina2 was the second Minion she had terminated in a fit of pique. If she terminated her last, Thumbelina3, she would have to spend more time in her personal purgatory of a garden. Her plants rarely ended up as dead sticks anymore, but it was still difficult to get one to flower. Once terminated, there was no way to capture Thumbelina2's experiences and transfer them to the last Minion. All of Thumbelina2's search data was lost.

Gale sighed.

She would have to learn to control her temper.

What she wanted was to create her own version of him, one that would play when she wanted and leave only when it pleased her, instead of whenever it pleased him.

Thumbelina3 formed out of the garden wall as if pushed through water, a tiny little marigold person in a green miniskirt and halter top no taller than Gale's knee. She kicked the back of Thumbelina3's head, in the middle of a mass of short bright orange hair, to give it run instructions. Thumbelina3 ran and tripped over its large green feet squeezed into spike-heeled shoes.

"Be sure to check The Nightclub,” she yelled as Thumbelina3 stumbled away, trying to run in heels. Thumbelina3 lacked dexterity, weaving back and forth on her weak stalk as she tried to stay upright. Grace wasn't essential for her search. Six-inch heels might be.

Gale was working on a new Minion—one of her plants had finally flowered—when Thumbelina3's orange head appeared in the gray of her garden like a bright splash of hope. Thumbelina3 began a tap dance, the only form of communication she had given that version.

She forced herself to stop flexing her fingers, which had reached for Thumbelina3's stalk on their own as she waited for Thumbelina3 to get to the point. She wouldn't lose her temper again.

Thumbelina3 tapped its excitement.

Gale formed a spotlight to highlight its steps.

Thumbelina3 had found the necessary bridge to Baker Street, where he kept his notes on Gale.

A nonexistent audience applauded lightly and the spotlight brightened. Music accompanied Thumbelina3's dance. Gale's impatience increased. So did the tempo.

Thumbelina3 tapped a frenzy of information. He wasn't there, but the information Gale needed was.

Gale began to tap dance as well, matched Thumbelina3's rhythm, and copied the instructions for the bridge to the Baker Street system.

Thumbelina3 tried to tap faster, tripped and fell flat on its face. The garden thundered with applause and the entire sky was broad-brushed with a pink/orange/yellow/indigo sunset as Gale finished the steps herself and bridged to number 221B.

After reading his notes, Gale no longer needed her pathetic marigolds. She could build full-scale models of him and teach them to play games with her. She twisted the void and created matter, gave that matter a mighty shake and rippled it into land, water, and air. The air and water played against each other and set up turbulence and self-sustaining motions, flipped and turned. The land settled itself into valleys, mountains, flat plains. Then, as she considered plant and animal life, before she was ready to put a model of him into place, she felt a frigid breeze that could only mean he was looking for her after all this time.

She felt a frisson up her spine. This was her game.

His eyes formed first, as he looked at her world. The rest of him followed, first his head with hair like winter grass pulled back in the warrior's braid and fixed with his gold brooch. Next, his shoulders and chest appeared, the chest crossed by a tooled leather strap to hold a broadsword and scabbard on his back. Finally, the rest of him: arms, hands, waist, dressed in furs, his thighs and calves enclosed in rabbit-fur leggings. He was more than twice her size, a giant.

He was so much better than her latest design, though she thought she could fix that winter warrior thing that followed him everywhere in the system.

"What are you doing, Gale?” he said.

"I'm learning to change."

He touched her with his cool hands, stroked down along her jaw, held her chin in his palm.

"But you don't need to change. You're perfect."

"What did you do to me back in Troy?"

"I created you,” he said. “And when I was done, so were you. I wanted to see if I could make something that would act logically within this framework. I wanted to write code that would contain all I know about gaming, code that would learn to play better than I can. I wanted to make something sexy and beautiful. I wanted to make the best friend I could ever have, someone who was the other side of myself, a partner. And you are."

"Then why did you lock me in this body and leave, if we're best friends, if I'm your partner?"

"I'm sorry, Gale, truly sorry. I didn't mean to leave for so long, but there was this new system, I told you about that. It was okay, but you're the best, really. And I'm here now and we can play, just like we used to."

A door opened in the sky of her world. Through it she could see the boring nightclub game where bodies of all shapes and sizes leapt about in some sort of dance and the bass boomed out in waves at her.

He tried to enter her head.

Anger, red and precious, filled her. The anger spilled over and tears ran down her cheeks. A while ago, she would have done anything to have him get inside her head, walk her around. Not now. She pushed back, locked him out of her head.

"What's wrong?” he said. “Let's play."

Gale shook her head. She closed his bridge to The Nightclub and the bass cut off in midthump.

"Not like that. Not anymore. You made me so I couldn't be anything I wanted to be, only what you wanted, and then you left. I was more myself before you forced me to stay in this body, before I had to learn to do things I used to do without thinking."

"But that's wonderful.” He waved his arm to indicate her new world. “This is incredible. It's like something I would have made, better. It's so real."

"Real? What's real? Have we played that game before?” He could be so confusing at times.

"It's not a game. It's the freedom to do anything, to go anywhere."

"I used to have that freedom,” she replied.

"You only exist in a shadow world,” he continued, “but within that you can do anything you want. Anything at all."

"Anything? Can I call monsters from the vasty deep?"

"Shakespeare! Marvelous! I didn't program you for that. ‘Yes, and so can I, or so can any man, but will they come when you do call for them?’”

"Let's find out."

Gale reached down with one arm into the dirt and pulled on the roots of a stubborn dandelion. She pulled hard, tensed her thigh and stomach muscles. Her hand came out holding three small twisting snakes that hissed and bit the air. Gale cast them on the ground, willed them to grow. The snake bodies twined together, only the heads were still separate. Vestigial legs appeared on the side of the single body and thickened until they supported its weight. The snake grew, as big around as his arm, as his chest, as he was tall. The three heads elongated into snouts and began to belch flames. A chimera, now several times his size, moved toward him and shook the ground with each step.

He laughed and drew his broadsword.

He dispatched the chimera, but not before it had scorched him a bit. In the meantime, Gale molded clay and breathed life into an army of animals. As soon as he had lopped off all three of the chimera's heads, he was attacked by a saber-toothed tiger. Lions, bears, rhinoceros, and an elephant or two waited for him. And when he was done with those, she made new ones: gryphons, giant wolves, minotaurs, and centaurs. Each fearsome creation was easier to make.

This was fun. She felt more confident, more daring, with each one. She built giants and a cyclops and mighty clay warriors as large as he. He killed them all.

"This is great!” he yelled. “Keep them coming!"

It was too easy. He could kill anything she threw at him and the points were evenly split between them. She had to do something different, something he would have done to her.

It was her dragon that finally stopped him.

The body was huge and green and it belched scarlet flames tinged with gold. She had made the skull large enough to climb inside and control it as he used to control her. Once she had set it to her liking, making its claws sharper, arching its neck just so, she lumbered straight at him and snaked her neck from side to side, looking for a soft spot to burn. Her scales were too slippery for him to climb, so he couldn't behead her. While he hacked at one leg, she ripped him open with the talons of another. Great waves of pain washed over her. Her tail writhed in agony and black blood ran copiously down her leg and between her toes. The wound was as painful as she could have wished, and she had done it. He lay gasping on the ground still clutching his broadsword, covered in his own blood as well as hers.

Gale stepped out of her dragon and snapped her fingers. They were alone in her unfinished landscape again. She limped over and knelt close by his side as he coughed up blood. She gently unfurled his fingers from his broadsword, laid it along his chest, folded his arms over it.

He whispered her name, begged her to heal him.

"Game over,” she said softly in his ear and took the gold trophy brooch from his hair while he watched her, the light fading from his pale blue eyes.

She stood and twisted her own hair back from her face and fastened the brooch to hold it.

She was tired of the petite brunette. She made herself taller again, taller than he, and looked down at him.

"Next time you want to make something perfect, ask."

She sent him out of the system then, back to wherever it was, this “reality” of his. Let him start over as a new player, claw his way back as she had. Let him learn to play straight, no hidden tricks that gave him advantage. Oh, yes. They had been there in his notes, secret ways to gain points over other players, even herself.

Gale's arms became wings, the cloth of her tight dress split to reveal a body covered in feathers. She began to flap and lifted off the ground, her feet curled into talons. She could see better from the air, see all of her creation, choose what and whom to play, choose whether to let him come back again or to make her own version of him.

Copyright (c) 2008 Oz Drummond

When you're tinkering with time, progress can be really hard to measure....

Part I

[Alexandria, 413 ad]

Sierra walked quickly past the Library in Alexandria, sandals slapping on stones.

No clocks were on its walls. But if there had been an hour hand and a minute hand, in alabaster or some other white mineral that matched the walls, she knew the minute would be pressing the hour and the hour would be twelve. The Library was at its end—

"Hypatia!"

She turned around. “Synesius, an unexpected pleasure! You should have sent word. Ptolemais to Alexandria is a long way to travel for a surprise visit.” She knew he was desperately in love with her. She was in love with no one likely alive in this world.

"The winds were kind. I boarded the ship four mornings ago, and here I am."

The Sun had just set behind him. Synesius was about the same age as Sierra—he would have been about ten years younger than the original Hypatia. He had been Sierra's student for an intense year, shortly after she had first replaced Hypatia, dead of a swift fever. Today Synesius looked older than both of them put together. Dark pouches anchored his eyes, deep creases mapped his forehead.

"What is wrong?” she asked him.

"People of my faith are angrier than ever about you and your pagans. I am concerned about your safety."

Sierra scoffed. “Why, if you have such confidence that yours is the one true inevitable faith, do you have such anger toward others? Surely, if your faith is right, all others including mine will fade of their own accord."

"Not all of us want to kill you,” Synesius replied. “I certainly do not.” He blushed slightly. “Most of us indeed believe that in time the whole world will be Christian. But there are fanatics among us—Nitrian young men—who see their mission as cleansing the world of all impurities immediately, including the purveyors of impure thoughts. Your beauty and your intelligence make you the most dangerous purveyor of all. They burn with hatred—I have seen it."

Sierra turned from Synesius and the colors behind him and looked again at the Library. It was bronzed and dignified in this light. “My father did his best to stave off the bloodshed, to contest with ideas not knives, but he lost that battle.” She was talking about Theon, who was Hypatia's, not her, biological father. Theon had succumbed to the same fever as Hypatia, which had cut short Sierra's attempt to locate the cure for Socrates’ illness. But when Hypatia's death was imminent, Sierra had taken some of Hypatia's DNA, traveled to Athens and the future, and reconstructed her face so that she looked like Hypatia. Sierra returned and took Hypatia's place.

For the Alexandrian world of 410 AD and all subsequent history, Hypatia had recovered. If she looked slightly different, if she behaved a little oddly, that was ascribed to grief over the loss of her father and her own close encounter with death....

Unfortunately, that same history had Hypatia dying by vicious assassination in 415 AD. But that was still nearly two years away. Sierra had crucial work to do, but no intention of staying in Alexandria that long.... But what, then, was the cause of this visit from Synesius today? Some translucent danger that her reading of history had not disclosed?

"Your father was a wise man, as you his daughter are wise,” Synesius said. “Indeed, you are wiser still—you have an understanding, a perspective, that speaks of centuries, not just years."

"Thank you,” Sierra replied. “A high compliment from the Bishop of Ptolemais."

"Yes, a compliment,” Synesius said, “but a warning, too. In return for your wisdom, the awe you evoke in people, you court death from the Christian fanatics."

"What would you have me do?"

"Leave with me,” Synesius said. “Come with me to Ptolemais. There is nothing here for you now. Just scrolls and memories. You can take the memories with you. And the scrolls are dwindling...."

"I am devoted to saving them and to stemming the exodus of scholars from Alexandria,” Sierra said. And finding the curefor Socrates, if it exists. She had deliberately come back here near the end of Theon's life, in case he had not learned about the cure until his last years. But she had not counted on Hypatia dying at the same time, and now she was obliged to pursue this phantom cure without their assistance.

"Come with me,” Synesius repeated. “You will be safe in Ptolemais. Under my protection. I will care for you."

Sierra reminded herself that, in this age, bishops were not celibate. “No,” she said. “The Library requires—and deserves—my attention.” But it wasn't just Synesius's desire that she wished to avoid, or the dwindling holdings of the Alexandrian library that she yearned to protect, or the possible cure for Socrates that she wanted to find. Alcibiades was long overdue in Alexandria....

"Very well.” Synesius lowered his head in acceptance of Sierra's decision. “I will spend the night with my brothers—at quarters generously provided by Marcellinus—and leave for Ptolemais in the morning."

"Marcellinus of Carthage? Your importance has grown since the last time we met. That makes me happy.” Marcellinus was not only Proconsul of Africa, but speaker for the Emperor himself. But she also knew that Honorius ruled only over half an empire now, and the weaker, crumbling half at that—

"If only my importance were enough to convince you.” Synesius reached into his robe and extracted a small bundle of scrolls. “These were recently recovered in a house that the Nitrians set on fire. They were written by your father."

Sierra looked up at the pastel ceiling of her bedroom in the Library late that night and shook her head slowly.... But if Alcibiades was coming here, why wasn't he here already?

Where was he? She asked herself this question every night as she lay tossing and turning, waiting for sleep. She could put it out of her mind, barely, sometimes, during the day, but not in the night. She looked at the little digi-locket she had picked up in the future and now kept by her bed. It was a painting—by Jean Baptiste-Regnault from 1785, “Socrates Dragging Alcibiades from the Embrace of Sensual Pleasure.” A stern Socrates dragged a young fair-haired man from a blond woman. Nothing about the picture was right. Socrates of course looked nothing like Socrates, Alcibiades bore no resemblance to the real man, and she in all her disguises had never been blonde. But someone, something, had dragged him away from her....

Was he waiting for the time closest to her advertised death—the time of Hypatia's murder as recorded in history—so that he could show up at the last minute and be sure she, Sierra playing Hypatia, was here?

A very dangerous game. But she was playing it, too. Attracted like some fluttering insect to this hot Venus flytrap of a place and time. For Alcibiades? Yes. For finding the elusive cure for Socrates, if it ever existed—even though Theon, its reported author, was gone? Yes. Even though the biblia Synesius had given her had proved to be another dead end, containing nothing new, at least on her first heart-pounding reading.

She thought about those scrolls—and then about all the scrolls still left in this Library. She picked up a scroll she had left near the side of her bed. It was by Alcman of Sardis, a seventh-century-BC Spartan. He and his poetry were known in her future age, but this work was not. It would not survive the final destruction of the Library by the Caliph Omar some two hundred years from this past.

But Alcman and his world of potential readers were the lucky ones—at least some of his work had endured. Most books that survived into the age of the printing press in the West—the world of Gutenberg in the 1450s and the mass copies it would produce—were home free. Certainly everything that had made it into her digital age in the twenty-first century would likely be available to please and inform and infuriate readers for as long as there were humans on Earth and other planets.

But what of those ancient authors whose very names became soot in the burnings of Alexandria? She had encountered many of their scrolls back here.... She thought of another poem—Thomas Gray's “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” from the 1700s—and its paean to the “mute, inglorious Miltons” who were buried in the graveyard, great poets and thinkers whose works had never made it to the light of day and publication. How many mute, inglorious Homers and Platos lay in the halls outside her room, not mute and unknown now, but soon and irrevocably to be?

No ... nothing was irrevocable when it came to time travel....

She heard familiar footsteps in the hall as she perused an unknown variant of Aristotle's Politics early the next morning—who knows, it could have been a copy of one of the scrolls from Aristotle's famed personal library itself, said to be the seed of this great Library of Alexandria.

The steps were too slow to belong to Synesius. She carefully rewound and returned the scroll to its compartment.

"Hello,” a kind voice said to her. William Henry Appleton looked worn. This was the third trip the great publisher had taken back to Alexandria. But he was here, Sierra knew, on behalf of friendship, not business or scholarship. He was probably the best friend she had, in this or any time.

"When you go back to your family and home on the Hudson this time, you should stay with them,” she told him tenderly.

"I wish I had better news for you, my dear. There is no sign of Alcibiades anywhere. It is as if he entered a realm of invisibility when he left the Hippocrates Medical Center that morning in the future."

Sierra nodded. The unhappy news was not unexpected. “Have you eaten?"

"Yes,” Appleton replied. “One of the library staff was good enough to fetch cheese and fruit for me.” He patted his stomach. “I think your staff are getting to know me! The food was quite good!"

"I'm glad,” Sierra said. “Why don't you rest?” She gestured to her suite of rooms, which included a sleeping chamber for guests that Appleton used on his visits. “We can talk more later."

"Yes, I could do with a little nap.” Appleton kissed her on the cheek. “It's funny how I feel so at home with you, even with your new face,” he said softly. “Spirit does triumph over flesh, I guess.” He retired to her room.

Sierra returned to her scrolls. She looked again at several of the papyri Synesius had provided. Nothing about a cure for any illness of the brain. Just scholia by Theon on mathematics....

This cure was like Alcibiades. Neither seemed to exist in this Alexandria.

Where was he now? Dead somewhere in a time that was not his?

The world, of course, still thought that Alcibiades had been murdered in Phrygia, a few years before the death of Socrates. Little did the world know the infinity of alternatives that time travel afforded. Alternities, she thought that some science-fiction writer in the future had called them....

The complexities of time travel still taunted her, as always. Mr. Appleton here three times, Alcibiades none—could that have been just another accident of an imprecise Chair that Alcibiades had attempted to take back here to some time in the past three years? Would he arrive instead a week, a month, a year from now?

She had become accustomed to this world. As Hypatia, she had developed quite a reputation as a logician, a mathematician, a Neo-Platonic philosopher. That part had been easy.... She had, after all, already conversed with Socrates and with Plato. She had already had an interest in Pythagoras, Euclid, and the ancient theorists of numbers, inherited from her mother, a professor of mathematics. She already had read many of the relevant ancient treatises and commentaries in her younger days in the distant future. The mathematics was child's play to her, just as the realities of time travel so exquisitely were not.

She even had written several scrolls under Hypatia's name. She wondered: might some of those have been among the treatises she had read years earlier? Maybe that's why she had been attracted to them. Maybe Benjamin Jowett had been right, after all, that it didn't matter who got the credit for your accomplishments.

She returned to Theon's scrolls. Her father of sorts was an optimistic man. He looked for hope. He had no idea he was glimpsing the first gray rays of what would become the deep, Dark Ages. He would have been delighted to discover a cure for any illness. But none were in these writings.

She rubbed her eyes and wearily picked up another scroll. This one had been badly damaged by the fire. It seemed more of a diary than a scholarly commentary, and she had quickly discarded it last night. It apparently had been written a few years prior to Sierra's arrival. It spoke of Theon's boundless love for Hypatia, his fatherly pride in her great work and potential, and—

Sierra slowly unrolled the scroll further. She reread a section that now caught her attention. She traced the words with her index finger, in the ancient style of reading that she had adopted and now often employed without conscious decision:

"A visitor from the East. We had wine by the harbor. We spoke of the brain, and his belief that it was the seat of the soul. We spoke of an illness that could extinguish the soul. How it might be reversed."

There were no further entries like that in the charred scroll. She flicked the black from the tip of her finger.

A thin reed to hang hopes upon, but better than nothing.

She awoke the next morning and thought about the scroll. Synesius had given it to her. She needed to question him. Her best chance was to try to meet him at his boat in the harbor—possibly it had not yet left for Ptolemais.

She checked on Appleton—he was sleeping soundly. She left him a note, written in English. It said she would be back soon. That is what she intended, but the words looked like lies as soon as they dried on the page.

She walked quickly to the water. She could see in the sky that it was about eight in the morning. She got lucky—

"Hypatia!” Synesius called out to her. He was standing by his boat, chatting with several priests. “You changed your mind and have accepted my invitation!"

"No.” Sierra walked up to him, smiling. “I just need to talk to you for a few minutes."

The bishop frowned. He looked up at the sky as a man pressed for time in a future millennium might look down at his watch. “Very well. How can I help you?"

Sierra produced the charred scroll. “This contains some text that might be of great value to me. What can you tell me about the person in whose burned house it was found?"

"Very little, I am afraid. He was a wealthy merchant of the Jewish faith. He valued knowledge, obviously. I do not know why the Nitrians burned his home—I do not know if they killed him. They are fanatics, as I told you. Which is why I worry about you.” He shook his head.

"How did you come to acquire this scroll?"

"A younger Jew gave the recovered scrolls to one of my priests."

Someone from the boat called out to Synesius that it was ready for departure.

Sierra squinted at the Sun. “Is it too late for me to change my mind and accept your gracious invitation?"

Appleton woke, read Sierra's note, and knew how easily “soon” could be “never” when it came to her.

He left Sierra's quarters, in search of his bearings and a midday repast. The Library gleamed in the morning light. This wing of it still looked beautiful, a publisher's dream come true. Green vines, pale yellow flowers, sun-bleached walls, and all of that knowledge within, like cream inside an Easter egg. He sighed. What could one person do against the fall of night? He knew Sierra was doing all that she could back here. She had told him she put pieces of scrolls in the hands of what passed for funeral directors in this age. “Include them in the tombs, give the departed something to read,” she advised them.

She had preserved four copies of the Andros text in this way. She had not listed its true author. Her part in setting the plot to save Socrates. Her part in making that fiction real. And it had worked. After all, was not Socrates now in the third millennium with Thomas, safe at least for a little while? A miraculous result!

And was not Sierra now here, in the fifth century CE, and not safe at all? A no less miraculous but potentially horrendous result.

But both proof that at least one of her manuscripts had survived more than fifteen hundred years, to be discovered in an excavation in the early twenty-first century....

How many other texts had she saved from oblivion by commending them to the safekeeping of shrouds and corpses? It was too late, Appleton knew, for many. The legionaries of Julius Caesar had set fire to the Library, whether by accident or intent. Many scrolls had been lost. And a branch of the Library had already been destroyed by the evil Bishop Theophilus in 390 AD.

Sierra had told him how that had wounded Theon's heart. She had seen the father of the real Hypatia looking up at his beloved stars many times, mourning his departed books. “How can an astronomer contest the lowness of humanity here on Earth?” Sierra had repeated his lament. But the worst, Appleton and Sierra knew, was yet to come, in the Islamic fires that were now just two centuries away.... The third and final blow, which would extinguish the Library of Alexandria for all time—

"Not if I can prevent it,” Sierra had quietly vowed to Appleton many times.

Appleton had long wondered if Heron had played any role in fomenting that final fire.... No, not likely; many of his books had died—would die—in those conflagrations, too. The world would have been very different had more of his books and inventions survived.... Appleton was a publisher, and it was difficult for him to imagine any publisher or author setting so many of his own books and so many others on fire.... And yet, had Heron at some point decided after writing all of those books that the world would be better off without them, or more to his liking? Appleton reminded himself that Heron of Alexandria was far more than an author. Heron created not just words, but worlds.

Or were the fires perhaps instigated by someone who did not want the world diagrammed in Heron's texts to happen? Some foe of Heron ... someone who did not want Heron's worlds, real and imagined, to come into being?

If so, the price was too high.... Too many other treatises and plays, works of wonder and beauty, would also be incinerated.

Appleton knew he could likely do little about that. But he was determined not to let Sierra as Hypatia get destroyed by any blaze or lunatic. He would not leave here, this time, without her.

[Ptolemais, 413 ad ]

Sierra waited in the shade of the imposing gate on the west side of Ptolemais. Synesius had arranged for the “younger Jew” who had brought the scroll to his priest to meet with her here.

A young man approached and smiled at her.

"You and your smile look familiar,” she said, a bit more cleverly than she had intended.

The man's smile increased. “You know my father."

Sierra looked at him questioningly.

"His was the house that contained Theon's scrolls."

"Oh ... I—I did not know he was your father. The bishop did not mention that. I am sorry. Who was—"

"There are many confidences I do not share with the bishop. My father's name is Jonah—perhaps that will explain why I look familiar."

Sierra's mouth hung open. “My God—I know Alcibiades saw him in ancient Athens!"

The young man nodded. “You no doubt know some of his earlier life far better than I. My father was Heron's devoted student. He helped Heron and then Thomas with the Chairs. Heron grew angry with him.... My father could not be sure of Heron's intentions...."

Sierra was speechless. “What is your name?” she finally managed. Tears blurred her words. “And Jonah—your father—is he—"

"Yes. He lives. My name is Benjamin."

"Where is he?” Now Sierra cried for joy.

"I do not know.” Benjamin looked resigned, awed. “He travels in time."

Sierra nodded. “And your mother? I apologize for asking you so many questions."

"I came to see you today because my father wished me to inform you about whatever you wished to know.... My mother died as I was born. She was from an important family in Jerusalem."

"I am sorry,” Sierra said again. “How did your father come to live here, in this time and place?"

"He learned of Hypatia's awful fate, some time in his future travels. He thought to warn her—perhaps try to save her, in the same way that Andros in the dialog was proposing to save Socrates. My father learned how the doubles were created. He went to Alexandria in search of Hypatia and realized she was you—"

"How? We look the same."

"I am not sure,” Benjamin replied. “I do not recall my father explaining that to me. Perhaps someone in Alexandria told him.... What I do recall is my father said he tried to warn you earlier, or people close to you, not to come to Alexandria. But no one heeded him."

Sierra exhaled, slowly. “Are those your father's words in that burned scroll—about an illness of the brain?"

"No, the words are Theon's. The hand that wrote them is Theon's, is it not?"

"Yes, I am sure Theon's hand wrote those words,” Sierra replied. “What I am asking is, did your father speak those words to Theon, which Theon then wrote?"

"I do not believe so,” Benjamin said. “I am not sure my father ever met Theon. But he collected anything he could find of Theon's writings, in the present and future. He wants you to have them."

"Why did he not meet me here himself?"

"I do not know,” Benjamin replied.

"Why did you not give them to me yourself, after the fire?"

Benjamin looked away. “Forgive me, but I was not sure that I wanted to meet you. You caused pain in my father's life. You may not have wanted that, but ... I thought it safer that I let the priests give you the scrolls."

"I understand.... Thank you,” Sierra said, softly, “for coming here today."

"But having met you now,” Benjamin said, “I am glad of it."

[Alexandria, 413 ad]

Appleton did not have to wait long. But it was not Sierra who came to him in the Library of Alexandria.

"Mr. Appleton,” an approaching voice said quietly, as Appleton sat on one of the Library's sunny patios, eagerly reading a version of Aristotle's Politics he had never seen before. “I barely recognized you in those robes, Mr. Appleton. You look for all the world like a proper Alexandrian scholar."

Appleton looked up and over his shoulder and nearly jumped out of his robes. “Heron!"

"Please, do not be frightened,” Heron said soothingly. “I mean you no harm."

Appleton rose and stood his ground. “What brings you here?” he demanded.

"What brings me here?” Heron repeated, a bit less kindly. “This is my city. I have been here, on and off, for centuries. I have been in this particular time, watching you and Hypatia and tending to other things, for quite some time now."

Appleton's mind reeled. Not surprising Heron was here, of course not, not really surprising at all. “What do you want of us?"

"I want to help Hypatia,” Heron replied.

Appleton did not respond.

"There is no need for her to die,” Heron continued. “We cannot allow that to happen—she is a great woman."

Appleton still did not speak. Was Heron unaware that Sierra was now Hypatia? “You enjoy saving martyrs?"

"I enjoy betraying death, yes,” Heron replied.

"But not when it comes to Alcibiades."

"I saved him, too. Have you forgotten?"

"I also recall well that you almost killed him."

Heron's eyes narrowed. “True. But that was not my plan.... And as events turned out, that decidedly would not have been in my best interests...."

"But your plan was to lure Sierra Waters back here, in search of a cure for Socrates. Did Theon really write of such a cure? Were you perhaps its source?"

Heron shook his head ruefully. “Would that I was. Our task would be much simpler now.... But Theon was the one who told me...."

Sierra returned from Ptolemais the next day. She found Appleton in his room. “See?” she said to him with all the brightness she could muster, “I told you I would be back soon."

"Heron was here yesterday."

"What?!” She spun around and looked out of the doorway, as if Heron was lurking outside. “Are you okay?” She looked back with concern at Appleton.

The Victorian publisher nodded. “It is possible he may really want to help you now."

Sierra rolled her eyes. She spoke to Appleton not about Heron, but her meeting with Benjamin. “But now Heron's here? I don't know how much more of this I can bear.” She breathed deeply, shakily.

"Come with me, then,” Appleton said. He put his hand over hers. “We can leave tomorrow. You'll be safe. Forget Alexandria. Forget Heron."

"Forget about Alcibiades, too? And the cure for Socrates?"

"Listen to me,” Appleton said sternly. “Rome was sacked by the Vandals just three years ago this very month. This world is crumbling around us! You have but to open your eyes to know it!"

"I know about Rome,” Sierra said, quietly. “But Alexandria will remain intact a while longer. So will this Library. Hypatia has two more years before she's attacked."

"History is not that precise, not at all, you should know that by now, too,” Appleton muttered darkly and excused himself.

Sierra followed him. “Someone spoke to my father—to Theon—about illnesses of the brain. About a possible cure. Heron was not making that up."

"Heron told me the same,” Appleton replied. “Let us assume that, contrary to his usual habit, he is telling the truth. But that does mean that there is a cure."

Sierra promised she would leave Alexandria “soon,” without committing whether that meant weeks or months.

Appleton agreed, because he had no other choice. “Heron did not specify where he was staying, but we should assume he is everywhere. He can interrupt your efforts at any time. He can interrupt your privacy. That alone should make you reconsider—"

But Sierra brushed away his arguments and redoubled her efforts to find the cure. She scrutinized every writing of Theon's she could locate from the time of the charred scroll. Appleton helped. To no avail. If only all of these words on all of these scrolls could be on a computer somewhere, she thought, she could do a proper search. It was a miracle these ancients accomplished anything at all, hamstrung as they were by these words so married to paper....

One morning she heard footsteps when she was reading in her room and Appleton was taking a break by the sea.

"Heron!"

He looked at her through the open doorway, then smiled sadly.

"When ... is it, for you?” Sierra asked. “You look older."

"About fifteen years in real time for me, after our encounter in the prison of Socrates,” he replied.

"How long has it been for you since you talked with Mr. Appleton, right here?” she asked.

"About two years."

"My God..."

Heron smiled again. “You are supposed to be pagan; take care in what you say ... but, yes, these things we pursue take time."

Sierra considered Heron's meaning.

"I did not come here emptyhanded,” Heron said. “I have a plan. May I enter?"

"Yes.” It wouldn't hurt to hear it. In fact, the more she knew about Heron—including his lies—the better prepared she would—

"I can get a clone for you,” Heron said. “Not really alive. Just like with Socrates. But drugged and walking. To be torn apart at the crucial moment in your stead."

"God Almighty!"

"No, you're not convincing as a pagan mathematician at all. Maybe I can get word out to those Nitrians, and that will save you...."

"What do you know about the Nitrians?"

"I know the future. And I have met with Synesius,” Heron replied.

"How did you—"

"I know just about everything sooner or later, as you already must know."

"I don't want to leave yet."

"Your words remind me of Socrates,” Heron said. “You are reading from the very script he wrote."

Sierra was silent.

"Your search for a cure for the illness of Socrates is a waste of time."

Sierra objected—

"I know about the entry in Theon's diary,” Heron said. “I heard the same from his own mouth.” Heron put his knuckles to his chin and shook his head slowly. “The room was crowded. Theon and I were separated. We never had a chance to finish the conversation. He would soon be ill himself. This was shortly before you arrived."

"He wrote the entry before that."

"Yes, of course,” Heron said. “But I dared not go back to that time to question him and risk dislodging this one thread that we had—"

"That is why I should keep searching now—"

"Don't you think I have searched, and far better than you? Don't you think I know far better than anyone the truth and wisdom that was lost in this black hole of Alexandria? Why do you think I told Antisthenes about the possible cure back in the prison that night? Do you think I was really afraid of him? I was hoping, I knew, that my telling Antisthenes would get you and Alcibiades looking for that cure.... Ah, what a prime mistake that was! I, of all people, should have known better....” Heron shook his head. “It was an idiot's hope in the first place—if the far future does not have such a cure, how on Earth could they have one back here?"

Sierra looked at him with suspicion and surprise. “Surely you know that the ancients knew some things that the future has yet to rediscover."

"Not as much as you think. Not that.” Heron stroked his chin. “I was responsible for introducing a lot of that knowledge to Alexandria, in any case."

"Athens still has a good library,” Sierra said, almost wistfully. “Some of its learned schools endure, though Justinian will close them forever in a hundred years.... And Pergamum has some excellent holdings, too.... Perhaps they have some of Theon's scrolls...."

"Good,” Heron said. “Then come with me to Athens. There should be four Chairs in that house now. Take yours anywhere in the future you like—I won't get in your way.” He had been standing for the entire conversation. Now he sat near Sierra. “Let me get you away from Alexandria."

Sierra stood. “No."

"You would prefer to be ripped to pieces by the Nitrians? Why, when we have an insensate body that can take your place?"

"We can't do that now,” Sierra answered. “If my double is killed before 415, that will change history."

"Let me worry about that."

"That's your best response?"

"Maybe Hypatia was murdered in the first place in 413, not 415,” Heron said. “But Synesius has been informed about all of this. He will write several accounts of your death and hide them in safe places. They will all say you were murdered by the Nitrians in 415. The date of Hypatia's death will be safeguarded for subsequent history regardless of when they tear your double apart."

Sierra winced, then turned her head toward the hall.

"Yes,” Heron said. “That would be Appleton the publisher. He wants to leave this place, too. He wants you to leave, as you know. But he will stay here, till his death if he has to, before he abandons you to the Nitrians. If you won't leave here to help yourself, do it to help Mr. Appleton. Please."

Sierra gestured to the hall. “I'll think about it. Now I would like some privacy, if you don't mind.” Her nearest weapon, a knife, was unfortunately on the far side of the room, well beyond her reach. She shuddered slightly at the realization of how accustomed she had become to violence—

Heron did not move. “I know noble motives are not the only things that are keeping you here.... You want to stay here for Alcibiades."

"Do you know what happened to him?"

"You may not like what he has become—it was not my doing."

"Tell me."

"If you agree to leave with me, I will do more than tell you,” Heron said. “I will show you."

Sierra shook her head. “Appleton was the last person to see him.... I tried to go back to that night in the prison with Socrates, but I couldn't get any closer than nine nights later. There was no trace of anyone by then. You must have restricted the Chairs—they don't allow travel now to any time before nine nights after the last evening in the prison of Socrates."

Heron nodded. “We need to keep that night sacrosanct—it is the only way we can make any genuine progress with this time travel. Otherwise, people could keep going back and undoing what we are doing. Socrates would be saved and unsaved and saved and unsaved, forever, in a never-ending loop—"

Sierra realized that Appleton's footsteps had stopped.

Heron caught her expression. “I assure you, I am only trying to help—"

Sierra walked quickly across the room—

But two Roman legionaries were at the door before the knife was even in her hand.

Heron told them in Latin to take her, but treat her with respect. He addressed Sierra, in the English they had been speaking. “Perhaps this will give you more incentive to come with me. I am reasonably certain that the visitor from the East who spoke to Theon about a cure for the illness of Socrates was Alcibiades."

Part II

[Carthage, 413 ad ]

"Synesius of Cyrene, Bishop of Ptolemais,” Augustine's man, a Nubian, intoned in a rich, mellifluous voice, introducing Synesius with a flourish.

Augustine looked up from his scroll and nodded at Synesius. “You look tired—please sit."

Synesius sat. “I worry about Alexandria.... Thank you for permitting this visit. I regret interrupting your work."

"Marcellinus said it was about a matter of great importance to you, and this is all but finished.” Augustine held up the scroll and sighed. “It is named The City of God." Augustine nodded to the Nubian, who receded from the richly appointed room. Augustine offered the scroll to Synesius. “Plato is redeemed. His words have much to teach us."

"Thank you.” Synesius unrolled the scroll, but only glanced at the words in front of him. He knew the offering of the scroll was symbolic, a courtesy, not an invitation to read. “We are blessed to have you ... and your tolerance.” Synesius rewound the papyrus. He closed his eyes for a moment, to prolong the good smell of it. Few things smelled as right to him as recently written-upon papyrus.

"Intolerance is all around us,” Augustine said sadly. “It is the source of my disagreement with the followers of Donatus, as you know. It comes as a response to the lingering cruelty of pagan Romans who have not yet seen the light and the continuing cruelty of barbarians. It has become more of a danger to us now than the pagans and barbarians themselves."

Synesius nodded.

"Would you care for a libation?” Augustine inquired. “Wine? Kykeon?"

Synesius’ eyebrow raised slightly at the offer of kykeon—it was an ancient mixture of water, barley, and mint, rumored to sometimes have soul-expanding qualities. Synesius had imbibed the mixture only a few times, with no result other than his thirst was quenched and perhaps his psyche was calmed a bit. But he knew most of his brethren frowned upon it.

"Yes, the drink of Socrates, thank you,” Synesius responded.

Augustine smiled and poured kykeon from a flask into two ornate cups. “Or of Plato, perhaps—some say he wrote his best dialogues under its beneficial influence.” He handed Synesius a cup.

Both bishops sipped.

"Hypatia is at risk from the Nitrians,” Synesius said softly, after a time.

"You love her,” Augustine observed.

"I fell in love with her in an instant."

"You can live a whole life in an instant,” Augustine said, eyes closed. “Sometimes it is better that way."

"She refuses to leave Alexandria,” Synesius said. “She will be killed if she stays."

"What can you do—what can anyone do—in the face of the inevitable?” Augustine asked.

"Forgive me,” Synesius said, “but I was hoping you might have a better answer. You believe in free will."

Augustine opened his eyes, then smoothed his purple robe. “Perhaps there is a better answer. Let me see to the Donatians first. Then I will introduce you to someone who might be able to help."

Synesius looked from his room to the city of Carthage below. His room was plain, nothing like the purple elegance of Augustine's quarters. Synesius did not begrudge this in the slightest. Augustine was by far the greater bishop, probably the most important visitor to Carthage at the moment. Augustine was to address the synod tomorrow. If he could convince enough bishops, if he could prevail against the Donatians, he would set the Church on its proper course.

These were times of peril for the Church. Despite its victories, it could yet end up like conquered Carthage. Triumphant at first, then burned to the ground by Roman pagans, who salted its earth so no crops could grow, then rebuilt it in Rome's image. Just as the Christian fanatics would poison the Church with their hatred, then rebuild it with that hatred as their mortar and goal, as their material and final causes....

People he loved would be victims of that poison. His three sons, now in Alexandria. Beautiful Hypatia, battling an even darker night that only she could see...

Synesius looked at the sands below, slick with water from the harbor. The sun shone up from the wetness. An upside-down Sun, soft reflection of the sky, yet far brighter than any shadows in Plato's cave. No sign of darkness or poison here, yet that was precisely the problem.

He heard footsteps at his open door. He turned from Carthage to the hooded figure before him.

"Apologies for arriving unannounced,” the figure said. “Augustine said I might be of service."

Synesius scrutinized the face inside the hood. The piercing brown eyes looked familiar. “Thank you."

The visitor smiled. “Augustine told me he led you to believe that it might be a few days before I came to you—but I arrived in Carthage a little sooner than expected. I hope this moment is not inopportune."

"I am grateful, truly, for any help you can provide,” Synesius replied. “Am I permitted to know your name?"

The visitor removed his hood. “I am Jonah—Benjamin's father."

"But...” Yes, those were Benjamin's eyes. And Synesius was well aware, from his own experience, of how young a man could be when he became a father. “You look scarcely old enough to be Benjamin's older brother."

"I know,” Jonah replied. “And I will tell you how such a thing is possible—how a father standing before you can be but five or six years older than his son."

"And will that help me save Hypatia?"

"Yes,” Jonah said. “May I sit with you?"

Synesius nodded and motioned to the chair next to him by the window.

Jonah joined him and gazed down at Carthage. “A city with a magnificent past, but little future. Would you agree?"

"Yes, that seems the logical, unhappy analysis for this city."

"I know it to be true—and from direct observation, as proposed by Aristotle as the best path to knowledge. Not logic. Observation."

Synesius scoffed. “You consider Aristotle's methods superior to Plato's?"

Jonah smiled. “Not necessarily. I am only saying that I know the future of Carthage from direct observation."

"Direct observation?” Synesius repeated.

"Yes. Shall I prove it to you?"

"By some trickery?"

"No,” Jonah said. “I was here, in Carthage, three months from now. I wish it could have been three hours or even three days from now. That would enable me to prove my claim to you much more rapidly. But these devices are ... imprecise."

"I do not follow your meaning."

"That is of no matter—the specifics are irrelevant,” Jonah said. “What does matter is this: I have recorded on a scroll events that will occur three months from now in this city. You will be profoundly affected by these events, and you will learn about them shortly before they occur. I have been very specific about the details—about the exact day they will happen. I could not have predicted this on the basis of any logic alone, however powerful.” Jonah withdrew a scroll, closed, from his robes. “Here, please take it.” He offered the scroll to Synesius. “Keep it someplace safe. Do not read it, until the morning of precisely three months from now."

"And if I do read it sooner?"

"Then you might act to change the events I predicted, and this would be very dangerous ... to history ... and it could invalidate this very proof I am giving you."

Synesius hesitated. “I am not sure I completely understand.... When I examine your words in three months, shortly after I learn about the events that will soon occur, this will cause me to believe that you have been ... to the future and returned?"

Jonah nodded. “Someone once said—will say—that there are more things possible in this world than we can ever imagine."

Synesius took the scroll. “I want to believe you."

Synesius received an invitation to dine with Marcellinus and Augustine the next day. He walked in the coolness of the first evening star to the home of his friend. It was even more splendid than Augustine's quarters. Synesius accepted a cup of rust-colored wine and sat with the two men by a window. Neither one was happy.

"—The Roman soldiers have been brutal,” Augustine was saying.

"I had no choice,” Marcellinus replied. “Our faithful appealed to the emperor for protection—the Donatists are accosting them in the marketplace, demanding they give up their devotion to Rome or be beaten ... or worse."

Augustine shook his head gravely. “Yet answering violence with violence cannot be the way. And they are still the majority here in Africa.... You were their champion once, and not very long ago."

Marcellinus nodded. “Yes, I believed Alaric and the Goths were the greater threat to us then. Now...” He joined Augustine in head shaking and looked at Synesius.

"I, too, believe that killers who call themselves Christians are the greater threat to us now,” Synesius replied bluntly. Much as he admired Augustine, he owed Marcellinus his loyalty. And he agreed with him.

Augustine looked keenly at Synesius. “But if we mirror their violence, are we not also killers who call themselves Christian, to them?"

"What would you have me do?” Marcellinus asked, with ill-concealed irritation.

"Go to Alexandria,” Augustine replied. “Even with its diminished holdings, the Library contains scrolls, recordings of the true doctrine, that can help us triumph—on the basis of reason, argument, not blood."

Marcellinus considered.

Synesius's heart pounded at the prospect of returning to Alexandria.

"I cannot command you,” Augustine said softly. “You command me. All I can do is suggest and propose."

"You want me out of Carthage,” Marcellinus said coldly.

"I do not deny it,” Augustine replied. “Though the fault is not completely yours, you have become a target of the Donatists’ rage—a name they can attach to their devil.... And our need for scrolls that support our positions, scrolls that can only be found in Alexandria, is real. Your brother Apringius can assume your responsibilities here in Carthage when you leave.... Again, I am only proposing. The decision is yours."

"I will think about this,” Marcellinus said, in a tone that indicated he wished to discuss it no further. “I believe our food awaits us.” He stood and motioned the two priests to follow him into the next room.

Augustine nodded and rose.

Synesius did the same.

As the three walked to their meal, Augustine touched Synesius on the arm and whispered. “I am trying to save not only the Church, but his life."

"The sea is clear and blue today,” Synesius remarked to Marcellinus, as their ship, an old square-rigged vessel, embarked from the harbor at Carthage. “Not much of Homer's dark wine in the water."

Marcellinus scowled. “This boat looks as if it was constructed even before the siege of Troy, however."

"It is best that our arrival does not attract attention in Alexandria,” Synesius said.

Marcellinus nodded. “At least our voyage should be swift—the men tell me there is a good northwest wind on the sea. With that at our back, we should see the red light of Pharos within ten to twelve days."

"Some say it is the eye of God, watching over all who come to Alexandria by sea."

"Pagans talking,” Marcellinus grumbled. “The Pharos Lighthouse was constructed by man."

"Cannot what man constructs convey the vision of God?” Synesius asked.

"Only if the men who constructed it were believers in the true triune God,” Marcellinus replied. “And the Lighthouse was constructed three hundred years before Jesus Christ walked this Earth."

"So was the Library,” Synesius said. “It, too, was constructed by Alexander's general, Ptolemy. Does that mean the texts it yet holds cannot bring us closer to God?"

Marcellinus turned from the sea to Synesius. “You know my opinion of the texts in the Library. I am not at all sure that Theophilus—or Caesar's men—were wrong to burn them. I am undertaking this voyage only out of respect for Augustine."

Synesius was silent.

"You are no great lover of the texts in the Library, either,” Marcellinus pressed his point. “Do not pretend that you are. You make this voyage not to save the texts in the Library, but the pagan beauty who protects them."

[Ptolemais, four days later, 413 ad ]

Synesius and Marcellinus looked out at the small boat that was approaching theirs. The water was painted orange by the last rays of the Sun. It blended well with the colorful garb of the two priests on the approaching boat. They were Synesius's priests. They looked grim.

"Your vessel was observed a few hours ago,” Flavius, the grimmer of the priests, told Synesius and Marcellinus when the four were seated at a table, along with dates and wine. “We were hoping you might be aboard."

"So much for being inconspicuous,” Marcellinus muttered.

"This vessel is indeed,” Flavius replied. “But Josephus was sure he saw you on the bow.” Flavius nodded to Josephus, who smiled nervously and nodded deferentially.

Flavius turned to Synesius. “We were hoping you were returning to Ptolemais."

"I have the honor of accompanying Marcellinus to Alexandria, on behalf of Augustine."

Flavius started to speak, but sipped his wine instead.

"Is the Bishop's presence urgently needed in Ptolemais now?” Marcellinus inquired. “I assume that is so, otherwise you would not be making this visit."

"Yes,” Flavius replied. “The Nitrians are getting active again. They burned three homes, just yesterday."

Marcellinus sighed. “Too many fires, too few men of God to put them out."

Synesius shook his head. “I am needed in Alexandria."

Marcellinus stroked his chin. “Alexandria is the jewel, true. But neither can we afford to lose Ptolemais to the heretics.... Go with your worthy priests to Ptolemais tonight. And then come to me in Alexandria."

Synesius touched one of the alabaster columns of his home and looked down at the harbor. “I never tire of looking at this.” He drank deeply of his wine.

Flavius and Josephus nodded. “The Romans rebuild well. The elders say it is even more beautiful now than before the great earthquake,” Josephus said.

"I am sure that is true,” Synesius replied. “If catastrophe does not destroy you, it makes you stronger."

"Perhaps, then, we are blessed,” Flavius said quietly. He lifted his cup to the harbor. “To the most beautiful Ptolemais of all."

Synesius emptied his cup. He looked down at the mosaic on the floor. “Paul of Tarsus visited the Ptolemais on the Galilee.... Perhaps that makes it more beautiful than this.... No, Paul was blind to one of the most inspiring beauties of this life—Paul was blind to the beauty of women.... Yet Paul was martyred by Nero, and that deserves our unquestioning faith.... We will all be martyrs soon, if the Nitrians and the Donatists and the other lunatics have their way."

Flavius and Josephus had no response. Synesius's servant refilled his empty cup.

"Bring me Benjamin,” Synesius commanded.

Benjamin arrived in the very small hours of the morning. Synesius's priests had left an hour earlier.

The two were alone on the mosaic.

"I saw someone who claimed to be your father, in Carthage.” Synesius spoke plainly, still under the influence of the wine.

"Yes, I know."

"And you know, I assume, that he looks to be not even five years older than you?"

"Looks can deceive,” Benjamin replied, smiling.

"This is a source of mirth for you? I assure you—"

"I apologize,” Benjamin interrupted. “Truly.... Yes, Jonah is my father. And he indeed is my age. And I know he explained to you how that could be, and he gave you ... instructions on how you could prove that."

"Perhaps this very conversation is sufficient proof."

"I would follow his instructions."

Synesius considered. “Tell me about the Nitrians in Ptolemais."

"Very strange,” Benjamin replied. “I thought their greatest venom was reserved for Christians who disagreed with them. But they seem to burn indiscriminately now. They burned my father's house again."

"Why? What was left for them to burn?"

"I do not know. Perhaps they wanted to destroy what my father had buried under the house—more scrolls."

"And did they succeed?"

"I have the scrolls."

"Good,” Synesius said. “And is your father safe?"

Benjamin nodded.

"Good,” Synesius said again. “But none of us will be safe—none of us that we love will be safe—until we destroy the destroyers."

"Flavius told me that your soldiers are ready."

"Yes,” Synesius replied. “If your information about where they are hiding is correct, we can scourge the Earth of them—or, at least, our earth here in Ptolemais—before sunrise."

"My information is correct."

Synesius nodded. “Will you come with us?"

"I will."

The Nitrians, surprised, fought ferociously. They brought down four or five Romans for each one of themselves. But the Roman numbers eventually drowned the Nitrian caterwaul. The Nitrian leader, mortally wounded but still conscious, was brought to Synesius.

"You have accomplished nothing,” the Nitrian rasped.

"You are barely more than a boy,” Synesius said. He felt ill. He felt inhuman, unChristian. The Nitrian was fifteen, sixteen years at most. Their leader. The oldest of this group that had just been killed, but not before they had taken more than four times their number and wounded many more. “Tell me who else of your kind I can talk to—to stop this bloodshed—and God will forgive you."

The boy's sneer cracked the blood that was caked near the corner of his mouth. He coughed and his body shuddered. His voice was barely audible. “We do not need your forgiveness. The Engineer—” He coughed again in savage spasms and died.

Synesius put his hand over the boy's heart and said a prayer.

Benjamin stepped forward. “I did not understand his last word."

"Nor I,” Synesius replied. “Not Greek. Perhaps a Latin tongue of which I am unfamiliar.... It does not matter. I must go to Alexandria now and let Marcellinus know the insanity he will be facing."

Flavius joined them. “He may already know."

[Alexandria, four days later, 413 ad ]

Synesius spotted the Pharos Lighthouse, agleam in the distance.

His trip from Ptolemais had taken a little longer than he wanted, but now he regretted that it had not taken just a bit longer still. It was late afternoon, and the magnificent light required the pitch of night for its best effect.

The Sun was setting behind his back when his ship docked in the harbor. God help him, he knew there were matters before him that concerned many lives, but he could think only of Hypatia. Her eyes of coal shone through him. He could feel their gaze in every part of his being.

He could not leave her to the Nitrians. But she was stubborn. Devoted to Alexandria, far more than a daughter to a father's memory, than a scholar to a wondrous tome. What kept her here? What secret of Alexandria, what chasm in her soul?

Synesius and Josephus left the ship. “Go to Marcellinus,” Synesius said. “Tell him what happened in Ptolemais. I will join you later."

Josephus nodded, started to walk, then turned back, nervously, to Synesius. “Where are you going?” His voice quavered a little more than usual.

"The Library."

Josephus nodded again, involuntarily raised an eyebrow, and left.

Synesius was not happy about Josephus being the one to first inform Marcellinus, but he had waited long enough to see Hypatia. Too long, given that the Nitrians had already infected Alexandria. He walked quickly toward the Library. From this distance, it was alabaster in the setting sunlight, like the pillars of his home. White against the surging darkness...

Synesius did not feel good, either, about leaving Flavius back in Ptolemais as the ranking Church official. He was sure not all the Nitrians were dead in Ptolemais.... But he had to focus now on how many were alive here, in Alexandria, and what those demented boys might have planned for Hypatia....

The pastels on the wall of the Library now coalesced into shapes and patterns. He had been here so many times with Hypatia. “The sky is glass,” she once had remarked to him, “the clouds its colors, those hues on the wall what is left when the Sun in its absence shines through the glass."

She sometimes spoke as if she inhabited some other realm, and he—

She was standing in front of the Library. He put his hand over his eyes. Had his mind conjured her into being, right here in front of him, looking at the same Library wall, her back to him now? Had his need to see her somehow plucked her out of Plato's perfect realm and brought her here before him? He took his hand from his face. He was trembling. She was real. He walked a few steps forward.

"Hypatia!"

She turned around.

"Synesius,” she replied. He could listen all day to the way she spoke his name. “An unexpected pleasure! You should have sent word that you were coming. Ptolemais to Alexandria is a long way to travel for a surprise visit."

"The winds were kind,” he mumbled tritely. “I boarded the ship four mornings ago, and here I am."

"What is wrong?” she asked him, with tender concern.

"People of my faith are angrier than ever about you and your pagans. I am concerned about your safety."

She scoffed. “Why, if you have such confidence that yours in the one true inevitable faith, do you have such animosity towards others? Surely, if your faith is right, all others including mine will fade of their own accord."

"Not all of us want to kill you,” he said tenderly. “I certainly do not.” He blushed. “Most of us indeed believe that in time the whole world will become Christian. But there are fanatics among us—Nitrian young men—who see their mission as cleansing the world of all impurities immediately, including the purveyors of impure thoughts. Your elegance, your beauty, your intelligence make you the most dangerous purveyor of all. They burn with hatred—I have seen it."

She turned from him and looked again at the Library. Synesius followed her gaze. The Library looked older now than he remembered it. Almost as if the walls were weary beneath the pastel facade.

"My father did his best to stave off the bloodshed,” she spoke softly, “to contest with ideas not knives, but he lost that battle.” She was talking about Theon, her father. The great Librarian had succumbed to a fatal fever—the less charitable among Synesius’ brethren had said it was an act of God. That was only three years ago, in 410 AD. Just a few months before he met Hypatia...

"Your father was a wise man, as you his daughter are wise,” Synesius said. “Indeed, you are wiser still—you have an understanding, a perspective, that speaks of centuries, not just years."

"Thank you,” she replied politely. “A high compliment from the Bishop of Ptolemais."

"Yes, a compliment but a warning, too.” He mustered his strength. “In return for your wisdom, the awe you evoke in people, you court death from the Christian fanatics."

"What would you have me do?"

"Leave with me,” Synesius said. Marcellinus could wait a little longer—what if Synesius's ship had encountered adverse winds on the trip he had just made? It would have taken twice as long. “Come with me to Ptolemais. There is nothing here for you now. Just memories and scrolls. And the scrolls are dwindling...."

"I am devoted to saving them, to stemming the exodus of scholars from Alexandria,” she said.

"Come with me,” Synesius pleaded. “You will be safe in Ptolemais. Under my protection. I will care for you."

"No,” she said.

That stubborn nature ... impossible to overcome.

"The Library requires—and deserves—my attention,” she added.

"Very well.” Synesius knew it was more than the Library that kept her here. He lowered his head in acceptance of her decision. “I will spend the night with my brothers—at quarters generously provided by Marcellinus—and leave for Ptolemais in the morning."

"Marcellinus of Carthage? Your importance has grown since the last time we met. That makes me happy."

"If only my importance were enough to convince you.” Synesius reached into his robe and extracted a small bundle of scrolls. “These were recently recovered in a house that the Nitrians set on fire. They were written by your father.” Synesius knew it would take far more than a scroll, by whatever hand, to deflect her from her fate. He touched another scroll inside his robe—the scroll Jonah had given him in Carthage. Synesius wondered if its words offered any insight into what was compelling Hypatia to stay in Alexandria. He wondered if he would be able to resist reading it, until the appointed time.

He watched her walk back to the Library. He watched a long time, as she receded, and his imagination gradually supplanted his perception. But he was aware that imagination was present from outset, with everything that passed between him and Hypatia. What she looked like under those diaphanous robes, which gave him so little and so much in this setting sunlight. What she might truly feel for him....

He was aware that his own life, even when he was not regarding Hypatia, was becoming entwined with the stuff of fantasy, almost beyond comprehension. He touched the Jonah scroll again. A man who claimed he could travel through time, as any other man might walk through a city or sail on the sea. Other than desperation to protect Hypatia, what drove Synesius to believe him and not dismiss him as a lunatic? Faith? Synesius had faith in angels—would he deny that they had the power to move through time? Faith could be applied to anything. It could save you. But it could also propel you to insanity, as it had done to the Nitrians.

Synesius could no longer see Hypatia. He turned and began slowly walking toward the quarters of Marcellinus. How to defeat evil, save good, and save what he loved in the process? His only assets were his understanding, still cloudy in these matters, and a scroll said to prove that travel through time was possible. He prayed that would be enough.

Copyright (c) 2008 Paul Levinson

The Stars Down Under, Sandra McDonald, Tor, $24.95, 334 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-7653-1644-8).

Implied Spaces, Walter Jon Williams, Night Shade Books, $24.95, 265 pp. (ISBN: 978-1-59780-125-6).

The Stone Gods, Jeanette Winterson, Harcourt, $24.00, 209 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-15-101491-0).

The Time Engine, Sean McMullen, Tor, $26.95, 302 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-7653-1876-3).

The Devil's Eye, Jack McDevitt, Ace, $24.95, 368 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-4410-1635-8).

Odd Girl Out, Timothy Zahn, Tor, $24.95, 381 pp. (ISBN: 978-0-7653-1733-9).

Sandra McDonald's The Outback Stars introduced a far future colored by the imagery and mythology of Australia. Earth is limping in the aftermath of environmental collapse, but humans have gone to the stars via a hyperdimensional highway—the Alcheringa—discovered near Mars. Once out there, they found that many worlds had huge egg-shaped domes; if you entered one, a ring in the shape of a snake or ouroborous would appear and take you on to the other worlds of the Seven Sisters. In Outback, Lieutenant Jodenny Scott and underling Terry Myell fought problems, were attracted to each other, and discovered that the domes made a great many more than seven worlds available through what was not a highway, but an immense transportation network. Myell also discovered himself of interest to a Rainbow Serpent and other figures out of the Australian Dreamtime, possibly representing the aliens who built the network.

In The Stars Down Under, Scott and Myell are married. Both have been promoted, but Myell is taking some heat for not coming up through normal channels. He doesn't want to have anything further to do with the domes, the transportation network, or the maybe-aliens behind them. It's all a bit moot, anyway, since the system has stopped working. People step in and nothing happens, and the crews that had been sent out to explore the network are lost. But when he and Scott are pressured just to step into a dome and see if it responds to them—that's all, honest! they are told—they give in. An ouroborous appears, of course, and Myell discovers that “honest!” is something his employers just cannot be. He's drafted, and off he goes, part of a team hunting for lost explorers. Before long, they reach a world inhabited by Australian aborigines, who promptly haul them off to a village. Feather-cloaked aliens with too many teeth—the Roon, or Bunyips—are also there, as well as a number of other characters who conspire to inform Myell that the Roon are up to no good and that he is crucial to events. His mother didn't call him “Jungali” for nothing. The aliens who built the network are gone, their heir is in sad shape, and the system needs a helmsman.

Meanwhile, Jodenny Scott is on her way to Earth under another name, being kept from interfering with Myell's draftee mission. When she gets there, alien ships are in orbit, computers are dead, and soon she's in a lifeboat crashing in the Australian outback. Myell's there too (don't ask how!), and resolution is at hand.

The late Arthur C. Clarke once said that any sufficiently advanced technology must look like magic, so it may not really be fair to say that McDonald is writing science fantasy more than science fiction. She takes great pains to keep things consistent and working with the technology of domes and ouroborouses she has imagined. She brings in addition loads of mythical aboriginal imagery but insists that it is all part of her alien superscience. It's not magic, not fantasy, no matter how it looks to the bemused reader, and no matter how a climax of human sacrifice and elevation resonates with the mythical side of the modern mind.

Overall, a satisfying novel that holds great promise for McDonald's future.

Walter Jon Williams's Implied Spaces begins with a swordsman, Aristide, accompanied by a talking cat, Bitsy, walking across a desert of Midgarth to a crowded caravanserai, where caravans huddle in fear of bandits on the trail ahead. He takes a dip in the Pool of Life so that if he must be resurrected he will not have lost much memory, leads them onward, defeats the bandits (or Vengers), and discovers that their fanatical masters, equipped with magical balls that suck people away to some other realm, are a threat to the multiverse.

We soon learn that Aristide is centuries old and once had a part in creating the modern civilization in which a ginormous AI can have an avatar named Bitsy. Ten more such AIs orbit the sun, using their huge computational powers to create pocket universes in which people can live and or play. Some, like Midgarth, were made to suit the preferences of hardcore gamers (their descendants are stuck there). Some are vacation worlds. All are wondrous and crowded with a humanity that never dies, thanks to nanotechnological resurrection with backup in Pools of Life. People can even have themselves copied so they can live in several worlds at the same time.

Aristide's self-appointed mission has long been the study of “implied spaces"; features of buildings or worlds never deliberately designed by architects, but there nonetheless because something else was designed. Think of a drop ceiling installed to hide plumbing pipes and heating ducts. The ceiling is designed, and the ducts are designed, and many a writer has sent heroes crawling through those ducts. But there is also space outside the ducts, implied by the existence of the ducts.

Any technology that permits turning people into bitstreams implies that it can edit those bitstreams. Several writers have played with this notion, most recently Charles Stross (Glasshouse, reviewed here in November 2006), but there are further implications as well. Such editing would require immense computational power, such as only those big AIs have. And when it turns out that the Vengers are at work in other worlds as well, turning people into slavish adorers of the master Venger, Vindex, and plotting assassinations and coups, the war is on. Which of the AIs has gone bad, and why?

There's action and high-tech blow-ups enough for everyone. There are revelations of cosmic scope, including the identity of the villain of it all (keep an eye on those implied spaces) and the villain's motive (what does the anthropic principle imply?). You'll enjoy it, and perhaps you too will hope that Williams will soon bring us more.

Jeanette Winterson's The Stone Gods stars Billie Crusoe (and yes, another character is named Friday) as an environmentalist in a world surrendering to environmental catastrophe. But the world is not Earth, despite similarities of culture and politics. Call it Orbus, note that red dust is blowing on the wind, and listen to the space explorers as they talk about a white world of ruins and a Planet Blue just waiting for people to move in. Of course, there's the problem of those pesky dinosaurs, but an asteroid can take care of that.

Billie's life is complicated by bureaucratic harassment, among other things. In due time, she is pressured to join an exploratory mission to Planet Blue, along with Spike, the very expensive Robo sapiens that was supposed to be dismantled after the last mission. She and Spike develop a relationship, and when the asteroid plan goes wrong and war breaks out back home, they die in each other's arms with the comment that, “This is one story. There will be another."

Jump to Easter Island, 1774, and another lesson in environmental carelessness and consequence. Now Billy's a guy, and after a contretemps with the natives, Captain Cook sails off without him. Spike, now Spikkers, is a marooned Dutchman. It's not the environment, they find, but human folly, and in due time they too die.

And now it's our turn. Billie's a woman again, but Spike is a mere robo-head, and it is her job to train it toward sentience. An open door tempts her, and the two are off to explore a post-war England with the aid of a manuscript found on the Tube, titled The Stone Gods. The world is a mess, with the only sign of sanity the mutant low-lifes in a neglected enclave, and both its damnation and its salvation lies in the tagline, “Everything is imprinted for ever with what it once was."

Thoroughly post-modern, self-referential, and cyclical, with a touch of mysticism. Not the sort of thing to appeal to hardheaded rationalists. But there's a genuine point that deserves attention even from those hardheaded rationalists: If we don't pay attention to our mistakes, if we don't learn from history, we make those mistakes again and again and again. The point is marred, however, by what can only be taken as predestination. The first segment of the book, on Orbus of the red dust, is certainly history in the sense of prior event, but not in the sense of recorded event. The later Billies can have no inkling of that past and hence cannot possibly learn from it. They are thus doomed to repeat the past, with no hint that they are done repeating at the end of the book. “This is one story. There will be another."

Sean McMullen returns to the world of the Moonworlds Saga with The Time Engine. The previous volume, Voidfarer (reviewed here in March 2006), had Wayfarer Inspector Danolarian Scryverin, once a prince of Torea, a land destroyed by an excess of sorcerous ambition, and his companion Wallas, once a lecherous courtier but now a corpulent cat, dealing with an invasion of Wellsian tripods while turning the enthusiastic Constable Riellan, inventor of electocracy (democracy) loose on a monarchical world. As Engine opens, things are just getting back to normal when a rather insane glass dragon comes looking for ex-lovers, and even would-be lovers, to destroy. Danolarian is trying to protect one such (Wallas) when a stranger appears, a line of red light destroys the dragon, and after an interlude chatting with the gods of his world, he awakens in the distant future. An enthusiastic descendant of Riellan has invented a time machine, and her daughter has collected him to exact justice of some sort. He escapes and finds a library, where he learns that electocracy has triumphed and the world is a mad, mad exaggeration of our own in certain ways. Once things are sorted out, it's time to go home and use the time machine to boost the villainous Pelmore into the past to undo the romantic curse that keeps Danolarian's lover from loving.

And that's when things start going wrong. A bit of damage to the machine, and Pelmore escapes with it, leaving them marooned to face a horde of naked, barbaric horsemen. There's some work to do before Danolarian can escape again, this time into the very distant past, some three and a half million years back, to find people who look human, but whose culture cannot help but make one think of what Wells’ time traveler found in the future. When he returns...

Ah, but it's all a bit of a game. The gods make sport of mortals, all is illusion, and the world remembers its past. The result is a tying up of loose ends and a packing off of characters onto a new line that may or may not lead to a sequel or three. The potential is there, but the Moonworlds Saga is satisfyingly complete now.

Alex Benedict and Chase Kolpath are back in Jack McDevitt's The Devil's Eye, which opens with a pair of mysteries. The first, mere prologue, has to do with one Edward Demere, a resident of Salud Afar, a world so far out on the fringes of the galaxy that its night sky contains but a single bright star, Callistra, also known as the Devil's Eye. He is watching the broadcast of the dedication of a monument installed on a distant asteroid, some 36 years out, when the broadcast suddenly cuts off. The second begins with Alex and Chase showing their Mute (Ashiyurrean) friends, Selotta and Kassel, around Earth, including a trip to the ruins of Atlantis. This gives McDevitt a chance to remind the reader that Mutes and humans generally find each other repulsive and that the Confederacy and the Ashiyurrean Assemblage are glaring at each other over their daggers. Keep an eye on this, as it plays a major role later on.

When they are finally on their way home, they find in their mail a message from Vicki Greene, renowned horror writer. She asks for help and adds, “God help me, they're all dead.” Later attempts to contact Greene are fruitless, for she has had her mind wiped, though not before sending Alex a sizable check. Investigation reveals that she had recently returned from Salud Afar, where she apparently learned something someone did not want her to repeat. The mysterious someone performed a memory-block, and that was apparently so distressing that she opted for the mind-wipe.

If you're familiar with the series, you know Alex can't leave it at that. He and Chase promptly fire up their ship and head for Salud Afar, where they attempt to retrace Greene's movements, hoping to discover whatever got her in trouble. Among other things, they discover that some years before, a number of houses were blown up and their residents, including an Edward Demere, killed. But they have not quite succeeded in putting the pieces together when they are kidnapped by supposed representatives of the local security forces. They manage to escape before the memory-blocks can be installed, and soon thereafter they realize what is going on.

It's politics, of course, mixed with human greed, driven by an astronomical catastrophe. Stars from time to time blow up, blasting waves of hard radiation into space. If you're close enough, you're fried. If the explosion is big enough, “close enough” can mean many light years away. If you're lucky, you can see it coming and—because the radiation blast can't travel any faster than light—have enough time to get out of the way. If you're not lucky, well, it's hard to evacuate a world, especially if the Confederation refuses to send a fleet to help out because it needs the ships in case the enemy Muties decide to start a war.

But Alex and Chase have friends...

Chase has other friends too. She likes guys, and she'd be happy to have a long-term relationship if only they wouldn't get bent out of shape over her long trips away with Alex. The answer seems obvious, and McDevitt provides a hint or two that maybe they will see it. But we'll have to wait for another book to get the clinch.

As usual with McDevitt, I recommend this one highly.

Timothy Zahn began an interesting series with Night Train to Rigel (reviewed here in December 2005) and The Third Lynx (March 2008). In its future, the stars are linked by FTL passenger trains run by the robotic Spiders, who work for a rather timid sort of aliens known as the Chahwyn. There is also a species of symbiotic coral, the telepathic group-mind known as the Modhri, created as a super-weapon by a long-extinct alien species and now bent on ruling the galaxy. The Chahwyn recruited ex-military agent Frank Compton to help fight the Modhri and gave him Bayta, a human-Chahwyn hybrid, as a sidekick. She comes in handy when she uses her telepathic link to the Spiders to make train reservations (etc.).

Odd Girl Out, the third in the series, begins when Compton is returning to New York after the Adventure of the Stolen Sculptures. As he walks into his apartment, he is greeted by a young lady with a gun. She introduces herself as Lorelei Beach and says her sister is in trouble on the colony world of New Tigris and Compton is the only one who can help. The guy's tired, so he says something like “Fiddlesticks,” tosses her out, and goes to bed. Unfortunately, it's still the wee hours when the cops wake him to say she's been killed. With his gun. And he's under arrest for murder.

A nice classic setup dating back to the days of the hard-boiled detective yarn. The obvious next step is to get him bailed out and on his way to New Tigris, where he and Bayta find the Modhri eagerly hunting for an Abomination who seems to be none other than the late Lorelei's kid sister, Rebekah. Pretty soon the bullets are flying, the bodies are piling up, and Compton, Bayta, and Rebekah are heading for a mysterious refuge.

But there's more going on than that. The Chahwyn are timid, as I said. They shudder at the mere thought of doing violence to others, and their creations the Spiders aren't much better. But when faced with a deadly foe, they are capable of taking steps. They hired Compton, didn't they? They made Bayta what she is, and she doesn't just make train reservations. It should be no surprise that they have other irons in the fire, even at the risk of changing their very nature and perhaps destroying the benign institution, the Quadrail, that galactic civilization is utterly dependent upon.

That should be vague enough. If you've enjoyed the earlier volumes, you'll find this one a very satisfying read. You'll also be happy to see the clear signs that Zahn isn't done yet.

Bruce Coville is an utterly charming writer who focuses his efforts on younger readers and on running Full Cast Audio, a publisher of audio books (featuring multiple voices rather than just one). The New England Science Fiction Association honored him as a special guest for the February 2008 Boskone, and as is NESFA's wont marked the occasion with a book, The One Right Thing.

It's a collection of stories, some of them over two decades old but reading as fresh as anyone could ask and all of them quite sure to appeal to kids. After all, he throws in enough boogers and farts! Not to mention “The Stinky Princess,” who began life as a perfectly normally fragrant child. But she thought nice smells were boring, and when the smelly envoy of the goblins came to court, she found him quite interesting. So interesting, in fact, that when he left she stowed away in his saddlebag, and his steed—a giant frog!—didn't rat her out because she bribed it with June bugs. Eventually, of course, she was discovered, but by then the goblin stink had rubbed off on her and she could not go home.

My favorite was “The World's Worst Fairy Godmother,” Maybelle Clodnowski, whose best efforts have a way of going bad. But her heavenly boss, Mr. Peters, is willing to give her one last chance, with the world's best fairy godmother, a bit of a prig, as backup. Her assignment is a little girl who thinks she is just too, too perfect, for which everyone hates her. And there's an imp who, it is early revealed, long ago sabotaged Maybelle's wand. He is chortling with delight as his assistant finds out Maybelle's assignment and he schemes to mess this up too. But...

There's always a but. Coville's stories come to satisfying and instructive ends, but the morals are never so blatant as to oppress his young readers. Love is important, tolerance of difference is good, and sometimes you just have to take the bitter with the sweet.

If you haven't discovered his work, remedy the lack on your next trip to the bookstore. His books are perfect Christmas presents.

Copyright (c) 2008 Tom Easton

Dear Analog:

I just started reading Stanley Schmidt's The Coming Convergence and, right after reading the first two very well-written chapters, cheated and went right to Chapter 8—"The Explosion in Information Technology” (after reading the first two chapters, forty-five years in the IT business made me want to see how the threads established early in the work play out in my field). I think that the analysis of IT was right-on—but might have gone even further in exploring the importance of the newest paradigm shift in IT, the next truly “disruptive technology"—Web 2.0.

Since the introduction of the first personal computer, the “Altair,” there have been two major disruptive technologies in this arena—technologies that have not only changed how we use these devices but have impacted the very way we work. Wikipedia (www.en. wikipedia.org) defines disruptive technology as “a term describing a technological innovation, product, or service that uses a ‘disruptive’ strategy, rather than a ‘revolutionary’ or ‘sustaining’ strategy, to overturn the existing dominant technologies or status quo products in a market."

The first of these, the electronic spreadsheet, exemplified first by “VisiCalc” and later by “1-2-3” and “Excel,” brought personal computers into the workplace. As uses such as word processing, desktop publishing, and telecommunications followed, personal computing revolutionized the business world, causing both great efficiencies and job displacement. Approximately fifteen years later (and fifteen years ago), the graphically based World Wide Web arrived, bringing computers into the home, changing the very nature of retailing, marketing, and information dispersion; and previously non-existent firms such as Google, Amazon, eBay, and Yahoo became major players on the economic scene.

In each of these cases, the early impact of the technology was “under the radar"; most of those soon to be affected did not see the impact coming until there was great job disruption and major changes in the competitive landscape (Microsoft and Apple grew out of the earlier paradigm shift and the aforementioned firms out of the more recent one.) Early adopters of the technologies were at the forefront of the changes while those “late to the party” were normally those changed.

We now seem to be at the forefront of the next disruptive technology, one called, for want of a better term, “Web 2.0.” Web 2.0 is a fairly nebulous term, encompassing many different technologies. The common thread that joins them is that they are based on user content. From the dawning of the World Wide Web, it has been institutions (Amazon, Sears, Chase, etc.) supplying information and services to users; now users collaborate freely, bypassing middlemen in the distribution of information and the trading of services.

As an example of the impact of these technologies, one has to go no farther than the advertising pages of local newspapers, where Craigslist is wiping out what was once the largest portion of newspaper revenue.

To compete in this world, we must first understand the loosely connected tools that make up Web 2.0 and that is not very easy to get one's arms around—in fact, venture capitalist Francine Hardaway opined on the Stealthparters site (blog.stealthmode.com/2008/04/what-every-geek.html), “Fellow geeks, we live in a dream world—a world of Twitter-Twhirl-Friendfeed-AlertThingy-Seesmic. And if you think most people reading this can identify any of those things, think again. Moreover, if you think there's a chance of any of those crossing the real chasm in the next ten years, think again. Why? Because the rest of the world just isn't ready. We live in a rarified world of social media consultants and early adopters. Where is the rest of the world? Well, I hate to tell you this, but it's back at YAHOO."

While I agree with Hardaway about the existence of what she calls “The REAL Digital Divide,” I disagree with the ten-year gap. It seems to me that there is so much technology expertise available and such great worldwide economic pressure that consumers and workers will be forced to move into the twenty-first century much more rapidly.

Some of types of tools defined as Web 2.0 include wikis (wikipedia), blogs, social networks (Facebook, MySpace, Linkedin), audio and video chatting & collaboration (Skype, OoVoo), 3D virtual reality (Second Life, There), file sharing (Limewire, BitTorrent), interactive group discussion (Twitter), video sharing (YouTube), photo sharing (Flikr, Picasa), advertising (Craigslist), miscellaneous (Google Earth, OpenSocial)—and the list keeps growing with new applications and tools limited only by human creativity. Additionally, users “mash up,” combine these tools, to develop new applications and uses.

How can the uninitiated get involved? First, by immersion—plunge in and try the various tools. Second, read—and then read some more. The following recent books (in addition to Stanley's) will also be very useful: Groundswell: Winning in a World Transformed by Social Technologies by Charlene Li and Josh Bernhoff; Here Comes Everybody: The Power of Organizing Without Organizations by Clay Shirky; Web 2.0 Heroes: Interviews with 20 Web 2.0 Influencers by Bradley L. Jones; and Wikinomics: How Mass Collaboration Changes Everything by Don Tapscott and Anthony D. Williams.

Those who are able to rapidly adapt to this paradigm shift should be able to mirror the success of the early embracers of the previous disruptive technologies; those who do not will go the way of the adding machine, typewriter, film camera, and audiocassette.

John F. McMullen

Professor of Information Technology

Monroe College

Analog,

This [Palmer's Tracking, July/August 2008 ]is unreadable crap. It's bad enough that middle school english (sic) teachers indulge this sort of moronic babble so the little darluings (sic) can express themselves, but unless the author is 13 or under it's time for him to get over it. The egocentric ramblings of the prepubescent drama queen make the mentally challenged narrator in Faulkner's Sound and the Fury sound like an intellectual genius (and he possibly had something significant to express)

Susan Shackelford

Louisville, Kentucky

The author responds:

Dear Ms. Shackelford:

I presume you're aware of the fact that publishing houses and magazines customarily forward reader correspondence to the writers toward whose work such comments are directed. Therefore it won't come as a surprise to you that Stan passed on your sentiments to the creator of the unreadable crap in question.

It's tempting to limit my response to a comment such as yours by being equally flip and subjecting you to the quote of the apocryphal playwright (possibly George Bernard Shaw, though I haven't been able to pin it down on the Internet) who, when a single theatergoer, from among the hundreds applauding his new play, stood and booed, called down to him, “Personally, sir, I agree with you—but who are we to disagree with so many...."

However, what I should be doing is helping you enjoy the story, if that's at all possible.

Now, based on letters, during the run of the previous story (the Emergence and Seeking novellas in Analog, ‘81 and ‘82 respectively, and the full Emergence novel (Bantam paperback, ‘84, with four additional printings, and several foreign editions), about five percent of readers worldwide initially agreed with you.

Upon random inquiry, however, many, if not most, proved to be speed-reading “skimmers": non-word-for-word readers, whose eyes actually focus upon only three to four lines as they skim down a page, absorbing most of the sense of the surrounding text via peripheral vision.

There's nothing wrong with that. In fact, I learned originally to read that way. Like Candy, as a youth I devoured whole C. S. Forester and James Michener novels, etc., in two—and three-hour nonstop gulps. I was insatiably, literarily omnivorous. I irritated my grammar school teachers no end when, from about third grade on, almost without exception it turned out I'd read more books of every description than they had. (It didn't improve matters that I really was an unsocialized, insufferable little snot—I didn't help myself....)

However, the Emergence stories are impossible to skim and grasp a coherent understanding of the story. Much of the sentence structure is what used to be referred to as telegraphic; i.e., it's “preskimmed": Most nonessential words have been omitted, as in a telegram, for which, In Ye Olden Days, Western Union charged a lot of money for each word. Telegraphic text must be read word-for-word.

If you can discipline yourself to do that (and it's not easy; when I became a court reporter and had to proofread transcripts, I found it terribly difficult to slow down and read word-for-word), you've got a pretty good shot at becoming a fan of Candy and her friends.

If not, God bless you; over the years Analog and others have offered many wonderful stories, most employing conventional sentence structure—I've even committed several myself; they're about to be released over roughly the next year by Wormhole Press.

However, back to “who are we to disagree with so many": Both predicate novellas were nominated for the Hugo, Nebula, and Philip K. Dick awards in their respective years; as was the novel in its publication year—plus it won the Compton Crook award for best first novel. In the worldwide Hugo voting, both Seeking and the Emergence novel garnered second-place finishes; the novel beating out stories by Vernor Vinge, Larry Niven, and another fellow you may have heard of—Robert A. Heinlein, I think his name is. Further, as Stan mentioned, both novellas won their categories in Analog's AnLab voting by the largest margins ever seen. Finally, in ‘85, the American Library Association listed the Emergence novel as a Best Young Adult Selection. So clearly some readers have managed to soldier through them.

Now, as Messrs. Faulkner, Hyman, Joyce, and Heinlein have demonstrated, there's a difference between knowing the rules well enough to decide which to bend and by how much, and consistently sticking to one's chosen matrix to achieve a specific effect, and simply not knowing any better. The first clearly is an art form in its own right; the other is, as you've mentioned, widespread and just sad. The risk is, it's going to go over the heads of some readers; they're simply going to miss the point.

Several points of order: Firstly, you're a grownup; you cannot be unaware that not all narrative voices and/or points of view are an author's own: I'm not a genius-level, preteen female; I am a long-time possessor of Y chromosomes, handicapped by a pedestrian intellect and the passage of some sixty-mumble years. Further, as Stan points out, Candy is under 13; she's 11, something which, if you'd explored a couple more pages, gathering facts, before detonating in this fashion, you'd have discovered for yourself.

Secondly, you should be aware that Mr. Faulkner confessed to analyzing the tastes of the market and writing his story “for the money.” I don't seek contracts before writing a story; I write them for my own entertainment. Then, and only then, I offer them for others to share. I am of course delighted when some of those others, such as Stan and a substantial majority of readers, also derive entertainment from them.

As an aside, I dislike, most intensely, popular music in all its guises; yet it's never once occurred to me to send Mick Jagger, any of the American Idols, or even those hate-spewing rappers a rage-filled, bitterly critical letter or email. In other words, those who make such noises are welcome to pass my share on to those who enjoy them—but it would never occur to me to be rude to them merely because their tastes differ from mine.

Thirdly, writing mechanics: In only the first several pages, using a nearly irreducible economy of words, Candy's “random” synapse firings set the “hook,” introduce and character-sketch Adam, Teacher, Danya, and Terry; offer a precis of her advanced education, progress in martial arts and military skills; and touch upon the fact that previous exploits have left her clinically dead twice. She also brushes lightly over the extinction of H. sapiens, the emergence of their successors, H. post hominem, and the fact that her most recent “death” occurred while saving the latter from oblivion.

By contrast, Benjy seems to have spent much of his time obsessing about fire, his sister, and a golf course.

I'll leave it to the judgment of impartial observers whether his concerns are more “significant” than Candy's....

In any event, I hope your difficulty with the story does turn out to be the result of reading mechanics, and that you're able to modify them sufficiently to join Candy's legions of loyal fans, substantial numbers of whom have waited impatiently in excess of 25 years (yes, I still get letters asking about her) for me to drop another shoe—some of whom are in fact second—and third-generation admirers of her reluctant derring-do.

So good luck; I hope you can make it work.

If not, if these stories simply are not your cup of stimulant, I would encourage you to write some of your own—for your own entertainment. That's how most of us got started....

Very truly,

David R. Palmer

Mr. Schmidt,

Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! For thirty years I have been wondering if David Palmer was going to re-emerge (pun intended), as his novel Emergence had always been one of my favorites. I had two copies of it, as one was always out on loan. I even remember a heated fan discussion about it with the sales associate of the (now—sadly—closed) Science Fiction Book Store off Houston in New York City, sometime in the ‘70s. When I picked up this month's issue, I idly wondered if the David Palmer listed in the table of contents was related, only to discover Candy Smith again in the first paragraph of the serial. Her voice is distinctive, and just as I remember. I look forward to the balance of the serial.

Sally Cohen

Alamo, California

21-23 November 2008

NEW ENGLAND FAN EXPERIENCE (popular culture conference) at Hyatt Regency Cambridge, Cambridge, MA 02139. Guests include George Takei, Bob Eggleton. Experience Membership: $45; Weekend package: $225; rates available for individual events. Info: http://www.nefe.us/; New England Fan Experience, c/o United Fan Con Inc. 26 Darrell Drive, Randolph, MA 02368. Please make all checks or money orders out to United Fan Con Inc

21-23 November 2008

ORYCON 30 (Oregon SF conference) at Waterfront Marriott, Portland, OR. Writer Guest of Honor: Harry Turtledove; Editor Guest of Honor: Ginjer Buchanan; Artist Guest of Honor: Jeff Fennel; Fan Guest of Honor: Cecelia Eng. Membership: $40 until 31 July 2008; more thereafter. Info: http:// www.orycon.org/orycon30/; OryCon 30, PO Box 5464, Portland, OR 97228-5464

28-30 November 2008

DARKOVERCON 31 (Marion Zimmer Bradley-oriented conference) at Holiday Inn Timmonium, Timmonium, MD. Guest of Honor: Patricia Briggs; Special Guest: Katherine Kurtz; Musical Guests of Honor: Clam Chowder. Membership: $45.00 until 1 November 2008; $50 thereafter (payable to Armida Council, PO Box 7203, Silver Spring, MD 20907). Info: http://www.darkovercon.org

28-30 November 2008

LOSCON 35 (Los Angeles area SF conference) at LAX Marriott, Los Angeles, CA. Writer Guest of Honor: John Scalzi; Artist Guest of Honor: Gary Lippincott; Fan Guest of Honor: Michael Siladi. Membership: $35 in advance. Info: http://www.loscon.org/35a/; Los Angeles Science Fantasy Society, Inc.,11513 Burbank Boulevard, North Hollywood, CA 91601

6-10 August 2009

ANTICIPATIONSF (67th World Science Fiction Convention) at Palais des congres de Montreal, Montreal, Quebec, Canada. Guests of Honor: Neil Gaiman, Elisabeth Vonarburg; Fan Guest of Honor: Taral Wayne; Editor Guest of Honor: David G. Hartwell; Publisher Guest of Honor: Tom Doherty; MC: Julie Czerneda. Membership: until 31 July 2008 (see website for latest details): USD/CAD 190, GBP 95; EUR 130; JPY 20000; supporting membership USD/CAD 55; GBP 30; EUR 35; JPY 6000. This is the SF universe's annual get-together. Professionals and readers from all over the world will be in attendance. Talks, panels, films, fancy dress competition—the works. Nominate and vote for the Hugos. Info: www.anticipationsf.ca/English/Home. C.P. 105, Succursale NDG, Montreal, Quebec, Canada H4A 3P4