Then take your polished act on the road and sell, sell, sell it for a month.
She sighed. “I don’t feel up to a big campaign.”
“You’ve got to do something.”
“The truth will out. We’ll keep taking data.”
“Well, at least do something to gain sympathy.”
“What?”
“Um… I’ll think about it.”
“Max, this is getting away from me.”
“From us. We’re in this together.” He got up and angled sideways past tall metal racks of electronics gear, nearly tripping over cables. He reached into the yawning U-magnet and touched the sphere, nearly buried beneath light pipes and other diagnostics. “It’s all about this interesting, freakish object, in the end. And I’ve been doing some more thinking…”
She settled back, ready to listen. His presence had kindled something warm in her and she allowed herself to simply enjoy his company. His tailored slacks even fit well and weren’t perpetually wrinkled, a common scientists’ signature. For a theorist, he wasn’t half bad.
It took her half an hour to see what he was driving at. “So this isn’t just an ‘interesting freak’—good to hear. But then how do we use it?”
“Not to escape into another universe, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Good, I was thinking you were National Enquirer material.”
“Huh?”
He had missed the two-week tabloid blitz. She filled him in and he grimaced. “Nope, nothing so moneymaking.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“All I’m saying is, a better model of quantum gravity can reveal itself through failures of the Standard Model.”
“Sort of, footprints of the Theory of Everything.”
“Check. Say, in the decay of the proton, which the Standard Model says shouldn’t happen. Well, the Cosm isn’t just a footprint—it’s the real thing, a direct quantum-gravity artifact sitting still in the lab, big enough to put your hands on. We’re taking fundamental physics back to a human scale!”
“Bravo.” She was happy to see him so delighted, and of course he was right. This shiny sphere was plain evidence for a universe that still held mystery and enormous implication, not buried down in infinitesimal particles no eye could ever see, but smack in your face, obvious.
To theorists Nature was a text to be read. If the Bible was the word of God, then Nature was God’s worked-out Examples. Nature was Data in a fine cloth, laced with a mathematical beauty. But in the hands of modern science, reality had descended to the infinitesimal. Where was the gritty feel of the real in abstruse mathematical symmetries and a swarm of unseen particles?
“All we had was an abstract, microscopic world,” Max said with sudden vehemence. “Until the Cosm.”
8
She realized something was wrong only when the air bag hit her in the face.
Whump! Then the bang and crunch of the gray car smashing into her left front side penetrated, and the thump of the air bag against her. She had been pulling out of a UCI parking lot, after saying good night to Zak. Max had left at midnight and she was thinking about him in a distracted way as she pulled onto a side road. Events compressed.
Now she could not see the gray car because the windshield was mysteriously starred. She sucked in air and tried to reach around the air bag to turn off the ignition. She could not do it. Tight-pressed, with her right hand she popped her emergency belt open. At the same instant the clatter and metallic grind of the collision struck her, and the sudden reek of oil, another bit of delayed perception that unsettled her. Her door popped open. She turned her head and glass tinkled on the concrete and a man’s head wearing a broad-lipped hat was there, his hands grabbing her by her collar.
“I can get… get out—”
Powerfully, he yanked her out of her seat and she was stumbling on the concrete, trying to get her footing—a very important point, must keep her footing. But it was hard, since the man was big and had strong hands and was hauling her along, forcing her steps away from her car. Another man was pushing her from the side and here came another car—black. The gray car was buried in the side of her beloved Miata and there was no one in it.
“Hey there—” she started, and a third man in a hat opened the trunk of the black car as they came around to it.
“Wait, who’re…?” They grabbed her without a word and tossed her like a garbage bag into the trunk. The lid slammed down.
She gasped and rolled over onto her back. The car took off with a surge, but no roar and squealing of brakes. Smart; don’t attract attention. Let people at a distance go back to their business.
She rolled and thumped against the left side of the trunk as the car accelerated along a long curve. The circular road around campus, she guessed.
Panic leaped in her throat. Her strangled cry was thin, weak. Her palms slapped against the metal above her face.
Who were they? Rapists? Ancient horrors rose in her mind; gang assaults in the woods, brutality, front-page stories of bodies found. Dread filled her. She pounded against the trunk lid until her hands hurt.
Then she lay in the dark and took a long steadying breath.
Okay, some idiots were kidnapping her. Think. Don’t give way to fears or worries. Yes.
Try to get away. Fast. Don’t waste time figuring out who they are. She envisioned her dad saying that to her and knew it was right.
Should she wait until they stopped at a light and then make noise? If a pedestrian heard and reported her shouts, maybe the police would come.
No, that was stupid. Not very likely a good citizen would try to make the car stop or anything. And if she made a nuisance of herself, they might just open the trunk and rap her soundly in the head. Besides, it was two in the morning—who would be around to hear?
The car hit a bump and surged ahead again. She lay uncomfortably across the length of the trunk, her head tilted up against what felt like the spare tire. Get your bearings.
She had gotten only a glance at this car. As she remembered, many cars of this size had a compartment connecting the trunk to the backseat, for carrying things like skis. Could she use that?
They were slowing and as road noise lessened she heard a murmur of talk from the men. One was louder, closer: in the backseat. Thoughts of kicking out the panel separating her from the backseat crossed her mind, but she saw no point in joining the man in the backseat.
They stopped, turned right, and she tried to figure out which way the car was pointed now. Out along University, maybe headed for the freeway? Once they got on a fast highway and put away the miles, then even if she could somehow escape, she would be in unfamiliar territory. Hurry.
She felt along the top of the cramped volume to the latch assembly that sealed the trunk. She had never looked at one in detail and in utter blackness had to translate her fingertip impressions into images.
Fumbling, feeling. Here was a steel bar and something fastened around it. The something turned out to feel like a thin, smooth metal lobster claw. The jaws of the lock, yes, mounted on the inside of the trunk lid.
From feel alone she tried to see how it worked. Slam the lid, the jaws locked on to the bend of a U-shaped steel bar. Heavy springs held the lobster claws in place, once secured, she guessed. Her fingers could not reach the springs to check this. Not much hope of forcing them free, since they were somewhere inside the claw’s steel casing.
Where? She ran her fingers around the rectangular edge of a plate. Probably the springs were behind it.
Okay—think about the bar, then. It met the body of the car at the lip of the trunk. Her fingers felt around where the U met the car body. There were bolts there. Unscrew them? That way the U-shaped bar would come loose and the lock’s jaws would swing up, carrying the bar still in its grasp.
But for that she needed a wrench. She tried turning the bolts, hoping they would have some give in them. Rattling around on the roads shakes a car loose…
No luck; they were tig
ht. Their edges cut into her fingertips. She tried to see the whole assembly again, sense some vulnerability. The car slowed, rolling her slightly toward the backseat. More murmurs from the men. Who the hell were they? Their speed, their unnerving skill, not a word said while they got her out of her car and into theirs—
They had left the gray car behind. Were they not worried about it being traced to them? Maybe it was stolen anyway. Maybe—
She made herself stop speculating. The lock. Think about the lock. Jill can pick locks, so I can, too.
She ran her hands over the assembly, making mind pictures from her fingertips. Her left hand skipped as it passed over a small hole. Her little finger found it. She could get the tip of the finger in, no more. Not much hope there, either. But it was in the plate that concealed the springs, she was sure of that.
She felt around and realized that the hole was near the plate edge, only inches away from the latch itself. The latch had to have a release somewhere. Some cars had a button the driver pushed to pop the trunk open, she remembered. Not her Miata, though.
Think. That button probably connected to a cable that tripped the release. Not electronically, no; pointless to have a servo that would wear out when simple mechanical pull could do the job.
Okay, enough theory. This lock’s release was probably somewhere under the few inches of steel between the claw and the small hole. She tried her little finger again, got it maybe an inch in. It touched nothing. Okay, then, stick something in there, wiggle it around.
But what? She felt around the trunk, but it was bare. They had thoughtfully cleaned it out for her ride. No cushions, though; comfort wasn’t their motivation. Not even the jack…
She felt in her pockets. Keys, but all far too thick to get through the hole. Something slender…
Her pen. She found it in the vest pocket of her work shirt. It was a fairly lean job, a cheap ballpoint from the physics department storeroom. She took the cap off and placed it back in her vest pocket.
The car hit a bump and picked up speed. The surge rolled her into the trunk housing. She rolled herself back and found the plate and hole by feel. It was easy to get disoriented in the utter darkness.
Their speed increased. Going out along University, there was a fair distance without lights. Or were they on the freeway? Not yet; not enough tire noise.
Still, there couldn’t be much time. She found the hole by feel and slid the pen in. Not much freedom of movement. She angled it toward the claws. The latch would be in the middle of the assembly, she guessed.
The pen touched something. She pushed the pen as far sideways as it would go. No give at all. Try again. Nothing.
Okay, maybe she was pushing in the wrong direction. Which way would a latch operate? Up or down? No time to figure it out; just try. She worked the pen around some, losing contact with whatever had stopped it before.
The car slowed, rocking her away again. Damn! She got back in position and worked the pen around in the hole. There wasn’t much angle of attack available.
She dropped the pen. It slipped away and her heart leaped. Why hadn’t it fallen on her chest? She felt toward her right and it was not there, either. How in hell could a pen get away—
Her left hand found it. It had hit and rolled a few inches.
Back it went into the hole. The car slowed some more. Suddenly, as she swiveled the pen around, she wondered if the latch would make much noise even if she could trip it. Enough for them to hear? Then best to do it before they stopped, let road noise to cover it.
The pen met resistance. She held it carefully and probed. Firm, felt solid. She pushed hard—and a spang! came from near her ear. Hard blue-tinged light flooded through a thin crack. The lid had popped up an inch and stopped.
She felt the brakes bite in. She slipped the pen into her pants pocket and wriggled around. They were nearly stopped. She shoved upward and the trunk lifted. No shouts. She sat fully up, hooked a leg over the trunk lip. Streetlights glared.
She lowered her foot to the pavement as the car stopped. Carefully she eased her weight onto that leg, so her load did not leave the car suddenly. Her shoes scraped on the rough concrete.
She was crouching right behind the bumper and could not see the men for the lid. But they would notice it pretty soon, if they hadn’t already. She put both hands on the lid and lowered it to within an inch of the lip.
A quick glance. The three heads in the passenger compartment did not turn. She looked around as she crouched. No other cars in the intersection. This was the intersection of Michaelson and University, she recognized, a red light, and as she registered this the yellow flashed on Michaelson, about to change.
She fought the urge to run. Instead, she stayed put. The light went green and the car burned rubber getting away. The freeway on-ramp was in the next block and the driver probably was impatient. They roared off. She stayed in her crouch. The driver might glance in his rearview and a figure running away would draw his eyes. She watched the car, ready to spring up and run if the brake lights went on.
But they didn’t. The car zoomed smoothly out of sight around the curve and she gasped, choked, gasped again, gulped in lungfuls of chilly air. She had been holding her breath.
PART V
SOCIAL TEXTS
If you ask what is needed to work out the full consequences of the laws of physics… the answer is: Nothing less than the whole Universe. It is not too much of a guess to say that this is just what the Universe is. This explains a problem that has puzzled theologians, philosophers, and scientists alike: Why is there a universe at all? The theologian, with his belief in an all-powerful God, wonders why God didn’t simply perceive the Universe. Why bother actually to have it? The answer is that the Universe is the simplest way of perceiving it.
—Fred Hoyle, 1994
1
“Why can’t they find these guys?” Max demanded.
“No clues. The car they rammed me with was stolen.”
“Hard to believe. Somebody pulls off a crime like this and the police just go through the motions?”
She shrugged, still tired though it was midmorning. She had tried to sleep late, after all the endless run-throughs with the cops, but her unconscious wasn’t having any.
The police had been polite, but what did she have to give them? There she stood, none the worse for wear, at a pay phone with her odd story. She had been a little hysterical and that had gotten her what she interpreted as some men-only, sidewise wry glances, eyebrows lowered, not arched. They seemed to have a protocol for even so outlandish an incident. As they carefully inspected her car, they gave her tips on avoiding collisions, which at the time struck her as throwing a drowning swimmer a strand of barbed wire. A team took fingerprints. Various campus officials were notified and came and spoke quite reasonably and it all had seemed to happen behind a pane of glass.
That mood had persisted when she finally got home and, unable to sleep, watched some TV. It was as usual, a cacophony, which combined with the other audio media gave a disposable pop culture that made every moment but the present seem quaint, bloodless, dead. She had wanly hoped that the matter did not get into the news.
In morning’s glow she had realized that was impossible, as she worked before the mirror, painting the suitcases out from under her eyes. Max was waiting in her office when she slouched in. She had given him keys to both her apartment and office, since he was down from Caltech all the time now, but still it was a bit startling to find him busily running a Mathematica program at her desk; he had stopped immediately, though. He had heard and did not waste time asking her to tell her side.
“How could anyone do this and just get to walk away?” Max went on.
She roused enough to say in a flat tone, “More precisely, why in the name of fuck?”
“You mean they were nuts, but what brand?”
“I’ve gotten coverage all the way from Nova to throwaway rags.”
“Yeah, that Nova crowd can be rough.” Max grinned, rathe
r obviously trying to shake her out of her mood.
She summoned up a smile, which quickly lapsed. “I can’t really figure a motive unless they just wanted to do some weird hostage thing.”
“Thing about crazies is, they’re crazy. You can’t even understand them in retrospect.”
“I don’t want to understand them. Ever.”
“Must be they are out on the National Enquirer end of the spectrum.”
“Ummm. I wonder if my father would be any help.”
Her dad had just published a column analyzing the media response to the Cosm—without telling her, of course. She mentioned this and Max encouraged her to call, which she did a bit guiltily, since Dad predictably went into hyper mode, aghast that she hadn’t called him immediately. Trying to explain that she had gone into some sort of passive withdrawal did no good. He revisited the same territory she and Max had and said he would look into the media end and she finally got to the lab that afternoon, with some relief.
“I’ve been looking into that increase in IR and visible emission,” Zak told her once she had settled in.
“Oh yes, I forgot.” It seemed like a long time ago.
“We used to strain to catch photons; now they’re flooding out. Look what I got.”
Zak showed her images of great shimmering red masses, incandescent in the infrared. She was impressed. Spokes of yellow radiance poked through the thick banks, where young suns fought back the dark pressures.
“Dust clouds, stars condensing out—no sign of galaxies yet, though?”
Zak shook his head, long hair falling across his eyes. “Looks like the astrophysicists who say stars come first, then galaxies, are right.”
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