by Greg Bear
“Gentlemen,” Marty said in the private lounge, after we had eaten. “I have just destroyed an important experiment. And I have just resigned my position with the university. I’m to have all my papers and materials off campus by this date next month.”
Pole-axed silence.
“I have my reasons. I’m going to establish something once and for all.”
“What’s that, Marty?” Frederik asked, looking irritated. None of us approves of theatrics.
“I’m putting mankind’s money where our mouth is. Our veritable collective scientific mouth. Frederik, you can help me explain. You are all aware how good a physicist Frederik is. Better at grants, better at subtleties. Much better than I am. Frederik, what is the most generally accepted theory in physics today?”
“Special relativity,” Frederik said without hesitating.
“And the next?”
“Quantum electrodynamics.”
“Would you explain Schrödinger’s cat to us?”
Frederik looked around the table, looking a bit put upon, then shrugged. “The final state of a quantum event—an event on a microcosmic scale—appears to be defined by the making of an observation. That is, the event is indeterminate until it is measured. Then it assumes one of a variety of possible states. Schrödinger proposed linking quantum events to macrocosmic events. He suggested putting a cat in an enclosed box, and also a device which would detect the decay of a single radioactive nucleus. Let’s say the nucleus has a fifty-fifty chance of decaying in an arbitrary length of time. If it does decay, it triggers the device, which drops a hammer on a vial of cyanide, releasing the gas into the box and killing the cat. The scientist conducting this experiment has no way of knowing whether the nucleus decayed or not without opening the box. Since the final state of the nucleus is not determined without first making a measurement, and the measurement in this case is the opening of the box to discover whether the cat is dead, Schrödinger suggested that the cat would find itself in an undetermined state, neither alive nor dead, but somewhere in between. Its fate is uncertain until a qualified observer opens the box.”
“And could you explain some of the implications of this thought experiment?” Marty looked a bit like a cat himself—one who has swallowed a canary.
“Well,” Frederik continued, “if we dismiss the cat as a qualified observer, there doesn’t seem to be any way around the conclusion that the cat is neither alive nor dead until the box is opened.”
“Why not?” Fauch, the sociologist, asked. “I mean, it seems obvious that only one state is possible.”
“Ah,” Frederik said, warming to the subject, “but we have linked a quantum event to the macrocosm, and quantum events are tricky. We have amassed a great deal of experimental evidence to show that quantum states are not definite until they are observed, that in fact they fluctuate, interact, as if two or more universes, each containing a potential outcome, are meshed together. Until the physicist causes the collapse into the final state by observing. Measuring.”
“Doesn’t that give consciousness a godlike importance?” Fauch asked.
“It does indeed,” said Frederik. “Modern physics is on a heavy power trip.”
“It’s all just theoretical, isn’t it?” I asked, slightly bored.
“Not at all,” Frederik said. “Established experimentally.”
“Wouldn’t a machine—or a cat—serve just as well to make the measurement?” Oscar, my fellow biologist, asked.
“That depends on how conscious you regard a cat as being. A machine—no, because its state would not be certain until the physicist looked over the record it had made.”
“Commonly,” said Parkes, his youthful interest piqued, “we substitute Wigner’s friend for the cat. Wigner was a physicist who suggested putting a man in the box. Wigner’s friend would presumably be conscious enough to know whether he was alive or dead, and to properly interpret the fall of the hammer and the breaking of the vial to indicate that the nucleus has, in fact, decayed.”
“Wonderful,” Goa said. “And this neat little fable reflects the attitudes of those who work with one of the most accepted theories in modern science.”
“Well, there are elaborations,” Frederik said.
“Indeed, and I’m about to add another. What I’m about to say will probably be interpreted as a joke. It isn’t. I’m not joking. I’ve been working with quantum mechanics for twenty years now, and I’ve always been uncertain—pardon the pun—whether I could accept the foundations of the very discipline which provided my livelihood. The dilemma has bothered me deeply. It’s more than bothered me—it’s caused sleepless nights, nervous distress, made me go to a psychiatrist. None of what Frederik calls ‘elaborations’ have provided any relief. So I’ve used my influence, and my contacts, to somewhat crooked advantage. I’ve begun an experiment. Not being happy with just a cat, or with Wigner’s friend, I’ve involved all of you in that experiment, and myself, as well. Ultimately, many more people, all supposedly legitimate, conscious observers, will become involved.”
Oscar smiled, trying to keep from laughing. “I do believe you’ve gone mad, Martin.”
“Have I? Have I indeed, my dear Oscar? While I have been driven to distraction by intellectual considerations, why haven’t you been driven to distraction by ethical ones?”
“What?” Oscar asked, frowning.
“You are, I believe, trying to locate a vial labeled DERVM-74.”
“How did you—”
“Because I stole the vial while looking over your lab. And I cribbed a few of your notes. Now. You’re among friends, Oscar. Tell us about DERVM-74. Tell them, or I will.”
For a few seconds, Oscar looked like a carp out of water. “That’s c-classified,” he said. “I refuse.”
“DERVM-74,” Marty said, “stands for Dangerous Experimental RhinoVirus, Mutation 74. Oscar does some moonlighting on contract for the government. This is one of his toys. Tell us about its nature, Oscar.”
“You have the vial?”
“Not anymore,” Marty said.
“You idiot! That virus is deadly. I was about to destroy it when the culture disappeared. It’s of no use to anybody!”
“How does it work, Oscar?”
“It has a very long gestation period—about 330 days. Much too long for military uses. After that time, death is certain in ninety-eight percent of those who have contracted it. It can be spread by simple contact, by breathing the air around a contaminated subject.” Oscar stood. “I must report this, Martin.”
“Sit down.” Marty pulled a broken glass tube out of his pocket, with a singed label still wrapped around it. He handed it to Oscar, who paled. “Here’s my proof. You’re much too late to stop the experiment.”
“Is this all true?” Parkes asked.
“That is the vial,” Oscar confirmed.
“What in hell have you done?” I asked, loudly.
The other Radicals were as still as cold agar.
“I made a device which measures a quantum event, in this case the decay of a particle of radioactive Americium. Over a small period of time, I exposed an instrument much like a Geiger counter to the possible effects of this decay. In that time, there was exactly a fifty-fifty chance that a nucleus in the particle would decay, triggering the Geiger counter. If the Geiger counter was triggered, it released the virus contained in this vial into a tightly sealed area. Immediately afterward, I entered the area, and an hour later, I gave all five of you a tour through the same area. The device was then destroyed, and everything in the chamber sterilized, including the vial. If the virus was not released, it was destroyed along with the experimental equipment. If it was released, then we have all been exposed.”
“Was it released?” Fauch asked.
“I don’t know. It’s impossible to tell—yet.”
“Oscar,” I said, “it’s
been a month since Marty did all this. We’re all influential people—giving talks, attending meetings. We all travel a fair amount. How many people have been exposed, potentially? “
“It’s very contagious,” Oscar said. “Simple contact guarantees passage from one vector … to another.”
Fauch took out his calculator. “If we exposed five people each day, and they went on to expose five more … Jesus Christ. By now, everyone on Earth could have it.”
“Why did you do this, Marty?” Frederik asked.
“Because if the best mankind can do is come up with an infuriating theory like this to explain the universe, then we should be willing to live or die by our belief in the theory.”
“I don’t get you,” Frederik said.
“You know as well as I. Oscar, is there any way to detect contamination by the virus?”
“None. Marty, that virus was a mistake—useless to everybody. Even my notes were going to be destroyed.”
“Not useless to me. That’s unimportant now, anyway. Frederik, what I’m saying is, according to theory, nothing has been determined yet. The nucleus may or may not have decayed, but that hasn’t been decided. We may have better than a fifty-fifty chance—if we truly believe in the theory.”
Parkes stood up and looked out the window. “You should have been more thorough, Marty. You should have researched this thing more completely.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a hypochondriac, you bastard. I have a very difficult time telling whether I’m sick or not.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Oscar asked.
Frederik leaned forward. “What Marty is implying is, since the quantum event hasn’t been determined yet, the measurement that will flip it into one state or another is our sickness, or health, about three hundred days from now.”
I picked up on the chain of reasoning. “And since Parkes is a hypochondriac, if he believes he’s ill, that will flip the event into certainty. It will determine the decay, after the fact—” My head began to ache. “Even after the particle has been destroyed, and all other records?”
“If he truly believes he’s ill,” Marty said. “Or if any of us truly believes. Or if we actually become ill. I’m not sure there’s any real difference, in this case.”
“So you’re going to jeopardize the entire world—” Fauch began, then he started to laugh. “This is a diabolical joke, Martin. You can stop it right here.”
“He’s not joking,” Oscar said, holding up the vial. “That’s my handwriting on the label.”
“Isn’t it a beautiful experiment?” Marty asked, grinning. “It determines so many things. It tells us whether our theory of quantum events is correct, it tells us the role of consciousness in shaping the universe, and, in Parkes’s case, it—”
“Stop it!” Oscar shouted. At that point, we had to restrain the biologist from attacking Marty, who danced away, laughing.
May 17, 1981
Today all of us—except Marty—convened. Frederik and Parkes presented documentary evidence to support the validity of quantum theory, and, perversely enough, the validity of Marty’s experiment. The evidence was impressive, but I’m not convinced. Still, it was a marathon session, and we now know more than we ever cared to know about the strange world of quantum physics.
The physicists—and Fauch, and Oscar, who is very quiet nowadays—are completely convinced that Marty’s nucleus is—or was—in an undetermined state, and that all the causal chains leading to the potential release of the rhinovirus mutation are also in a state of flux. Whether the human race will live or die has not yet been decided.
And Parkes is equally convinced that, as soon as the gestation period passes, he will begin having symptoms, and he will feel, however irrationally, that he has contracted the disease. We cannot convince him otherwise.
In one way, we were very stupid. We had Oscar describe the symptoms—the early signs—of the disease to us. If we had thought things out more carefully, we would have withheld the information, at least from Parkes. But since Oscar knows, if he became convinced he had the disease, that would be enough to flip the state, Frederik believes. Or would it? We don’t know yet how many of us will need to be convinced. Would Marty alone suffice? Is a consensus necessary? A two-thirds majority?
It all seemed—seems—totally preposterous to me. I’ve always been suspicious of physicists, and now I know why.
Then Frederik made a horrible proposal.
May 23, 1981
Frederik repeated his proposal again at today’s meeting. The others considered the proposal seriously. Seeing how serious they were, I tried to make objections, but got nowhere. I am completely convinced that there is nothing we can do, that if the nucleus decayed, then we are doomed. In three hundred days the first signs will appear—backache, headache, sweaty palms, piercing pains behind the eyes.
If they don’t appear, we won’t die.
Even Frederik saw the ridiculous nature of his proposal, but he added, “The symptoms aren’t that much different from flu, you know. And if just one of us becomes convinced …”
Indicating that the flipping of the state, because of human frailty, was almost certainly going to result in release of the virus. Had resulted.
His proposal—I write it down with great difficulty—is that we should all commit suicide, all six of us. Since we are the only ones who know about the experiment, we are the only ones, he feels, who can flip the state, make things certain. Parkes, he says, is particularly dangerous, but we are all potential hypochondriacs.
With the strain of almost ten months waiting between now and the potential appearance of symptoms, we may all be near the breaking point.
May 30, 1981
I have refused to go along with them. Everyone has been extremely quiet. Most of us have stayed away from each other. But I suspect Parkes and Frederik are up to something.
Oscar is morose. He seems suicidal anyway, but is too much of a coward to go it alone. Fauch … I can’t reach him.
—Ah, Christ. Frederik called. They’ve done it. They’ve gone through with their insane plan, killing Marty and destroying the lab building to wipe out all traces of the experiment—so that no one will know it ever took place.
The group is coming over to my apartment now. He said I can’t hold out. I just have time to put this in the university pick-up box. What can I do, run?
They’re too close.
———
Dietrich to Kranz
Carl: I’ve read the journal, although I’m not sure I’ve assimilated it. What have you found out about Bernard?
Kranz to Dietrich
Werner: Oscar Bernard was indeed working on a rhinovirus mutation around the time of the incident. I haven’t been able to find out much—lots of people in gray suits wandering through the corridors over there. But the rumor is that all his notes are missing.
Do you believe it? I mean—do you believe the theory enough to agree with me, that word about the journal should end here? I feel both scared and silly.
Dietrich to Kranz
Carl: We have to find out the complete list of symptoms—besides headache, sweaty palms, backache, pains behind the eyes.
Yes. I’m a firm believer in the theory. And if Martin Goa did what the journal says … you and I can flip the state.
Anyone who reads this can flip the state.
What in God’s name are we going to do?
Blood Music
“Blood Music” was the big one—the idea that crept up on me, staggered me, and eventually helped shape my career.
There’s a joke that when you join the Science Fiction Writers of America, you get a little envelope in the mail, and in that envelope there is a slip of paper on which is scrawled the idea that will haunt you for the rest of your days. For Frank Herbert, it was “Dune, desert p
lanet.” For Isaac Asimov, it might have been, “Robots work by the rules.”
For me, it was “intelligent cells.”
As it turns out, the read-write DNA of “Blood Music” is a natural reality, and this was known to a fair number of biologists even in 1982, when the idea for the story first occurred to me. HIV and other retroviruses, which incorporate their genome into host DNA, were just on the horizon of the lay public, however, and the Central Dogma of molecular biology—that DNA is transcribed to RNA, and RNA is translated into proteins, and that the reverse never happens—that DNA is a fixed template and can only be altered by “mistakes,” random mutations—still ruled.
“Blood Music” has been described as a parable about AIDS. I don’t think that’s the case, really; we shouldn’t throw all biological transformations into one pot. The point about this story, and many of my subsequent forays into genetics and evolution, is that what at first seems an unmitigated horror is in fact much more, if we could only take off the blinders of our mortal individuality.
I submitted this story to a number of high-paying magazines, including Playboy and Omni, and they rejected it with either no comment or wry grimaces. Analog was more receptive, but editor Stanley Schmidt wanted to know if the idea of a smart cell was even possible. I looked up the number of nucleotide base pairs in the human genome—about three billion, loosely compared that to the number of nerve cells in the human brain—trillions—and decided it was possible. What are factors of a thousand or ten thousand among friends?
Stan published the story. It went on to win a Hugo and a Nebula, my first prizes in the field.
As I wrote the novel version (published in 1985), I scrawled myself a note asking “what do cold viruses do for us?” In other words, why do we allow them to give us the sniffles, or worse? Some ten years later, while researching my novel DARWIN’S RADIO, I asked that question again, and concocted a sub-plot in which a scientist discovers the remains of ancient retroviruses in the human genome. Not long after, I learned about HERV—Human Endogenous Retroviruses. They’re real, many of them are primordial—tens of millions of years or older—and they could play a major role in human birth, autoimmune diseases, cancer, and even in evolution.
