The Proteus Operation

by James P. Hogan

  "Perhaps it's our assumptions about reality that we should be questioning," Einstein suggested to the tool locker. He turned to face the others. "Very well, let us allow the mathematical formalism to yield its own interpretation. So, what kind of interpretation had it yielded by the twenty-first century, Dr. Scholder?"

  "Contemporary physics regards the process of interaction—observation, if you will—as the collapsing of the wave function into one of its possible outcomes," Scholder replied. "Which particular one it will collapse into is indeterminate, and the various possibilities can only be assigned a probability distribution. The three twentieth-century scientists waited expectantly. Scholder went on, "But this collapsing process and the assignment of probabilities to the outcome do not follow from any of the dynamic equations of the system. They are consequences of an a priori convention imposed upon the formalism—an assumption every bit as metaphysical as what Edward accused Albert of a few minutes ago."

  There was a short silence. "But what alternative is there to collapsing the wave function?" Szilard asked at last, looking puzzled.

  "Not collapsing it," Scholder said. Nobody could dispute the logic of that.

  Szilard brought a hand up to massage his eyebrows. "But if we don't collapse the function to one of its outcomes, we'll be left with all of them," he said slowly. "Wouldn't that force us to postulate the reality of all of them?"

  A distant gleam had come into Einstein's eyes. He paused as if to recheck his thoughts before voicing them, and then began nodding slowly. "Yes, that is being honest, is it not?" he murmured half to himself. "Simply to take the mathematics as meaning what it says and not try to constrain it with preconceptions of what it ought to mean or how we think anything ought to be."

  "That's right," Scholder said. "Now follow that through and face up to the implications squarely."

  Szilard and Teller stared at each other as they grappled with the meaning of it. Then Einstein began nodding his head more vigorously. "Yes, why not?" he whispered. "The real universe could be far vaster than we have ever imagined—a gigantic superposition of staggering complexity, in which every interaction generates its own set of branching outcomes. And since there is nothing in the formalism to designate any branch as being any more real than any other, why can't they all be equally real?"

  "Let's make sure I'm getting this right," Szilard said to Scholder. "You're saying that if there are n number of possible outcomes of an event, it isn't true that Nature somehow picks one of them arbitrarily, by chance."

  Scholder shook his head. "Why one rather than another?"

  "No rules. No reason." Einstein said. "Those are the dice that I have always said God doesn't play with."

  "Then what instead?" Teller asked.

  "All of them," Scholder replied simply. "When a die is rolled, why can't the decomposition of the state vector represent a branching function that leads to six different worlds, all equally real, where each one contains a different result?"

  Teller slumped back in his chair by the electrical panels. Szilard got up and began pacing restlessly, rubbing his chin with a knuckle while he struggled to come to terms with the proposition.

  Einstein looked at Scholder. "So, the unpredictability would follow not from one outcome's being selected randomly from a possible six, but from uncertainty about which of the six branches an individual would experience," he said. "In other words, which outcome would come to correlate with his sense of identity. His memories would be a correlated set of outcomes of previous interactions, a kind of path traced through a tree of constantly branching possibilities."

  "Yes," Scholder said.

  There was a short silence, interrupted only by the sound of Szilard's pacing and Paynes voice from the far side of the partition, muttering numbers to somebody. "But there would have to be a different copy of him in each of the six worlds," Szilard said at last. He stopped, and his eyes widened as the full implication registered. "Copies of everything, in fact—the world, everything—not just six times over, but for everything happening, everywhere. . . ."

  "Now I think I am beginning to see a little more clearly where this is leading." Einstein said. He took out his pipe and began filling it.

  Szilard went on, "Any cause, however microscopic, could ultimately propagate its effects throughout the universe. If what Kurt's saying is true, then every quantum transition in every star, every galaxy, every remote corner of the cosmos, is splitting the universe into copies. . . . Every one of countless billions of variations multiplying at the rate of countless billions every second . . . an infinitely branching tree in which everything that might happen, does happen . . . somewhere."

  "You see what I meant by the universe being bigger than we thought." Einstein said. "What we perceive turns out to be an infinitesimally tiny part of the whole, a path traced through the totality by a correlated set of memories and impressions. He puffed his pipe and gave a satisfied nod. "I must say that it appeals to me. The entire ensemble is deterministic, for all possible outcomes of any cause are firmly embedded in it; and yet the path traced through it by an individual's experiences can be influenced by what we call free will, in ways we have yet to understand. Yes, gentlemen, this makes me feel much happier."

  The other two nodded slowly as they took it all in. It was becoming clear now how multiple futures could exist that couldn't have evolved from present circumstances: how Hitler, for example, could be in communication with a 2025 in whose history a Nazified Germany had never existed. The line of events that had led to the future where Nazism was unknown and which Kurt Scholder had come from still existed somewhere in the ever-branching tree of possibilities and outcomes. It existed, in fact, as just one of countless lines leading to a whole sub-tree made up of countless Nazi-free futures, a countless number of which had sent countless Kurt Scholders back into the past, and, no doubt, a countless number of which hadn't.

  And it was clear what had gone wrong with the communications connection from 1975: somehow, a crossed line had occurred, giving them contact not with their own selves as they had assumed, but with some other version of themselves who were from some other 1975 and had arrived in some other 1939.

  This still didn't help with the immediate problem of getting the return-gate operational. The gate was a slave device, operating passively in response to the main projector that was supposed to activate it from 1975, at the same time conveying from 1975 the required operating power—to prevent Gatehouse from sucking Brooklyn's generating grid dry. The gate wasn't designed to make calls out. But on the basis of what Scholder had said, there ought to have been lots of versions of the 1975 projector attempting to call in. But nothing was happening. Something was fundamentally wrong, somewhere.

  Szilard was looking curiously at Scholder. "What I don't understand is why, if you knew about all this, you didn't explain more of it to Lindemann when you were in England." he said. "He didn't seem to have any inkling of these concepts when I talked to him by telephone."

  Winslade moved across from where he had been listening. "I asked Kurt to be vague over there because of their uncertain situation and the risk of leaks, he said. "We couldn't afford to let the Germans pick up even a whisper of things like this being discussed on our side. But you can see now why we need help. The situation makes no sense. What, I wonder, did the team who got through from that factory in New Jersey know that we haven't figured out yet?"

  Einstein nodded. "We need a better understanding of the physics of this strange new domain," he said. "Then you people will be in a better position to tackle the practical issues. Here we have one end of a communications link that is in working order. The other end, we know, is talking, but nothing comes through. What could account for that? An interesting problem, I think."

  Over on the far side of Manhattan, Jeff and his fellow student Asimov were walking down the steps of Schermerhorn Hall at Columbia after a lecture. "You ought to take some time off and get into town sometime to meet them," Jeff said. "That guy Gordon
that I mentioned knows all kinds of things about atomic physics. It beats me where he got it from."

  "Maybe . . . if I can find some free time," Asimov said. "But right now I'm working on another idea for a story."

  "Oh, what this time?"

  Immediately Asimov became more enthusiastic and began gesticulating as they walked. "Well, there's a spaceship trapped on a planet that's deep in the gravity-well of a giant star. The crew are trying to send a distress message out. But because of the time dilation caused by the gravity field, their time runs slower and they don't realize that all their radio frequencies are shifted. . . ."

  "Would they be able to survive if the field was that strong?" Jeff asked dubiously.

  "Yes, well, that's the part I'm trying to figure out," Asimov admitted. "But what do you think?"

  Jeff reflected for a while, then shook his head. "I don't think you'll be able to make it work," he replied dubiously.

  CHAPTER 21

  THE EVENING WAS STILL young, and the Rainbow's End was fairly quiet. A couple of people were at the bar and some more groups and couples at the tables, mostly city workers and businessmen easing up for an hour with a drink and some talk before going home. Few of the regulars had arrived yet, and nobody took any notice of Walther Fritsch as he checked his coat at the door and stood looking around while his eyes adjusted to the lighting—he had left on his dark glasses. Then he walked across the floor and took one of the empty stools at the bar.

  "Hi," Lou, the bartender, greeted gruffly as Fritsch sat down. "What can I getcha?"

  "Good evening. Er, perhaps der Stin-ger, please?"

  "One Harvey Stinger." Lou turned away and reached for a glass.

  Fritsch scanned the place again, just to be sure. Neither of the two men who had given Fritsch and his niece a ride back into Manhattan—the big fair-haired one with the mustache, or the darker, olive-skinned companion—was present; nor was there any sign of the man they had called Johnny, who had arrived at the house later with the gangsters. Feeling more secure, Fritsch turned back to the bar and picked up his drink.

  It hadn't proved too difficult to trace the girl named in the newspaper article. She had given him the lead to the Rainbow's End, which, she'd told him, was where Johnny Six Jays usually hung out. She'd never seen or heard of the ones called Cassidy and Harry before, though.

  Berlin's failure to mention his report in their last message had been disappointing. He felt they weren't taking him seriously. He wanted to produce something that would convince them of his worth. Events were sweeping toward a climax in Europe, and at such a momentous hour it behooved loyal Party members everywhere to contribute their maximum effort. And besides, Fritsch was curious, personally.

  "A cozy place," Fritsch remarked. "I take it ziss is not its busiest."

  "It'll liven up later," Lou grunted.

  "My first visit here. My name is Johann, incidentally."

  "Glad ta meetcha."

  Fritsch took a slow sip and set the glass down. "I, ah, I vonder if you might possibly be able to help me. I'm trying to locate an old friend, who I understand comes here occasionally."

  "Okay."

  "His name is Cassidy—tall, yellow hair, vit der mustache. He has a friend called Harry."

  "Harry and Cass? Sure, they come in here sometimes. Haven't seen 'em for a day or two now."

  "Vill they be here tonight, do you happen to know?"

  "Sorry, no idea."

  "I see. Zank you." Fritsch raised his glass again while Lou moved away a short distance to fill an ice bucket. "I haffn't seen him for a vile now," Fritsch went on absently. "Vat he is doing these days? Do you happen to know?"

  "You've got me."

  George, the piano player, turned from where he had been half-listening on the next stool. "I can help you, mister," he said. "He's trucking these days out of someplace over in Brooklyn, didn't someone say?" He glance at Lou, but Lou frowned, shook his head, and moved to the far end of the bar. George didn't catch the warning. "One of the warehouses around the basins south of the bridge," he told Fritsch. "I think someone said it was Maloney's old place—yes, that was it—Maloney's."

  "Tell me again vere ziss is," Fritsch said, leaning closer.

  Lou, standing with his back to them at the far end, shook his head again as he set out dishes of olives, pickle slices, and pretzels. If Johnny Six Jays was happy to mind his own business about what people like Harry and Cassidy did, then that should have been good enough for everyone else. George blabbed too much. One day it would get him into trouble.

  In Brooklyn, meanwhile, the group at Gatehouse had spent the first day of August polishing the last details of their plan for approaching President Roosevelt, which remained unchanged in its essentials: The seriousness of fission research and the possibility of an atomic bomb would be used as a pretext to attract official attention, and the full story would be revealed when top-level contact was made. Nothing could be risked that might lead Hitler and Overlord to suspect they might not have a monopoly on Pipe Organ technology; nothing could be committed to paper, therefore, that remotely hinted at the existence of the Proteus mission or its purpose.

  On August 2, Teller and Szilard made a second trip to Einstein's rented summer house, this time in Teller's 1935 Plymouth, and took with them the final draft of the letter they had composed for him to sign. It read:

  Albert Einstein

  Old Grove Rd.

  Nassau Point

  Peconic, Long Island

  August 2nd, 1939

  F.D. Roosevelt

  President of the United States,

  White House

  Washington, D.C.

  Sir,

  Some recent work by E. Fermi and L. Szilard, which has keen communicated to me in manuscript, leads me to expect that the element uranium may be turned into a new and important source of energy in the immediate future, certain aspects of the situation which has arisen seem to call for watchfulness and, if necessary, quick action on the part of the Administration. I believe therefore that it is my duty to bring to your attention the following facts and recommendations.

  In the course of the last four months It has been made probable - through the work of Joliot In France as well as Fermi and Szilard in America - that it may become possible to set up a nuclear chain reaction in a large mass of uranium, by which vast amounts of power and large quantities of new radium-like elements would be generated. Now it appears almost certain that this could be achieved in the immediate future.

  This new phenomenon would also lead to the construction of bombs, and it is conceivable - though much less certain - that extremely powerful bombs of a new type may thus be constructed. A single bomb of this type, carried by boat and exploded in a port, night very sell destroy the whole port together with some of the surrounding territory. However, such bombs might very well prove to be too heavy for transportation by air.

  -2-

  The United States has only very poor ores of uranium in moderate quantities. There is some good ore in Canada and the former Czechoslovakia, while the most important source of uranium is Belgian Congo.

  In view of this situation you may think it desirable to have some permanent contact maintained between the Administration and the group of physicists working on chain reactions in America. One possible way of achieving this might be for you to entrust with this task a person who has your confidence and who could perhaps serve in an inofficial capacity. His task might comprise the following:

  a) to approach Government Departments, keep them informed of the further development, and put forward recommendations for Government action, giving particular attention to the problem of securing a supply of uranium ore for the United States;

  b) to speed up the experimental work,which is at present being carried on within the limits of the budgets of University laboratories, by providing funds, if such funds be required, through his contacts with private persons who are willing to make contributions for this cause, and perhaps also by obt
aining the co-operation of industrial laboratories which have the necessary equipment.

  I understand that Germany has actually stopped the sale of uranium from the Chechoslovakian mines which she has taken over. That she should have taken such early action might perhaps be understood on the ground that the son of the German Under-Secretary of State, von Welzsücker, is attached to the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Institut in Berlin where some of the American work on uranium is now being repeated.

  Yours very truly,

  (Albert Einstein)

  Szilard took the signed letter to Alexander Sachs, and at Sachs's suggestion added a memorandum of his own, making the point that a chain reaction with slow neutrons was a virtual certainty, and one with fast neutrons, though less certain, would make a bomb highly probable. Then Sachs wrote a covering letter of his own to complete the dossier and departed to arrange a suitable appointment with Roosevelt.

  And so, for once, everything appeared to be going smoothly. . . .

  Until a highly agitated Anna Kharkiovitch called from London.

  "Claud, you won't believe what they've done over here," she almost screamed in the ear of a startled Winslade. "Chamberlain's sending a fossil admiral to head up the military talks in Moscow—he's practically on the retired list! And the staff he's taking with him are only tacticians. They don't have any strategic experience. And even if they had, they don't have any negotiating authority. It's straight out of Gilbert and Sullivan. And that's not all. Claud, do you believe this—they're going there by boat!"

  "Damn!"

  "Russians won't stand for it, Claud, certainly not after the way they were snubbed at Munich. Stalin has set up people like Voroshilov, Shaposhnikov—some of the highest Soviet officers. They're serious. They want to talk business. This will only drive them straight into the arms of Hitler."