by Trevor Hoyle
‘We were juggling with probabilities,’ Karla Riblat put in, with bleak rectitude.
‘We were indeed,’ Karve agreed. ‘But the probability of locating the Vehicle at a given coordinate was better than fifty-fifty, which we all agreed were the best odds we were ever going to get.’
‘Was NELLIE on line at this point?’ Milton Blake asked.
‘Ever since pre-injection. We thought that if we fed everything we had into her, every scrap of information, then she’d be better equipped to make a few intelligent guesses.’
‘And she made quite a few,’ Castel said. He turned his thin, narrow face to Blake, the reflected light of the display catching the bony protuberances of his forehead and jaw. He said, almost in a tone of apology, ‘I must admit to having been one of the doubting Thomases, Milton, as regards your box of tricks. I thought we were getting dangerously near the voodoo drums and chicken entrails approach, but I take some of it back.’
‘But not all of it,’ Blake said, smiling.
‘I don’t see how I can, under the circumstances.’
Blake’s assistant said, ‘We never tried to hide the fact that NELLIE was prototype equipment. It was a calculated risk all along.’
‘Indeed, indeed,’ Karve said. ‘And I don’t think postmortem recriminations are necessary; they’re certainly of no scientific value.’ He touched the controls once again. We tracked the Vehicle into the third day, and then lost her. Nobody’s fault, nobody to blame, it was what we expected. From this point on we had to rely on the Neuron Processer, which was linked directly to a terminal here in the TFC Lab. Data started to come through almost at once, within a matter of weeks, which on the Vehicle’s time-scale would equate to minutes. It was garbled and difficult to interpret – again as we had anticipated – but the system was functioning and we were receiving a random scatter of images, some of which were very interesting, not to say intriguing. It was the very devil of a job to collate them and make an assessment of their validity, but we did our best.’ He paused. ‘The responsibility for this fell to Professor Castel, who I think did a tremendous job, bearing in mind that it was our first attempt to analyse the results of post-injection feedback. We had at least a coherent if fragmentary picture of what was actually taking place inside Temporal Flux – not at all a mean achievement in my estimation.’
‘I’m flattered by your tribute, Director,’ Castel said. ‘However, I think all of us realize that our individual contributions wouldn’t have amounted to much if it hadn’t been for the painful and harrowing experience that Chris underwent.’
There were murmurs of agreement and Karve said, ‘None of us, I’m sure, would want to minimize his particular contribution: it was indespensable and I know he realizes it.’
There was a lengthy silence which no one, it seemed, was keen to break, until the Director said, ‘Isn’t that so, Chris?’
‘I believe we were all indespensable, Johann. It was never at any time a one-man project.’ Queghan looked from face to face in the dim light. ‘Even the cyberthetic system must share some of the credit.’
‘Machines, machines,’ Castel said lugubriously. ‘They’re our blessing and our curse. They limit us and extend us.’
Blake said, ‘You speak of the Project in the past tense, Chris. I wasn’t aware that it had been terminated.’ He looked questioningly at the Director.
‘It isn’t terminated in the strict sense of the word, and won’t be,’ Karve said. ‘We’ll maintain the link with the Control lab and record anything that moves, so the Project is on-going in that sense. But as for keeping Chris in permanent mythic projection in Psycho-Med I don’t believe that’s necessary any more, besides which it’s not a pleasant experience. To artificially stimulate and prolong an epileptic fit could seriously affect long-term mental stability, and that’s one machine we can’t replace, not at any price.’
‘In terms of injection – on his time-scale – he hasn’t been there very long,’ Milton Blake said. ‘Nine days, I think you said.’
Karve was prepared to admit that it could, conceivably, be even less than that. ‘It might be hours, minutes, maybe a few seconds. We honestly don’t know. Time dilation in that region of spacetime is impossible to calculate.’
‘But we’re keeping all channels open?’
Karve nodded. ‘Absolutely. If Martin or the Vehicle are releasing data of any description we’ll process through NELLIE, relay down here to the TFC Lab and plug Chris into the terminal point. Anything he comes up with on the cyberthetic printout will be interpreted by Professor Castel. After thirteen months it’s become standard procedure.’
Quegan looked at him quickly, thinking that it was a phrase he hadn’t heard the Director use before; but after all, it was an ordinary phrase that anyone might use. A lot of people did use it.
Milton Blake’s young assistant said, ‘Was contact with Brenton lost suddenly, at a precise world-point, or did it tail off … sort of fade away?’
‘As you’ll know from the extracts—’ He looked from the girl to Milton Blake.
‘I’m sorry,’ Milton Blake apologized. His teeth flashed brilliantly against the mass-black of his skin, itself lost in the dimness of the room. ‘Dr Hallam, my personal assistant. Zandra Hallam.’
‘You’ll have noted from the extracts, Dr Hallam, that right from the beginning contact was erratic and incomplete. We picked up a lot of stuff we couldn’t interpret or fit into the overall pattern and even now we don’t know how much of the information is valid; we can only trust that Martin – Professor Brenton – stayed reasonably close to the projection as processed.’
‘Are you saying that contact was lost abruptly or over a period?’
‘I’m saying that I can’t give you a definite yes or no either way.’ Queghan smiled at her. ‘Is it personal interest, or is it important that you know?’
Zandra Hallam frowned and caught Milton Blake’s eye. It seemed as if a signal had passed between them: a question from her which he had acknowledged and confirmed. She said, ‘How important or significant this is I’m not sure. The patient died a few days ago. He reacted violently as though someone had injected a virulent poison into him.’
‘And you assumed that loss of contact with Brenton coincided with the death of your patient,’ Castel said, his large protruding eyes swivelling from Blake to his assistant.
‘Not quite that,’ Zandra Hallam said. ‘But if we were to look for meaningful coincidences, then that would seem to be a prime candidate. Stahl dying and loss of contact with the injectee might be causally connected.’
‘I thought causality was in rather poor shape these days,’ Queghan said. ‘You might just as well point to an acausal connection for all the difference it makes.’
The Director spoke up. We shouldn’t dismiss this without at least considering it. I don’t think any of us can give satisfactory answers to the questions raised by post-injection; the more information we have, from whatever source, the more likely we are to make intelligent predictions as opposed to wild guesses.’
‘I’d go alone with that,’ Castel said. It occurred to Queghan that there were times when Castel was more concerned with having his voice heard than in making a positive contribution. Just as now – glancing round to make sure that people were paying attention, his hollowed face alert and serious, and below it the stringy neck with the prominent thyroid cartilage. His wispy, thinning hair was caught in the light like a solar flare round the dome-like skull. He said, ‘As the only archivist present I feel I’ve got to be a little more pragmatic in my approach. And in what I’m prepared to accept,’ he added, in mock-apology. ‘Despite the success we’ve had with our mythic projection technique and the Neuron Processor, I find that I’m left with a fair amount of faith but very little proof. We think we know what happened to Brenton inside Temporal Flux: we think we know, but we have no direct evidence. As someone has already said, the feedback to date has been incomplete and difficult to interpret. But what if – ’ he look
ed at Queghan and raised his sparse eyebrows ‘– I’m sorry, Chris – what if none of it, not a scrap, is accurate? What if it’s merely a random series of neurological impulses that have been scrambled cyberthetically, and Chris has been able to present them in some sort of rational, coherent order? In other words—’
‘—there is no incontrovertible proof,’ Queghan said, finishing the sentence for him and carrying the line of thought forward. ‘We should be able to verify the results, but we can’t: we have to accept what we’re given. Isn’t that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes,’ Castel said. ‘I’m asking for proof. There isn’t so much as a scrap, that I can see.’ His lips gleamed in the light from the display. ‘In any TFC experiment there should be a method of verification, some means of checking independently of the main source whether or not the findings are accurate.’ He gestured helplessly, a little show of humility. ‘We simply have the one source which we either accept or reject; it’s a matter of blind faith.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Queghan said. ‘You’re ignoring the fact that Brenton, wherever he is, is inhabiting any one of a series of mythical futures. Any one of a series of mythical futures. This means that the probability of his inhabiting any or all of them simultaneously is equally as valid. Therefore our mythic projection, being based on probability, is as accurate as it could possibly be. Brenton exists in a state of probability, which means that somewhere in spacetime the possibility exists that perhaps he wasn’t injected into Temporal Flux at all. It might have been someone else: you, me, Professor Blake, Dr Hallam. We just happen to be inhabiting one possible tangent of an infinite series of probabilities – just as Brenton is. But because we don’t know for certain which one it is, then he could be – he is – inhabiting any or all of them simultaneously.’
*
While coffee was being served Castel edged in to Zandra Hallam, and Milton Blake drew Queghan to one side. He said: ‘I want your honest opinion, Chris. Do you think Stahl’s death has any connection, causal or otherwise, with Project Tempus? You gave Dr Hallam a hard time earlier on.’
‘It could have and it couldn’t.’
‘That’s not much of an answer.’
‘It’s the only one I can give you,’ Queghan said. ‘My honest opinion is that I honestly don’t know. He died suddenly?’
‘Yes.’
‘Caused by …’
‘There you have me,’ Milton Blake said. ‘I suppose you could describe it as shock. But what kind of shock I don’t know. It could have been fear, it could have been caused by an electric current—’
‘By galvanology?’
Milton Blake smiled. ‘That possibility hadn’t escaped me. Yes, by galvanology. Or as the result of a snake bite.’
‘I see. That’s what Dr Hallam meant when she referred to injection by a virulent poison.’ Queghan stared into space. There was something bothering him, a tiny niggle of doubt that hovered on the edge of his understanding and refused to come into focus. Stahl had projected the red ocean: was it a world he had invented and Brenton had entered or had it always existed, existed even now, and Brenton was trapped in it? If the former were true, it would mean that this other world had ceased to exist. It would simply vanish, dissolve into nothingness, leaving Brenton in limbo. Queghan experienced the feeling he sometimes had of just having woken from a dream which he only dimly perceived and faultily remembered. In this particular dream – an alternative scenario – it wasn’t Brenton who had been injected into Temporal Flux, but himself. And that was another possibility too, Queghan realized, just as valid. Was there no way to prove the truth or falseness of either proposition? Perhaps both were equally true, equally false; it all depended from which point of view you happened to be observing the same set of events.
Milton Blake said, ‘What do you think the chances are of retrieval?’ His intelligent brown eyes were fixed intently on Queghan.
‘As always, fifty-fifty,’ Queghan said. ‘They will never improve, never deteriorate. As long as Martin’s location remains a probability rather than a certainty he will be held in perfect equilibrium, progressing neither forwards or backwards. Perhaps he’s in a cyclic situation, living through a chain of events which repeat themselves endlessly; we have no way of knowing.’
‘And if there is a causal connection between Stahl’s death and Brenton’s injection into Temporal Flux?’
‘Martin will know about it, but I don’t see how we ever can – unless he returns.’
‘The more we find out, the more there is to know,’ Milton Blake said. ‘We ask a big question expecting a big answer; and all that happens is that we’re faced with bigger questions demanding bigger answers.’
‘We have the Report,’ Queghan said, indicating the fat block of mimeographed sheets bound in black vinyl. ‘We’ve also shown that Neuron Processing is a valuable technique in postinjection evaluation. In your second-generation machine you might surprise us even more.’
‘This is the complete Report?’ Milton Blake said, opening the cover.
‘As transcribed and interpreted by Professor Castel, with appendices and reference sources. You’ve seen the extracts?’
‘They were sent to us as they came through; but it would be useful to have the final and official text on file. It bears detailed study.’ He turned to the first page and began to read:
‘“The vessel cleaved through the red ocean, the purple foam churning and frothing in its wake. It was a three-masted barque, square-rigged on the fore- and main-mast, schooner-rigged on the mizzen, with yellow vinyl sails, its prow a whorled piece of timber painted white in the shape of a unicorn’s horn: the Slave Trader, seventeen days out of London Toun bound for New Amerika in this, the ninth year of the reign of Our Most Gracious …”’
Blake paused and glanced up. ‘Interesting style.’
‘Franz rather fancies himself as a literary mythographer,’ Queghan said, smiling.
‘Franz?’
‘Professor Castel.’
‘I don’t object to it so long as it doesn’t distort the truth,’ Milton Blake said, though he looked none too happy.
‘Truth is subjective. This happens to be one man’s interpretation. Through someone else’s eyes it would appear quite different. It’s even possible’ – Queghan raised his white eyebrows and smiled – ‘that we’re the mythic projection of someone in another region of spacetime. They could be observing us at this moment, eavesdropping on our conversation, trying to figure out the strange antics of those peculiar creatures on Earth IVn.’
*
Oria was in the garden with the child when he returned home. The youngster was tottering about on sturdy seventeen-month-old legs chasing insects and sunbeams and laughing when he took a tumble. Rain was due later that evening, but they had at least an hour’s sunshine before the first drops were scheduled to fall. Oria was sitting bare-legged on the grass, the slender set of her shoulders now in keeping with the rest of her frame, her fine yellow hair pulled back in bunches which gave her the manner and appearance of a mischievous schoolgirl. She was tanned, clear-blue-eyed, and happy as a sandboy.
She said: ‘Do you suppose that when they made this planet they knew we were going to live here?’
‘They might have peeked into their crystal ball and seen a thousand years hence,’ Queghan conceded. ‘But I think it more likely that they wanted to replicate Old Earth as near as was technologically feasible. The first two weren’t a tremendous success; it took some time to organize the bioplasm to become self-generating and self-supporting.’
‘But those were planetary states,’ Oria said. ‘They merely looked for suitable planets and tried to adapt them to earthlike conditions; we can take some pride in being entirely manmade.’
‘The planetoidal state does have a few things going for it,’ Queghan said, picking up the child. ‘One of them being that this fine fellow will grow up thinking of himself as a citizen of the world instead of trying to prove that his patch of dirt is superior t
o anyone else’s.’
‘That doesn’t defeat the problem,’ Oria pointed out wisely. ‘It simply moves it up the scale. He’ll probably try to prove that his ball of dirt is superior to anyone else’s.’
The child struggled to be released and Queghan set him down on the grass. He ran off, chasing a butterfly.
Oria said, ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘No, thanks. I’ll just rest awhile.’ He stretched out on the striped lounger and closed his eyes so that the sun filled his eyelids with a warm, kindly glow. He was tired. The trouble with mythic projection was that it disoriented the sense of time and place. He remembered what he had said to Blake about Martin Brenton: ‘Perhaps he’s in a cyclic situation, living through a chain of events which repeat themselves endlessly; we have no way of knowing.’ He had that feeling now – of having lived a number of alternative lives simultaneously, of having lived this life before. It was an interesting speculation, but he was too weary to pursue it. In any case, there was no way of arriving at a definite conclusion: a man could only occupy a certain world-point at any given moment. The fact that he might, in a universe of probability, have occupied some other world-point was logically sound but impossible to prove. I’m here, sitting on the lounger in the garden, my consciousness tells me so, Queghan thought; now if I’m somewhere else at this same moment, my other consciousness, belonging to my other self, will also confirm my presence there. It will be unaware of this self, this consciousness, except in these same terms of abstract speculation. Perhaps the two separate consciousnesses – the several, an infinite number of them – are at this moment involved in this same speculation, each aware of the possible existence of the others but unable to prove or refute their actual reality.
