by Ken Renshaw
"I can understand that," I replied. "When someone projects the film, there is the illusion of time."
"Correct!" Said Uriel. "The illusion of time is only in the story. The director might have shot the film out of sequence, shooting the office scene first then shooting all the desert scenes, shooting in the restaurant, and then shooting the woman on the telephone. The timing of scenes was made in the editing room."
"OK," I said, "time is an illusion in movies. What has that to do with reality?"
"Let's switch the metaphor," continued Uriel, "On your planet, there is something that we are amazed by, it is called YouTube. People make videos of something of interest to them, then add keywords, and upload it to 'the cloud' of all YouTube videos. 'The cloud' is not in a single physical space. As in the movie I described before; the video may have had only the illusion of time. Anyone can search for the videos by keywords or by the address and watch them. YouTube is a space-time system where you can watch a video taken at a give place, such as a corner near the World Trade Center, which is the spatial dimension, and at a particular time, nine o'clock on September 11, 2001, the time dimension."
"I understand about YouTube," I said, "and I guess it is a space-time system."
"That is the way reality works!" Uriel said. "Think of what you call reality as something like YouTube. Lets call it R-Tube. Everything that someone thought was important is in the, let us say, R-cloud."
I said to myself, 'I must be logical and scientific about this. I had a patent case involving the Internet one time.
The videos on YouTube exist physically. They are data bits on servers distributed around the world in data centers.'
"Uriel." I said, "Where is the R-cloud in physical reality?"
"This is where the metaphor breaks down. Time does not really exist: it is only a coordinate in space-time. The physical things happening are not stored, they are all happening as what you would call 'at once.' For example, at the space coordinates you know on your planet as 40° 42' 45" N / 74° 0' 54" W, you are at the New York location of the World Trade Center. At the earth time coordinate, nine o'clock on September 11, 2001, the building is being destroyed. Change the earth time coordinate to August 12, 1964, and the World Trade Center is under construction. At those coordinates, everything is going on according to what you understand as your four-dimensional scientific laws of physics–what you are taught in your universities.
"Reality as you know it exists is an eight-dimensional space-time. The first four coordinates pertain to the four-dimensional scientific laws of physics. 'Information' exists in eight-dimensions. Those eight-dimensions include the four of physics.
"Using the YouTube metaphor, one might say that the physical stuff in the video, as it is taken, obeys the laws of physics. If the video is of a cat doing something cute, everything in the scene obeys the laws of physics, for instance gravity, according to four-dimensional space-time. The video that is uploaded to the YouTube cloud is information. You can turn the picture upside–down and have the cat fall upward in that video. The video cat doesn't have to obey the laws of physics.
"We realize this is all very new to you. You need to find out about eight-dimensional physics, known on your planet as 'complex eight–dimensional Minkowski space.'" Uriel's voice trailed off. The spark of light on the boulder disappeared.
"Wait!" I said. It was too late. 'Why is he telling me all this?' I wondered.
I was confused, bewildered. I went back into the kitchen and poured myself another brandy. Back out to the patio, Hesperus had everyone organized in space-time. I wasn't.
The first light of dawn was just breaking when I awoke, still musing about my contact with Uriel, wondering why I was involved in this, pondering the scientific logic of the whole contact. I made a cup of coffee, put on my parka, and started a walk out into the desert to clear my head.
It had been cold during the night, and all the cacti and sagebrush were covered by a fine coat of silvery frost, glittering in the first rays of the dawn sunlight. I scared up a long–eared rabbit that dashed away in jagged hops. The sun came up suddenly, and I felt the heat on my face. Frost evaporated. The new day was here. My head cleared as I viewed the hundred miles of desert to the North. Sunlight on the dark buttes and distant mountains spread down from the peaks to the valleys.
California City is eighty miles to the North, at the southern foot of the Sierras. In land area it is the third largest city in California, a dream of a developer in the 1960s, and boom years for Southern California. During that time, developers were buying worthless tracks of desert land, subdividing them, grading grids of roads, advertising, and selling lots on the promised it was the site of the next land boon. California City was laid out with streets, cul-de-sacs, a lake, and 52,000 lots in its master plan. It didn't boom. Some bought lots and then sold them to other suckers. Many lots are now in estates of the departed, with the beneficiaries having no idea what to do with them. Today fewer than 15,000 people live there, mostly employed by the declining Edwards Air Force Base, or at the nearby privately–operated prison, which is having trouble making ends meet. California City should be considered a tourist spot, a modern wonder, a ruin of gigantic proportions, not of crumbling buildings, but a ruin of lost dreams, gullibility, and greed.
These lost–dream developments are sometimes a glider pilot's salvation as a landing spot in an otherwise vegetation–covered landscape. One time, I landed in a one-mile long street, bulldozed out of the raw desert, fifty yards wide. A 747 could land there, but none ever have.
I had no dream for the day. Soaring wouldn't be any good today; my recent love interest sounded as if she was dumping me because of my 'superior logic,' my legal career was on hold. I felt like a California City lot.
Back from my walk, I had breakfast, read the New York Times, the Washington Post, and the LA Times on my iPad. The news didn't lift my spirits. I thought I would walk over to the office at the airport, find someone to talk to, and do some 'hangar flying,' reminiscing about past flights.
Nobody was flying yet on this quiet day. I left my trailer and began walking down the edge of the empty unpaved section of the runway; the part used only in emergencies when pilots decided to abort takeoffs. Desert sand was mixed with limestone rocks, and along the edge of the runway, opportunistic yellow flowers, the size of a thumbnail, were taking advantage of the recent rain to flower, bloom, and seed while they had a chance. Mesquite bushes lined the edge of the runway, separated by a few paces from each other, taking advantage of all the space available in the desert.
An open–air sun shelter, next to the airport office, had several wood tables and benches. It offered a shady place to sit while waiting for the thermals to begin.
At one of the tables the tow pilot, Dan, who had rescued me from Rosamond Dry lake a few days ago, sat, apparently deep in thought staring into the open desert. He was wearing hiking boots, khaki shorts, a wrinkled long sleeve shirt, and his cowboy hat.
I said, "Hi Dan."
He looked toward me and nodded, "Hi."
"Doesn't look like much of a day," I observed.
Dan said, "Every day in the desert is good. Some are better for soaring than others. We are supposed to have a student pilot coming out this morning. He will need about four tows to practice landings."
I had often talked to Dan before. I knew he had a degree in something like English literature or philosophy and had decided the best way to put it to use was flying a tow plane and flying a water bomber when offered the chance. When there was a forest fire, the government contracted with independent companies to fly tanker aircraft, mostly obsolete military surplus carrier aircraft, many poorly maintained, to drop red flame retardant in the fire area. It was dangerous, high paying work, flying a few feet above the trees, through smoke, in unpredictable winds, and requiring exact flying skills. When I was on tow behind Dan in his Pawnee, I knew I was in good hands.
"Going to fly today?" he asked.
"No, it looks too w
eak to bother getting my bird out," I replied.
Dan smiled, emphasizing the wrinkles around his mouth, in his sun-dried face. "I think it was before your time, but we used to have a pilot come out here who would go up on days like this and fly cross-country for hundreds of miles. His name was Charlie Krill, and he worked at the Lockheed skunk works, designing high–flying spy planes like the U-2. We used to say he made his own thermals. One time, I asked him how he could read the weather so well and he said, 'Trust the force!' referencing the old Star Wars movies."
"I have never tried that," I joked. "Mostly, I trust my friend at the Weather Service at LAX who gives me my personal soaring forecast. Then, I plan my flights."
Dan gave me a look that seemed to say, 'And how is that working out for you.'
I suddenly had the feeling that my logical flight planning was like the California City urban planning, complete in detail but failing in concept.
Dan confirmed my feelings: "Somehow, Charlie had special intuition. The intuitive approach positively worked for him."
My cellphone rang. Tina, I hoped, until I looked. It was Zaza.
Zaza announced, "Vacation is over. Bracken wants to know whether you can meet with a new client tomorrow at 9:00."
"Sure," I replied.
"I hope this does not upset any of your social plans," said Zaza sarcastically.
"I am alone. No problem, See you tomorrow."
****
Chapter Three
A NEW BEGINNING
I was feeling better as I walked into the office lobby.
"Good morning Mr. Willard!" Said Carolyn cheerfully as she gave me her usual 'How wonderful you are here...and I'm very available' smile.
Zaza looked grumpy, as usual as she asked, "How was your long vacation?"
"A pleasant respite," I replied as I walked into my office. I sat down and began to look through my mail and email.
In a few minutes, Zaza's buzzer rang. "They are here," she said.
I walked into the conference room and saw Phil Bracken and very attractive blond lady.
"Dave Willard, meet Dore Hamilton," Phil said.
Dore was about five–feet two, with a very compact athletic look, about thirty years old, with brown eyes. Her streaked blond hair, parted in the middle, was cut in a manner that suggested she spent time in an expensive hair salon. She had a wide nose like someone of northern European descent. Her tan face with white areas around the eyes suggested she had recently been skiing. She was wearing a dark blue suit with a red scarf.
She smiled with a flash of recognition in her eyes as she shook hands, and said, "Pleased to meet you Mr. Willard," and immediately reset to an icy stare. I knew I had been 'made,' fully assessed, and judged.
"Pleased to meet you, Ms. Hamilton," I replied without losing eye contact. I could tell this was one tough lady.
Phil began, "Ms. Hamilton is an assistant to an old friend of mine, Vince Colson who has a venture capital firm in Palo Alto. Vince has funded a foundation, the Colson Foundation, to support investigation into paranormal phenomena and other pet projects. He wants us to take on a test case to try a county government for negligence in failing to utilize an available psychic resource to prevent the death of a lost child."
I though to myself, 'Oh, no! More of this metaphysical nonsense, Why me?'
Ms. Hamilton sensed my reaction and said, "Mr. Willard, I expect that this is somewhat afield from your normal case and possibly makes you a little uncomfortable. Phil said that you are a master at presenting complicated scientific cases in terms that can be understood by lay juries. The Colson Foundation has sponsored scientific research that will provide the foundation for a scientific case that the psychic offered legitimate help. We believe the science is there to support the case. The science is esoteric enough that most people would never have heard of it. Phil says you may not be up on this realm of science. It is preferable that you can bring a fresh viewpoint, unbiased by many misconceptions shared by many who have a long involvement in metaphysical subjects, which might bring some biases or beliefs that would interfere with the scientific case. We want someone with a clean slate on the subject who can appreciate the skeptical viewpoint."
"I think I meet your requirements for a lack of knowledge on the subject," I observed.
Phil interrupted and added, "Dave has done this kind of thing before. Some of his patent cases involved subjects and technologies that were unknown a couple of years before."
"Good!" said Dore. "Would you be available to come to Palo Alto today to meet with Mr. Colson? He is to leave town tomorrow and is anxious for you to get started. We can have you back later in the day."
"Of course" I said, thinking of how I dread going through airport security twice in one day.
"Thank you Phil," Said Dore as she shook Phil's hand, "I have confidence that we have made the right choice in asking your firm to represent us. Mr. Willard, the travel arrangements are all set."
"Thank you for selecting Bracken and Stevens to represent you in this matter," added Phil.
"I'll get my briefcase," I said.
I waved at Zaza on the way out. "I am going to Palo Alto–be back tomorrow."
Zaza couldn’t resist: "She is a hot one-I saw her when she came in. What is Flopsy going to think?"
"I'll see you tomorrow," I replied, playing it straight as always.
Dore was in the lobby texting. We took the elevator to the ground floor and got into a black chauffeured Towne Car, which was waiting at the building entrance.
"Excuse me I have to check in," Dore said, and began texting on her Blackberry.
I followed suit.
I was surprised when the driver turned north on the 405 instead of south to LAX. I didn't say anything.
In a while, we were at the Van Nuys airport, and the driver drove to a hanger in front of which was parked a Lear jet. A lean uniformed pilot, surfer-length blond hair sticking out below his navy–blue pilot's cap, was standing by the steps into the airplane. He took the small suitcase of Dore's that the driver brought as we boarded the plane. I looked into the cockpit as we entered and saw a young blond lady, also in uniform with pilot's cap, apparently going through the preflight checklist.
The jet had six brown leather seats, two in the back and two pairs facing each other separated by the aisle. The airplane smelled like leather with a slight hint of jet fumes from outside.
Dore motioned to one of the two brown leather seats that faced each other with a small table between them.
"Thanks, Ms. Hamilton," I said.
I sat down, and we both fastened our seat belts as the jet began to taxi.
She smiled and said, "Make it Dore. I think we are going to spending a lot of time together."
"Dave," I replied with a nod.
We both looked out the window as the jet paused before entering the runway and began the takeoff roll.
"My parents gave me the name Doré, with the accent on the 'é' but I dropped it for everyone's convenience," she continued. "Dave, you have quite a spring tan for a person with your light completion. Are you a golfer?"
"No," I replied, "I spend a lot of time on the desert. I have a sailplane."
"One of those things where they tow you up in the air and then you glide down?" she asked.
"Yes, but sometimes we stay up for hours and fly cross-country. It is quite a sport." I added.
Dore stared at me for a second and then added, "I get that there is something competitive about that."
"Not really, it is something you do alone," I replied.
Dore stared at me again and then continued, "When you were in college there was something competitive. You are five–feet, seven–inches, and weighed something like one hundred sixty when you were in college. It was not football of any other team sport. Something competitive there...tennis. That is why you handle your briefcase the way you do."
I was shocked and answered, "Right! I was a Varsity tennis player.
"You will have to
tell me about it sometime," she said without any indication of interest. "Please excuse my delving into your past. The energy was strong, hard to resist."
"Your tan looks like someone who has just been skiing." I observed.
"Right, very observant," she replied. "My partner and I were in Aspen for a week not long ago."
'My partner,' I thought, 'She might be gay.'
"Her company has a condo there so it is very convenient," she replied.
I felt a sense of relief that she was setting some ground rules for our relationship, taking gender out of the equation.
"Have you had any personal experience with psychic phenomena?" she asked.
"My experiences are only from movies, TV, and Edgar Allen Poe reading assignments in school." I admitted.
"Good!" She replied, "A good clean slate to work with. Here is a book, a good starting point, written by Steve Manteo who is the psychic who was ignored by the Sheriff in our case. We will get to the scientific case later after you understand the phenomenon involved." She produced a hardbound book with a bright red cover, and the title "The Psychic Spy Who Never Had To Leave His Office."
'What have I gotten into?' I thought as I took the book. 'Good way to kill the flight time to Palo Alto.'
The uniformed pilot with the blond hair poking under his cap appeared from the cockpit, served us coffee, and a sandwich, and returned to the cockpit.
"The pilots are a couple," confided Dore, "They are also writers who do screenplays in their spare time waiting for us and on layovers. I like the arrangement because I know they are not late hour partying when we overnight somewhere and are always fresh for our flights. I suspect that I am a character in some of their stories, but they have never have admitted it." Dore opened her laptop.
