After a time, a gigantic number of universes were flying about—spinning on their axes, throbbing and pulsing, expanding and contracting at fantastic speed. My aunt was nowhere to be seen. Uncle Deva, as sympathetic as he was to my enterprise, had ducked for cover. In short order, as seemed almost inevitable, some of the universes began colliding with others. Each collision made a terrific explosion, sending fragments of worlds hurtling through the Void, oscillating dimensions, fractured energies.
It occurred to me that I had not carefully considered whether I should make one universe or many. Perhaps I should have been more circumspect. One universe would avoid the possibility of collisions, but then again it might become boring. One universe would have one truth. Many would have many truths. There were advantages and disadvantages to both propositions.
I sat down, centered myself, and began mulling over the matter. Then I meditated. I tried to let all thoughts flow from my mind. I breathed in the Void, breathed out the Void. Breathed in the Void, breathed out the Void. Slowly, I grew calm. A peace spread over the Void. Aunt and Uncle appeared as tiny lights, dancing together to a waltz in andante, and a peace descended on them as well, and the Void settled and sighed and drifted in unwinding time. I breathed in and I breathed out and I came to the decision that there should be only One, one universe, and the myriad temporal universes that I had made faded and dissolved, and the one universe remained.
And then, while still meditating, I decided to create quantum physics. Although I keenly appreciated the certainty of logic and clear definition, I also felt that the sharp edges of existence needed some rounding. I wanted a bit of artistic ambiguity in my creations, a measured diffusion. Perhaps quantum physics invented itself. It was gorgeous in mathematical terms. And subtle. As soon as I had created quantum physics, all objects—even though objects at that point existed only in my mind—billowed out and swelled into a haze of indefinite position. All certainties changed into probabilities, and my thoughts bifurcated into dualities: yes and no, brittle and supple, on and off. Henceforth, things could be hither and yon at the same time. The One became Many. And a great softening blanket of indeterminancy wrapped itself over the Void. My breathing slowed to a sleepy imperceptibility. Listening carefully, I could hear a billion billion tiny rattles and tinklings from all over the Void, the sound of new universes waiting to be. With the invention of quantum, each point of the Void had developed the potential to become a new universe, and that potentiality could not be denied. My creation of time, and then space, had made a universe possible—and that possibility alone, nestled within the quantum foam of the Void, was sufficient to bring into being an infinite number of universes. Soon, new universes were once again whizzing through the vacuum. I revised my earlier decision that there should be only One. Or, more precisely, my creation of quantum physics necessarily required the Many. Peering out into the Void, I tried to find my original universe, the first one I’d made. But it was hopelessly lost among billions and billions of others flying about, throbbing spheres, distended ellipsoids, gyrating cosmoses thrashing with energy. The Void trembled with rumbles and shrieks and sharp popping noises.
By and by, Aunt Penelope emerged from her hiding place, Uncle Deva from his. You’ve been busy, said Uncle, looking with mild annoyance at the many universes flying about. If I were you, I wouldn’t get attached to any of them. You’ll just be disappointed. I took Uncle’s comment under advisement. Already, I was rather fond of some of the expanding spheres.
What’s in those things, anyway? asked Aunt Penelope. Space, I answered. Umph, she said. Well now that we have space, I’d like, please, a chair to sit down on. I’ve been standing for a very long time. So I made a chair for Aunt Penelope. That chair was my first creation of matter. It had three curved legs and an octagonal back, and I’d designed it to be comfortable but not too comfortable. My aunt sat down on it without comment.
Far more awaited. I wanted to make more matter. I wanted to make galaxies and stars. I wanted to make planets. I wanted to make living creatures, and minds. But for the moment, I sat and I meditated and I gazed with contentment at the empty but vibrating universes I had made.
A Stranger Appears in the Void
I meditated. I did meditate. I am meditating. I will meditate.
Although I had emptied my mind of thoughts, I was still conscious of the new universes flying about. I could feel the presence of the pulsating spheres, I could feel the volume and space within them. More importantly, I could feel the potential of space now scattered throughout the Void. While I drifted in my meditative state, I was no longer drifting through a shapeless and timeless Void, but a Void now tessellated with time and with space. The emptiness shimmered with possibilities, each tiny volume trembling with a nebulous version of everything that could possibly be, everything I might eventually create. It was a pressure, a weight, a low humming sound. And I had changed myself as well as the Void. A great unfolding had taken place within my being, as if every degree of consciousness had multiplied into a thousand degrees of consciousness, every possible action had branched into a thousand possible actions. With the new quantum reality, I was exquisitely aware of the fantastic number of possible decisions and possibilities at each point of existence, each with its own consequences leading to an infinite chain of potentialities. Henceforth, when I decided to create a thing, I would necessarily need to create not only that thing but every conceivable variation of the thing, each with its own probability. Existence was now multiplicity. These new sensations and realities were not unpleasant, but they did require certain adaptations and allowances.
When I finally emerged from my meditations, a stranger was standing beside me. And behind him, another creature, a fat and squat being whose countenance seemed frozen in a grin. In the unending expanse of existence, there had never been anyone other than myself, Aunt Penelope, and Uncle Deva. I was pleased to have another being to talk to, yet I was not accustomed to meeting things I had not made.
“Good day,” said the stranger. “If I might take the liberty of using that expression. It will come with future creations.”
“I have not invited you here,” I said.
The stranger nodded, an acknowledgment of my comment but without any apology. He was tall and thin, and he held himself both with ease and with a formality. “You have a congenial existence here,” he said. “I have recently traveled through these regions, and they impart a definite tranquility. I imagine that you would want to stay here as long as possible, perhaps forever.” His voice did not enter my mind in the same manner as that of Aunt and Uncle but seemed to be swept in by a breeze from the Void, even though the Void had been windless for eons of time.
“Not that I envy you,” said the stranger. “But you do have comfortable circumstances.”
“Too comfortable,” said the grinning beast beside him.
“You forget yourself, Baphomet,” said the stranger. The creature suddenly yelped, as if it had been struck a vicious blow, and then bowed three times to the tall stranger without releasing the sneer on its face.
“Pardon Baphomet,” said the stranger, his gaze fastened on me. “He makes a good traveling companion.” He paused. “I wonder about this emptiness,” he said. “It would seem not to have any existence independent of our perception of it. An interesting substance. One could think it pleasant or unpleasant, strong or weak, and that would in fact be its reality. The mind is its own place, don’t you agree? Let us take the music, for example. Quite lovely. I congratulate you. I have been listening to it and enjoying it for some time. However, is it not conceivable that to some other mind, to some other sensibility, this same music might sound … let us say, unlovely?”
“I, for one, do not like the music one bit,” said Baphomet, and the beast quickly bowed again and grinned.
The stranger turned and stared at the beast, then turned back to me. “But there is a more serious question I wanted to ask you,” he said. “Do you think it is possible for a thing and its
opposite both to be true?”
Despite having been startled by the stranger and his rude companion, I found myself captivated by him, even mesmerized. I decided to answer his question.
“A thing and its opposite cannot both be true in a rational system of thought,” I replied. “But rational thoughts lead only to rational thoughts, whereas irrational thoughts lead to—”
“New experiences.”
“Yes,” I said. “My mind encompasses both the rational and the irrational. But certain things must have logical consistency, and thus rationality.”
“Exactly,” said the stranger. “For example, mathematics. But logical consistency can be misleading. Even in mathematics, the truth or falsity of some theorems cannot be proven. Curious, wouldn’t you say?”
“But that is beside the point. Each mathematical theorem is either true or false, whether it can be proven within the limitations of mathematics or not.”
“Yes, yes,” said the stranger. “I see that we can converse with each other.”
As we were talking, Baphomet was doing flips and somersaults, all the while watching us with his relentless grin. His master paid no attention to him.
“Without knowing for sure,” the stranger continued, “I would think that you are more fluent with the rational. It has its appeal. But the irrational permits a greater exercise of … shall we say, power. If that is your aim, of course. At the moment, you would seem to have no need to exercise your power.”
“I prefer to use only the scope and magnitude of power that is required for each situation,” I said. “But I have unlimited power, if necessary.”
“I would very much enjoy seeing a demonstration of that sometime.” The stranger moved closer. “But the target of power is more interesting than its quantity. In that regard, tell me: Would you say that the end always justifies the means? Or, in attempting to achieve your aims, do you draw the line at some degree of sacrifice and cost, beyond which you would not go?”
“I cannot consider this question in general terms.”
“Ah, you do not believe in absolute principles. We will get along even better than I thought. Your response implies that in some situations you would be willing to accept any price in order to achieve your end, in others not. Depending on the situation. Yes. That is an important thing to know about one’s self.”
The stranger unfastened his gaze from me and stared out into the Void. He was apparently occupied by something in particular, a particular one of the cosmoses, misshapen and throbbing as if it were about to explode. He looked at it with fascination. Then he turned sideways. He was so thin that he practically vanished, appearing as only a black line. “Have you wondered,” he said, “whether it is possible to imagine everything that will ever exist, or whether some things lie beyond our ability to imagine them?” I nodded. “And the set of all possibilities being infinite, as it is,” he continued, “if there is even a fraction of possibilities we cannot imagine, then there is an infinite number of possibilities we cannot imagine. So, even with infinite power, we might be surprised by what transpires in the future. Would you agree?” The tall stranger turned towards me again, cocked himself at an angle, and looked at me with an odd expression.
“Yes.”
“These universes you’ve created,” he said, and gestured at the quivering spheres and ellipsoids flying about. “Many of them will end in tragedy. Or I should say, the animate matter you fill them with, the intelligent beings, will twist and suffer and meet unhappy ends.” He smiled.
“I have no intention of that,” I said. “I would not allow that to happen.”
“I am sorry if what I’ve said disturbs you.”
“I command you into nonexistence,” I said.
“I’m afraid you cannot do that.” As tall as he was, the stranger grew taller, as if he had been crouching. “The glittering multitudes,” he said. “So many little lives, amounting to nothing. I ask you: What is infinity multiplied by zero? It is hardly worth our discussion … Give my regards to your uncle and aunt.” The stranger bowed. Then he and his beast, looking back at me with its incessant grin, moved off through the Void.
Second Thoughts
In my anger, I smashed thousands of nascent universes. Some, I strangled the space out of them, leaving dry husks of nothingness. From Void to Void. Others, I spewed in so much energy that they exploded in a soundless catastrophe. Some universes I hurled at other universes, splattered them into each other. I ripped apart space. I scattered geometry. I crushed and destroyed. Never before had I felt such emotion, and the Void seethed with my anger, the Void’s music devolved to a screech of clashed chords.
What are you doing? cried my uncle. He stooped to pick up pieces of the fractured universes. You have frightened me, and your aunt as well. The two of them rushed about as if looking for somewhere to hide, then cowered a distance away, each trying to shelter the other.
I would, of course, never do anything to harm Uncle Deva and Aunt Penelope, but I found myself behaving without any thought. I was pure action, and I watched myself wreak havoc as if it were another being moving about and crushing alien creations. I was outside myself. How long this went on was difficult to gauge. Eventually, my fury softened. Looking about, I could see that I had annihilated many of the universes I had made. But many more remained, growing larger. I had not destroyed everything.
I told Uncle and Aunt about the stranger. The arrogance, said Aunt Penelope. He had no right to come here, and certainly not in that manner. Just let him show up again. You should not be discouraged.
I don’t know, I said to my aunt. Perhaps you were right. I should have left everything just as it was, in an infinite nothingness. I do not want my creations to end in tragedies. I should have left things as they were.
Tragedies? said my aunt. Are you referring to the creation of animate beings in your universes? Listen to me, Nephew. First, you have not made animate beings. So far, you have made only empty cosmoses. And secondly, even if you do create animate beings, you do not know that they will suffer tragedies just because that swaggering desperado said so. You forget your power, Nephew. You made those cosmoses. If you choose to, you will make animate beings. And you will make them as you wish. Have faith in your creations. Yes, yes, said Uncle Deva. Have faith. Your aunt and I stand behind you. Don’t we, Penelope? Absolutely.
I looked out into the Void, at the billions of cosmoses whizzing about, and I imagined populating each of them with matter, both animate and inanimate. I imagined atoms and molecules. I imagined gases and liquids and solids. I imagined silica and soil, atmospheres, chemical elements, oceans and lakes, mountains, forests, great lumbering clouds, electrical impulses in space, movements of ions, gelatinous membranes, bacteria. I imagined brains, some made of matter and some made of energy. I imagined intelligent creatures. And their creations. Their cities. I tried to picture the future. Would my living creations suffer and writhe in some agony? Was it necessarily so? Or would they have only pleasure and joy? I felt the future, but I could not hear it. I listened. Could I hear the voices of the trillions of creatures who might come to be? Could they tell me of life? Could they tell me of suffering? But I could not hear them. All I could hear was the soft adagio of the Void. I felt the future, but the future did not exist. I gazed at the billions of universes, fraught with their emptiness and possibilities, and I wondered. Perhaps I should make only nonliving matter. That would be simpler, and safe. But could I limit my productions to inanimate matter? I could make whatever I wished, but could I be certain about the subsequent movements of each atom once made? Could I be certain that trillions of dull and dead atoms could never combine and give rise to a thing that had life? And there were so many worlds.
Some Organizational Principles
May I give you some advice, Nephew? said Aunt Penelope. The three of us had been wandering about in the Void for some time, talking about how our existence had changed and sweeping up bits of debris still lying about. Don’t give Him advice, sai
d Uncle. He doesn’t need our advice. Hush, said Aunt Penelope. I am entitled to give advice to my nephew. If it is not to your liking, then give Him your own advice. I would be careful, said Uncle. Do you really—Aunt Penelope cut off Uncle with one of her looks. But now that she’d been regularly combing her hair, she did not appear nearly so fierce as she once had. Still.
Aunt Penelope took me aside, leaving Uncle by himself. Now, I want you to listen to me, she said. This is no criticism. Your uncle and I have always been impressed with you. But we are your elders, and we do notice what goes on around here … You shouldn’t do things with such haste. You rush into things. Slow down. Take your time with this project.
I hadn’t been aware I was rushing, I said to my aunt.
All these things flying about? said Aunt. You made them so quickly. Why don’t you concentrate on just one of your universes and see if you can do a good job with it.
That’s excellent advice, said Uncle Deva, standing some distance away.
Which one would you like? I asked my aunt. It wasn’t really a serious question. There were quadrillions of spheres and hyperboloids flying about, by now having inflated to at least 1017 times larger than they were just a few moments ago. This one, said my aunt, and she suddenly reached up and caught one of the spheres flying past. Work on this one. We have confidence in you, your uncle and I, and we are certain that you can do well with it. Now that you’ve started this project. Just take your time, that’s all I’m suggesting.