“Dark energy could be the driving force—or dark matter, whatever that might be. The problem, as I see it, is that this phantom stuff was dreamed up to explain cosmological expansion in the first place. In the race to find an explanation, that fact is often ignored.
“The point is, I think, not only do we lack even the foggiest idea what is causing the universe to expand at such incredible speed, there is good reason to believe that the expansion is actually accelerating.” He took another sip from his glass. “Again, we don’t know why. Thus, the search is on for this mysterious dark matter and dark energy that the various formulas and models suggest should be there.”
“But cannot be found.”
“True, but if either of those things could be proven to exist, then we might begin to get a clue to what’s actually going on in the universe. And by that I mean we might at last begin to understand the origins of the universe and—who knows?—maybe even the nature of reality itself.” He savoured another swallow of his whiskey and added, “Of course, all this is mere conjecture. The scientific equivalent of thinking out loud. We have no proof at all, nor even the glimmer of a testable hypothesis. Only speculation.” He smiled. “Anyone is free to speculate.”
“Then perhaps you will allow me a little of that speculation?” Brendan drained his glass and set it aside. “What if we accept that the universe is indeed expanding at a truly alarming rate? Further, what if the cause of this accelerating growth was not some exotic unknown dark matter out there in the cosmos, but something very much closer to home? Or, put another way, perhaps the source of this mysterious dark energy resides right here on earth.”
“You’ve got my attention,” said Tony. He emptied his glass and put it down on the table beside Brendan’s. “So what’s your theory? Let’s have it.”
“Suppose we say that dark energy is driving the expansion of the universe, and that this is actually linked to human consciousness?”
In the silence that followed, Brendan watched his guest to see how an eminent scientist would receive his amateur suggestion. The tinkling sound of the fountain and the fragrance of jasmine filled the air; the lowering sun stretched the shadows, casting the courtyard in blessed shade. Resisting the impulse to speak, Brendan allowed his guest the courtesy of a moment’s quiet contemplation.
“An unorthodox speculation, but not—as some might think—completely outrageous,” Tony concluded. “Given that quantum forces at some level govern events in both the cosmic and microcosmic realms, there may be some heretofore undiscovered link.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. All right, let’s accept that human consciousness is somehow involved. Where does that get us? Go on.”
“Let us further suppose that what we call ley travel is one tangible manifestation of this involvement between human consciousness and the accelerated growth of the universe.”
“Interesting,” allowed Tony; both his expression and tone were noncommittal. “How is this supposition to be derived?”
Brendan rose from the table. “I think much better when I’m moving. Would you mind if we walked a little?”
“I wouldn’t mind if we juggled eggs while standing on our heads. You have me hooked, Professor. Lead the way.”
Leaving the society headquarters, they entered the mazed streets of the Old Quarter, keeping to the quiet byways shaded by overhanging grapevines and fig trees. After walking awhile, Brendan said, “As a physicist you will be familiar with Schrödinger and his famous cat.”
“The unfortunate animal that is both dead and alive at the same time—in limbo awaiting its fate—depending on who is peeking into the box, or when, or maybe both,” answered Tony.
“The very cat.”
“I assume you know that Herr Schrödinger proposed that thought problem to ridicule the core theories of quantum mechanics?” observed Tony. “He was upset about the uncertainty principle, among other things, and wanted to point out how utterly absurd it all was.”
“Yes, and like a lot of other ridiculous notions it came closer to describing what might actually be happening than its more serious rivals. That poor cat got sucked into the black hole of quantum theory and has been trapped there ever since.”
Tony laughed. “Black hole. I like that.”
They passed tiny shops selling bread and others selling spices, or olives, or soap, or vegetables. Housewives in colourful scarves and drab chin-to-ankle robes carried their shopping in hessian bags bulging with yellow peppers, pomegranates, or greens; one or two, with both hands full, carried stacks of flatbread on their heads. The scent of cumin and oregano drifted from the carefully tended mounds arrayed before the spice merchant’s shop.
“For the theory we are constructing, let us suppose that Schrödinger was right about what has become known as the Observer Effect—that human beings somehow influence the outcome of certain interactions simply by their participation—but on a scale far greater than he or anyone else has yet imagined.”
“On the cosmic scale,” Tony guessed. His supple mind ran ahead to possible conclusions. “Are you suggesting that in certain circumstances, human beings create the reality they observe? That idea has been kicking around for some time—as a philosophical speculation.”
“I am suggesting that, yes, but I want to push the old idea a bit further. What if, through our participation, we not only create the reality we observe . . . we also create an alternate reality that we do not observe?”
“Again, an old chestnut. We used to throw it around in under-grad physics classes. It’s the idea that gives rise to the multiverse theory—that for any given event where the outcome could go any of a number of different ways, they all spring into existence. Flip a coin, for example—in one universe the coin lands heads, in another it lands tails. Both things happen.”
“When you look in Herr Schrödinger’s box to check on your tabby you find it dead in one world—yet in the alternate world you will find it very much alive. Both things happen, yes.” Brendan paused and stopped walking. Tony stopped to face him. “But now,” he continued, “there are two different worlds—both very much alike in many ways, but slightly different because in one, Schrödinger’s much-put-upon moggy is dead, and in the other the creature is still alive and purring.”
“I think I see where this is going.”
“I’m sure you do,” agreed Brendan. “If you extend the model to include every human being on the planet—where each and every decision, each and every possible outcome to those decisions brings a new world or dimension, or even a new universe into existence—”
“You have exponential expansion,” Tony finished the thought. “With the creation of each new dimension, the universe itself must expand to contain it.”
“The more conscious human agents on earth, the more decisions being made, the greater the expansion and the faster it expands. But not only that, in each of those new dimensions people will be making decisions that bring other new dimensions, new worlds, new universes, into existence”—his hand described an airy circle—“and so on and so on and so on.”
“Faster and faster,” concluded Tony. “Resulting in the ever-increasing acceleration of the expansion of the observed universe.”
“Human consciousness is the dark energy driving the expansion of the universe.”
Tony was already nodding. “I like it. Intellectually, it is a stimulating idea. As a hypothesis it might win some adherents. But for it to become a genuine theory, it must have parameters that can be tested.” He glanced at Brendan, who was smiling at him. “What?”
“You are so much like your daughter.”
“Or the other way around. In any case, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I meant it as one. But yes, for our speculation to become anything more than an intellectual exercise it must be testable, and those tests must produce results that can be replicated.” Brendan started walking again. They passed a coffee shop where men sat smoking hubble-bubble pipes over little cups of bitter black coffee. “T
hat,” he declared, “is where ley lines come in.”
“I’m still with you,” said Tony. Unaccountably, he felt his pulse rate rise on a buzz of excitement. “Do continue.”
“Since we’ve gone this far in our suppositions, let us further suppose that the alternate dimensions created by the interaction of human consciousness with matter are everywhere—scattered throughout space and time.”
“They would be,” granted Tony.
“But some of these dimensions—perhaps the earliest ones, or merely those closest to us—actually intersect our world. Where two dimensions intersect, they form a line, an electromagnetic line of force on the landscape. These lines are what we call ley lines. Various instruments can detect them, and people sensitive to them can feel them. Certain rare individuals can even manipulate them.”
“Using them to travel from one world or dimension to another.” Tony gave a low appreciative whistle. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Brendan, you got there in the end. I don’t mind telling you I was beginning to wonder if you had wandered off into fantasyland, but you brought it home. Bravo!”
“What do you think of it? As a hypothesis at least—what do you think?”
“Intriguing, audacious, quirky—those words come immediately to mind.” Tony shook his head. “But on balance, it is no weirder or more outlandish than many other hypotheses currently making the rounds. And I admit it has more going for it than most.”
“I should hope so,” chuckled Brendan. “It is, after all, my best explanation of how you came to be wandering the byways of Damascus.”
Tony, speechless, nodded as he contemplated the implications of all he had been told. Could it really be true? If it was true, it very well could be the explanation for ley lines . . . and for a whole lot more besides. “Given what I know by my own experience of ley travel—which, for the record, I am still struggling to get my head around,” Tony said, his eyes narrowed in thought, “I am forced to conclude that your hypothesis has what we physicists call legs.”
“In that it accounts for certain observable conditions?”
“In that it carries a higher force of description for certain observable conditions than many rival explanations,” Tony told him. “Moreover, it accounts for those facts in a simpler, more elegant way—if anything about all this could be said to be simple.”
Brendan grinned. “I am deeply relieved to hear you say that.”
“As a theory, I like it,” Tony declared. “Moreover, I want to explore it.” He offered a slightly bemused smile at his own enthusiasm. “Well done, Professor Hanno. There is plenty of meat here to make a meal.”
“Thank you, Dr. Clarke,” replied Brendan. He touched the brim of his Panama hat in salute. “But I did not bring up the topic merely to bend your ear. I have a far more serious motive.”
“Oh? And what would that be?”
“We have been speaking of the expansion of the visible universe—but what if I told you that the universe is no longer expanding?”
“Are you likely to tell me that?”
“I have very recently received evidence that the rate of expansion has slowed overall, and in some quarters may even be reversing.”
“You don’t say,” mused Tony.
Brendan offered a solemn nod.
“I would have to ask you where you obtained this evidence,” said Tony. “It would have to be verified, of course, and I would wonder why no one has detected this before.”
“As you may know, the upgrading of the Jansky VLA telescope—much needed and much delayed—is now complete. I have contacts in New Mexico who have reliably informed me of certain observational data recorded during the recalibration process. At first, these anomalous observations were dismissed as mistakes, interference, or something of the sort. But it is just now beginning to appear that those initial readings are not mistakes at all, that something very strange is going on at the farthest reaches of the universe—”
“The expansion is slowing . . .” Tony mused. “That’s what they’re saying?” He ran a hand through his hair. “I know some of those guys at the VLA. I could call them and verify everything you’ve said. We could get the latest data.”
“It is a possibility. But assuming that their calculations did confirm all I’ve told you and that everything I’ve said is true?”
Tony regarded him for a lingering moment before answering. “If what you say is true,” he replied at last, “then I would say we have a problem. A very . . . big . . . problem.”
CHAPTER 20
In Which Unwanted Attention Is Aroused
Half a league! Closing fast, Captain,” called First Mate Garland, his voice falling from the upper rigging in sharp staccato blasts.
Lord Burleigh cupped his hands around his eyes and gazed into the too-bright sky. He could make out the silhouette of a man high up in the dizzying tangle of ropes and cables that spread like a web from the top of the mast. The white expanse of canvas billowed, full-bellied, before a good wind driving them towards the dark eminence of land on the horizon. The course was set for the Gibraltar Strait, the mouth of which they had hoped to clear before the evening tide flow made navigating more dangerous.
Many ships, arriving too late to chance passage in the dark, chose to wait in the Atlantic overnight—which made the region a prime location for pirates to ply their vile vocation. This was what had Captain Farrell and his crew muttering oaths and maledictions under their beards.
The Percheron was a tight and ready ship, but fast she was not. She rode too heavily in the water and carried only one mast, which limited the amount of canvas she could raise. In short, she was a sturdy, well-bred workhorse, not a racer: robust, resilient, handsome in her own way, but no one would ever call her sleek or fleet of foot.
“This is most worrisome, sir,” Farrell told him when Burleigh joined the captain in the wheelhouse a few moments later. “I own that I am deeply concerned.”
“And the nature of your disquiet, Captain?” inquired Burleigh.
“I ween that schooner abaft is following us with malicious intent. That is my apprehension.”
“Is it not just as likely they are merchantmen making for the strait and just as eager to reach it before nightfall as are we ourselves?”
“Aye, the possibility has occurred to me,” allowed Farrell. He tapped his pipe against a wheel peg and then put it back into his mouth. “Indeed, sir, it is greatly to be wished. And if we were in friendlier waters, I would not feel that sentiment ill placed.”
Burleigh heard the unspoken qualification in the seaman’s voice. “However?” he asked.
“We best be on our guard, sir. That’s all as needs sayin’ as of this present moment.”
“Your concern is duly noted, Mr. Farrell.” The earl cast a last glance over his shoulder at the white speck that was the trailing schooner. “Unless you require my presence, I will be in my cabin. Please do not hesitate to summon me should the situation alter.”
The seaman raised his hand and touched his temple with a knuckle in the traditional seaman’s salute. Burleigh went down the steps of the aft companionway to his chamber where he pulled off his boots, stretched out on his bed, and was soon sleeping the sleep of the dead. When he awoke some hours later, he returned to the quarterdeck to see that the sun was lower in the west and the dark smudge off port side had grown to a sizable mass. Burleigh detected a faint, earthy smell of land on the wind. The mystery ship on their tail was now much closer.
“How do we fare, Captain?”
“Here you are! Saves me sendin’ for to fetch you, sir.”
“The other ship is very much closer, I see.” Burleigh cast a sideways glance behind him.
“Aye, she is,” agreed the seaman. “Can’t be helped. We are spankin’ along smartly enough, but yon schooner is a fast gull and that’s a fact. Observe, sir, she flies no colour.”
Burleigh was growing increasingly familiar with nautical slang. Colour meant flags in general, but could mean house flags,
commission flags, or any of a variety of signal flags. No flags meant the ship could not be identified—always a bad sign. His lordship looked at the land looming ahead and at the ship behind, gauging the distance either way. The Percheron seemed to be poised roughly halfway between the two.
“The nearest port is Cape Trafalgar,” continued Farrell, pointing to a small pale smudge of grey on the green coast showing on the horizon. “If we carried more sail, we might make the harbour in style. As it is, ’twill be a close-run race. That said, if they see us making for Trafalgar, that alone may be enough to convince them to keep their distance.” He clamped the unlit pipe between his teeth. “The harbour guns, you see.”
“Do your best, Captain,” Burleigh told him. He went to the stern rail and stood for a time, observing the schooner. With twin masts, the schooner carried twice as much canvas as his brigantine. Low in the water, its sharp prow seemed not so much to cleave the waves as to bound over them, riding the swell and gaining with every surge.
He stood at the stern, pounding the rail with a fist, a sense of helplessness growing with every passing minute. Restless, he returned to his cabin for a drink, and when that failed to calm his nerves, he marched back up to the wheelhouse. “How soon before they overtake us?” he demanded.
“Not long now,” replied Farrell. “Half a glass or so—if that. But we’ll know her intentions sooner still.”
“How so?”
He pointed to the hourglass in its stand beside the wheel. “We’ll fall within reach of her guns before that glass is turned.”
“Not long, then,” surmised Burleigh.
“Not long, sir, no.” The sailor gave a nod to the schooner and said, “When you can see the faces of the men at the rail, that is when you worry. Until then, ’tis a waste of ball and powder.”
“What should we do? Break out the arms?”
“Aye, sir, if it should come to that,” replied Farrell. “My seadogs know what to do. I’ll have Mr. Garland tell the crew to stand to stations.”