“So,” said Suur Asquin, “they too learned to make newmatter or—”
“Or they came from different cosmi,” Fraa Paphlagon said. “Which makes a Plurality of Worlds Messal seem awfully relevant to me.”
“This is bizarre—fantastical!” said a reedy voice with a heavy and strange accent. No one’s lips were moving that we could see, so, by process of elimination, we turned to the Matarrhite, who was chalked up on the bell-board as one Zh’vaern, with no “Fraa” or “Suur” to give a clue as to sex. Zh’vaern turned slightly in his seat—I was guessing male, from the voice—and made a gesture. His servitor, a column of black fabric, loomed forward, grew a pseudopod, and took his plate—to the visible relief of those seated to either side. “I can hardly believe we are talking about a possibility so inconceivable as that other universes exist—and that the Geometers originate there!”
In this, Zh’vaern seemed to speak for the entire table.
Except for Jad. “The words fail. There is one universe, by the definition of universe. It is not the cosmos we see through our eyes and our telescopes—that is but a single Narrative, a thread winding through a Hemn space shared by many other Narratives besides ours. Each Narrative looks like a cosmos alone, to any consciousness that partakes of it. The Geometers came from other Narratives—until they came here, and joined ours.”
Having dropped this bomb, Fraa Jad excused himself, and went to the toilet.
“What on earth is he going on about?” Fraa Lodoghir demanded. “It sounded like literary criticism!” But he did not speak scornfully; he was fascinated.
“So perhaps this messal has already turned into what its detractors claim of it,” said Ignetha Foral. And having issued that challenge, she turned toward the topic of the research she had performed, years ago, as a Unarian.
Paphlagon was in his seventh decade, impressive-looking rather than handsome, no doubt accustomed to being the most senior, the most eminent person in any given room. He was sitting there with a trim, wry smile, staring at the center of the table—resigning himself, with all good humor, to being Fraa Jad’s interpreter. “Fraa Jad,” he said, “speaks of Hemn space. It’s probably just as well he broached the subject early. Hemn space, or configuration space, is how almost all theors think about the world. During the Praxic Age, it became obvious that it was a better place for us to go about our work, so we decamped, left three-dimensional Adrakhonic space behind, and moved there. When you talk of parallel universes, you make as little sense to Fraa Jad as he does to you.”
“Perhaps you can say a few words, then, about Hemn space, if it is so important,” suggested Ignetha Foral.
Paphlagon got that wry look again, and sighed. “Madame Secretary, I am trying to think of a way to sum it up that will not turn this messal into a year-long theorics suvin.”
And he gamely launched into a primer on Hemn space. He learned to look to Suur Moyra whenever he got stuck for a way of explaining some abstruse concept. More often than not, she was able to drag him out of trouble. She’d already shown herself to be good company. And the vast stock of knowledge that she, as a Lorite, carried around in her head made her good at explaining things; she could always reach back to a useful analogy or clear line of argument that some fraa or suur had written down in the more or less distant past.
I got yanked in the middle of it and, going back to the kitchen, found Emman Beldo on the other end of the rope. Zh’vaern’s servitor was standing at the stove, stirring the mystery pot, and so Emman and I wordlessly agreed to retreat to the other end of the kitchen, near the open door to the garden. “What the hell are we talking about here?” Emman wanted to know. “Is this some kind of ‘travel through the fourth dimension’ scenario?”
“Oh, it’s good that you asked,” I said, “because it is precisely not that—Hemn space is anything but. You’re talking about the old thing where a bunch of separate three-dimensional universes are stacked on top of each other, like leaves in a book, and you can move between them—”
Emman was nodding. “By figuring out some way to move through the fourth spatial dimension. But this Hemn space thing is something else?”
“In Hemn space, any point—which means any string of N numbers, where N is how many dimensions the Hemn space has—contains all the information needed to specify everything that can possibly be known about the system at a given moment.”
“What system?”
“Whatever system the Hemn space describes,” I said.
“Oh, I see,” he said, “you’re allowed to set up a Hemn space—”
“Any time you feel like it,” I said, “to describe the states of any system you are interested in studying. When you are a fid, and your teacher sets a problem for you, your first step is always to set up the Hemn space appropriate to that problem.”
“So what is the Hemn space that Jad’s referring to, then?” Emman asked. “What is the system that his Hemn space gives all of the possible states of?”
“The cosmos,” I said.
“Oh!”
“Which, to him, is one possible track through an absurdly gigantic Hemn space. But that very same Hemn space can have points in it that do not lie on the track that is the history of our cosmos.”
“But they’re perfectly legitimate points?”
“A few of them are—a tiny few, actually—but in a space so huge, ‘a few’ can be enough to make many whole universes.”
“What about the other points? I mean the ones that aren’t legitimate?”
“They describe situations that are incoherent somehow.”
“A block of ice in the middle of a star,” Arsibalt suggested.
“Yes,” I said, “there is a point somewhere in Hemn space that describes a whole cosmos similar to ours, except that, somewhere in that cosmos, there’s a block of ice in the middle of a star. But that situation is impossible.”
Arsibalt translated, “There’s no past history that could make it happen, so it can’t be accessed by a plausible worldtrack.”
“But if you can suppress your curiosity about those for a moment,” I said to Emman, “the point I was getting at was that you can string the legitimate points—ones not visited by our worldtrack, but that make sense—into other worldtracks that make as much sense as ours.”
“But they’re not real,” Emman said, “or are they?”
I balked.
Arsibalt said, “That is a rather profound question of metatheorics. All of the points in Hemn space are equally real—just as all possible (x, y, z) values are equally real—since they are nothing more than lists of numbers. So what is it that imbues one set of those points—one worldtrack—with what we call realness?”
Suur Tris had been clearing her throat, more and more loudly, the last few minutes, and now graduated to throwing things at us. To this was added the jingling of several bells. It was time to bring out the main course; other servitors had been picking up the slack for me and Emman. So we got very busy for a while. Several minutes later, the fourteen were all back in their formal positions, doyns at the table waiting for Suur Asquin to pick up her fork, servitors standing behind them.
Suur Asquin said, “I believe we have all decided—albeit with some reservations—to move over into Hemn space with Fraa Jad. And according to what we hear of it from Fraa Paphlagon and Suur Moyra, there should be no lack of room for us there!” All the doyns laughed dutifully. Barb snorted. Arsibalt and I rolled our eyes. Barb was clearly dying to plane Suur Asquin by explaining, in excruciating, dinner-wrecking detail, just how colossal the configuration space of the universe really was, complete with estimates of how many zeroes it would take to write down the number of states it could describe, how far said string of digits would extend, et cetera, but Arsibalt raised a hand, threatening to rest it on his shoulder: steady, now. Suur Asquin began to eat, and the others followed her lead. There was a little interlude during which some of the doyns (not Lodoghir) made the requisite comments on how tasty the food was. Then
Suur Asquin continued, “But looking back on our discussion, I find myself puzzled by a remark that Fraa Paphlagon made before the topic of Hemn space was mentioned, concerning the different kinds of matter. Fraa Paphlagon, I believe you were citing this as evidence that the Geometers all came from different cosmi—or, to use Fraa Jad’s term, different Narratives.”
“A somewhat more conventional term would be worldtracks,” Suur Moyra put in. “Use of Narrative is somewhat—well—loaded.”
“You’re speaking my language now!” said Lodoghir, clearly delighted. “Who besides Fraa Jad uses Narrative, and what do they really mean by it?”
“It is rare,” Moyra said, “and it is associated, in some people’s minds, with the Lineage.”
Fraa Jad appeared to be ignoring all of this.
“Terminology aside,” Suur Asquin went on—a little brusquely—“what I don’t quite understand is how it all fits together—what is the link that you see between the fact of the different kinds of matter, and the worldtracks?”
Paphlagon said, “The cosmogonic processes that lead to the creation of the stuff we are made of—the creation of protons and other matter, their clumping together to make stars, and the resulting nucleosynthesis—all seem to depend on the values of certain physical constants. The most familiar example is the speed of light, but there are several others—about twenty in all. Theors used to spend a lot of time measuring their precise values, back when we were allowed to have the necessary equipment. If these numbers had different values, the cosmos as we know it would not have come into being; it would just be an infinite cloud of cold dark gas or one big black hole or something else quite simple and dull. If you think of these constants of nature as knobs on the control panel of a machine, well, the knobs all have to be set in just the right positions or—”
Again Paphlagon looked to Moyra, who seemed ready: “Suur Demula likened it to a safe with a combination lock, the combination being about twenty numbers long.”
“If I follow Demula’s analogy,” said Zh’vaern, “each of those twenty numbers is the value of one of those constants of nature, such as the speed of light.”
“That is right. If you dial twenty numbers at random you never get the safe open; it is nothing more to you than an inert cube of iron. Even if you dial nineteen numbers correctly and get the other one wrong—nothing. You must get all of them correct. Then the door opens and out spills all of the complexity and beauty of the cosmos.”
“Another analogy,” Moyra continued, after a sip of water, “was developed by Saunt Conderline, who likened all of the sets of values of those twenty constants that don’t produce complexity to an ocean a thousand miles wide and deep. The sets that do, are like an oil sheen, no wider than a leaf, floating on the top of that ocean: an exquisitely thin layer of possibilities that yield solid, stable matter suitable for making universes with living things in them.”
“I favor Conderline’s analogy,” said Paphlagon. “The various life-supporting cosmi are different places on that oil-sheen. What the inventors of newmatter did was to devise ways to move around, just a little, to neighboring points on that oil-sheen, where matter had slightly different properties. Most of the newmatter they created was different from, but not really better than, naturally occurring matter. After a lot of patient toil, they were able to slide around to nearby regions of the oil-sheen where matter was better, more useful, than what nature has provided us. And I believe that Fraa Erasmas, here, already has an opinion on what the Geometers are made of.”
So unready was I to hear my name called that I didn’t even move for several seconds. Fraa Paphlagon was looking at me. In an effort to jog me out of my stupor, he added: “Your friend Fraa Jesry was kind enough to share your observations concerning the parachute.”
“Yes,” I said, and discovered that my throat needed clearing. “It was nothing special. Not as good as newmatter.”
“If the Geometers had learned the art of making newmatter,” Paphlagon translated, “they’d have made a better parachute.”
“Or come up with a way to land the probe that was not so ridiculously primitive!” Barb sang out, drawing glares from the doyns. His name hadn’t been called.
“Fraa Tavener makes an excellent point,” said Fraa Jad, defusing the situation. “Perhaps he shall have more of interest to say later—when called upon.”
“The point being, I take it,” said Ignetha Foral, “that the Geometers—the four groups of them, I should say—each use whatever kind of matter is natural in the cosmos where they originated.”
“The four have been given provisional names,” announced Zh’vaern. “Antarcts, Pangees, Diasps, and Quators.”
This was the first and probably the last time Zh’vaern was going to get a laugh out of the table.
“They all sound vaguely geographical,” said Suur Asquin, “but—?”
“Four planets are depicted on their ship,” Zh’vaern continued. “This is clearly visible on Saunt Orolo’s Phototype. A planet is depicted on each of the four vials of blood that came in the probe. People have given them informal names inspired by their geographical peculiarities.”
“So—let me guess—Pangee has one large continent?” asked Suur Asquin.
“Diasp a lot of islands, obviously,” put in Lodoghir.
“On Quator, most of the landmasses are at low latitude,” Zh’vaern said, “and Antarct’s most unusual feature is a big ice continent at the South Pole.” Then, perhaps anticipating another correction from Barb, he added: “Or whichever pole is situated at the bottom of the picture.”
Barb snorted.
If Fraa Zh’vaern seemed strangely well-informed for a member of a fanatically reclusive sect of Deolaters who’d only arrived at the Convox a few hours ago, it was because he had attended the same briefing as I had: a meeting in a chalk hall where a succession of fraas and suurs had gotten the Inbrase groups up to speed on diverse topics. Or (taking the more cynical view) fed us what some hierarchs wanted us to know. I was only beginning to get a feel for how real information diffused through the Convox.
This touched off a few minutes of banter, which made me impatient until I saw that Moyra and Paphlagon were using it as an opportunity to catch up with the others in cleaning their plates. Some of the servitors went back to the kitchen to look after dessert. It wasn’t until we began to clear away the dinner plates that the conversation paused, and Suur Asquin, after an exchange of glances with Ignetha Foral, hemmed into her napkin and said: “Well. What I have collected, from what we heard a few minutes ago, is that none of the four Geometer races has invented newmatter—”
“Or wishes us to know that they have,” Lodoghir put in.
“Yes, quite…but in any case, each of the four has originated from a cosmos, or a Narrative, or a worldtrack where the constants of nature are ever so slightly different from what they are here.”
No one objected.
Ignetha Foral said, “That to me seems like an almost incredibly strange and remarkable finding, and I don’t understand why we haven’t heard more of it!”
“The results of the tests were not definitive until today’s Laboratorium,” Zh’vaern said.
“This messal seems to have been thrown together immediately afterwards—actually during Inbrase, as a matter of fact,” said Lodoghir.
“There were some who had inklings of these results a day or two ago, in Lucub,” said Paphlagon.
“Then we ought to have been made aware of it a day or two ago,” said Ignetha Foral.
“It is in the nature of Lucub work that it does not get talked about as readily as what is done in Laboratorium,” Suur Asquin pointed out, deftly playing her role as social facilitator, smoother-out of awkward bits. Jad looked at her as if she were a speed bump stretching across the road in front of his mobe.
“But there is another reason, which Madame Secretary might look on a little more benignly,” said Suur Moyra. “The predominant hypothesis, until this morning, was that the propu
lsion system used by the Geometers to travel between star systems had changed their matter somehow.”
“Changed their matter?”
“Yes. Locally altered the laws and constants of nature.”
“Is that plausible?”
“Such a propulsion device was envisioned two thousand years ago, right here at Tredegarh,” Moyra said. “I brought it up last week. The idea gained currency for a few days. So, you see, it is all my fault.”
“The idea would not have gained currency,” Fraa Jad announced, “but for that many were unsettled, disturbed by talk of other Narratives. They longed for an explanation that would not force them to learn a new way of thinking, and forgot the Rake.”
“Most eloquent, Fraa Jad,” said my doyn. “A fine example of the hidden currents that so often drive what pretends to be rational theoric discourse.”
Fraa Jad fixed Lodoghir with a look that was hard to read—but not what you’d call warm.
I got yanked. I’d learned to recognize Emman’s touch on the rope. Sure enough, he was waiting for me when I entered the kitchen. “The first thing Madame Secretary will say to me in the mobe on her way home is that I have to find my way into the right Lucub.”
“You yanked the wrong guy then,” I said, “I just got out of quarantine this morning.”
“That’s why you’re perfect: you’re going to be in the market.”
The picture, as I’d pieced it together, was that mornings (ante Provener) were spent in Laboratorium. I would go to a specific place and work on a given job with others who’d been similarly assigned. Post Provener, but before Messal, was a part of the day called Periklyne, when people mixed and mingled and exchanged information (such as Laboratorium results) that could be further sorted and propagated in the messals. After Messal was Lucub—burning the midnight oil. Everyone was saying there was going to be a lot of Lucub activity tonight because so much of the workday had been wiped out by the Inbrase and the Plenary. Lucub tended to be where the action was anyway. Everyone here wanted to get things done, but many felt that the structure of Laboratorium, Messal, and so on was only getting in their way. Lucub was a way for them to exercise a little initiative. You might be working with a bunch of lunkheads all morning, the hierarchs might have assigned you to a real snoozer of a messal, but during Lucub you could do what you wanted.