When you turn this page, for example, you rub your index finger on the cellulose of the paper. The contact generates an infinitesimal, but very real, quantity of heat. In the context of the infinitely small, this heat causes an electron to jump from its atom and collide with another particle.
But this second particle is in fact so huge in comparison with the electron that the shock of collision changes it completely. Before, it was cold, empty and inert. When you turn the page, it undergoes a crisis. It is shot through with gigantic sparks. The simple gesture sets off a chain of events with unknown consequences. Worlds may be born and there may be people on them. These people may discover metallurgy, Provencal cooking and interstellar voyages. They may even turn out to be more intelligent than us. Yet they would never have existed if you had not held this book in your hands and your finger had not produced heat at that exact spot on the paper. Similarly, our universe also has a place in the corner of the page of a book or on the sole of a shoe or the froth on a glass of beer of some giant civilization.
Our generation will probably never know for sure. But what we do know is that, a long time ago, our universe, or in any case the particle that contained our universe, was cold, empty, black and still. And then someone or something caused a crisis. Someone turned a page, stepped on a stone or scraped the froth off a glass of beer. Whatever the event, it was traumatic. Our particle woke up. In our case, we know there was a gigantic explosion, which we call the Big Bang.
Every second, in the infinitely big, the infinitely small and the infinitely distant, a universe is perhaps being born, just as ours was born over fifteen billion years ago. We do not know the others. But as far as ours is concerned, we know that it began with the explosion of the 'smallest', 'simplest' atom, hydrogen. Imagine vast silent space suddenly woken by a titanic deflagration. Why did someone up there turn the page? Why did they scrape the froth off the beer? It doesn't really matter. The fact remains that hydrogen burnt, exploded and grilled. An immense light flashed through immaculate space. It was a time of crisis. Things that were still began to move. Things that were cold grew hot. Things that were silent hummed.
In the initial furnace, hydrogen was transformed into helium, an atom scarcely more complex. But we can already deduce from this transformation the first great rule of our universe, more and more complex.
This rule seems obvious. But there is nothing to prove that it applies in other universes. Elsewhere, the rule may be hotter and hotter, harder and harder or funnier and funnier.
Things get hotter here, too, and harder and funnier but that is not the initial law, just by the way. Our basic law, the one around which all others are organized, is more and more complex.
Edmond Wells
Encyclopedia of Relative and Absolute Knowledge
The 327th male was wandering about in the city's southern corridors. He had not calmed down. He kept chewing over the famous saying:
I was the exploring leg
I was the eye on the spot
Now I'm home,
I’m the nerve stimulus.
Why wouldn't it work? Where was he going wrong? His body was seething with the unprocessed information. For him, the Tribe had been wounded and had not even noticed. He was the pain stimulus, so it was up to him to make the city react.
Oh, how hard it was to bear a message of suffering and keep it inside oneself, unable to find a single antenna willing to receive it. He would so like to have unburdened himself and shared the terrible knowledge with others.
A thermal messenger ant passed close by. Sensing his depression, she thought he was not properly awake and offered him her solar calories. It put a little strength back into him, which he immediately used to try and convince her.
To arms! An expedition has been ambushed and destroyed by the dwarves. To arms!
But it no longer even sounded like the truth. The thermal messenger went on her way as if nothing were amiss. 327th did not give up. He ran along the corridors giving out his alarm message.
Warriors sometimes stopped to listen, and even went as far as to talk to him, but his tale of a devastating weapon was so incredible that no group capable of taking charge of a military mission formed.
He walked on, downcast.
Suddenly, as he was making his way along a deserted tunnel on the fourth floor of the basement, he heard a sound behind him. Someone was following him.
The 327th male turned round. He inspected the corridor with his infrared simple eyes but saw only red and black spots. There was no-one there. How strange. He must have been mistaken. But again he heard footsteps behind him. Scritch. . . tssss, scritch . . . tssss. It was someone who was limping on two of his six legs and getting nearer.
Just to make sure, he turned off each time he came to a crossroads, then paused. The sound stopped. As soon as he set off again, the scritch . . . tss, scritch . . . tss, scritch . . . tss, started again.
There was no doubt about it. Someone was following him.
Someone who hid when he turned round. Such strange behaviour was quite unprecedented. Why would one Tribe cell follow another without making itself known? They had nothing to hide from one another.
The 'presence' nevertheless persisted, always at a distance, always hidden. Scritch . . . tss, scritch . . . tss. How should he respond? While he was still a larva, the nurses had taught him he must always face up to danger. He stopped and pretended to wash. The presence was not far away now. He could almost smell it. As he mimed the gestures of washing, he moved his antennae and detected the scent molecules of his pursuer. It was a small, one-year-old warrior. She was giving off a strange scent that masked her usual ID and was not easy to define, like the smell of rock.
The small warrior had stopped hiding. Scritch . . . tssss . . scritch . . . tssss . . . He could see her now by infrared. She did indeed have two legs missing and the smell of rock was getting stronger.
He emitted.
Who's there?
There was no reply.
Why are you following me?
Still no reply.
He tried to put the incident out of his mind and set off again but soon detected a second presence coming the other way. A fat warrior this time. The gallery was narrow and he would not be able to get by.
Should he turn round? That would mean confronting the ant with the limp, who was catching up with him fast. He was cornered.
He could now sense that both ants were warriors and that both smelt of rock. The fat one opened her long shears. It was a trap.
It was unthinkable that one ant from the city should wish to kill another. Could the immune system have gone haywire? Had they not recognized his identification scents? Did they take him for a foreign body? It was quite insane, as if his stomach had decided to assassinate his intestines.
The 327th male increased the strength of his emissions:
Fm a Tribe cell like you. We belong to the same organism.
The soldiers were young and must be mistaken. But his chemical message failed to appease them. The small lame ant jumped on his back and held him by the wings, while the fat one squeezed his head between her mandibles. They dragged him off towards the rubbish heap under restraint.
The 327th male struggled to get free. With his sexual dialogue segment, he emitted a whole range of emotions quite unknown to asexual ants, ranging from incomprehension to panic.
To avoid being sullied by these 'abstract ideas', the ant with the limp, still clinging to his mesonotum, scraped his antennae with her mandibles. With this gesture, she removed all his pheromones, and in particular his passport scents. They would not be of much use to him where he was going anyway.
The sinister trio made its way breathlessly along little-used corridors, the small lame ant continuing her methodical cleaning as if anxious to leave no trace of information on 327th’s head. The male had stopped struggling. He had resigned himself to his fate and was preparing to die by slowing down his heartbeats.
'Why so much violence and h
atred, brothers? Why? We are all one, children of the Earth and of God. Let us cease now our vain disputes. The twenty-second century will be a spiritual one, or will not be at all. Let us abandon our old quarrels based on pride and duplicity.
'Individualism is our true enemy. If a brother is in need and you allow him to die of hunger, you are no longer worthy of belonging to the world. If a lost soul asks you for help and you close the door in his face, you are not one of us.
'I know you with your nice, cosy consciences. You think of nothing but your own comfort, you want only individual glory. Happiness, yes, but only your own and that of your nearest and dearest.
'I know you, I tell you. You, you, you and you. You needn't sit there smiling in front of your screens, I'm talking to you about serious matters. I'm talking to you about the future of the human race. Things can't go on like this. Our present way of life is senseless. We are wasting and destroying everything. Forests are being flattened to make disposable handkerchiefs. Everything has become disposable: tableware, pens, clothes, cameras and cars and, without noticing it, you too are becoming disposable. Give up this superficial way of life. Give it up today, before you're forced to tomorrow.
'Come and join the army of the faithful. We're all the soldiers of God, brothers.'
A presenter's face appeared on the screen. 'The programme you have just seen was brought to you by Father MacDonald of the New Forty-fifth Day Adventist Church and Sweetmilk Frozen Foods. It was broadcast by satellite in globovision. After the break, you can see our science-fiction series, Extraterrestrial and proud of it!
Unlike Nicolas, Lucie could not switch off her thoughts by watching television. Jonathan had been down there for eight hours now and there was still no sign of him.
She reached for the telephone. He had told her not to do anything but what if he had been killed or trapped by falling rocks?
She still could not summon up the courage to go down. She picked up the telephone and dialled 999.
'Hello, police?'
'I told you not to call them,' said a weak, expressionless voice from the kitchen. 'Dad, Dad!'
She slammed down the receiver, cutting off the voice repeating 'Hello, are you there? Tell us your address.'
'Yes, it really is me. There was no need to worry. I told you to wait patiently'
No need to worry? He must be joking!
Not only was Jonathan clasping Ouarzazate's bloody remains in his arms but he himself was transfigured. He did not seem scared or overcome and even had a kind of smile on his face. No, it wasn't exactly a smile. She couldn't put her finger on it. It was as though he had aged or was ill. His eyes were feverish and his skin livid, he was trembling and he seemed out of breath.
When he saw his dog's tortured body, Nicolas burst into tears. It looked as though the poor poodle had been lacerated by hundreds of little razor cuts.
They laid him on some newspaper.
Nicolas cried his eyes out over his lost companion. It was all over. Never again would he see Ouarzi jump against the wall when someone said the word 'cat'. Never again would he see him open door handles with a joyful bound. Never again would he save him from big Alsatians.
Ouarzazate was no more.
'Tomorrow we'll take him to the pets' cemetery,' conceded Jonathan. 'We'll buy him a F4,500 grave. You know, one we can put his photo on.'
'Oh, yes! Oh, yes!' said Nicolas between sobs. 'That's the least he deserves.'
'And then we'll go to the RSPCA and you can choose another dog. Why not have a Maltese this time? They're nice little things, too.'
Lucie still could not get over it. She did not know which question to ask first. Why had he taken so long? What had happened to the dog? What had happened to him? Did he want something to eat? Had he thought how worried they must be?
'What's down there?' she finally asked in a flat voice.
'There isn't anything.'
'But look at the state you're in. And the dog. He looks as if he's fallen into an electric mincer. What happened to him?'
Jonathan passed a dirty hand over his forehead.
'The solicitor was right. The place is full of rats. Ouarzazate got torn to pieces by angry rats.'
'What about you?'
He gave a nervous laugh.
'I'm a bigger animal. I frightened them.'
'It's incredible. What were you doing down there for eight hours? What's at the bottom of that damn cellar?' she flared.
'I don't know what's at the bottom. I didn't get there.'
'You didn't get to the bottom?'
'No, it's very, very deep.'
'You didn't get to the bottom of. . . of our cellar in eight hours?'
'No. I stopped when I saw the dog. There was blood everywhere. Ouarzazate fought tooth and nail. It's incredible such a small dog managed to hold out for so long.'
'Where did you stop, then? Halfway down?'
'Who knows? I couldn't go on any longer. I was afraid, too. You know I can't stand the dark and hate violence. Anyone would have stopped in my place. You can't go on into the unknown indefinitely. And then I thought of you two. You don't know what it's like. It's so dark. Dark as the grave.'
As he finished speaking, a kind of nervous twitch tugged at the left corner of his mouth. She had never seen him in such a state. She realized she must not overwhelm him with any more questions. She put an arm round him and kissed his cold lips.
'It's all right. It's over now. We'll seal the door and never
mention it again.' He started back.
'No, it isn't over. I let myself be stopped by all that blood. Anyone would have stopped. Violence is always frightening even when it's aimed at animals. But I can't give up now when I may be so close to the goal.'
'You're not going to tell me you want to go back down there!'
'Yes, I am. Edmond got through and so will I.'
'Edmond? Your Uncle Edmond?'
'He did something down there and I want to know what.' Lucie stifled a groan.
'Please, if you love Nicolas and me, don't go down again.'
'I haven't any choice.'
His mouth twitched some more.
'I've always done things by halves. I've always stopped when common sense told me it was dangerous to go on. And look what I've become. A man who's played safe and ended up a failure. By only ever going halfway, I've never got to the bottom of things. I should have stayed a locksmith and let myself get mugged, never mind the bruises. At least I'd have learnt how to handle violence. Instead, I know about as much as a new-born baby'
'You're talking nonsense.'
'No, I'm not. I can't wrap myself up in cotton wool for ever. This cellar's a chance for me to dive in at the deep end. If I don't, I'll never dare look at myself in the mirror again. I'd only see a coward looking back at me. Anyway, you're the one who made me go down there, remember.'
He took off his blood-stained shirt.
'There's no point in going on about it. My mind's made up.' 'All right then, I'm coming with you,' she declared, grabbing hold of the torch.
'No, you're staying here.'
He had seized her firmly by the wrists.
'Let go of me. What's got into you?'
'I'm sorry, but you must try and understand. The cellar's no-one's concern but mine. It's something I have to do. And I don't want anyone interfering, do you hear?'
Behind them, Nicolas was still crying over Ouarzazate's dead body. Jonathan let go of Lucie's wrists and went over to his son. 'Buck up, Nick.'
'I'm fed up. Ouarzi's dead and all you can do is argue.'
Jonathan thought of a way to distract him. He opened a box of matches, took out six and put them on the table.
'Look, I'll show you a puzzle. It's possible to make four equilateral triangles out of these six matches. Have a go. I bet you can do it.'
Surprised, the boy sniffed hard and dried his eyes. He immediately started arranging the matches in various ways.
'Here's a piece of advice for you. You
have to think differently if you want to find the solution. If you think about it in the usual way, you won't get anywhere.'
Nicolas managed to make three triangles. Not four. He looked up at his father, blinking his big, blue eyes.
'Have you found out how to do it, Dad?'
'Not yet but I don't think it'll take me much longer.'
Jonathan had soothed his son for the time being but his wife was giving him angry looks. That evening, they had a violent row. But Jonathan would say nothing about the cellar and its mysteries.
The next day, he got up early and spent the morning fitting a steel door with a heavy padlock at the entrance to the cellar. He hung the only key to it round his neck.
Salvation arrived in the unexpected form of an earthquake.
First the walls were shaken by a big lateral tremor. Sand began to cascade down from the ceilings. A second tremor followed almost immediately, then a third and a fourth. Muffled shocks succeeded one another more and more quickly, closer and closer to the strange trio, in an enormous, ceaseless rumbling that made everything vibrate.
Revived by the vibrations, the young male speeded up his heartbeat again, surprised his executioners by lashing out with his mandibles and made off down the collapsed tunnel. He beat his embryonic wings to accelerate his flight and prolong his leaps over rubble.
Each time there was a strong tremor, he had to stop and He flat on the ground until the avalanches of sand had ceased. Whole sections of tunnels came crashing down into other tunnels. Bridges, arches and crypts collapsed, dragging millions of dazed silhouettes down with them.
Priority alarm scents streamed out and spread. In the first phase, the stimulating pheromones filled the upper galleries like mist. All who breathed in the scent immediately began to tremble and run about in all directions, producing pheromones that were even more arousing and causing the panic to snowball.
The alarm cloud spread like fog, gliding into all the veins of the stricken region and from there into the main arteries. The alien object which had infiltrated the Tribe's body had produced the pain toxins the young male had tried in vain to trigger. As a result, the black blood formed by the crowds of Belokanians began to beat faster. Gangs of workers evacuated the eggs near the disaster area and soldiers formed themselves into combat units.