Zig Zag

  Still, despite everything, she felt enthusiastic. She'd gotten up far earlier than necessary, as soon as she saw the light begin to filter in through the glass rectangle on the far wall, and had been astonished when she walked over to the window. It was one thing to know you were on an island, and another thing entirely to see the dark waves crashing violently on the horizon, so close you could almost reach out and touch the water, just beyond the barbed-wire fence, palm trees, and beach.

  She decided to take a shower, and pulled off her T-shirt and underwear without thinking about the peepholes or any other type of surveillance. The bathroom had just enough space so that she could sit on the toilet without banging her knees against the wall, but she didn't care. The water pouring down over her in that tiny, curtainless metal cubicle felt delicious, and it was just the right temperature. She found a towel and dried off. Emerging from the bathroom with her towel, she glanced at the glass peephole: it was dark. She didn't want to be on display, but she also wasn't going to change her routine just because the peephole was there. She threw the towel down somewhere (fuck, where was it?) and unzipped her suitcase to find some clothes.

  That's when she saw the sticker on the headboard. There were several, in fact, and postcards, too. They seemed to have been placed there to give a more homey air to the aluminum rectangle that was her room. She leaned in to examine the most interesting-looking one and then, suddenly, got that weird feeling and saw the eyes at the peephole.

  It was then.

  As she jumped back, her hands flew to cover herself like an affronted damsel.

  And then, for the first time, she had a portent of the evil she was soon to discover.

  "WELCOME to New Nelson, though I imagine you've already heard that."

  She recognized him before he barged in. She'd know those greeny blue eyes anywhere, be it in the middle of the Indian Ocean or the North Pole. The same went for the voice.

  Ric Valente walked in and closed the door. He was wearing a matching green T-shirt and Bermuda shorts that went well together but were nothing like the kind of clothes he normally wore (as if he, too, had been caught off guard by this island location, she thought). He held two small carafes of something steamy. His bony face relaxed into a smile.

  "I asked for a queen-size bed, but they didn't have any left. Still, I'll be happy just to see you like that every morning. By the way, if you're looking for your towel, it's right here on the floor." He pointed to the other side of the bed but made no move to pick it up for her. "Sorry to scare you, but as you know, privacy is prohibited by decree. This is a sex commune; everyone screws everyone. The temperature helps, of course. At night, they turn off the AC." He left the carafes on the desk and took two paper cups and four triangles of cut-up, cellophane-wrapped sandwich from his roomy pockets.

  Standing by the window, still covering herself with her hands, Elisa felt dispirited. Valente was a thorn in the side of her being there. He was the same as ever, with the same interest in humiliating her as ever, and seemed to be in his element, perhaps because he'd made her blush so easily. But she'd known she'd have to see him sooner or later (though she hadn't anticipated being naked when the time came), and she had a lot of things to think about besides whether he'd seen her without her clothes on.

  Sighing, she lowered her hands and walked as casually as possible to where her towel lay. Valente watched, amused. Finally, he nodded, assessing.

  "Not bad, but I'm certainly not prepared to give you a ten, or even four one-hundredths less. Seven, tops. Your body is ... how can I describe it? Too overwhelming, too exuberant. Too glandular, too muscular. And if I were you, I'd definitely do something about that bikini line."

  "Nice to see you, Valente," she replied indifferently, turning her back to him once she had the towel wrapped around her. She kept rummaging through her luggage. "I think there's a meeting at nine thirty."

  "It would be my pleasure to accompany you to it, but I thought you might not want to have breakfast with a bunch of strangers, so I opted to come here and have it just with you. Do you want the ham and cheese, or the chicken sandwich?"

  He was right about breakfast. She was starving, but she had no desire to begin her day by having to greet a bunch of people she didn't know.

  "When did you get here?" she asked, choosing the chicken.

  "Monday." Valente held up the carafes. They were half full of coffee. "Do you take sugar?"

  "No."

  "Me neither. We're equally bitter."

  Elisa had pulled out a tank top and a pair of shorts that, luckily, she'd stuck in her bag for what she thought would be her days off in Switzerland.

  "What is all this about?" she asked. "Do you know?"

  "I told you, it's a sex camp. And we're the guinea pigs."

  "I'm being serious."

  "So am I. We have no privacy, and we're all staring at each other's asses inside some metal cages on a tropical island in the Indian Ocean. Sounds like sex to me. Aside from that, I don't know any more than you. I thought Blanes was in Switzerland, and being brought here was a complete surprise to me. Then I was even more surprised to find out you were coming, too. Now I'm used to surprises. They're just part of island life." He raised his carafe. "To our bet."

  "The bet's off," Elisa said. She sipped her coffee; it was excellent. "We tied."

  "Not on your life. I won. Blanes told me yesterday that your idea about the local time variables is ridiculous, but that you were too hot to leave behind, and I didn't object. And now that I've seen it all, I can say he wasn't mistaken."

  She began scarfing down her sandwich.

  "Would you just shut up and tell me what you know?"

  "All I know is that I know nothing. Or hardly anything." Valente devoured his sandwich in two bites. "I know that I was right all along and that whatever this is, it's a big deal. So big they want to keep it all secret. That's why they wanted people like us, students, unknowns who won't get in their way. Got it, sweetheart? As for the rest of it, I'm guessing this nine thirty meeting will fill in the blanks. But, as God said to King Solomon, what exactly do you want to know?"

  "What do we do with our dirty clothes?"

  "That I can tell you. We wash them ourselves. There's a washing machine, a dryer, and an ironing board in the kitchen. We also have to make our own beds and clean our rooms, wash our dishes, and take turns cooking. And I warn you, the girls have extra duties at night; they have to please the men. Seriously, Blanes's experiment was all about seeing if people could stand married life without losing their minds. You're putting on a bra? Please! All the girls go braless here. We're on an island, sweetheart."

  Paying no attention to him, Elisa went into the bathroom to change.

  "Tell me one thing," she said, zipping up her shorts. "Am I going to have to put up with you the whole time I'm here?"

  "This island is eleven square kilometers including the lake, so don't worry. There's enough room for us to stay out of each other's way."

  She walked back into the room. Ric was lying on the bed, sipping his coffee and watching her.

  "Well, now that my dream of seeing you naked has come true, maybe it's time to own up," he admitted. "Blanes wasn't the one who called me on Sunday. It was Colin Craig, my friend from Oxford. I was his choice. He'd already picked me, though I didn't know it. That's why they were watching me. They were also keeping tabs on you as a probable candidate for Blanes, though he hadn't picked you yet. But after he read your project, he made up his mind." He smiled at her look of surprise. "Yep. Looks like you're Blanes's girl."

  "What?"

  Amused, Valente added, "You were right, sweetheart. The local time variable was key, and we didn't have a clue."

  THE sun and most of the sky were hidden behind huge clouds that resembled bulging sacks of grain. But it wasn't cold, and the air was thick and sticky. The landscape in this new world was fascinating: fine sand, heavy palm trees, a jungle beyond the heliport, and a grayish sea that surrounded everything.
r />   As they walked to the second barracks, Valente explained that New Nelson was horseshoe shaped, open on the south side where the coral reefs were, and enclosed a saltwater lake that was five square kilometers. The island was an atoll. The science station was on the very north tip, on the most solid ground, and between it and the lake lay the jungle they now contemplated.

  "We could go for a hike one day," he added. "There's bamboo, palm trees, even liana. And the butterflies are amazing."

  Walking across the sand, Elisa was overcome by a sort of giddiness she'd never before experienced. And that, despite the barbed-wire fence and the rest of the paraphernalia, which didn't exactly fit in with the natural beauty of the setting: satellite dishes, antennae, makeshift garrison, and helicopters. Right then, she didn't mind the two soldiers who appeared to be on sentry duty, or even Valente's irritating presence, small yet persistently bothersome, like a pimple. She supposed her giddiness emanated from someplace very private, maybe even subconscious. It was like the Garden of Eden. I'm in paradise, she thought to herself.

  That feeling lasted exactly twenty seconds, the time she spent outside.

  As soon as she walked into the second barracks, which was bigger than the other one and full of artificial light, metal walls and glass windows showed a functional dining room. Her paradise evaporated. All that was left was her professional pride, on recalling Valente's words. My solution was right.

  "The science station is also horseshoe shaped, or maybe fork shaped," Valente explained, drawing in the air. "The first barracks is closest to the heliport, and that's where the labs are; the second one is the main artery, and that's where the screening room, dining room, and kitchen—with a trapdoor down to the pantry—are; and the third one is for the bedrooms. The perpendicular one is the control room, or at least that's what they call it. I've only been in there once, but man, it's full of state-of-the-art computers and a fucking amazing particle accelerator, a new kind of synchrotron. Right now we're going to the screening room."

  He pointed to an open door on the left. She could hear people speaking English. Until that moment, Elisa hadn't bumped into anyone. She guessed the team was pretty small. Suddenly, Cheryl Ross appeared at the door, dressed now in jeans and a T-shirt, but still sporting the same hairdo and identical smile as last night. Elisa cast off her Spanish as soon as she saw her.

  "Good morning!" Ross sang. "I was just coming to find you! The boss doesn't want to get started until we're all here; you know how he is ... How was your first night on New Nelson?"

  "Slept like a log," Elisa lied.

  "I'm glad."

  The room looked like a home theater, set up for twelve. Seating consisted of three rows of chairs, and there was a console with keyboard on one wall and a ten-foot screen on the other.

  But Elisa was more interested in the people. They all stood up and made a tremendous racket in the process, their chairs scraping the floor. Then there was a frenzy of handshaking and cheek kissing when Valente introduced her as "the missing member." Forced to think in English, Elisa just let herself be carried along by the course of events.

  She recognized Colin Craig, a young, good-looking man with short hair, round glasses, and a neat beard. She remembered that the beautiful woman with long brown hair was Jacqueline Clissot, who was quite reserved and only held out her hand. Nadja Petrova, the girl with albino hair, on the other hand, was downright effusive. She gave her an affectionate kiss and made her laugh by attempting to say, "I'm a paleontologist, too," in Spanish.

  "Pleased to meet you," she said, adding, "Me alegro de conocerte," and Elisa truly appreciated the girl's effort to speak her language.

  Valente, unsurprisingly, made a big song and dance of introducing the other lady, a skinny, mature woman with a gaunt, lined face and a big freckled nose. He threw his arm over her shoulder with forced camaraderie, causing her to flash an embarrassed smile.

  "Allow me to introduce you to Rosalyn Reiter of Berlin, Reinhard Silberg's beloved disciple; she studied history and philosophy of science and currently specializes in a very remarkable field."

  "Which one?"

  "History of Christianity," Rosalyn Reiter replied.

  Although Elisa didn't change her chirpy, polite tone, her mind was definitely elsewhere. Looking at the faces of the people she'd be working with, she speculated. Two paleontologists and a Christian historian... What does that mean? Just then, Craig pointed at something.

  "And here comes the Counsel of Wise Men."

  David Blanes, Reinhard Silberg, and Sergio Marini filed in. Marini closed the door behind him.

  It reminded Elisa of some sort of selection committee, sitting around deciding everyone's fate. Who will go to heaven and who gets expelled. Who earns eternal glory and who stays here on earth. She counted them: ten, herself included.

  Ten scientists. Ten chosen ones.

  Everybody sat down in silence. Only Blanes remained standing before them, his back to the big screen. Elisa watched the papers he held flutter and thought she must be dreaming.

  Blanes was trembling.

  "Friends, we waited until all the participants in Project Zig Zag were present to give you the explanations that, no doubt, you've been waiting for... But let me say this. Those of us who are here today in this room can consider ourselves very fortunate. We're going to see things no human has ever seen before. That's not an exaggeration. On some occasions, we'll see things that no creature, living or dead, has ever seen, since time immemorial..."

  Elisa got the chills. She was petrified.

  The sea I sail has never yet been passed.

  She sat up straight in her chair, preparing to dive, along with her nine astonished colleagues, into the uncharted scientific waters that would seal her fate.

  PART FOUR

  The Project

  Everything that is, is past.

  ANATOLE FRANCE

  14

  It was almost there.

  Those eyes were the prelude.

  Next would come the shadow.

  THOUGH she didn't know it yet, the darkest evil she would ever encounter in her life had already been born. And it was just around the corner, waiting for her.

  SERGIO Marini was everything Blanes wasn't: elegant and seductive. Thin, with dark, wavy hair, tan skin, a smooth shave, and a disarming smile, he knew how to project his basso voice and captivate his Milanese students. Born in Rome, he studied at the prestigious Scuola Normale Superiore in Pisa, where bigwigs like Enrico Fermi had earned their PhDs in physics. After the obligatory stint in the United States, Grossmann had called him to Zurich, where he met Blanes, and together they developed the sequoia theory. "Together" meant—in the words Marini himself always used to refer to those years of collaboration—that "I let him calculate in peace and rushed over every time he wanted to tell me the results."

  He had something Blanes lacked: a sense of humor.

  "One night in 2001 we filled a glass to the halfway mark.

  Then we left it on the lab table for thirty hours straight. After the time was up, David smashed it on the floor. That was as far as his actual experimentation went." He looked at Blanes, who was laughing along with everyone else. "Don't get upset, David. You're the theoretician, I'm the hammer-and-nail man. Anyway ... our idea was ... Oh, you explain it. You're better at this stuff."

  "No, no, go ahead."

  "Please, you do it; you're the father."

  "And you're the mother."

  Both of them were trying to improvise, to put on a show, and it was pretty much working. They were like a cheap cabaret act: the bumbler and the wise guy; the lady-killer and the geek. Elisa watched them and could relate to their years of solitary, fruitless toil, and the uncontainable excitement at their first success.

  "Well, OK, looks like it's my turn," said Blanes. "Anyway, let's see. As you know, the sequoia theory states that every particle of light has time strings coiled up inside it like the rings in a sequoia's trunk. Those that grow out from its center.
The number of strings is not infinite, but it is gigantic and inconceivable: it's the number of Planck times that have transpired since the origins of light..."

  There was some murmuring, and Marini whined, "Professor Clissot wants to know what a Planck time is, David. Don't disregard those who aren't physicists, even if they deserve to be!"

  "A Planck time is the smallest possible interval of time," Blanes explained. "It's how long it takes for light to cross a distance equal to a Planck length, which is the shortest length in existence. To give you an idea, if a single atom were the size of the universe, a Planck length would be the size of one tree. The time that it takes light to cross that distance is called Planck time. It's approximately one-septillionth of a second, and there is nothing in the universe that takes less time than that."

  "You've never seen Colin eating foie gras sandwiches," Marini quipped. Craig raised his hand in acknowledgement. That was the first time she'd ever seen Blanes burst out laughing, although he did get serious again almost immediately after.

  "Every time string equates to one specific Planck time and contains everything that was reflected by light in that briefest of intervals. With some necessary mathematical adjustments to our equations (using local time variables, for example), the theory told us it was possible to isolate and identify the strings chronologically, even open them. It didn't require a lot of energy, but it did take an exact quantity. Sergio called it 'supraselective.' If the appropriate supraselective energy was used, the strings from a determined time period could be opened, showing us the images from that period. Now then, this, of course, was just a mathematical finding. And for over ten years, that's all it was. But eventually, a team led by Professor Craig designed the new synchrotron, and using it we were able to obtain the kind of supraselective energy we needed. But we didn't get any results until the night we broke that glass. You continue, Sergio. This is the part you like."