Seeking the Mythical Future (7 page)

‘Which is perhaps just as well,' Queghan said. ‘If you told them that the world they inhabit is founded on an untenable premise they might really panic. At least before you could explain it in words of one syllable.'

‘Is it necessary to be so melodramatic?' Karla Ritblat said,
appraising him with her cold, fish-like stare. ‘That kind of talk, if heard by outsiders,
does
cause panic.' Queghan wondered, not for the first time, whether Karla had ever considered herself a suitable subject for psycho examination. She would make a most interesting case-study.

‘So you think Blake might have something?' Karve said.

‘The visual display technique – if it works – would provide the kind of predictive capability we've been looking for. But there is one problem.'

Brenton put his elbows on the table. ‘Which is?'

‘The brain patterns, when processed and converted into visual display, wouldn't necessarily present the image that the injectee experiences once he's passed beyond the
event horizon
into Temporal Flux. It's possible that we could pick up his subconscious patterns. In other words, his private fantasy instead of the objective reality.'

Brenton snorted rudely. ‘I should have thought,' he said, glancing at the Director, ‘that that was the purpose of the exercise. Wherever the injectee happens to find himself, in whatever alternative future, imaginary or otherwise, then that's where he'll be. To speak of “an objective reality” is surely begging the question.'

‘That's a valid point,' Karve said, swathed in blue-grey smoke. ‘The injectee will create his own alternative future, and, providing we know in advance what it is – and when it is – we can effect retrieval.'

Queghan inclined his head in a small gesture of compliance. ‘Point taken. But each of us has an infinite number of subjective realities: we externalize some, repress others. How are we to know which of these – which one specifically – the injectee has chosen to enter? He may not know himself until after injection has taken place. And we can't plot them all, not even cyberthetically.'

Everyone was looking towards Brenton. It was like a game of intellectual ping-pong: a point gained here, a point dropped there. Brenton's thin serious face betrayed nothing of what was going on inside his head. He looked at Queghan for a long moment as if debating how best to reply, then shrugged and
waved his hand dismissively. ‘Until the technique has been evaluated in the TFC Lab I don't see how we can progress beyond an exchange of personal opinions. I should like to see the Paper before committing myself one way or the other.'

‘Very sensible,' Karve said, smiling genially at everyone through the pipe smoke; the subject was now – for the moment – closed.

The sunshine promised by the weather bureau was at last breaking through. Queghan enjoyed it, wandering across the trim lawns to the small artificial lake with its carefully nurtured greenery growing in artful profusion by the water's edge. The sky's glassy reflection lay broken and fragmented on the surface of the water, a shifting pattern of blue sky and cumulus cloud tinged with pink. Such a day as this – with the green grass rippling freshly under the sun and the towers of cloud piled high against the blueness – such a day reminded him of the Battle of Britain, September 1940, Pre-Colonization. He had made a special study of the period, investigated all the Archive material, and run and re-run the old newstapes, and had gained what in the jargon of Myth Technology was known as ‘sympathetic identification' with those few crucial months at the beginning of World War II.

Now he conjured up those fresh young faces in their leather helmets and goggles, small groups of three and four lolling on the grass in their fur-lined flying jackets and zippered boots, waiting for the tannoy to hiccup into life and blurt out the order to ‘Scramble!'. There was the pungent whiff of glycol on the breeze, the stutter of an engine being tuned by the mechanics, and somewhere faintly in the background from a battered wooden radio with a speaker the shape of a sea-shell – from inside a hut with sunshine slanting through the open doorway – the sound of Vera Lynn singing something about white cliffs and bluebirds.

To Queghan the period had the charm and engaging innocence that was the stuff of myth. He could feel and taste its ‘realness' even though it was so long ago that the only reference to it was a supplementary notation in the post-graduation college program. One of the things which intrigued and fascinated
him was being able to see with his own eyes how the people looked and behaved; the early Twentieth was notable for being the first period in history to preserve visual documentary evidence of its people, events, customs and social mores. To actually see the pioneers of relativity physics, for instance, how they looked and talked, was an experience which thrilled him.

And for the Myth Technologist it gained in fascination by being a time when such concepts as the Unified Psychic Field Theory hadn't even been dreamt of, much less formulated as a valid scientific premise. Of course they knew, these early pioneers, that energy and matter were interchangeable, but it was as if they possessed knowledge and didn't know what to do with it: they had found the key but didn't know which door it opened, had found the answers but weren't sure of the questions.

The proposal of a Unified Psychic Field – a theoretical framework which would encompass all known psi phenomena and relate them to the laws of the physical universe – didn't arrive until much later; and still the Theory hadn't achieved complete respectability and acceptance. This was one of the aims of Myth Technology and the related area of Meta-Psychical Research. Past and future myths were repositories of collective knowledge and experience, meaningful pieces in the grand jigsaw, and their investigation would reveal the links (or ‘leys' as the jargon had it) which connected everything – whether real or abstract, animate or inanimate – with every other thing in the Metagalaxy. There was a secret pattern, an invisible warp and weft of spacetime which could be detected only by psychic means; a gateway existed through which it was possible to pass in order to observe the hidden symmetry, the celestial clockwork ticking quietly away with the flawless precision of a Caesium clock. The gateway was via controlled injection into Temporal Flux, beyond which nothing was positively known – except that it might lead to an infinite series of alternative futures, a multiplicity of universes, each one existing in its own unique spacetime continuum.

Queghan became aware that his wife was trying to contact him. She was several miles distant, at home, alone, and six
months pregnant. He pressed the tab in his lapel to acknowledge the signal that Oria's voice murmured in his ear. She had been to see the doctor and he had recommended a course of treatment to correct an endocrine imbalance; there was no cause for alarm, she was feeling perfectly all right, he was not to worry. But Queghan, despite her assurance, couldn't help adopting the role of anxious father-to-be.

I'll come home now. You and the baby are more important than the Project.'

‘It isn't necessary, Chris. Really.' She sounded composed and cheerful. ‘He said everything would be fine, providing I take it easy and don't worry. There's really no need for you to leave the Institute.'

‘Okay. As long as you do as he says.'

‘I promise.'

She was, Queghan felt, telling him the truth, though at this distance it was difficult to know for sure. In any event he didn't want to alarm her by acting hastily and changing the routine; but he would speak to the doctor privately and satisfy himself that all was well. After all, it was their first child: a girl, by mutual agreement.

*

Brenton looked ill. His dark eyes burned fiercely in an unhealthy complexion which he seemed to have taken pains to acquire; it was as if he had to display his seriousness and dedication like a badge of office. Queghan hadn't realized before how pale and edgy he had become.

They were in the corner of the TFC Lab, Brenton perched uncomfortably on the sill and leaning forward as if to study an invisible object on the floor. Normally he kept very much to himself, preferring his calculus graphs and Minkowskian geometric projections to human company. Brenton was an expert in cyberthetics, a brilliant mind trained in the application of machine intelligence to control and communication systems. He was responsible for the cyberthetic complex which would endow the
Injection Vehicle
with consciousness so that the Vehicle would possess a live deductive intelligence with the capability to think, to reason, to make decisions. Queghan was the
antithesis of Brenton, not at all bright in mathematics: his mind worked intuitively, some might even say (Karla Ritblat for one) erratically.

Brenton said anxiously, ‘I think you'll understand this, I hope you will.' He kept looking at the floor. ‘It's imperative that I'm selected. I know the machine, we work well together, she would regard anyone else as an intruder. The Director must understand that.'

‘She can be programmed to be compatible with anyone's EEG, you yourself made the point in the systems profile,' Queghan said. He tried to register the neurochemical reactions in Brenton's cerebral cortex but there was nothing out of the ordinary taking place. He did detect an unsteady pulse-rate and discharge of adrenalin but these were in keeping with Brenton's agitated condition.

‘It's a question of empathy,' Brenton insisted, rocking back and forth, ‘a sympathetic understanding. Virtually anyone can be matched with her, the mechanics are fairly simple, but she isn't insensitive to body chemistry and metabolism. It's possible that an adverse reaction could be set up giving rise to malfunction.'

It occurred to Queghan that Brenton's attitude towards the system was almost that of a husband's solicitude for his wife. He wondered whether it would be possible to have a sexual relationship with a cyberthetic machine; there would be nothing physical, of course, but each would be able to achieve sensory stimulation. And a machine having an orgasm was an interesting idea – if one of somewhat dubious morality.

‘I think we can rely on the Director to make the right decision,' Queghan said. He had nothing to offer the younger man in the way of consoling phrases; it perplexed him that Brenton should have sought him out and been so confiding. ‘You're not married, are you?'

Brenton shook his head.

‘Then you have an advantage. You're almost certain to be short-listed, and no doubt Johann will take all the factors into account.'

‘There was something else,' Brenton said warily. He slid
down from the sill, looking at Queghan properly for the first time. His face was too unmarked to be so serious; it was as though he'd bought the expression second-hand and it wasn't a particularly good fit.

‘Yes?' Queghan said, waiting.

‘Do you think you could interpret a coincidence for me? I wouldn't normally impose in this way but I think – well, it might be important. It's something quite ridiculous,' he added in an apologetic tone.

‘They often are. Was there a casual relationship that you could see?'

‘I don't think so. It's to do with dates. A couple of weeks ago I made a note in my diary – some engagement or other – and a few days later I was told it had been put back. When I checked my diary I found that I'd actually entered the engagement on the correct date, the revised one. I couldn't possibly have known at the time I made the original entry, yet there it was in black and white.'

Queghan was timing his own heartbeat. There was no perceptible change in rhythm or rate. He said, ‘Was the second date, the correct one as it turned out, significant in any way? I mean, in some way not directly connected with the engagement?'

Brenton seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then he said, as if reluctantly, ‘It's the date of selection.'

‘For Project Tempus?'

‘Yes.'

‘We must consider the rational explanation first,' Queghan said. ‘And the rational explanation is that the selection date was on your mind and you inadvertently entered the engagement on the same date. Doesn't that fit the facts?'

‘It would do,' Brenton admitted grudgingly, ‘except for one thing.'

‘And that is?'

‘Nobody knew the selection date at the time. The Director didn't make the announcement until a week later.'

‘There would seem to be a strong precognitive element there,' Queghan said abstractedly; inwardly he was perfectly
calm. There were none of the usual tell-tale symptoms. He went on, ‘In any case, if it is meaningful, it would appear to be in your favour.'

‘Is there no way you can tell for certain? Isn't there a test of some kind, a procedure …'

‘I'm afraid not. The whole basis of detecting psi phenomena is that their availability for testing is in inverse ratio to the sophistication of the techniques employed to test them: the nearer we get in scientifically establishing their existence the further away they recede. It's like testing someone's sexual prowess. The fact of telling someone that you're going to evaluate his sexual performance under laboratory conditions is the one thing guaranteed to defeat the purpose of the exercise.'

‘But that's the dilemma I'm facing!' Brenton said hopelessly. ‘You have the faculty to understand, to appreciate it, whereas I find the whole proposition untenable. Where's the
proof
, I keep asking myself. I need to see the equations, to analyse and interpret them.'

‘Well there we are,' Queghan said, and he shrugged. ‘If that were feasible, if the equations could be formulated, you and I would become mere abstractions, a neat mathematical formula and not much else. We would cease to exist in any real sense. We'd have as much substance, say, as two fictional characters existing as mind-waves in someone's brain. I can't prove that I exist and neither can you; but we think that we do and that's what matters.'