Antiphony by Chris Katsaropoulos

sensation of this quantum fluctuation, flashing off and then on again.
    Nevertheless, they are looking at him, expecting him to speak.
    â€œIf the universe really is nothing more than a giant thought, a thought projection emanating from some form of consciousness, and we are living within this projection, it would be impossible to discover the source of this projection by examining the projection itself in finer levels of detail. We cannot find the source of the thought by carving the thought apart, by dissecting it and relating it to itself. We can only find clues, glimpses of the true, underlying reality.” The mask hovers over the still black water. “The infinities and singularities in our equations may be telling us that what we are missing is unknowable in terms of physical science. These unsolvable terms in our equations may be roadsigns pointing to consciousness—to God—as the missing piece in the puzzle.”
    The room has grown very quiet. Only the hush of the ventilation system and the resonating presence of a single syllable his voice has pronounced. It hangs there in the air like the vibration of a giant gong that has been struck, the waves of sound still radiating outward in all directions from their source. He cannot believe it—it seems as if it hasn’t really happened—but he knows now that he has crossed a line which he can never step back over again. He has brought God into the equation.
    The eyes of the man in the turtle-neck sweater glare at him in disbelief. Others in the front row of chairs are gazing at himas if he has removed his clothes and begun performing a pornographic dance. At the far back of the room, three men arise from their chairs and glance in his direction for a lingering second, then stride towards the double doors, open them, and vacate the room, indignant, letting the doors slam shut behind them with a loud clattering groan. But at least this noise has wiped away the besmirching remnants of that syllable he pronounced, its single vowel sound still loitering in the shape of Theodore’s open mouth like a curse he has uttered—G-
aw
-d. It is, in fact, when he considers it, an ugly Germanic word, commenced by the guttural
G
, the mouth opening wide for the
aw
as if in shock or fright, and then clamped shut at the end by the harsh, terminal
d
.
    In the murmur that now arises from the audience, the commotion at the back of the room in the wake of the three men leaving, he hears the familiar voice of Pradeep call for quiet. Theodore’s eyes scan the crowd to locate him; he was somewhere towards the back. His face is easy enough to find. Its dark skin stands out among the predominately pale pink of the other faces, and when he spots it he sees that Pradeep is motioning with a downward push of his hand for the others sitting near him to remain seated and calm. And he sees also that there is the faintest hint of a smile on Pradeep’s face as he does this.
    He must begin again. Whatever damage has been done, Theodore must forge ahead with his presentation and complete it. He cannot stop here. If he stops now, the only thing these people will remember from his speech is this blunder he has committed. But if he goes forward and delivers the body of his presentation, gets back to the facts and the figures of it, perhapshe can smooth it over and relegate this unfortunate misstep to nothing more than a shaky start. He clicks the nubby rubber button on the remote control that moves the presentation to the next slide on the screen. It seems almost preposterous to juxtapose the next slide with what he has just said, but there doesn’t seem to be any other way back to the safe, orderly world of his research that existed before he began this rambling dissertation into madness. The flash of light on the huge screen behind him, the alteration of patterns and colors and words, does appear to focus the audience again on the front of the room—and on him.