hell of a lot of data. Maybe we can figure out what went wrong for humanity. And then make sure it doesn’t happen.’
I said, ‘But even if you achieve that – what about the ultimate end? When the expansion scatters the last particles, all complexity is lost –’
‘Does it have to turn out that way?’ And he began to talk of other theories of physics. The dark energy field could have decreased in strength, just enough to slow the expansion. Or an even more eerie force called quintessence could stop the expansion when the last fundamental particles were still in contact with each other – and life, and consciousness, could continue, though at a terribly slow rate. ‘But the story wouldn’t end,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t end.’
‘Elstead –’ After all we had been through I wanted to be gentle. ‘The universe isn’t like that. Cosmology doesn’t accord with that model. We saw it for ourselves.’
He wasn’t daunted. ‘Then we have to find a way to fix it so it does accord. Or else ship out to another universe more to our liking. We’ve plenty of time to figure out the details. It’s always been my belief that however the future works out, Big Crunch or Rip or endless expansion, there has to be a way to preserve information through the terminal catastrophe – there has to be a way for life to survive. Anyhow, that’s my plan.’ He looked at us, his eyes huge in his gaunt face. ‘Are you with me?’
All this was two years ago.
I didn’t go back to England. I can no longer bear the dark and the cold – or the ocean. I took a house on a mountain-top in Colorado, a place bathed in light where I could hardly be further from the sea. I’m close enough to the summit that I can walk around it, and, every morning, I do.
I wrote up our story. I earned my euros.
I’ve found a partner. We’re planning kids. That way I can postpone the death of the universe, just a little, I guess. I’ve kept in touch with Walter Junge; I hope his kids will get on with ours.
I’ve started attending Mass again. I don’t quite know what I’m feeling when I listen to the ancient lessons. But Elstead was surely right that the monumental existence of deep time, and the erasure of all things, is the ultimate challenge to any faith. I suspect that in a few million years we’ll be smart enough it figure it out, and I’m content to wait.
As everybody knows, St John Elstead built a new vessel – Spacetime Bathyscaphe II – bigger and more capable than the first, and stocked it with people of a like mind to himself. I turned down the invitation to join him, but I did send him my crucifix pendant.
Elstead descended once more into the abyss of time, to challenge the destiny he found so unsatisfactory. He has yet to return.
Halo Ghosts
‘Black!’ said Bead, his face boyish with wonder. ‘Black as the inside of a skull.’
I hid a smile. But he was right: the comet nucleus tumbled through the solar system’s depths like a bit of charred bone, its perihelion glory a memory.
And our two-man ship was only metres away from it.
‘We’ve made it, Bead,’ I said. ‘The first men to the cometary halo.’
‘And maybe the first to see the birth of the solar system. Yeah…’
We were that close –
– when the ghost rippled through us.
My console lights flared; my sensors screamed.
Bead’s face emptied. ‘What…’
‘The processors have overloaded.’ I slammed in manual overrides. ‘Remember your training, damn it! Help me get her under control –’
We hit the comet ice, hard. I heard metal peel back like orange skin. Stars slewed across the viewscreen, overlaid by whirling sparks. There was a distant grind.
We came to rest.
Bead’s voice shivered. ‘Slater, don’t do these things to me! Thank God that’s over.’
I watched the sparks – half our water disappearing into interstellar space.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s all over.’
He looked at me strangely.
‘Come on,’ I said
I said, ‘But even if you achieve that – what about the ultimate end? When the expansion scatters the last particles, all complexity is lost –’
‘Does it have to turn out that way?’ And he began to talk of other theories of physics. The dark energy field could have decreased in strength, just enough to slow the expansion. Or an even more eerie force called quintessence could stop the expansion when the last fundamental particles were still in contact with each other – and life, and consciousness, could continue, though at a terribly slow rate. ‘But the story wouldn’t end,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t end.’
‘Elstead –’ After all we had been through I wanted to be gentle. ‘The universe isn’t like that. Cosmology doesn’t accord with that model. We saw it for ourselves.’
He wasn’t daunted. ‘Then we have to find a way to fix it so it does accord. Or else ship out to another universe more to our liking. We’ve plenty of time to figure out the details. It’s always been my belief that however the future works out, Big Crunch or Rip or endless expansion, there has to be a way to preserve information through the terminal catastrophe – there has to be a way for life to survive. Anyhow, that’s my plan.’ He looked at us, his eyes huge in his gaunt face. ‘Are you with me?’
All this was two years ago.
I didn’t go back to England. I can no longer bear the dark and the cold – or the ocean. I took a house on a mountain-top in Colorado, a place bathed in light where I could hardly be further from the sea. I’m close enough to the summit that I can walk around it, and, every morning, I do.
I wrote up our story. I earned my euros.
I’ve found a partner. We’re planning kids. That way I can postpone the death of the universe, just a little, I guess. I’ve kept in touch with Walter Junge; I hope his kids will get on with ours.
I’ve started attending Mass again. I don’t quite know what I’m feeling when I listen to the ancient lessons. But Elstead was surely right that the monumental existence of deep time, and the erasure of all things, is the ultimate challenge to any faith. I suspect that in a few million years we’ll be smart enough it figure it out, and I’m content to wait.
As everybody knows, St John Elstead built a new vessel – Spacetime Bathyscaphe II – bigger and more capable than the first, and stocked it with people of a like mind to himself. I turned down the invitation to join him, but I did send him my crucifix pendant.
Elstead descended once more into the abyss of time, to challenge the destiny he found so unsatisfactory. He has yet to return.
Halo Ghosts
‘Black!’ said Bead, his face boyish with wonder. ‘Black as the inside of a skull.’
I hid a smile. But he was right: the comet nucleus tumbled through the solar system’s depths like a bit of charred bone, its perihelion glory a memory.
And our two-man ship was only metres away from it.
‘We’ve made it, Bead,’ I said. ‘The first men to the cometary halo.’
‘And maybe the first to see the birth of the solar system. Yeah…’
We were that close –
– when the ghost rippled through us.
My console lights flared; my sensors screamed.
Bead’s face emptied. ‘What…’
‘The processors have overloaded.’ I slammed in manual overrides. ‘Remember your training, damn it! Help me get her under control –’
We hit the comet ice, hard. I heard metal peel back like orange skin. Stars slewed across the viewscreen, overlaid by whirling sparks. There was a distant grind.
We came to rest.
Bead’s voice shivered. ‘Slater, don’t do these things to me! Thank God that’s over.’
I watched the sparks – half our water disappearing into interstellar space.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s all over.’
He looked at me strangely.
‘Come on,’ I said
Similar Books
