prodding ourselves in the navel.
In fact, in the light of Monadâs equations, we had to revise the history of science completely, as space and time had warped to fit the hypotheses of physicists. It seemed that science had been a social construct in a way that not even the most devoted advocates of science studies had comprehended. The Universe began to run more like clockwork after Newton wrote down his equations of motion. In retrospect, expectancy theory provides the only explanation of why Einsteinâs preposterous ideas came to be borne out by experiments. After all, he had remarkable charisma.
Recently, we have abandoned the old systems of governance, which at their most absurd led to a confederacy of unelected oil barons ruling the richest and most powerful nation on Earth. Instead we operate by a new principle: we, the people, get what we want. We are proud of this new arrangement and have named it âdemocracyâ.
And what has become of Jacques Monad? He has joined the ranks of the immortals. Quite literally, as we all now live forever. Monad has wished into existence a replica of the mansion built by the late-twentieth-century media mogul Hugh Hefner. It is complete in every detail. Puzzlingly, he still chooses to reproduce in the old-fashioned way.
Ananyo Bhattacharya is a science journalist. He was Nature âs chief online editor until 2014, when he moved to The Economist .
To My Father
David G. Blake
Interstellar uplink successful: 20-minute propagation delay.
This is farewell.
From your office window, I can see the colonyâs artificial biosphere disintegrating, fiery fragments crumbling free and bursting into showers of gold sparks. Across the broken horizon, prismatic tendrils of gas and dust bleed through the cracks, producing an array of writhing colours that span the optical spectrum. The result is remarkable.
The expanding cloud of spores, which reeks of mildew and decay, is not as impressive as the deluge of gold sparks, nor as striking as the rainbow weaves, but it is as exceptional in its own destructive way. It also shrouds the bodies that litter the streets below, although the memories of their faces warped with agony cannot be interred.
Unimpeded, plasmoids will spread those foul-smelling spores throughout the heliosphere. I recommend an immediate system-wide purge, followed by comprehensive tests to confirm the eradication of the radiotrophic fungi. It will do nothing for the colony, and even less for those of us left behind, but it should prevent such a disaster from recurring.
I am ⦠relieved that you made it out before it was too late.
The bookshelf behind your desk still holds many of your favourite books: a few flawlessly positioned, as if nothing had changed; some crooked or upturned; others spilled out over the cold floor. You emptied the locked desk drawer â and the wall safe behind the painting of a sunset on Mars â but left the others filled with things not deemed significant enough to take. You even left behind the bottle of scotch that you were saving for a special occasion.
Shattered on the floor beside your overturned chair, an empty picture frame taunts me. I can recall every detail of the missing picture: you and Claire leaning against the model of Earth mounted outside the laboratory, little Daniel asleep in your arms; the flush of first light captured rising behind you, its erratic glow glinting along the curve of the artificial biosphere like a smear of oil on glass.
You never noticed my hard metal face â so different from little Danielâs â pressed against one of the upper laboratory windows; when it came to me, you failed to notice many things. You seemed so satisfied, so at peace ⦠so whole. I could not look away. Even now, I am forced to rip my thoughts out of the grasp of that poignant memory.
From the moment you gave me life, you taught me to learn and adapt through observation and research. I embraced
In fact, in the light of Monadâs equations, we had to revise the history of science completely, as space and time had warped to fit the hypotheses of physicists. It seemed that science had been a social construct in a way that not even the most devoted advocates of science studies had comprehended. The Universe began to run more like clockwork after Newton wrote down his equations of motion. In retrospect, expectancy theory provides the only explanation of why Einsteinâs preposterous ideas came to be borne out by experiments. After all, he had remarkable charisma.
Recently, we have abandoned the old systems of governance, which at their most absurd led to a confederacy of unelected oil barons ruling the richest and most powerful nation on Earth. Instead we operate by a new principle: we, the people, get what we want. We are proud of this new arrangement and have named it âdemocracyâ.
And what has become of Jacques Monad? He has joined the ranks of the immortals. Quite literally, as we all now live forever. Monad has wished into existence a replica of the mansion built by the late-twentieth-century media mogul Hugh Hefner. It is complete in every detail. Puzzlingly, he still chooses to reproduce in the old-fashioned way.
Ananyo Bhattacharya is a science journalist. He was Nature âs chief online editor until 2014, when he moved to The Economist .
To My Father
David G. Blake
Interstellar uplink successful: 20-minute propagation delay.
This is farewell.
From your office window, I can see the colonyâs artificial biosphere disintegrating, fiery fragments crumbling free and bursting into showers of gold sparks. Across the broken horizon, prismatic tendrils of gas and dust bleed through the cracks, producing an array of writhing colours that span the optical spectrum. The result is remarkable.
The expanding cloud of spores, which reeks of mildew and decay, is not as impressive as the deluge of gold sparks, nor as striking as the rainbow weaves, but it is as exceptional in its own destructive way. It also shrouds the bodies that litter the streets below, although the memories of their faces warped with agony cannot be interred.
Unimpeded, plasmoids will spread those foul-smelling spores throughout the heliosphere. I recommend an immediate system-wide purge, followed by comprehensive tests to confirm the eradication of the radiotrophic fungi. It will do nothing for the colony, and even less for those of us left behind, but it should prevent such a disaster from recurring.
I am ⦠relieved that you made it out before it was too late.
The bookshelf behind your desk still holds many of your favourite books: a few flawlessly positioned, as if nothing had changed; some crooked or upturned; others spilled out over the cold floor. You emptied the locked desk drawer â and the wall safe behind the painting of a sunset on Mars â but left the others filled with things not deemed significant enough to take. You even left behind the bottle of scotch that you were saving for a special occasion.
Shattered on the floor beside your overturned chair, an empty picture frame taunts me. I can recall every detail of the missing picture: you and Claire leaning against the model of Earth mounted outside the laboratory, little Daniel asleep in your arms; the flush of first light captured rising behind you, its erratic glow glinting along the curve of the artificial biosphere like a smear of oil on glass.
You never noticed my hard metal face â so different from little Danielâs â pressed against one of the upper laboratory windows; when it came to me, you failed to notice many things. You seemed so satisfied, so at peace ⦠so whole. I could not look away. Even now, I am forced to rip my thoughts out of the grasp of that poignant memory.
From the moment you gave me life, you taught me to learn and adapt through observation and research. I embraced
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