looking slightly puzzled. "How can the same quarks and things be in all of them at once?" She thought for a moment, and her expression changed suddenly. "Oh, wait a minute. I think I can see what you're getting at. You're saying that the continuity
between
universes in the time dimension is just as physically real as the spatial continuity inside a universe. Every particle has a real extension in time, just as tangible as its extension in space. Right?"
"Exactly!" Charles declared. "So if you alter the arrangement of particles in one universe, you alter the arrangement of them in all subsequent universes as well by virtue of that continuity." He sat back, sipping his wine, to allow time for the others to reflect on what had been said. Eventually Cartland shook his head and frowned.
"Sorry, old boy, not quite with you," he confessed. "Are you saying that the whole universe is just a part of some bigger continuum, and that things like particles somehow extend right through the whole thing? The objects we see are only really parts of what they are completely?"
"Yes," Charles replied. He pointed toward the center of the table. "That candle there has burned about a quarter of the way down, but in the universe that's an hour or so behind us, it's still intact; in a universe that's a few hours ahead, it probably doesn't exist as such at all. The whole candle is the sum of all those, and all the points between. But all we see is the part of it that exists in the particular universe that we happen to be part of. The 'real' candle is all of them put together."
"I hear what you're saying," Cartland murmured slowly. "It's a bit difficult to visualize though."
"Try thinking of a two-dimensional analogy," Murdoch suggested. "Imagine that the universe is flat, and that everything it contains is flat. It's a plane, okay? Now form a solid continuum by stacking an infinite number of zero-thickness planes like that together, like the pages of an infinitely thick book. Every page is a universe. The basic particles are ink particles, and they form character shapes, that is, objects. But unlike in an ordinary book, where all the pages are different, the ink particles continue through like 'threads,' so the patterns they form can only change gradually, not abruptly. Also all the pages move together in one direction along the threads as they slide down the entropy slope that Elizabeth talked about earlier. So anybody inside one of those universes, us for example, will see the patterns changing sequentially. That's what he calls time."
"Ah… " Cartland nodded and pulled his moustache. "Yes… I think I can see what you're driving at."
Murdoch thought for a moment, then fished inside the pocket of his jacket and retrieved a piece of paper, which he unfolded. "Here's a sketch I drew when Grandpa and I were talking about it yesterday," he said, smoothing the paper out and placing it in the center of the table. The others leaned forward to look at it more closely except Charles, who continued to drink from his glass.
"That's supposed to be a solid continuum of stacked, two-dimensional universes," Murdoch informed them. "Each universe consists of a space containing objects and inhabitants that are all made up of particles, at least that's what it looks like to you if you happen to live inside one of them. But we, in our privileged position as superobservers looking in from the outside, can see that every particle is really an infinitesimally thin slice of a thread that passes through all the universes. As the universe moves along the threads in some kind of supertime, the particles, or slices, appear to move through space. That gives a visible rate of change that is observed as normal time within the universe."
"You can see there how, to Murdoch's superobserver, all of the universes are equally real," Charles commented. "Only the one that you happen to be part of and moving with gives the illusion of appearing more real to you than the
between
universes in the time dimension is just as physically real as the spatial continuity inside a universe. Every particle has a real extension in time, just as tangible as its extension in space. Right?"
"Exactly!" Charles declared. "So if you alter the arrangement of particles in one universe, you alter the arrangement of them in all subsequent universes as well by virtue of that continuity." He sat back, sipping his wine, to allow time for the others to reflect on what had been said. Eventually Cartland shook his head and frowned.
"Sorry, old boy, not quite with you," he confessed. "Are you saying that the whole universe is just a part of some bigger continuum, and that things like particles somehow extend right through the whole thing? The objects we see are only really parts of what they are completely?"
"Yes," Charles replied. He pointed toward the center of the table. "That candle there has burned about a quarter of the way down, but in the universe that's an hour or so behind us, it's still intact; in a universe that's a few hours ahead, it probably doesn't exist as such at all. The whole candle is the sum of all those, and all the points between. But all we see is the part of it that exists in the particular universe that we happen to be part of. The 'real' candle is all of them put together."
"I hear what you're saying," Cartland murmured slowly. "It's a bit difficult to visualize though."
"Try thinking of a two-dimensional analogy," Murdoch suggested. "Imagine that the universe is flat, and that everything it contains is flat. It's a plane, okay? Now form a solid continuum by stacking an infinite number of zero-thickness planes like that together, like the pages of an infinitely thick book. Every page is a universe. The basic particles are ink particles, and they form character shapes, that is, objects. But unlike in an ordinary book, where all the pages are different, the ink particles continue through like 'threads,' so the patterns they form can only change gradually, not abruptly. Also all the pages move together in one direction along the threads as they slide down the entropy slope that Elizabeth talked about earlier. So anybody inside one of those universes, us for example, will see the patterns changing sequentially. That's what he calls time."
"Ah… " Cartland nodded and pulled his moustache. "Yes… I think I can see what you're driving at."
Murdoch thought for a moment, then fished inside the pocket of his jacket and retrieved a piece of paper, which he unfolded. "Here's a sketch I drew when Grandpa and I were talking about it yesterday," he said, smoothing the paper out and placing it in the center of the table. The others leaned forward to look at it more closely except Charles, who continued to drink from his glass.
"That's supposed to be a solid continuum of stacked, two-dimensional universes," Murdoch informed them. "Each universe consists of a space containing objects and inhabitants that are all made up of particles, at least that's what it looks like to you if you happen to live inside one of them. But we, in our privileged position as superobservers looking in from the outside, can see that every particle is really an infinitesimally thin slice of a thread that passes through all the universes. As the universe moves along the threads in some kind of supertime, the particles, or slices, appear to move through space. That gives a visible rate of change that is observed as normal time within the universe."
"You can see there how, to Murdoch's superobserver, all of the universes are equally real," Charles commented. "Only the one that you happen to be part of and moving with gives the illusion of appearing more real to you than the
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