Blasphemy (30 page)

“I’ll try.”

If our conversation is to be fruitful, you must abandon all hope of understanding me
.

“More clever obfuscation,” said Innes. “It’s basically saying nothing.”

Ford felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. Kate asked, “May I take over for a moment?”

He dropped his hands from the keyboard and moved over. Kate sat down.

What are our illusions
? she typed.

You evolved to see the world as being made up of discrete objects. That is not so. From the first moment of creation, all was entangled. What you call space and time are merely emergent properties of a deeper underlying reality. In that reality, there is no separateness. There is no time. There is no space. All is one
.

Explain
, Kate typed.

Your own theory of quantum mechanics, incorrect as it is, touches on the deep truth that the universe is unitary
.

All well and good
, Kate typed,
but how does this matter in our own lives today
?

It matters a great deal. You think of yourself as an “individual person,” with a unique and separate mind. You think you are born and you think you die. All your life you feel separate and alone. Sometimes desperately so. You fear death because you fear the loss of individuality. All this is illusion. You, he, she, those things around you living or not, the stars and galaxies, the empty space in between—these are not distinct, separate objects. All is fundamentally entangled. Birth and death, pain and suffering, love and hate, good and evil, are all illusive. They are atavisms of the evolutionary process. They do not exist in reality
.

So it’s just like the Buddhists believe, that all is illusion?

Not at all. There is an absolute truth, a reality. But a mere glimpse of this reality would break a human mind
.

Suddenly Edelstein, who had abandoned his computer console, appeared behind Ford and Mercer.

“Alan, why are you leaving your station—?” Hazelius began.

“If you’re God,” said Edelstein with a half smile on his face, hands clasped behind his back, strolling along in front of the Visualizer, “let’s dispense with the typing. You should be able to hear me.”

Loud and clear
, came the response on the Visualizer.

“We’ve got a hidden mike in here,” said Hazelius. “Melissa, get on it. Hunt it down.”

“You bet.”

Edelstein went on, unperturbed. “You say, ‘all is unitary’? We have a numbering system: one, two, three—and in this way I refute your statement.”

One, two, three . . . Another illusion. There is no enumerability
.

“This is mathematical sophistry,” said Edelstein, growing annoyed. “No enumerability—I just disproved it by counting.” He held up his hand. “An-other disproof: I give you the integer five!”

You give me a hand with five fingers, not the integer five. Your number system has no independent existence in the real world. It is nothing more than a sophisticated metaphor
.

“I’d like to hear your proof of that ridiculous conjecture.”

Pick a number at random on the real number line: with probability one you have picked a number that has no name, has no definition, and cannot be computed or written down, even if the whole universe were put to the task. This problem extends to allegedly definable numbers such as pi or the square root of two. With a computer the size of the universe running an infinite amount of time, you could not calculate either number exactly. Tell me, Edelstein: How then can such numbers be said to exist? How can the circle or the square, from which these two numbers derive, exist? How can dimensional space exist, then, if it cannot be measured? You, Edelstein, are like a monkey who, with heroic mental effort, has figured out how to count to three. You find four pebbles and think you have discovered infinity
.

Ford had lost the thread of the argument, but he was startled to see Edelstein’s face pale, shocked into silence, as if the mathematician had understood something that staggered him.

“Is that so?” cried Hazelius, stepping down from the Bridge and brushing Edelstein aside. He placed himself squarely in front of the screen. “You talk a fine streak, you boast that even the word ‘God’ is inadequate to describe your greatness. All right, then—prove it. Prove you’re God.”

“Don’t,” said Kate. “Don’t ask that.”

“Why the hell not?”

“You just might get what you ask for.”

“Fat chance.” He turned back to the machine. “Did you hear me?
Prove you’re God
.”

There was a silence, and then the answer appeared on the screen:
You construct the proof, Hazelius. But I warn you, this is the last test to which I will submit. We have important business and very little time
.

“You asked for it.”

“Wait,” said Kate.

Hazelius turned to her.

“Gregory, if you have to do this, do it right.
Make it count
. There can’t be any room for doubt or ambiguity. Ask it something that only you know—
only
you, and no one else in the entire world. Something personal. Your deepest, most private secret. Something only God— the
real
God— could possibly know.”

“Yes, Kate. That’s quite right.” He thought for a long minute, and then spoke quietly. “All right. I’ve got it.”

Silence.

Everyone had stopped their tasks.

Hazelius turned toward the Visualizer. He spoke calmly and quietly. “My wife, Astrid, was pregnant when she died. We had just found out. Nobody else knew of her pregnancy.
Nobody
. Here is your test: tell me the name we chose for our child.”

Another silence, filled only by the ethereal singing of the detectors. The screen remained blank. The seconds crawled by.

Hazelius snorted. “Well, that settles it. If anyone had any doubts.”

And then, as if from a great distance, a name swam into focus on the screen.

Albert Leibniz Gund Hazelius, if it was a boy
.

Hazelius remained still, his face expressionless. Everyone stared at him, awaiting a denial that did not come.

“And if it was a girl?” Edelstein cried, stepping toward the screen. “What if it was a girl? What would the name have been?”

Rosalind Curie Gund Hazelius
.

Ford stared in utter astonishment as Hazelius folded to the floor, as slowly and gently as if he had fallen asleep.

BY THE TIME STANTON LOCKWOOD REACHED the Oval Office for the emergency meeting, the president was pacing the center of the room like a caged lion. Roger Morton, his chief of staff, and the ubiquitous campaign chief Gordon Galdone were standing on either side of his pacing ground, like referees. His ever-silent secretary, Jean, clutched her steno book primly. Lockwood was surprised to see the president’s National Security Advisor in video conference, split-screened on a flat panel display with Jack Strand, the Director of the FBI.

“Stanton.” The president came over and grasped his hand. “Glad you could get here at such short notice.”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

“Have a seat.”

Lockwood sat while the president continued to stand. “Stan, I called this little meeting because we’ve got some shit going on down there in Arizona with the Isabella project that Jack’s just brought to my attention. Around eight o’clock Mountain Daylight Time all communications to and from Isabella were cut off. From all of Red Mesa, even. The DOE Offsite Project Manager tried to raise them on the secure lines, by open cell lines, even by regular land-lines. No luck. Isabella is running at full power and it seems the team is below, in the Bunker, totally cut off. The situation was vetted up the ladder and just came to the attention of Director Strand—who informed me.”

Lockwood nodded. This was very strange. There were backup systems to the backup systems. It shouldn’t happen. Couldn’t happen.

“Look, it’s probably some glitch,” said the president, “power failure maybe. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it—not at this sensitive time.”

“Sensitive time,” Lockwood knew, was the president’s euphemism for the upcoming election.

The president paced. “And that’s not the
only
problem.” He turned to his secretary. “Jean? Roll it.”

A screen dropped from the ceiling. Static hissed; then the image of Reverend Don T. Spates filled the screen at his cherrywood roundtable, speaking to an eminence grise. His voice rolled from the sound system like thunder. The segment had been edited down to eight minutes of the high points of the show—sound bullets. When the tape ended, the president stopped pacing and faced Lockwood. “
That’s
the second problem.”

Lockwood took a deep breath. “Mr. President, I wouldn’t be too concerned. This is crazy stuff. Only the fringe is going to buy this.”

The president turned to his chief of staff. “Roger? Tell him.”

Morton’s spatulate fingers coolly adjusted his tie, his gray eyes on Lockwood. “Before
Roundtable America
had even ended, the White House had received almost one hundred thousand e-mails. We hit two hundred thousand a half hour ago. I don’t have the latest tally, because the servers crashed.”

Lockwood felt a thrill of horror.

“In all my years in politics,” said the president, “I’ve never seen anything like it. And wouldn’t you know it, right at this very moment the goddamn Isabella project goes silent!”

Lockwood glanced at Galdone, but as usual the lugubrious campaign chief was reserving counsel.

“Could you send someone out there,” Lockwood asked, “to check it out?”

The FBI Director spoke. “We’re considering it. Perhaps a small team . . . in case there’s a . . . situation out there.”

“A situation?”

“It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that we may be dealing with terrorists or some kind of internal mutiny. A
very
remote possibility. But we do have to consider it.”

Lockwood felt a spiraling sense of unreality.

“So, Stanton,” said the president, clasping his hands behind his back. “You’re in charge of Isabella. What the hell’s going on?”

Lockwood cleared his throat. “All I can say is, this is extremely unusual. It’s way outside the protocols. I can’t begin to understand it, unless . . .”

“Unless what?” the president asked.

“The scientists deliberately shut down the communications system.”

“How can we find that out?”

Lockwood thought for a moment. “There’s a guy named Bernard Wolf up at Los Alamos. He was the right-hand man to the chief engineer, Ken Dolby, who designed Isabella. He knows the whole layout, the systems, the computers, how it all works together. And he’ll have a full set of blueprints.”

The president turned to his chief of staff. “Get him up and ready to roll.”

“Yes, Mr. President.” Morton sent his assistant scurrying from the room on the task. Morton walked to the window and turned. His face was red, and the veins in his neck pulsed faintly. He looked directly at Lockwood. “For weeks, Stan, I’ve been
repeatedly
expressing to you my concern about the lack of progress with the Isabella project. What the
hell
have you been
doing
?”

Lockwood was stunned by his tone. Nobody had talked to him that way in years. He kept his voice under rigid control. “I’ve been working on it day and night. I even put a man on the inside.”

“A man on the inside? Sweet Jesus. Without running it by me?”

“I authorized it,” said the president sharply. “Let’s stay focused on the problem at hand and stop bickering.”

“What, exactly, is this man supposed to be doing?” said Morton, ignoring the president.

“He’s looking into the delay, trying to figure out what’s behind it.”

“And?”

“I expect results tomorrow.”

“How are you in contact with him?”

“By secure sat phone,” said Lockwood. “Unfortunately, if he’s in the Bunker with the rest, it doesn’t work underground.”

“Try it anyway.”

With a shaking hand, Lockwood wrote the number on a piece of paper and handed it to Jean.

“Put it on speaker,” said Morton.

The phone rang five times, ten, fifteen.

“
Enough
,” said Morton, staring hard at Lockwood. Then he slowly turned to the president. “Mr. President, may I respectfully suggest that we move this meeting to the Situation Room? Because I have the feeling it’s going to be a long night.”

Lockwood stared at the Great Seal on the carpet. It all seemed so unreal. Was it possible they had gotten to Ford and turned him, too?

HAZELIUS LAY SPRAWLED ACROSS THE LINOLEUM floor. Ford rushed over to where he was stretched out and the other members of the team crowded around. Ford knelt and felt the pulse in his neck. It was strong, rapid, and steady. Kate grasped his hand, patting it. “Gregory? Gregory!”

“Get me a flashlight,” said Ford.

Wardlaw handed him a flashlight. Ford thumbed Hazelius’s eyelid open and shined the light in. The pupil contracted strongly.

“Water.”

A styrofoam cup was thrust into his hands. Ford took out his handkerchief, dipped it in the water, and patted it on Hazelius’s face. The scientist’s shoulders moved slightly, and both eyes fluttered open. They darted around, full of alarm and confusion.

“What—?”

“It’s all right,” said Ford. “You just fainted.”

Hazelius stared around uncomprehendingly. Realization crept back into his eyes. He stuggled to sit up.

“Take it easy,” said Ford, gently keeping him down. “Wait for your head to clear.”

Hazelius lay back, staring at the ceiling. “Oh my God,” he groaned. “This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.”

The smell of hot electronics hung heavy in the stifling atmosphere. Isabella moaned, the sound coming from all directions, as if the mountain itself were keening.

“Help me into my chair,” Hazelius gasped.

Kate took one arm, Ford took the other, and they helped him to his feet and walked him to the center of the Bridge, letting him settle into the captain’s chair.