Insistence of Vision (27 page)

Still, Torricelli’s sense of despondency grew evident as he wrote to friends all over Europe, passing on word of the crime being committed against his old master. Without naming names, Torricelli described the imprisonment of a great and brilliant man. Threats of torture, the coerced abjuration of his life’s work... and then even worse torment as the gray-bearded
Professori
entered confinement under house arrest, forbidden ever to leave his home or stroll the lanes and hills, or even to correspond (except clandestinely) with other lively minds.

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What does all of this have to do with that copy of “
Dialogho
” in the Kuiper Collection?

Like many books that are centuries old, this one has accumulated a morass of margin notes and annotations, scribbled by various owners over the years – some of them cogent glosses upon the elegant mathematical and physical arguments, and others written by perplexed or skeptical or hostile readers. But one large note especially caught my eye. Latin words on the flyleaf, penned in a flowing hand. Words that translate as:

To the designer of Providence.

Come soon, deliverance of our father.

All previous scholars who examined this particular copy of
“Dialogho”
have assumed that the inscription on the flyleaf was simply a benediction or dedication to the Almighty, though in rather unconventional form.

No one knew what to make of the signature, consisting of two large letters.

ET.

ᚖ

Can you see where I’m heading with this?

Struck by a sudden suspicion, I arranged for Kuiper’s edition of
“Dialogho”
to be examined by the Archaeology Department, where special interest soon focused on dried botanical materials embedded at the tight joining of numerous pages. All sorts of debris can settle into any book that endures four centuries. But lately, instead of just brushing it away, people have begun studying this material. Imagine my excitement when the report came in – pollen, seeds and stem residue from an array of plant types... nearly
all
of them native to New England!

It occurred to me that the phrase
“designer of Providence”
might not – in this case – have solely a religious import!

Could it be a coded salutation to an
architectural surveyor?
One who established the street plan of the capital of Rhode Island?

Might “father” in this case refer not to the Almighty, but instead to somebody far more temporal and immediate – the way two apprentices refer to their beloved master?

What I
can
verify from the open record is this. Soon after helping Roger Williams return to Boston in triumph, Henry Stephens hastily took his leave of America and his family, departing on a vessel bound for Holland.

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Why that particular moment? It should have been an exciting time for such a fellow. The foundations for a whole new civilization were being laid. Who can doubt that Henry took an important part in early discussions with Williams, Winthrop, Anne Hutchinson and others – deliberations over the best way to establish tolerance and lasting peace with native tribes. How to institute better systems of justice and education. Discussions that would soon bear surprising fruit.

And yet, just as the fruit was ripening, Stephens
left
, hurrying back to a Europe that he now considered decadent and corrupt. What provoked this sudden flight from his cherished New World?

It was July 1634. Antwerp shipping records show him disembarking there on the 5th.

On the 20th a vague notation in the Town Hall archive tells of a meeting between several guildmasters and a group of ‘foreign doctors’ – a term that could apply to any group of educated people from beyond the city walls. Only the timing seems provocative.

In early August, the Maritime Bank recorded a large withdrawal of 250 florins from the account of Willebrord Snellius, authorized in payment to ‘H. Stefuns’ by letter of credit from Leiden.

Travel expenses? Plus some extra for clandestine bribes? Yes, the clues are slim even for speculating. And yet we also know that at this time the young exiled scholar, Evangelista Torricelli, vacated his home. Bidding farewell to his local patrons, he then mysteriously vanished from sight forever.

So, temporarily, did Henry Stephens. For almost a year there is no sign of either man. No letters. No known mention of anyone seeing them...

...not until the spring of 1635, when Henry stepped once more upon the wharf in Boston Town, into the waiting arms of Prosper and their children. Sons and daughters who presumably clamored around their Papa, shouting the age-old refrain –

“What did you bring me? What did you bring me?”

What he brought them was the future.

ᚖ

Oops, sorry about that, Lilly. You must be chafing for me to get to the point.

Or did you cheat?

Have you already done a quick mentat-scan of the archives, skipping past Henry’s name on the
Gravenhage
ship manifest, looking to see who
else
disembarked along with him that bright April day?

No, it won’t be that obvious. They were afraid, you see, and with good reason.

True, the Holy See quickly forgave the fugitive and declared him safe from retribution. But the secretive masters of the Inquisition were less eager to pardon a famous escapee. They had already proved relentless in pursuit of those who slip away. While pretending that he still languished in custody, they must have sent agents everywhere, searching...

So look instead for assumed names! Protective camouflage.

Try
Mr. Quicksilver
, which was the common word in English for mercury, a metal that is liquid at room temperature and a key ingredient in early barometers. Is the name familiar? It would be if you went to
this
university. And now it’s plain – that had to be Torricelli! A flood of scholarly papers may come from this connection, alone. An old mystery solved.

But move on now to the real news. Have you scanned the passenger list carefully?

How about “Mr. Kinneret”?

Kinneret
– one of the alternate names, in Hebrew, for the Sea of Galilee.

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Yes, dear. Kinneret.

I’m looking at his portrait right now, on the Wall of Founders. And despite obvious efforts at disguise – no beard, for example – it astonishes me that no one has commented till now on the resemblance between Harvard’s earliest Professor of Natural Philosophy and the scholar who we are told died quietly under house arrest near Florence, way back in 1642.

It makes you wonder. Would a Catholic savant from “papist” Italy have been welcome in Puritan Boston – or on the faculty of John Harvard’s new college – without the quiet revolution of reason that Roger Williams set in motion?

Would that revolution have been so profound or successful, without strong support from the Surveyor’s Guild and the Seven United Tribes?

Lacking the influence of Kinneret, might the American tradition of excellence in mathematics and science have been delayed for decades? Maybe centuries?

ᚖ

Sitting here in the Harvard University Library, staring out the window at rowers on the river, I can scarcely believe that less than four centuries have passed since the
Gravenhage
docked not far from here on that chilly spring morning of 1635. Three hundred and seventy nine years ago, to be exact.

Is that all? Think about it, just fifteen human generations, from those rustic beginnings to the dawn of a new millennium. How the world has changed.

Ill-disciplined, I left my transcriber set to record
Surface Thoughts
, and so these personal musings have all been logged for you to savor, if you choose high-fidelity download. But can even that convey the emotion I feel while marveling at the secret twists and turns of history?

If only some kind of time – or para-time – travel were possible, so history could become an observational... or even experimental... science! Instead we are left to use primitive methods, piecing together clues, sniffing and burrowing in dusty records, hoping the essential story has not been completely lost.

Yearning to shed a ray of light on whatever made us who we are.

ᚖ

How much difference can one person make, I wonder? Even one gifted with talent and goodness and skill – and the indomitable will to persevere?

Maybe some group
other
than the Iroquois would have invented the steamboat and the Continental Train, even if James Watt hadn’t emigrated and ‘gone native’. But how ever could the Pan American Covenant have succeeded without Ben Franklin sitting there in Havana, to jest and soothe all the bickering delegates into signing?

How important was Abraham Lincoln’s Johannesburg Address in rousing the world to finish off slavery and apartheid? Might the flagging struggle have failed without him? Or is progress really a team effort, the way Kip Thorne credits his AI colleagues –
meta-Einstein
and
meta-Feynman
– claiming that he never could have created the Transfer Drive without their help?

Even this fine Widener Library where I sit – bequeathed to Harvard by one of the alumni who died when
Titanic
hit that asteroid in 1912 – seems to support the notion that things will happen pretty much the same, whether or not a specific individual or group happens to be on the scene.

No one can answer these questions. My own recent discoveries – following a path blazed by Kuiper and others – don’t change things very much. Except perhaps to offer a sense of satisfaction – much like the gratification Henry Stephens must have felt the day he stepped down the wharf, embracing his family, shaking the hand of his friend Williams, and breathing the heady air of freedom in this new world...

... then turning to introduce his friends from across the sea. Friends who would do epochal things during the following twenty years, becoming legends while Henry himself faded into contented obscurity.

Can one person change the world?

Maybe not.

So instead let’s ask; what would
Harvard
be like, if not for Professor Quicksilver-Torricelli?

Or if not for Professor Galileo Galilei.

Story Notes

This story – and the one after – falls into the category of a “contemplation.” You take the What-If premise of science fiction and extrapolate some twist or change that affects the main character… but even more-so the world.

It is that possibility – the world will and must change – that distinguishes science fiction most from other genres, and
especially
from its cousin, fantasy. For example, despite all the action, drama and verve that you will find in an above-average fantasy tale, perhaps rooting for a good prince to overcome a dark lord, the deep premise of kings and lords will (almost) always be retained. Only in SF are you sometimes forced to consider how a small quirk of fate might transform everything. And sometimes it isn’t the person who is most powerful or renowned who makes the greatest difference.

Our next tale, one of my collaborations with Gregory Benford, contemplates an even-more brash case of “let one character change everything.”

I Could’ve Done Better

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by Gregory Benford & David Brin

1.

They didn’t have to do this to me. Dump me in this place, with no chance of going home.

I told them I’d try harder. Really. Make up for my mistakes. Be a better person. They could choose someone else, easy.

But did they listen?

How I miss the things I’ll never do again. Eat a hotdog at the ballpark. Take a flight out to the coast. Catch a Vegas show or watch a playoff game on TV. I suppose I could invent baseball or teach these people how to play poker. But they’d just let me win all the time, so where’s the fun?

Here comes slender Mirimani now, carrying a basket of fresh fruit, followed by Deela—buxom Deela—with a pitcher of beer. I’ve grown used to the strong, bitter stuff they brew here, though I’d trade Tut’s treasure right now for a cold, frothy Budweiser . . .

“It is time for my lord to have his morning massage,” Deela says, leaning over me to fill a golden goblet. Her scent is mild musk and myrrh. Two more girls approach with linen towels and scented oils.

Mirimani smiles. She’s leaner, more athletic.

“Or would the Father of the Nile prefer to bathe first?”

All right, I admit it. I used to get a kick out of talk like that, the first hundred or so times. Till I realized what an absolute pit it is to be Pharaoh.

“Not now,” I respond. My Old Kingdom Egyptian has an Illinois accent, but no one complains. “What’s on our schedule today?”

Mirimani can glide smoothly from seductive to pure business—one reason she’s risen so high in my service.

“A new ambassador from Babylon wishes to present gifts.”

“Right into my lapis, I suppose.”

“My lord?”

“Never mind.” Making puns in English, instead of my tortured Ancient Egyptian; I really am homesick today. “Okay, then what?”

“You grant clemency to the Libyan rebels.”

“Clemency? Those guys gave me real trouble last summer, raiding caravans and burning my new schools. Remind me. Why was I planning to spare them?”

“In order to set an example, my lord. To illustrate your innovations called ‘due process’ and ‘rehabilitation,’ as I recall. Have you changed your mind?”

“Well . . . no, I guess not. It’d be more satisfying to set another kind of example, though. One involving hungry lions. Oh, never mind. Is there anything else?”

“Only an audience with the High Priestess of Isis, who craves a few moments from the Father of Waters.”

At this I groan.

“Aw, man, do I really have to see
her?”

Mirimani smiles gently. We’ve been through this before.

“No one commands the Pharaoh of all Egypt. But you have found the wisdom of Isis indispensable in the past.”

Her phrasing tugs with bitter irony.

In the past, Mirimani?

Oh, if only you knew how far off you are.

2.

All right, picture this. Two babes come swaying into Mulligan’s Bar, wearing identical black dresses with slit sides and plunging backs. One blond and the other with tightly curled hair that’s a deep, almost black, henna red. They seem awkward on spike heels—wobbling a little—yet getting the hang of it fast. Athletic types. No. More than that.

Right away the old radar is up, beeping. They’re knockouts. Tall, luminous, luscious . . . every male in the place takes notice. So does every female. You’d have to be dead not to.

Let me get something straight—I wasn’t asking for trouble. Just stopping by the old haunt to relax with a brew—one!—after a racquetball match. I demolished poor Fred from Accounting pretty easy, 3–1, picking up fifty bucks on bets and feeling smug over grinding his nose in it. I’d been riding my underlings at work, too—working off the steam that kept building up in my life. The feeling that I should be doing more. More than middle management. More than this.

Sandy expected me home by six-thirty. I really meant to be prompt. Maybe put in some quality time with the kids.

The after-five crowd was trickling in. My fave time of day. Allowing for a twenty-minute commute, I had three quarters of an hour to just relax and be me. If I cut it close.

I had promised Sandy to do better, and really meant it this time. She had caught me chatting up an intern at the office picnic and raised hell. Then, two days later, I came home late and brewed up a bit. She didn’t seem to understand that I was still a fun kinda guy. That’s what originally drew us to each other, right? We sure had some wild times.

Only now she was auditioning for the role of Wounded Hausfrau and I hadn’t changed.
Why should I?
part of me protested.

Another part answered—
Come on, sport, you know you’ve crossed the line a few times since you got hitched. She’s worth some extra effort. So are the kids. Give it a rest.

I’m sure every married guy has those conflicts, right? Well, a lot of us.

So there I was, just mulling it over, dealing with it, when the two lookers came in.

Lookers in both senses—they sat down and right away started looking at me.

Ah, those sheath dresses, hose and high heels—tight skirts, covering without concealing two great bodies. And the faces—just my type. High cheekbones, full lips, arching eyebrows, long hair. Redhead’s dusky complexion set a nice contrast to the blonde’s cool snow. Couldn’t be better if I’d ordered them from a menu.

Okay, maybe I was a little irked with Sandy. Maybe I was tired. Give me credit—I went over there more out of curiosity than anything else. I mean, how often do two knockout babes send you pickup looks across a bar?

For just a moment, I recall, something about these two—the way they moved—made me think of…
soldiers
.

The thought was kind of weird. Unnerving.

It didn’t stop me, though.

“Do I know you ladies?”

Not as amateur as it sounds. If they say no, turn it into a compliment, something about getting to start fresh with two such lovelies, blah blah. When I was in practice, I could come off even a routine opening with confidence, like answering a backhand serve.

Only the blonde surprises me.

“Oh, we know you. You’re famous.”

I gave her a quick look to see if this was irony, but she’s beaming a big, white smile. Good teeth, great glossy lipstick, and not a hair out of place. Maybe they’d been in Mulligan’s before and heard something.

I tossed it off with a disarming chuckle. “Whatever they’re saying, officer, it ain’t true.”

“Oh, no, Alec,” the redhead said, “you’re renowned.”

All right. A bit nervous now. They knew my name. I glanced around to see if any of the guys were giggling in a corner, having put these two up to it.

“Renowned, eh? How come I don’t see myself on magazine covers?”

“Not now—in the future.” And she motioned for me to sit down.

Now I know it’s a gag. But nobody was cackling beyond the potted plants. Mulligan himself seemed unaware, busy with customers. I decided to play along, plopping in a chair.

“Oh, yeah?”

“We’re serious,” the blonde said. “We really are from your future.”

“Sure, like in those movies.” The guys knew I was a lifelong sci-fi fan. Whoever set this up, I’d have to come up with something good to top it.

“Indeed—” the redhead nodded, “—our research shows several cinematic dramas in your era approached the general concept, so you should easily grasp what we’re talking about. Please do accept it. We are real, from two centuries ahead of this day.”

I gave them a smile of disbelief, with a Cary Grant cock of the head. “Hm, well, they do make real beauties in the twenty-third century.”

For the first time, something I said affected her. A modest blush, apparently sincere. I blinked, more surprised by that than anything she had said. This was no hired hooker or actress. She was nervous underneath and actually appreciated the compliment. My opinion meant something to her.

“So, are you ladies tourists? Come back in time to do a little slumming with the ancestors?”

The blonde was more businesslike. “We are not tourists, Alec. Our mission is serious. We are at war.”

I blinked. A surprising turn. My latest theory had been that they were sorority pledges from a nearby college, pulling mind games on some locals as part of an initiation stunt. The future babes trip had just the right flavor for a tease fantasy. But this—

“At… war?”

“Yes. And we are losing.”

“You . . .”

“We,” she corrected. “All of us. Humanity.”

“Uh huh, I think I saw that movie. You want me to go forward in time because I’m a typical primitive warrior type. Only a real man can defeat the alien invaders or rogue computers or mutant spiders, because your males are too civilized.”

They gave me a don’t-be-ridiculous look.

“Our warriors are strong, Alec,” the redhead said, “both men and women. Indeed, many of our greatest heroes and most innovative thinkers are descended from you.”

That made me blink a couple of times, momentarily at a loss for words. What a line! I should try it myself sometime. Somebody at the sorority had an imagination, all right.

Well, if they wanted to be outrageous, fine.

“Descended from . . . Oh, I get it now. You’ve come back in time to ask me for genetic samples?”

The blonde put her hand on my thigh, a pleasant warm pressure, and rather more alarming than I expected. Her smile broadened.

“Yes, but more than that, we need your help.”

“No fighting aliens in the future? Shucks.”

A small corner of me felt strangely disappointed. I kind of hankered after that.

“We would not risk your life. But you can save humanity, Alec. If you are willing to accept a most difficult, onerous, but ultimately rewarding task.”

3.

The ambassador from Babylon brought mostly the same old crap. Jewelry that my kid might’ve spurned at a discount store, back home in Chicago. Some pathetic rugs. Spices to cover the smell when food starts to go stale.

We’ll fix that problem by next year, if I keep making good progress setting up Pharaoh Laboratories, Inc. I think I can remember how to make a refrigerator and there’s no lack of willing labor. Nor any corporate bean-counters or stockholders to hinder us. We’ll keep trying till we get it right.

I’ll have cold beer yet! You’ll see.

The ambassador looked scared, trying desperately to impress me with his gifts. Well, can’t blame him. Babylon and all the other ancient powers are pissing in their pants because Old Kingdom Egypt now has muzzle-loading cannon.

He seemed especially upset over the girls. He brought twenty of them. Real beauties. Didn’t Pharaoh like ‘em?

Shucks. The ever-efficient priestesses of Isis whisked them all away before I could even get a good look! Only those who actually
volunteer
– of their own free will – may come back to the palace, later. It’s my own law, dammit.

To compensate, I enjoyed making the ambassador sweat some more. But not too much. To my surprise, I’ve found a little groveling goes a long way.

Anyway, the Libyan rebels were next. They should put on a good show.

4.

All right, so there we are in the bar, see? I’m getting into their little game—this time travel story thing. As I said, it just had to be a sorority prank. A sexy little mind tease. Even the “future war” scenario fit in. Maybe they were “assigned to protect me” from some horrible android assassin. Why not play along? It wouldn’t be sporting to spoil their fun, right?

Only part of me was getting worried. The part that knows people, often letting me manipulate them to my own advantage. The part that does well at poker. The part that knew these weren’t ditzy sorority chicks out on a dare.

They were formidable women. Capable adults, serious and determined. Whatever they were up to, they meant to accomplish it.

Part of me already half believed them.

“Um . . . a task?”

“In another era.”

“Another . . . right. You want me to come with you in a time machine.”

“Not a machine. A time
beam
. Our greatest scientists managed to create just one, with an interference fringe here in your era and another at our final destination. So this has to work.”

“Hm. Will it take long? My wife expects me home in less than an hour.”

That’s not like me. To mention Sandy, up front. First clue that I really am starting to take this crazy story as more than a joke.

“Your wife was destined to be disappointed tonight, whether or not we came to intervene. Do you see the brunette sitting behind me? Three tables back, trying to read a book.”

“Yeah, so? I noticed her before.”

“You were about to go to her and . . . what is your expression? Pick her up.”

“No way.”

“After your third beer . . . ”

“I was just having one!”

“
 . . . one thing would lead to another. Amid the subsequent accusations, lies, and recriminations, a downward spiral would commence, with more such philandering episodes, more alienation, resulting in divorce and then two more failed marriages —
”

“Hey!” This was getting weird. “I’m happy. All right, I need more control. And maybe I can be a bit self-centered. But I wouldn’t spoil things like that! Not where it counts.”

The redhead stayed serious. They were dividing roles.

“During the next month, by our records, everything will turn sour. You will go back to gambling, promiscuity—”

“No! I’m through with all that.” Then I recall how I was feeling a minute ago. “Dammit,
you
started flirting with
me
. I was just having a beer, and . . . and I’ve been trying harder.”

It sounded pretty lame, even to me, but I
had
been doing better. Really I had. Right up until that evening!

The blonde was merciless.

“Yes, but you will fail. If it helps, let me assure you that it isn’t entirely your fault. Blame it on upbringing and a wretched environment—certainly not genes.”

“What about my genes?” The weirder this got, the more I seemed compelled to stay and listen.

“Your traits are mostly outstanding and they manifest that way through all eight of your children. And their heirs, far downstream,”