Distress - A Novel Part 8

Mosala came across as relaxed and una.s.suming; she'd been visibly nervous in the footage I'd seen of earlier appearances-the n.o.bel ceremony, especially-but if she wasn't yet a seasoned veteran, she was definitely more at ease. She had a deep, vibrant voice-which might have been electrifying if she ever took to making speeches-but her tone was conversational, not oratorial. All of which boded well for Violet Mosala. The awkward truth was, some people just didn't belong on a living room screen for most of fifty minutes. They didn't fit-and they emerged distorted, like a sound too loud or too soft to record. Mosala, I was sure now, would survive the limitations of the medium. So long as I didn't screw up completely, myself.

The first few questions came from the science correspondents of the non-specialist news services . . . who diligently resurrected all the old non sequiturs: Will a Theory of Everything mean an end to science? Will a TOE render the future totally predictable7 Will a TOE unlock all the 98.unsolved problems of physics and chemistry, biology and medicine . . . ethics and religion?

Mosala dealt with all of this patiently and concisely. "A Theory of Everything is just the simplest mathematical formulation we can find which encapsulates all the underlying order in the universe. Over time, if a candidate TOE survives sustained theoretical scrutiny and experimental testing, we should gradually become confident that it represents a kind of kernel of understanding . .. from which-in principle, in the most idealized sense-everything around us could be explained.

"But that won't make anything 'totally predictable.' The universe is full of systems which we understand completely-systems as simple as two planets...o...b..ting a star-where the mathematics is chaotic, or intractable, and long term predictions will always be impossible to compute.

"And it doesn't mean 'an end to science.' Science is much more than the search for a TOE; it's the elucidation of the relationships between order in the universe at every level. Reaching the foundations doesn't mean hitting the ceiling. There are dozens of problems in fluid dynamics-let alone neurobiology-which need new approaches, or better approximations, not the ultimate, precise description of matter on a subatomic scale."

I pictured Gina at her workstation. And I pictured her in her new home, recounting all her problems and small triumphs to her new lover. I felt unsteady for a moment, but it pa.s.sed.

"Lowell Parker, Atlantica. Professor Mosala, you say a TOE is the 'simplest mathematical formulation of the underlying order in the universe.' But aren't all these concepts culturally determined? 'Simplicity'? 'Order'? Even the range of formulations available to contemporary mathematics?" Parker was an earnest young man with a Boston accent; Atlantica was a highculture netzine, produced mainly by part-time academics from east coast universities.

Mosala replied, "Certainly. And the equations we choose to call a TOE won't be unique. They'll be like . . . say, Maxwell's Equations for electromagnetism. There are half a dozen equally valid ways Maxwell's Equations can be written-constants can be shuffled around, different variables used . . . they can even be expressed in either three or four dimensions. Physicists and engineers still can't agree as to which formulation is the simplest-because that really depends on what you want to 99.use them for: designing a radar antenna, calculating the behavior of the solar wind, or describing the history of the unification of electrostatics and magnetism. But they all give identical results in any particular calculation-because they all describe the same thing: electromagnetism itself."

Parker said, "That's often been said about the world's religions, hasn't it? They all express the same basic, universal truths-merely in a different manner, to suit different times and places. Would you concede that what you're doing is essentially just a part of the same tradition?" "No. I don't believe that's true."

"But you've admitted that cultural factors will determine the TOE we accept. So how can you claim that what you're doing is any more 'objective' than religion?"

Mosala hesitated, then said carefully, "Suppose every human being was wiped off the face of the planet tomorrow, and we waited a few million years for the next species with a set of religious and scientific cultures to arise. What do you think the new religions would have in common with the old ones-the ones from our time? I suspect the only common ground would be certain ethical principles which could be traced to shared biological influences: s.e.xual reproduction, child rearing, the advantages of altruism, the awareness of death. And if the biology was very different, there might be no overlap at all.

"But if we waited for the new scientific culture to come up with their idea of a TOE, then I believe that-however different it looked 'on paper'-it would be something which either culture would be able to show was mathematically equivalent in every respect to our TOE . . . just as any physics undergraduate can prove that all the forms of Maxwell's Equations describe exactly the same thing.

"That's the difference. Scientists may start off disagreeing wildly-but they converge on a consensus, regardless of their culture. There are physicists at this conference from over a hundred different countries. Their ancestors three thousand years ago might have had twenty or thirty mutually contradictory explanations between them for any phe-nomenon you care to think of in the natural world. And yet there are only three conflicting candidate TOEs being presented here. And in twenty years' time, if not sooner, I'd bet there'll only be one." Parker appeared dissatisfied with this reply, but he took his seat. "Lisbeth Weller, GninWeisheit. It seems to me that your whole 100.approach to these issues reflects a male, Western, reductionist, left-brained mode of thought." Weller was a tall, sober-looking woman, who sounded genuinely saddened and perplexed. "How can you possibly reconcile this with your struggle as an African woman against cultural imperialism?"

Mosala said evenly, "I have no interest in surrendering the most powerful intellectual tools I possess, because of some quaint misconception that they're the property of any particular group of people: male, Western, or otherwise. As I said, the history of science is one of convergence toward a shared understanding of the universe-and I'm not willing to be excluded from that convergence for any reason. And as for 'left-brained modes of thought,' I'm afraid that's a rather dated-and reductionist-concept. Personally, I use the whole organ."

There was loud applause from the fans, but it sounded plaintive as it died out. The atmosphere in the room was changing: becoming strained, polarized. Weller, I knew, was a proud member of Mystical Renaissance-and although most journalists here would have no cult affiliation, the minority with strong anti-science sentiments could still make their presence felt.

"William Savimbi, Proteus Information. You speak approvingly of a convergence of ideas which has no respect for ancestral cultures-as if your own heritage were of no importance to you at all. Is it true that you received death threats from the Pan-African Cultural Defense Front, after you publicly stated that you didn't consider yourself to be an African woman?" Proteus was the South African branch of a large Canadian family company; Savimbi was a solid, gray-haired man, who spoke with casual familiarity, as if he'd been covering Mosala for some time.

Mosala struggled visibly to contain her anger. She reached into a pocket and took out her notepad, and began typing on the keyboard.

Without pausing, she said, "Mr. Savimbi, if you find the technology of your profession too daunting, perhaps you should look for something less challenging. This is the quote, from the original Reuters story, filed in Stockholm on December 10th, 2053. And it's only taken me fifteen seconds to find it,"

She held up the notepad, and her recorded voice said: "I don't wake up every morning and say to myself: 'I'm an African woman, how should this be reflected in my work?' I don't think that way at all. I wonder if 101.

anyone asked Dr. Wozniak how being European influenced his approach to polymer synthesis."

There was more applause-from more of the audience, this time-but I sensed a growing predatory undercurrent. Mosala was becoming visibly agitated, and however sympathetic the pack were-in principle-I had no doubt that they'd be overjoyed if she was provoked into losing control.

"Janet Walsh, Planet News. Ms. Mosala, perhaps you could clarify something for me. This Theory of Everything you keep talking about, which is going to sum up the final truth about the universe ... it sounds absolutely wonderful to me, but I would like to hear exactly what it's based on."

Mosala must have known who Walsh was, but she betrayed no sign of hostility. She said, "Every TOE is an attempt to find a deeper explanation for what's called the Standard Unified Field Theory. That was completed in the late twenties-and it's survived all experimental tests, so far. Strictly speaking, the SUFT is already a 'Theory of Everything': it does give a unified account of all the forces of nature. But its a very messy, arbitrary theory-based on a ten-dimensional universe with a lot of strange quirks which are difficult to take at face value. Most of us believe that there's a simpler explanation underlying it, just waiting to be found."

Walsh said, "But this SUFT you're trying to supplant-what was that based on?"

"A number of earlier theories which each, separately, accounted for one or two of the four basic forces. But if you want to know where those earlier theories came from, I'd have to recount five thousand years of scientific history. The short answer is, ultimately, a TOE will be based on observations of every aspect of the world, and the search for patterns in those observations."

"That's it?" Walsh mimed happy disbelief. "Then we're all scientists, aren't we? We all use our senses, we all make observations. And we all see patterns. I see patterns in the clouds above my home, every time I walk out into the garden." She smiled a modest, self-deprecating smile.

Mosala said, "That's a start. But there are two powerful steps beyond that kind of observation, which have made all the difference. Carrying out deliberate, controlled experiments, instead of only watching nature as it unfolds. And carrying out quant.i.tative observations: making measurements, and trying to find patterns in the numbers."

102.

"Eike numerology?"

Mosala shook her head, and said patiently, "Not any pattern, for the sake of it. You have to have a clear hypothesis to start with, and you have to know how to test it."

"You mean . . . use all the right statistical methods, and so on?"

"Exactly."

"But given the right statistical methods . . . you think the whole truth about the universe is spelled out in the patterns you can find by peering at an endless list of numbers?"

Mosala hesitated, probably wondering if the tortuous process of explaining anything more subtle would be worse than accepting that characterization other life's work.

"More or less."

"Everything's in the numbers? The numbers never lie?"

Mosala lost all patience. "No, they don't."

Walsh said, "That's very interesting. Because a few months ago, I came across a preposterous-very offensive!-idea that was being spread on some of the far-right-wing European networks. I thought it deserved to be properly-scientifically!-refuted. So I bought a little statistical package, and I asked it to test the hypothesis that a certain portion-a certain quota-of the n.o.bel Prizes since the year 2010 have been explicitly reserved on political grounds for the citizens of African nations." There was a moment of stunned silence, then a wave of outraged exclamations spread across the room. Walsh held up her notepad and continued, raising her voice over the outcry, "And the answer was, there was a ninety-five percent chance-" Half a dozen people in the fan club rows sprang to their feet and started shouting at her; the two men on either side of me began hissing. Walsh pressed on, with an expression of bemus.e.m.e.nt, as if she couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. "The answer was, there was a ninety-five percent chance that it was true."

A dozen more people stood up to abuse her. Four journalists stormed out of the auditorium. Walsh remained on her feet, waiting for a response, smiling innocently. I saw Marian Fox move tentatively toward the podium; Mosala gestured to her to stay back.

Mosala began typing on her notepad. The shouting and hissing gradually subsided, and then everyone but Walsh took their seats again.

The silence can't have lasted more than ten seconds, but it was long enough for me to realize that my heart was pounding. I wanted to punch 103.

someone. Walsh was no racist, but she was an expert manipulator. She'd slipped a barb under everyone's skin; if she'd had two hundred screaming, placard-waving followers at the back of the auditorium, she couldn't have raised stronger pa.s.sions.

Mosala looked up and smiled sweetly.

She said, "The African scientific renaissance has been examined in detail, in over thirty papers in the last ten years. I'd be happy to give you the references, if you can't track them down yourself. You'll find there are several more sophisticated hypotheses for explaining the sharp rise in the number of articles published in peer-reviewed scientific journals, the rates of citation of those articles, the number of patents awarded-and the number of n.o.bel Prizes for physics and chemistry.

"When it comes to your own field, though, I'm afraid you're on your own. I can't find a single study which offers any alternative explanation to the ninety-nine percent likelihood that, since its inception, a quota of Booker Prizes have been set aside for a clearly delineated, intellectually challenged minority: hacks who should have stayed in advertizing."

The auditorium exploded with laughter. Walsh remained standing for a few seconds, then took her seat with remarkable dignity: unrepentant, unashamed, unfazed. I wondered if all she'd wanted was for Mosala to hit back on the same level. There was no question that Planet Noise would find a way to twist the exchange into a victory for Walsh: SCIENCE PRODIGY, CONFRONTED WITH THE FACTS, INSULTS RESPECTED AUTHOR. But most of the media would report that Mosala had responded with great restraint to deliberate provocation.

There were a few more questions-all of them innocuous and mildly technical-then the session was declared at an end. I walked around to the back of the stage, where Karin De Groot was waiting for me.

De Groot was unmistakably item-a look which was not at all "halfway toward" androgynous; it was far more distinctive than that. While ufems and umales exaggerated well-established facial gender cues, and as.e.xes eliminated them, the first items and imales had modeled the human visual system and found completely new cl.u.s.ters of parameters which would set them apart at a glance-without rendering them all h.o.m.ogeneous.

She shook my hand then led me toward one of the hotel's small meeting rooms. She said quietly, "Go easy on her, will you? That wasn't pleasant back there."

104.

"I can't imagine anyone handling it better."

"Violet's not someone I'd want as an enemy; she never hits back without thinking it through. But that doesn't mean she's made of stone."

The room had a table and seating for twelve, but only Mosala was waiting there. I'd been half expecting a private security guard-but then, the fan club notwithstanding, she wasn't quite in the rock star league. And Kuwale's dire intimations notwithstanding, there was probably no need.

Mosala greeted me warmly. "I'm sorry we couldn't do this earlier, but I'm afraid I hadn't set aside any time for it. After all those meetings with Sarah Knight, I'd a.s.sumed the whole planning stage was over."

All those meetings with Sarah Knight7 Pre-production should never have gone that far without SeeNet's approval.

I said, "I'm sorry to put you through it again. There's always some unavoidable duplication when a new director takes over a project."

Mosala nodded, distracted. We sat and went through the whole conference timetable together, comparing notes. Mosala asked not to be filmed at more than fifty percent of the sessions she attended. "I'd go mad if you were watching me all the time, catching me out whenever I pulled a face at something I disagreed with." I agreed, but then we haggled over the particular fifty percent-I definitely wanted reaction shots for all the talks where her work would be explicitly discussed.

We decided on three interview sessions, two hours each, the first on Wednesday afternoon.

Mosala said, "I still have some trouble understanding what your aim is with this program. If the subject is TOEs . . . why not just cover the whole conference, instead of putting the spotlight on me?"

"Audiences find the theories more accessible if they come packaged as something which a particular person has done." I shrugged. "Or so the network executives have convinced themselves-and probably convinced the audiences as well, by now." SeeNet stood for Science, Education and Entertainment Network, but the S-word was often treated as a source of embarra.s.sment incapable of being intrinsically interesting, and requiring the maximum possible sugar-coating. "With a profile we can touch on some broader issues, though, in terms of the way they affect your day-to-day life. The Ignorance Cults, for example."

Mosala said drily, "You don't think they get enough publicity already?"

105.

"Yes-but most of it's on their own terms. The profile could be a chance for people to see them through your eyes."

She laughed. "You want me to tell your audience what I think of the cults? You won't have time for anything else, if I get started." "You could stick to the big three."

Mosala hesitated. De Groot flashed me a warning look, but I ignored it. I said, "Culture First?"

"Culture First is the most pathetic. It's the last refuge for people desperate to think of themselves as 'intellectuals'-while remaining complete scientific illiterates. Most of them are just nostalgic for the era when a third of the planet was controlled by people whose definition of a civilized education was Latin, European military history, and the selected doggerel of a few overgrown British schoolboys." I grinned. "Mystical Renaissance?"

Mosala smiled ironically. "They start from such good intentions, don't they? They say most people are blind to the world around them: sleepwalkers in a zombie's routine of mundane work and mind-numbing entertainment. I couldn't agree more. They say they want everyone on the planet to become 'attuned' to the universe we're living in, and to share the awe they feel when they confront the deep strangeness of it all: the dizzying length and time scales of cosmology, the endlessly rich complexities of the biosphere, the bizarre paradoxes of quantum mechanics.

"Well ... all of those things inspire awe in me, too-some of the time-but Mystical Renaissance treats that response as an end in itself. And they want science to pull back from investigating anything which gives them a high in its pristine, unexplained state-in case they don't get the same rush from it, once it's better understood. Ultimately, they're not interested in the universe at all-any more than people who romanticize the life of animals into a cartoon world where no blood is spilled ... or people who deny the existence of ecological damage, because they don't want to change the way they live. Followers of Mystical Renaissance only want the truth if it suits them, if it induces the right emotions. If they were honest, they'd just stick a hot wire in their brain at whatever location made them believe they were undergoing a constant mystical epiphany-because in the end, that's all they're after."

This was priceless; no one of Mosala's stature had ever really let fly against the cults like this. Not on the public record. "Humble Science!?"

106.

Mosala's eyes flashed with anger. "They're the worst, by far. The most patronizing, the most cynical. Janet Walsh is just a tactician and a figurehead; most of the real leaders are far better educated. And in their collective wisdom, they've decided that the fragile blossom of human culture just can't survive any more revelations about what human beings really are, or how the universe actually functions.

"If they spoke out against the abuse of biotechnology, I'd back them all the way. If they spoke out against weapons research, I'd do the same. If they stood for some coherent system of values which made the most pitiless scientific truths less alienating to ordinary people . . . without denying those truths... I'd have no quarrel with them at all.

"But when they decide that all knowledge-beyond a border which is theirs to define-is anathema to civilization and sanity, and that it's up to some self-appointed cultural elite to generate a set of hand-made 'life-affirming' myths to take its place ... to imbue human existence with some suitably uplifting-and politically expedient-meaning . . . they become nothing but the worst kind of censors and social engineers."

I suddenly noticed that Mosala's slender arms, spread out on the table in front of her, were trembling; she was far angrier than I'd realized. I said, "It's almost nine, but we could take this up again after Buzzo's lecture, if you have time?"

De Groot touched her elbow. They leaned toward each other, and conversed sotto voce, at length.

Mosala said, "We have an interview scheduled for Wednesday, don't we? I'm sorry, but I can't spare any time before then,"

"Of course, that's fine."

"And those comments I just made are all off the record. They're not to be used."

My heart sank. "Are you serious?"

"This was supposed to be a meeting to discuss your filming schedule. Nothing I said here was intended to be made public."

I pleaded, "I'll put it all in context: Janet Walsh went out of her way to insult you-and at the media conference you kept your cool, you were restrained-but afterward, you expressed your opinions in detail. What's wrong with that? Or do you want Humble Science! to start censoring you!"

Mosala closed her eyes for a moment then said carefully, "Those are my opinions, yes, and I'm ent.i.tled to them. I'm also ent.i.tled to decide 107.

who hears them and who doesn't. I don't want to inflame this whole ugly mess any further. So would you please respect my wishes and tell me that you won't use any of it?"

"We don't have to sort this out immediately. I can send you a rough cut-"

Mosala gestured dismissively. "I signed an agreement with Sarah Knight, saying I could veto anything, on the spot, with no questions asked."

"If you did, that was with her, personally, not with SeeNet. All SeeNet have from you is a standard clearance."

Mosala did not look happy. "You know what I've been meaning to ask you? Sarah said you'd explain why you had to take over the project at such short notice. After all the work she put into it, all she left was a ten-second message saying: 'I'm off the profile, Andrew Worth is the new director, he'll tell you the reason why.'"

I said carefully, "Sarah may have given you the wrong impression. SeeNet had never officially chosen her to make the doc.u.mentary. And it was SeeNet who approached you and set things up initially-not Sarah. It was never a freelance project she was developing independently, to offer to them. It was a SeeNet project which she wanted to direct, so she sank a lot of her own time into trying to make that happen."

De Groot said, "But why didn't it happen? All that research, all that preparation, all that enthusiasm . . . why didn't it pay off?"

What could I say? That I'd stolen the project from the one person who truly deserved it ... so I could have a fully paid South Pacific holiday, away from the stresses of serious frankenscience7 I said, "Network executives are in a world of their own. If I could understand how they made their decisions, I'd probably be up there with them myself."

De Groot and Mosala regarded me with silent disbelief.

108.

12.TechnoLalia, SeeNet's major rival, insisted on labeling Henry Buzzo "the revered guru of trans-millennial physics"-and frequently implied that he should retire as soon as possible, leaving the field open to younger colleagues who rated more dynamic cliches: wunderkinder und enfants terrible "surfing pre-s.p.a.ce's infinite-dimensional nouvelle vague." (Lydia dismissed TL as a guccione, "all hip and no brain." I couldn't argue with that, but I often feared that SeeNet was heading for a similar fate.) Buzzo had shared the n.o.bel back in 2036, with the seven other architects of the Standard Unified Field Theory-but he, too, was now trying to demolish, or at least supersede, it. I was reminded of two early-twentieth-century physicists: J. J. Thomson, who'd established the existence of electrons as distinct particles, and George Thomson, his son, who'd shown that they could also behave like waves. It was an enlargement of vision, not a contradiction-and no doubt Buzzo was hoping to perform a similar feat in a single generation.

Buzzo was a tall, bald, heavily wrinkled man, eighty-three years old but showing no signs of frailty. He was a lively speaker, and he seemed to strike sparks off the audience of ATM specialists . . . but even his arcane jokes, which left them in st.i.tches, went over my head. His introduction contained plenty of familiar phrases, and plenty of equations which I'd seen before-but once he started doing things with those equations, I was completely out of my depth. Every now and then he'd display graphics: knotted gray-white tubes, with green-gridded surfaces and bright red geodesic lines snaking across them. Triplets of mutually perpendicular arrowed vectors would blossom from a point, then move around a loop or a knot, tipping and twisting along the way. No sooner would I start to feel that I was making sense of these diagrams, though, than Buzzo would wave a hand at the screen dismissively and say something like: "I can't 109.

show you the most crucial aspect-what's happening in the bundle of linear frames-but I'm sure you can all picture it: just imagine embedding this surface in twelve dimensions..."

I sat two (empty) seats to the left of Violet Mosala, but I hardly dared glance her way. When I did, she kept her eyes on Buzzo, but her expression became stony. I couldn't imagine what means she suspected I'd employed to win the contract for the doc.u.mentary. (Bribery? Extortion? s.e.x? If only SeeNet could have been so divertingly Byzantine.) It didn't really matter how I'd done it, though; the injustice of the end result was self-evident, regardless.

"So this path integral," said Buzzo, "gives us an invariant!" His latest crisp diagram of knotted tubes suddenly blurred into an amorphous gray-green haze-symbolizing the shift from a particular s.p.a.ce-time to its generalization in pre-s.p.a.ce-but the three vectors he'd sent to circ.u.mnavigate the simulated universe remained fixed. "Invariants" in an All-Topologies Model were physical quant.i.ties which could be shown to be independent of such things as the curvature of s.p.a.ce-time in the region of interest, and even how many dimensions it possessed; finding invariants was the only way to make any kind of coherent physics emerge from the daunting indeterminacy of pre-s.p.a.ce. I fixed my gaze on Buzzo's steady vectors; I wasn't entirely lost yet, after all.

"But that's obvious. Now comes the tricky part: imagine extending the same operator to s.p.a.ces where the Ricci curvature is nowhere-defined-"

Now I was lost.

I gave serious thought to calling Sarah again, and asking if she'd be willing to take back Violet Mosaia. I could have handed her the footage I'd shot so far, smoothed out the administrative glitches with Lydia, and then crawled away somewhere to recover-from Gina's departure, from Junk DNA-without having to pretend that I was doing anything but convalescing. I'd told myself that I couldn't afford to stop working, even for a month . . . but that was a question of what I was used to, not a question of starvation-and without someone to share the rent, I was going to have to move house anyway. Distress would have kept me in leafy, tranquil Eastwood for a year or more-but whatever I did now, I was headed back to the outer sprawl.