‘Let me add that it is perfectly fine for you all to look puzzled. If you have seen distraught expressions upon my colleagues’ faces or my own in recent days, it is because we have been struggling to understand another second-order equation, one derived by Herr Professor Schrödinger, and we do not yet know how to change viewpoint in order to accommodate it.
‘We seek to assimilate what is known, yet the frontiers of science are at the unknown, and that is where we must work, like archaeologists chipping away stone, revealing the knowledge beneath. Good day, ladies and gentlemen.’
There might have been applause, beyond the surf-like waves of sound inside her head; and there might have been movement at the edge of her vision, as the professor and other students left; but she was inside herself, almost paralysed by the combined wonders of what she had seen and the images shining in her mind, blossoming from the professor’s words.
Such a wonderful time to be alive in!
In the evening, she walked the steep, cobbled, twisting alleys of the Altstadt, the old town, enjoying the cool rain that fell. Her room at Frau Pflügers’ house was comfortable enough, and in future she would surely spend most of her time studying there, but for tonight she wanted to explore. Then she found herself descending to open ground leading down to the river, while to her right rose one of the many old churches. No one else appeared to be here.
‘—you shithead!’
The vehement coarseness was unexpected, and so was what happened next: a swirling group of young men, spilling out from behind a stone wall, grappling and striking each other, grunting with effort and hatred. Then the mêlée split into two groups who glared, and finally backed off, with focused stares and wiping of faces, ready for the trouble to begin again.
Gavriela was trembling, too scared to make herself conspicuous by moving. But the young men were retreating now, each group in a different direction, and soon they had disappeared along separate alleys, and were gone.
Had one group worn yarmulkes: black skullcaps clipped to their hair?
But it was the strange twisting of the blackness in shadowed alleyways that—
Optical illusion.
Vision was a physical phenomenon, optical and electrical within the brain. Stress might deform one’s ability to perceive geometry.
Because I was scared.
Surely this was not the peaceful Zürich she had heard about? But now it was quiet, so perhaps trouble visited seldom, and the reputation for law-abiding calm was deserved. This
was
a cultured city.
So she walked toward the bright lights of Bahnhofstrasse, thinking that among the elegant shops everything would be peaceful. But as she passed a café, three young women, around her own age but expensively dressed, came out onto the cobblestones, laughing.
‘—dance the Charleston as well as Peter, darlings.’
‘Is that the horizontal Charleston you’re referring to?’
‘Elke, sweetheart. What are you implying?’
‘Only that—Oh, hello.’
‘Er,’ said Gavriela. ‘Good evening.’
‘Are you on your own, dear?’
‘Well, I was . . . Um. Yes.’
‘So why don’t you join us for a coffee, or perhaps a cheerful Glühwein?’
Conscious of her purse’s few coins and notes, Gavriela shook her head.
‘I’m sorry, and it’s very kind of you, but I don’t think I can.’
‘Not even if Petra here does the paying? And I’m Inge, and this is Elke.’
‘I need to arise early to study.’
‘You’re a schoolteacher?’
‘No, a student at the ETH. A physics student.’
‘At the Poly? You must be very bright.’ Inge pointed at the others. ‘Elke paints, Petra reads everything, and I’m a haberdasher.’
‘You must come with us,’ said Petra. ‘Please.’
‘Now, look.’ Inge held up one hand. ‘Here’s why we need you. Petra believes that a rocket could fly to the moon, because she’s been reading fantasies by Jules Verne.’
‘Honestly, Inge—’
‘But my encyclopaedia directly states that a rocket cannot fly in space because
there is no air for it to push against
. So how can you argue against that?’
Gavriela looked from one face to the next.
‘Maybe one glass of Glühwein,’ she said.
Not so far away, where the small town of Berchtesgaden crouched amid Bavarian forest, a small feverish man was alone in his room, surrounded by dark, insanely energetic paintings, the product of his own hand and strange imaginings. The more recent were like design sketches: gleaming cities, fluttering banners, romantic uniforms of black and scarlet.
But words held the true power, the magic he had tapped into while the faceless bourgeoisie had tried to silence him, to lock him away in prison. And not just written words: as he stood before the mirror, eyes glaring, he rehearsed his mesmeric language, his visions of a warrior future, deeply aware of the magnetic hold he could have upon the mob. For they would act as if they had a single mind - he had studied the works of Gustav Lebon on mass psychology, and understood the weapon those books had given him - and if a mind could be unified, it could be controlled.
I am become the darkness.
Sweat poured from his skin as he gesticulated, imagining the visions that floated above a multitude, the spellbinding directives of his voice. Scattered around him like flowers on the floor were sheets of newspaper and printed notices, all related to him, the one who would master destiny, while in the background a compelling nine-note sequence played, product of a non-existent military band.
One of his most dangerous rivals had turned to become a disciple, his adulation apparent in the new article lying here, in the
Völkischer Beobachter.
This was what young Göbbels had written, exhorting his comrades to bow to their rightful leader, ‘
with the manly, unbroken pride of the ancient Norsemen who stand upright before their Germanic feudal lord.
’
And why would they not? For Göbbels was only acknowledging what had to happen, that: ‘
He is the instrument of the Divine Will that shapes history with fresh, creative passion.
’
Artist, visionary and orator.
I am become myself.
Time passed in a manner beyond ordinary experience, until someone tapped at the door.
‘Supper is ready, Herr Hitler.’
He expelled a breath.
‘You may come in.’
FIVE
FULGOR, 2603 AD
Watching Dr Helsen ascend from the plaza and draw near to the saucer-shaped balcony, Roger felt his skin tremble, like a membrane stretched across a drum. Helsen was a hard-faced woman, and she was staring at him. His fellow students still had not noticed her.
They jumped as her voice issued from the circular tabletop.
‘
I’m Dr Helsen, and you can address me thus or simply as Doctor.
’
A female student trailed her: pale and slender, coppery hair and turquoise eyes, taller than Roger
‘This is Alisha Spalding,’ continued Helsen, speaking normally instead of through the system, as she indicated the pale young woman. ‘She’s in your group. And you’re the Blackstone boy, is that right?’
‘Uh, yes, ma’am. Doctor.’
‘You weren’t startled by my voice’ - the location switched again - ‘
as it came from here, inside the table.
’
‘I saw you approaching.’
‘Psychosocial skills are based on sensory acuity, but they’re only a small part of what we work on here.’
Stef’s mouth twisted to one side.
‘On the other hand,’ Helsen went on,’ we need to be careful as we interpret expressions, because
derisory amusement
might not be what you intend to convey, Stephanie Thrawle. Particularly since I have full access to your cognitive skills logs. Surely condescension can emanate only from perceived superiority. ’
‘Sorry, Dr Helsen.’
‘I’m sure you can be. Now let’s have a look at the Cyclone Lab. Quadruple blink, everyone.’
Roger did as she commanded, and the visual environment shifted, an indoor scene replacing the outdoor reality, with the six students’ relative positions unaltered. The illusion was visual and auditory - no sense of touch - with the image lased in to his smartlenses and the sound focused from the real surroundings, including presumably the quickglass table.
Helsen herself was no longer visible. Roger wondered what she might be up to.
‘Nice,’ said Rick, turning inside the illusion.
They were in a steel-and-amber artificial cavern, where the air billowed in glowing greens and blues, revealing the currents as they flowed and twisted around morph-capable obstacles. It was a realtime image of an actual laboratory, designed to investigate the flow of fluids - gases and plasmas included - and of devices designed to funnel currents or to navigate inside them. Right now, a flock of quickglass songbirds was trying to find stability, wings continually altering as they tried to hang in place against the flow.
Beside them, a sheaf of holo equations denoted the design parameters of the birds, along with status values of the tremendous airflow.
‘They look accurate enough.’ Alisha pointed at the equations, then nodded toward the hovering birds. ‘Don’t you think, Roger?’
So she knew his name. But he was thinking more about the unseen Helsen in reality, and what she might be up to while none of them could see her.
Then he gave a snort, trying to dismiss his fear with humour. Alisha turned away, her face growing stony.
Shit. I messed that up.
Stef had read through the equations slowly. Now she looked up at the quickglass birds and shrugged.
‘Look at that growing turbulence. Their performance is unpredictable.’
‘Maybe that’s the point,’ said Rick. ‘Well done, Stef.’
‘There’s no need to be sarcastic.’
‘I’m serious, really. Maybe that’s why we’re looking at all this, so we can work out that the equations are insufficient for the whatyoumaycallit, the context. Is that right, Dr Helsen?’
The last question he called out while turning around on the spot, not knowing where she might be located in reality.
‘Four of the birds are about to lose control,’ said Alisha.
‘You can’t know that.’ Rick stared up at them. ‘All thirteen are practically identical.’
‘And the lead bird will break up in five seconds from . . . now.’
‘Come off it. There’s no way you can—’
At the front of the flock, the leading bird began to shiver in the turbulence, caught by some kind of resonance, and then it was liquefying as it shook apart and spattered in the bucking wind, destroyed. Four others, wings flapping in vain, lost their ability to keep their beaks pointed into the growing gale, and the air picked them up and flung them against pillars and walls, shattering their vitrified forms. The remaining eight birds reconfigured, fighting to keep position in the flow.
‘Nicely done, Alisha,’ said Helsen. ‘Everybody, quadruple blink again.’
They did so, falling out of illusion, back into reality, standing on the saucer-shaped balcony. Around them were the other balconies on stalks, and below was the blue plaza, nearly deserted. Helsen was standing where she had been, her attention on Alisha.
‘Would you write up your thinking for the others to follow, please?’