While Uncle Deva, Aunt Penelope, and I were striding between the galaxies, the largest stars underwent yet another transformation. With almost all of their hydrogen fused into helium, these stars could no longer generate sufficient heat to fight against the inward pull of gravity, and they began contracting again. The collapse picked up speed. As the gaseous material crashed inwards upon itself, the center of each star grew denser and denser, and the temperatures mounted and mounted to a much greater degree than before. Eventually, the temperature was so high that the helium atoms began fusing together, to make beryllium. Then the beryllium atoms, too, began fusing to form boron and carbon and oxygen. As the collapse continued, the temperatures increased still more, and heavier and heavier chemical elements were synthesized: fluorine and neon, sodium and magnesium, aluminum, silicon, phosphorous, gallium, yttrium, molybdenum, palladium, cesium, barium, tungsten and osmium and iridium and radium. All of these complex atoms I had contemplated as theoretical possibilities, but it was a pleasure to see them actually created by inevitable events at the centers of stars, without any intervention by me. Cause and effect, cause and effect, cause and effect. On and on and on, the atomic nuclei rushed into one another and joined and produced heavier and heavier nuclei, bigger and bigger atoms. The energy release was enormous. Of course, we all understood—Aunt P and Uncle D and I, as we watched in amazement—that no material entity could withstand such colossal energy without breaking apart. Sure enough, each star soon exploded, spewing all the new chemical elements it had manufactured into space. Each detonation reverberated far into the surrounding nebulae, hurling out fragments of new matter and flaming with the luminosity of an entire galaxy. The cosmos flared and crackled and boomed, there were billions upon billions of such explosions. One by one, the beautiful stars were destroying themselves, starting with the most massive stars. Each left behind a rapidly spinning dark core and a cloud of faintly glowing debris.
At this juncture—I was counting the ticks of the atomic clocks, and it was now about 2 x 10
31
ticks since the formation of the first atoms—the material that floated about in the galaxies consisted not only of hydrogen gas, but also of lumps of iron and carbon and silicon and other chemical elements forged in the stars. This enriched material did not so much float as it swirled in eddies, here and there, imparted with rotational motions from the lopsided explosions of the stars. In each galaxy, many beaconing lights remained, the lower-mass stars that had not exploded but were quietly burning down to dim nubs.
But the cosmos was not quiet for long. Under the relentless force of gravity, the cold swirling matter again began to pull itself together, to compactify, and to collapse. Soon the enriched material had again formed gaseous spheres, which were growing hotter and hotter as they contracted. In another 10
31
atomic ticks or so, the gaseous spheres formed a second generation of stars. I must say that whereas I had been oblivious to time before the first clocks, now I found myself almost obsessed with time. Against my better judgment, I kept looking at the hydrogen clocks, ruminating on how much time passed between events. Another 10
31
atomic ticks. Then another.
These new stars were different from their forebears. First, they contained a mélange of chemical elements and not simply pure hydrogen. Second, each of these stars was surrounded by a revolving disk of gas and debris, accented here and there with lumps of solid, compacted material. The lumps, however, were too small to ignite nuclear reactions at their centers. Instead, they collapsed to form inert solid balls. Having condensed out of a rotating disk, revolving about a central star, these solid balls also orbited the central star. These were the first planets. Planets. As with stars, I was fascinated by the effortless appearance of such distinct objects in space. In fact, planets orbited the majority of second-generation stars. There were far more planets than stars. Some solar systems contained only a single planet orbiting its central star, like a hydrogen atom. Other stars harbored as many as a hundred planets.
And what an extraordinary assortment of planets they were! Some were so close to their central star that they melted into spheres of molten sulfur and silicon and iron. Others were sufficiently far that they froze. Some were at intermediate distances, such that atoms and molecules covered their surfaces in liquid oceans, neither too hot to evaporate nor too cold to freeze. For example, there were planets of liquid water, of liquid ammonia and methane, of liquid bromine, of liquid mercury. The liquid oceans were particularly beautiful. Jostled by winds, their surfaces rippled with liquid waves. These glided across the surfaces, crest to trough to crest, glittering with starlight and reflecting the colored atmospheres above. Some liquid waves were so delicate and slight that they dissipated after traveling a short distance, barely leaving a memory of their presence. Others, fierce and rough, rose up to great heights and pushed a quarter way round the whole planet. I believe that the ocean waves were music in material form.
Interesting little contraptions, said Aunt Penelope, the little balls flying about the beautiful lights. What are they good for, Nephew? I don’t know yet, I said. Do I have to know everything straight off? Well then, said Aunt, why did you make them? What did you have in mind? OK, OK, I said. They made themselves. Gravity made them. They’re not as pretty as the lights, Aunt P said, and she reached up and flicked off a lump of potassium that had gotten tangled in her hair. Not everything has to be pretty, said Uncle Deva. These things will have some eventual use, I am sure of it. And look how nicely they whirl about at different speeds.
Following the inexorable laws of gravity, the planets closest to their central stars completed each orbit relatively quickly, while those far away required much more time. Indeed, in some extreme solar systems, an inner planet could make thousands of orbits about the central star in the time it took an outer planet to make one orbit, so that a year on the second planet would equal ten thousand years on the first. Other variations existed. Some planets were so small that they were irregularly shaped, with mountains nearly as tall as the diameter of the planet. Others were so big that they could almost ignite nuclear reactions within their interiors and become stars. Many of the new planets had magnetic fields, which looped out into space in pretty dipole patterns and funneled electrically charged particles in their vicinity.
In addition to orbiting its central star, almost every planet spun about its own axis. This spinning was again a consequence of the rotational motion of the primordial disk—which was, in turn, a consequence of the lopsided explosions of the first generation of stars. Cause and effect, cause and effect. It was almost mundane, these rigid chains of events, but the visual phenomena were far too interesting and new to be mundane. Even Aunt Penelope was amused by the spinning of the planets. From one solar system to the next, she poked at the rotating worlds, as she did with fleeting folds of the Void, until Uncle D stopped her.
The spin of the planets produced a charming effect. From any fixed vantage point on a planet, the sunlight was not constant, but varied in time. While your position faced your central star, you would be bathed in light. Somewhat later, when your planet had spun a half turn around, you would experience almost complete darkness. Thus, on each planet, a
day
of light was followed by a
night
of darkness, followed by a day, and a night, and so on, in a regular and periodic fashion. Described in other terms, the spinning of the planets naturally produced a separation of darkness and light, and this separation varied from one planet to the next. As there were billions upon billions of planets, all spinning at different rates, the length of the day varied enormously, being on some planets as short as 10
19
atomic ticks, while on others as long as 10
21
ticks. In short, there were trillions of different days (and nights) throughout Aalam-104729.
The progression of days and nights on the planets naturally led to regular changes in temperatures, variations in the densities of atmospheres, wind movements like cyclones and hurricanes and seaborne typhoons. But there were other, more subtle artistic effects. The slow shift of the light through each day caused shadows to drift, shorten and lengthen, producing constantly changing silhouettes. The summits of mountains, which might be pink in the mornings, turned violet and amaranth in late afternoon. At certain times of the day a landscape might appear craggy and hard, and at other times the same landscape could seem delicate and soft, like evanescent veils in the Void. These phenomena could not be quantified, like temperatures and densities. Instead, they heightened one’s sensations. They seeped into one’s insides. Like music, they created a feeling that was not there before. They absorbed and reshaped the world of the imagination. With changes in light, shapes constantly changed. Air sparkled and glowed, then subsided to near invisibility. On the planets with volatile liquids, great clouds of water or ammonia evaporated into the sky, and these produced further variations in light. The days and the nights yielded not only different colorations, but also different smells and sensations and tonalities of sound.
Few of these phenomena I had predicted. See there? I said to Aunt Penelope, as if it were exactly as I had intended. And there? I waited for her response. Yes, yes, she finally said, which was as close to approval as she would allow.
At a certain moment of time, a particular planet in the universe completed its first rotation, before any other planet, the end of its first day. This was the first day in the universe. I noted when this happened, and it was good (or at least satisfying), and this was the end of the first day on that planet. Then, in another galaxy, 10
29
light-atomic-ticks away, another planet completed its first rotation, its first day, and I noted when this happened, and it also was good, and this was the end of the first day on that planet. Then, 10
30
light-atomic-ticks away, another planet completed its first rotation, and then another, and another. At various places and times in the universe, various planets, all with different rates of rotation, completed their first days. There, and then there, and later over there. There were billions and trillions of first days, all of them good. All in all, I was satisfied with what I had done.
As I glided through the cosmos, I was taken with the relatively vast distances between things. Even though there was matter, the great majority of space was almost completely empty—not empty in the fashion of the Void, but possessing extremely little material. Galaxies of stars and planets and other material filled only about one-tenth of 1 percent of the volume of space. The other 99.9 percent of the universe was almost complete vacuum. Even within the galaxies, solar systems were far apart from one another. Starting at one solar system, I often had to travel a distance equal to the size of ten thousand solar systems to get to the next solar system. If intelligent beings ever arose on a planet in Aalam-104729, they would be separated by huge distances from other planets with life and probably never know of one another. And the separations would grow only larger with time, as the universe continued to expand.
After watching the formation of galaxies and stars and planets, I had a sensation unlike any I’ve ever had before. It was a kind of fullness. But it was more than a fullness, it was an
overfullness
, because I felt as if new things had been created within Me—an odd turn of events, since it was I who had created Aalam-104729. Or more precisely, I had created the laws and organizational principles, the matter and energy, from which everything followed. One might have thought that every new thing in that universe was already inside Me. But this did not seem to be the case. As with the invention of the quantum, I felt that I had been
changed
. I felt that my imagination had been amplified and enlarged. I felt that I knew things I hadn’t known before, and I felt larger than before. How was it possible that something I’d created from my own being was now larger than my being? Is it possible that the created can create its creator? I was baffled and pleased at the same time, although that pleasure eventually led to certain displeasures.
It was not only Me. All of us felt that we had been changed. Our sense of ourselves had changed. Our perceptions had changed. For example, the Void now seemed even more empty than before. The Void, of course, had always been absolutely empty of all things, a perfection of absence. For eons of unmeasured time, Uncle Deva, Aunt Penelope, and I had rejoiced in the total emptiness of the Void. That emptiness, that complete nothingness, was one of the central and eternal absolutes of existence. That nothingness was the starting point of all action and thought, in fact, was the background that defined action and thought, that defined
somethingness
. We had all felt, without articulating the feeling, that the Void might actually be necessary for our existence. As the total emptiness of the Void was clearly an essential part of its nature, we celebrated that emptiness.
Now, however, after we had all made a number of excursions into the new universe and witnessed the extraordinary material things being made, the sacred emptiness of the Void did not bring the same pleasure it had in the past. We were—if I dare say it—even
dissatisfied
with the Void. For my own part, when I moved through the Void, I now keenly noticed what was not there. Not in the abstract sense, but in the actual and material sense, as now I could compare nothingness to atoms and electrons, to spiral galaxies and long trails of luminescent gas, to stars exploding and spewing their elements into space. I could not help but feel a bit disappointed in the
plainness
of our habitat in the Void.
Aunt Penelope did not take the same delight in gathering up little pieces of the Void for her personal preoccupations. What’s this? she whined during a recent outing as we strolled through the Void. You know what that is, said Uncle Deva. It is a scrap of emptiness that you will take back home and put to some good use. But it is nothing! said Aunt P. Yes, said Uncle, it is precisely nothing. It is a nice piece of nothingness. Perhaps you can make a dress from it. No, said my aunt. I will not. It is truly nothing. It is really nothing. I want to make a dress from the galaxies and stars. Oh, what a magnificent dress that would be! I would shine, and everyone would want a dress like mine. Nephew, my aunt said to me, can you please be a good nephew and bring back some material from that universe. I do not need a lot. Uncle looked at me with disapproval and annoyance. Do not butt into this, Deva! said Aunt P. This doesn’t concern you. The material in the universe should stay in the universe, said Uncle Deva. Everything has its own place. Don’t be so self-righteous, said Aunt P. Just a little while ago, if I remember correctly, you were saying that you would like to look at a few mountains now and then on our walks through the Void. Don’t deny it. You always exaggerate, said Uncle. I asked for only
one
mountain. Not mountains plural. All right, one mountain, said Aunt P. You admit it. So why can’t I have a few galaxies and stars if you can have a mountain? What do you say, Nephew? Can you see your way clear to bringing back one mountain for your uncle and a few galaxies for me?
I refused to get caught in the middle of squabbles between my aunt and uncle. Let me think about this, I said. I’m not sure if … You are always thinking, said Aunt P. You think about this, and you think about that, and then you think some more about this. Why can’t you just
do
it. Go fetch me some galaxies. I want to make a dress. I am tired of this nothingness here. Tired, tired, tired. All we have is a bunch of nothing here. I want
something
. You shouldn’t order Him about, said my uncle. Deva, I’ve had quite enough of your butting in, said Aunt P. You are beginning to tire me yourself, just like the Void. You are empty. You are full of nothing. If you had a bit more ambition, you could have … You’re going too far, said Uncle. You’ve gotten yourself into one of your states. No I have not, said Aunt P. I’m just beginning to see things as they really are. I don’t like the way you are acting right now, said Uncle. You need to calm down. Don’t tell me to calm down, said Aunt. That is condescending. Do not condescend to me. My uncle reached out in an attempt to caress Aunt. Don’t get near me, said my aunt. And don’t expect to sleep with me for a long long while. Don’t flatter yourself, said Uncle. I don’t know who would want to sleep with a nag like you.
Please, I interjected. Don’t fight with each other. He started it, said Aunt Penelope. At that, both Aunt Penelope and Uncle Deva went stomping off in different directions. I never followed them in these kinds of altercations, preferring to let them wander about on their own and recollect themselves. I watched them as they went away, becoming fainter and fainter as they slipped behind accumulating layers of nothingness. Finally, they both disappeared. Presently, the Void grew calm again and began to resonate with soft music.
Aalam-104729 had been left on a gentle outcropping of nothingness, not far away, and it was expanding as always. The universe was off to a good start, with galaxies, stars, and planets, and I found myself wondering what other objects I could make. I wanted a lot more matter, a lot more energy, a lot more everything. The one universe was very nice, but as I stood looking at it now, it seemed rather small. Other potential universes were flying about the Void, throbbing and spinning but empty. Some of them might become far grander than Aalam-104729. What wonderful new things might I fill them with! All I had to do was decree a few more organizational principles, specify a few parameters, and they too would burst forth with matter. I wanted to make galaxies a hundred times larger than the ones I had seen in Aalam-104729. I wanted to make stars as big as galaxies, planets as big as stars, solid oceans. And I just wanted more.
At that moment, there were at least 10
189
empty universes careering through the Void, all beckoning with their possibilities and potentials. I reached up for one as Aunt Penelope had done. I will start with this cosmos, I thought to myself. It was a fat spheroid, not silky on the outside as some of the others but mottled and tough. This one has ambition, I thought. It will challenge me. As I prepared to enter it, Aunt Penelope called out to me from wherever. What are you doing, Nephew? I was going to begin working on another universe, I said. What for? said Aunt P. She appeared in the distance and marched towards me at a brisk clip. I wanted to try something bigger, I answered. And better. Aren’t you happy with the universe you’ve made? asked my aunt. Yes, but … You haven’t finished it yet. Yes, but … Nephew, you are impatient. Didn’t we talk about that before? You are too much in a hurry. You will not do good work that way. And, if I might say so without giving offense—we are family after all, and one should be able to say these things to family—you are acting
greedy
. Plain greedy, and it does not become you.
I was stung by Aunt P’s remarks. Too often, she found fault with something I did, or frowned at me in that unpleasant way of hers, or simply woke up on the wrong side of something or other. She was not entitled to speak to me that way, or to Uncle D for that matter. For eons of time, she had been walking all over Uncle, treating him as worth less than nothing, and he had just accepted it, hardly fighting back. But it diminished both of them. Greedy! How was I greedy? What was the harm of wanting to fill up a few more universes? In my opinion, Aunt P was off base, way off base. And why had she said such a mean-spirited and hurtful thing to me? She was compensating for something, something lacking in herself. Well, her barbed comments were not worth a reply. I was not about to lower myself. Who did she think she was talking to?
I went for a long walk in the Void. I am not sure what I was thinking, but I wanted to be alone. Time passed. What did it matter how much time passed, anyway? Time passed. I traveled great distances. I went this way and that, scarcely noticing the hills and the valleys of nothingness, the folds upon folds of emptiness, the utter vacuum. I am not sure what I was thinking, or how much time elapsed. It might have been eons. I reminisced about epochs past, before the invention of time, when Aunt Penelope and Uncle Deva and I all spoke at once. None of us could hear the other, as we were all talking on top of one another, but it was part of how we related, and there was a certain pleasantness and familiarity to it. I reminisced about potential thoughts I had had, long before I decided to create anything, when even the thought of creating something was only a potentiality, a possibility. How sleepy we all were. I marveled at how Aunt P and Uncle D had changed during the infinite time I had known them, but especially in recent epochs. They seemed to be growing closer to each other in some ways, keeping their distance in others. And I thought of my own changing sensitivities, how I had been aware of the ubiquitous music filling the Void only after the creation of time. Before then, music, happening all at once, seemed just another aspect of existence, like the nature of thought. So much had happened in a relatively short period of time, certainly short compared to the unending sprawl of existence before. I walked and walked and walked, huge distances in the Void, but huge distances in the Void are infinitesimal compared to the infinite. Eons passed.
When I came back to where I had started, there was Aunt Penelope, exactly where she had been before, as if not even a single atomic hydrogen tick had gone by. And I realized that she had been correct. I had been greedy. In the past infinity of time, I had never known myself to be greedy, but then again I had never had anything to be greedy about. Matter was a recent invention. I had been greedy. I felt embarrassed. Immediately, I let go of the fat, empty spheroid with the mottled exterior, and it flew away in haste, joining the myriad other empty universes zipping about. I’m sorry, I said to my aunt. You are right. I was acting greedy. One universe at a time. We will see this one through. Thank you, said Aunt P. One of your admirable qualities, Nephew, is that you admit your mistakes. Not like certain other parties who will go unnamed.