The Fabric of the Cosmos: Space, Time, and the Texture of Reality (57 page)

There's no denying that life would be different if teleporting macroscopic objects were as easy as calling FedEx or hopping on a subway. Impractical or impossible journeys would become available, and the concept of travel through space would be revolutionized to that rare degree at which a leap in convenience and practicality marks a fundamental shift in worldview.

Even so, teleportation's impact on our sense of the universe would pale in comparison to the upheaval wrought by achieving volitional travel through time. Everyone knows that with enough effort and dedication we can, at least in principle, get from here to there. Although there are technological limitations on our travels through space, within those constraints our travels are guided by choice and whim. But to get from now to then? Our experiences overwhelmingly attest to there being at most one route: we must wait it out—second must follow second as tick by tock now methodically gives way to then. And this assumes that "then" is later than "now." If then precedes now, experience dictates that there is no route at all; traveling to the past seems not to be an option. Unlike travels through space, travels through time appear to be anything but a matter of choice and whim. When it comes to time, we get dragged along in one direction, whether we like it or not.

Were we able to navigate time as easily as we navigate space, our worldview would not just change, it would undergo the single most dramatic shift in the history of our species. In light of such undeniable impact, I am often struck by how few people realize that the theoretical underpinnings for one kind of time travel—time travel to the future— have been in place since early last century.

When Einstein discovered the nature of special relativistic spacetime, he laid out a blueprint for fast-forwarding to the future. If you want to see what's happening on planet earth 1,000, or 10,000, or 10 million years in the future, the laws of Einsteinian physics tell you how to go about it. You build a vehicle whose speed can reach, say 99.9999999996 percent of light speed. At full throttle, you head off into deep space for a day, or ten days, or a little over twenty-seven years according to your ship's clock, then abruptly turn around and head back to earth, again at full throttle. On your return, 1,000, or 10,000, or 10 million years of earth time
will
have elapsed. This is an undisputed and experimentally verified prediction of special relativity; it is an example of the slowing of time with the increasing of speed described in Chapter 3.
⁸
Of course, since vehicles of such speed are beyond what we can build, no one has tested these predictions literally. But as we discussed earlier, researchers have confirmed the predicted slowing of time for a commercial airliner, traveling at a small fraction of light speed, as well as that of elementary particles like muons racing through accelerators at very nearly the speed of light (stationary muons decay into other particles in about two millionths of a second, but the faster they travel the slower their internal clock's tick, and so the longer the muons appear to live). There is every reason to believe, and no reason not to believe, that special relativity is correct, and its strategy for reaching the future would work as predicted. Technology, not physics, keeps each of us tethered to this epoch.
⁴²

Thornier issues arise, though, when we think about the other kind of time travel, travel to the past. No doubt you are familiar with some of these. For example, there's the standard scenario in which you travel to the past and prevent your own birth. In many fictional descriptions this is achieved with violence; however, any less drastic but equally effective intervention—such as preventing your parents from meeting—would do just as well. The paradox is clear: if you were never born, how did you come to be, and, in particular, how did you travel to the past and keep your parents from meeting? To travel to the past and keep your parents apart, you had to have been born; but if you were born, traveled to the past, and kept your parents apart, you
wouldn't
have been born. We run headlong into a logical impasse.

A similar paradox, suggested by the Oxford philosopher Michael Dummett and highlighted by his colleague David Deutsch, teases the brain in a slightly different, perhaps even more baffling way. Here's one version. Imagine I build a time machine and travel ten years into the future. After a quick lunch at Tofu-4-U (the chain that overtook McDonald's after the great mad-cow pandemic put a dent in the public enthusiasm for cheeseburgers), I find the nearest Internet café and get online to see what advances have been made in string theory. And do I get a splendid surprise. I read that all open issues in string theory have been resolved. The theory has been completely worked out and successfully used to explain all known particle properties. Incontrovertible evidence for the extra dimensions has been found, and the theory's predictions of supersymmetric partner particles—their masses, electric charges, and so on— have just been confirmed, spot on, by the Large Hadron Collider. There is no longer any doubt: string theory is the unified theory of the universe.

When I dig a little deeper to see who is responsible for these great advances, I get an even bigger surprise. The breakthrough paper was written a year earlier by none other than Rita Greene. My mother. I'm shocked. No disrespect intended: my mother is a wonderful person, but she's not a scientist, can't understand why anybody would be a scientist, and, for example, read only a few pages of
The Elegant Universe
before putting it down, saying it gave her a headache. So how in the world could she have written
the
key paper in string theory? Well, I read her paper online, am blown away by the simple yet deeply insightful reasoning, and see at the end that she's thanked
me
for years of intense instruction in mathematics and physics after a Tony Robbins seminar persuaded her to overcome her fears and pursue her inner physicist. Yikes, I think. She'd just enrolled in that seminar when I embarked on my trip to the future. I'd better head back to my own time to begin the instruction.

Well, I go back in time and begin to tutor my mother in string theory. But it's not going well. A year goes by. Then two. And although she's trying hard, she's just not getting it. I'm starting to worry. We stay at it for another couple of years, but progress is minimal. Now I'm really worried. There is not much time left before her paper is supposed to appear. How is she going to write it? Finally, I make the big decision. When I read her paper in the future, it left such an impression on me that I remember it clear as day. And so, instead of having her discover it on her own—something that's looking less and less likely—I tell her what to write, making sure she includes everything exactly as I remember reading it. She releases the paper, and in short order it sets the physics world on fire. All that I read about during my time in the future comes to pass.

Now here's the puzzling issue. Who should get the credit for my mother's groundbreaking paper? I certainly shouldn't. I learned of the results by reading them in her paper. Yet how can my mother take credit, when she wrote only what I told her to? Of course, the issue here is not really one of credit—it's the issue of where the new knowledge, new insights, and new understanding presented in my mother's paper came from. To what can I point and say, "This person or this computer came up with the new results"? I didn't have the insights, nor did my mother, there wasn't anyone else involved, and we didn't use a computer. Nevertheless, somehow these brilliant results are all in her paper. Apparently, in a world that allows time travel both to the future and to the past, knowledge can materialize out of thin air. Although not quite as paradoxical as preventing your own birth, this is positively weird.

What should we make of such paradox and weirdness? Should we conclude that while time travel to the future is allowed by the laws of physics, any attempt to return to the past must fail? Some have certainly thought so. But, as we'll now see, there are ways around the tricky issues we've come upon. This doesn't mean that travel to the past is possible— that's a separate issue we'll consider shortly—but it does show that travel back in time can't be ruled out merely by invoking the puzzles we've just discussed.

Recall that in Chapter 5 we discussed the flow of time, from the perspective of classical physics, and came upon an image that differs substantially from our intuitive picture. Careful thought led us to envision spacetime as a block of ice with every moment forever frozen in place, as opposed to the familiar image of time as a river sweeping us forward from one moment to the next. These frozen moments are grouped into
nows
—into events that happen at the same time—in different ways by observers in different states of motion. And to accommodate this flexibility of slicing the spacetime block into different notions of now, we also invoked an equivalent metaphor in which spacetime is viewed as a loaf of bread that can be sliced at different angles.

But regardless of the metaphor, Chapter 5's lesson is that moments— the events making up the spacetime loaf—just are. They are timeless. Each moment—each event or happening—exists, just as each point in space exists. Moments don't momentarily come to life when illuminated by the "spotlight" of an observer's present; that image aligns well with our intuition but fails to stand up to logical analysis. Instead, once illuminated, always illuminated. Moments don't change. Moments are. Being illuminated is simply one of the many unchanging features that constitute a moment. This is particularly evident from the insightful though imaginary perspective of Figure 5.1, in which all events making up the history of the universe are on view; they are all there, static and unchanging. Different observers don't agree on which of the events happen at the same time—they time-slice the spacetime loaf at different angles—but the total loaf and its constituent events are universal, literally.

Quantum mechanics offers certain modifications to this classical perspective on time. For example, we saw in Chapter 12 that on extremely short scales, space and spacetime become unavoidably wavy and bumpy. But (Chapter 7), a full assessment of quantum mechanics and time requires a resolution of the quantum measurement problem. One of the proposals for doing so, the Many Worlds interpretation, is particularly relevant for coping with paradoxes arising from time travel, and we will take that up in the next section. But in this section, let's stay classical and bring the block-of-ice/loaf-of-bread depiction of spacetime to bear on these puzzles.

Take the paradoxical example of your having gone back in time and having prevented your parents from meeting. Intuitively, we all know what that's supposed to mean. Before you time-traveled to the past, your parents had met—say, at the stroke of midnight, December 31, 1965,
⁴³
at a New Year's party—and, in due course, your mother gave birth to you. Then, many years later, you decided to travel to the past—back to December 31, 1965—and once there, you changed things; in particular, you kept your parents apart, preventing your own conception and birth. But let's now counter this intuitive description with the more fully reasoned spacetime-loaf depiction of time.

At its core, the intuitive description fails to make sense because it assumes moments can change. The intuitive picture envisions the stroke of midnight, December 31, 1965 (using standard earthling time-slicing), as "initially" being the moment of your parents meeting, but envisions further that your interference "subsequently" changes things so that at the stroke of midnight, December 31, 1965, your parents are miles, if not continents, apart. The problem with this recounting of events, though, is that moments don't change; as we've seen, they just are. The spacetime loaf exists, fixed and unchanging. There is no meaning to a moment's "initially" being one way and "subsequently" being another way.

If you time-traveled back to December 31, 1965, then you were there, you were always there, you will always be there, you were never not there. December 31, 1965, did not happen twice, with your missing the debut but attending the encore. From the timeless perspective of Figure 5.1, you exist—static and unchanging—at various locations in the spacetime loaf. If today you set the dials on your time machine to send you to 11:50 p.m., December 31, 1965, then this latter moment will be among the locations in the spacetime loaf at which you can be found. But your presence on New Year's Eve, 1965, will be an
eternal
and
immutable
feature of spacetime.

This realization still leads us to some quirky conclusions, but it avoids paradox. For example, you would appear in the spacetime loaf at 11:50 p.m., December 31, 1965, but before that moment there would be no record of your existence. This is strange, but not paradoxical. If a guy saw you pop in at 11:50 p.m. and asked you, with fear in his eyes, where you came from, you could calmly answer, "The future." In this scenario, at least so far, we are not caught in a logical impasse. Where things get more interesting, of course, is if you then try to carry out your mission and keep your parents from meeting. What happens? Well, carefully maintaining the "spacetime block" perspective, we inescapably conclude that you can't succeed. No matter what you do on that fateful New Year's Eve, you'll fail. Keeping your parents apart—while seeming to be within the realm of things you can do—actually amounts to logical gobbledygook. Your parents met at the stroke of midnight. You were there. And you will "always" be there. Each moment just is; it doesn't change. Applying the concept of change to a moment makes as much sense as subjecting a rock to psychoanalysis. Your parents met at the stroke of midnight, December 31, 1965, and
nothing
can change that because their meeting is an immutable, unchangeable event, eternally occupying its spot in spacetime.

In fact, now that you think about it, you remember that sometime in your teens, when you asked your dad what it was like to propose to your mother, he told you that he hadn't planned to propose at all. He had barely met your mother before asking the big question. But about ten minutes before midnight at a New Year's party, he got so freaked by seeing a man pop in from nowhere—a man who claimed to be from the future— that when he met your mother he decided to propose, right on the spot.

The point is that the complete and unchanging set of events in spacetime necessarily fits together into a coherent, self-consistent whole. The universe makes sense. If you time-travel back to December 31, 1965, you are actually fulfilling your own destiny. In the spacetime loaf, there is someone present at 11:50 p.m. on December 31, 1965, who is not there at any earlier time. From the imaginary, outside perspective of Figure 5.1, we would be able to see this directly; we would also see, undeniably, that the person is
you
at your current age. For these events, situated decades ago, to make sense, you
must
time-travel back to 1965. What's more, from our outside perspective we can see your father asking you a question just after 11:50 p.m. on December 31, 1965, looking frightened, rushing away, and meeting your mother at midnight; a little further along the loaf, we can see your parents' wedding, your birth, your ensuing childhood, and, later on, your stepping into the time machine. If time travel to the past were possible, we could no longer explain events at one time solely in terms of events at earlier times (from any given perspective); but the totality of events would necessarily constitute a sensible, coherent, noncontradictory story.

As emphasized in the last section, this doesn't, by any stretch of the imagination, signify that time travel to the past is possible. But it does suggest strongly that the purported paradoxes, such as preventing your own birth, are themselves born of logical flaws. If you time-travel to the past, you can't change it any more than you can change the value of pi. If you travel to the past, you are, will be, and always were part of the past, the very same past that leads to your traveling to it.

From the outside perspective of Figure 5.1, this explanation is both tight and coherent. Surveying the totality of events in the spacetime loaf, we see that they interlock with the rigid economy of a cosmic crossword puzzle. Yet, from your perspective on December 31, 1965, things are still puzzling. I declared above that even though you may be determined to keep your parents from meeting, you can't succeed in the classical approach to this problem. You can watch them meet. You can even facilitate their meeting, perhaps inadvertently as in the story I've told. You can travel back in time repeatedly, so there are many of you present, each intent on preventing your parents' union. But to succeed in preventing your parents from meeting would be to change something with respect to which the concept of change is meaningless.

But, even with the insight of these abstract observations, we can't help asking: What stops you from succeeding? If you are standing at the party at 11:50 p.m. and see your young mother, what stops you from whisking her away? Or, if you see your young father, what stops you from—oh, what the heck, let's just say it—shooting him? Don't you have free will? Here is where, some suspect, quantum mechanics may enter the story.