Firebird

THREE

We got a few more calls from potential customers asking about Chris Robin, and Alex looked quite pleased. “If we play this correctly,” he said as we lifted off in the late afternoon for Sanova and the monthly meeting of the Christopher Robin Society, “we might have a serious winner here.”

“You should consider a career as a sales consultant,” I said. He smiled and pretended to take it as a compliment.

The meeting was being held at the Jubilee Country Club, which, in better times, had been a posh operation designed for people who enjoyed showing off their wealth. But they'd come under new management which, we heard, had lost the personal touch with their customers, the clientele had gone away, and the Jubilee fell into a state of general deterioration. When we walked through the front doors, I got a sense of a lost age, of a place whose time had passed.

The meeting was being held in the main ballroom, with panels assigned to conference rooms. We signed in with a middle-aged woman sitting at a table just inside the door. She produced two badges, and we went inside.

I'm not sure what I expected. A seance, maybe. A team of ghost hunters. Someone who'd encountered stalkers from another universe.

Alex disapproved of my attitude. “They do trade ideas here,” he told me sternly. “Keep in mind this is primarily a social event. But it's also a place where people can talk about wild ideas, whatever they might be, without fear of getting laughed at. I should also mention that the tradition here is that comments made during the evening stay here. Nothing gets recorded. Nothing gets repeated, without permission.”

There were about fifty attendees present when we arrived. Another ten or fifteen drifted in while we wandered around, introducing ourselves and engaging in small talk. Then the president called the meeting to order, made some business announcements, and introduced the keynote speaker, a trim woman with cinnamon-colored hair whom he described as an expert on the subject of disembodied consciousness. The woman thanked us for coming, said she hoped we would find the evening instructive, and expressed her appreciation that there were still open-minded people in the world. “The Latrill branch of the Society,” she said, “sends its warmest wishes.” She expressed regret that modern society had failed to recognize the scientific contributions of Chris Robin simply because they did not fit easily into the common misperceptions of how the universe worked. “It's hard not to wonder what he might have given us,” she said, “had his lifetime not been cut short.”

That got some applause.

She gazed around the room, nodded to a couple of people in back, and smiled. “Some of my colleagues,” she continued, “suspect he was spirited away by the forces of corporate greed. There might be something to that. If his work on dark energy had panned out, it would have delivered a body blow to some of the corporate powers, and I don't need to tell you who they are. Unfortunately, it looks as if dark energy has reached a dead end. I personally doubt there's any truth to this particular conspiracy theory. Though we all love conspiracies, this one is simply too mundane. But until we know for certain, assuming we ever do, the suspicion will always be there.”

She mentioned something called the nanodrive, which would allow us to cross to Andromeda. And she praised Robin's work on colliding universes, and how exciting it would be if we could somehow communicate with these other realities. “Imagine meeting another version of yourself,” she said. “Although I confess that some of my associates tell me that, for some of us, one is quite enough.”

That got some laughs. “I'd love to think,” she continued, “that somewhere, we are all gathered at another Jubilee Country Club. But instead of mourning for Chris Robin, he is standing here with us, our guest of honor, sharing a drink with Harry over there.” Everybody turned toward a tall, white-haired man who smiled. Those who had glasses raised them in his direction, and the rest applauded.

She sat down to more applause and had to rise again when it did not subside. The president thanked her for her illuminating remarks. “If that is so,” he added, “I'd be inclined to wonder whether that happy group could imagine our situation.” He paused, sighed, and announced that the first two panels would start at the top of the hour.

A screen at one of the conference rooms announced that the opening topic would be “The Multiverse.” The room filled up quickly, while the panelists took their places behind a table. I should mention that the attendees all seemed to be professionals of one kind or another. They were articulate, obviously knowledgeable, and enthusiastic.

The panelists talked about how a multiverse was the only way we could rationally explain our own existence, where the requirements for a universe friendly to life were extreme: a gravity constant within narrow limitations, the tendency of water to freeze from the top down, the weak and strong nuclear forces, and a number of other very precise settings. “You have to have a lot of universes, an enormous number of them, in fact,” said the panel moderator, a short bald man who drummed his fingers constantly while talking. “You have to have literally billions before the settings can become right by accident. Unless, of course, you're willing to admit divine intervention.”

The discussion sailed quietly along for about twenty minutes. Then one of the panelists, a heavyset man with a shock of white hair hanging in his eyes, delivered a jolt: “What we have to ask ourselves,” he said, “is whether Chris really was taken by someone, or whether he did find a way to cross over. Do any of the panel members believe that might actually be possible?”

Among the other three panelists, two hands went up. “'Anything that is not expressly forbidden is possible,'“ said one, a young woman who might have been a model for one of the clothing companies. “But I think the likelihood is remote.”

The others nodded.

A hand waved in the audience. Another young woman. “If he could have actually gone to the other side, wouldn't he have taken someone with him? To serve as a witness? But nobody else disappeared that night. At least not on Virginia Island.”

The panelists looked at one another. The moderator drummed his fingers some more. “It's a valid point, Jessica,” he said. “But he might not have wanted to risk someone else's life until he was sure he could do it and return.”

I looked at Alex. “That's pretty wild stuff.”

“Gives the notion of the Universal Cab Company a whole new meaning,” he said.

A bearded man seated beside me wanted to know whether there was any truth to the claim that Robin had predicted the earthquake. That he knew it was coming because it was the result of colliding branes. At first I thought he was talking about people, but then I recalled that physicists use the term brane to indicate the edge of a universe. Assuming universes have edges.

The question went to a panelist named Bill. Bill was tall, thin, clearly well into his second century. “I've heard that story,” he said. “Can you cite a source, sir?”

“No,” he said. “I've tried. I've heard it often enough, but I don't know where it comes from.”

Bill looked at the other panelists. They shook their heads. All were familiar with it, and one even commented that it sounded plausible to her. But nobody could pin it down.

Another hand went up. A man with gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He had the mien of a department chairman. “The night Robin disappeared,” he said, “is it true he was returning from Skydeck?”

“That's correct.”

“Had he actually gone somewhere? Or was he just hanging out at the station?”

“He'd been out somewhere,” said Bill.

“Do we know where?”

“Nobody has any idea.”

Another hand went up. “What about the black holes?”

“What specifically were you referring to?” said the moderator.

“Robin's overall interest in them. What was that all about?”

“Hey,” said someone on the far side of the room, “who doesn't have a fascination with black holes?”

They all laughed. “Of course,” said a woman in back, “but is it true he spent time charting their courses? Their trajectories? Whatever?”

The moderator looked at the other panelists. The panelist who'd not thought it possible that Robin had crossed into another universe was middle-aged, well dressed, and wore a sardonic grin throughout the proceedings. Her nameplate identified her as Dr. Matthews. “It's true,” she responded. “He did do that.”

“Do we know why?”

“A hobby, I'd guess. Frankly, I'd be surprised if someone like Robin didn't have an interest in black holes.”

During the course of the evening, we saw a broadcast interview with Robin in which he dismissed the theory that the universe is a hologram. I was surprised that anyone had ever been able to take that idea seriously, but apparently there was some supporting evidence. “But,” said Robin, “there are alternative explanations for the evidence. There's a lot we still don't know, but sometimes one simply has to fall back on common sense.”

One of the speakers, Charlie Plunkett, identified as an engineer with Corbin Data, described an attempt by Robin to show that the voices in an allegedly haunted house might actually be connections with an alternate universe. “Unfortunately.” he said, “the results were inconclusive.”

In a program titled “Alternate Selves,” the panelists discussed the notion that, in an infinite sea of universes, every possibility, somewhere, would come to pass. That meant there were other editions of ourselves out there somewhere. We were consequently asked which of our alternate selves we would, if given the chance, choose to meet. Members of the audience opted for themselves as war heroes, entertainment superstars, lady-killers. The bearded guy beside me wanted to be CEO at Colossos, Inc. “Why? So that I never again have to deal with a boss.”

A substantial number wanted simply to meet a version of themselves who was accomplishing something that would be remembered. One admitted hoping that “it might still turn out to be me.” That drew applause.

When his turn came, Alex didn't surprise me: “I'll settle for where I am,” he said. “I love dealing with antiques.”

Then it was my turn. A few years back, I'd fallen in love for the one and only time in my life. And I let him get away. If I actually had the opportunity, I'd like to meet the Chase Kolpath who had held on to him, married him, and settled into a quiet life. I'd like very much to know how that would have turned out. But I wasn't going to say anything about it in front of that crowd, so I told them I'd enjoy spending an hour with the Kolpath who'd made a fortune as lead singer with the Bandoliers.

During that same panel, an historian went in a new direction. “His IQ is on the record,” he said. “It was over 260, too high for any human being. Maybe he didn't get carried off by a corporate giant. Or caught in another dimension. Maybe he simply went home.”

When I asked him later if he thought there might actually be something to that suggestion, he shook his head sadly. “No,” he said. “I wish I did.”

Shortly before he disappeared, Robin was interviewed by Todd Cunningham, the celebrated talk-show host who, at the time, was at the very beginning of his career. Robin looked better in motion than he did in the still pictures. He seemed relaxed, amiable, a guy with a sense of humor. A large smile appeared when Cunningham asked him why he persisted in saying things that left him open to criticism by his colleagues.

“I'm not sure they're my colleagues,” Robin said.

“Other scientists, then.” Cunningham smiled in the self-deprecating manner that suggests his guest is twisting the truth, and that had since become his trademark.

Robin allowed himself to look uncomfortable, but I got the sense he was in complete control. “There's no easy way to say this, Todd, but the reality is that most of us, even physicists, maybe especially physicists, aren't generally open to new ideas. We think every important discovery was made during the Golden Age. That nothing of any significance remains to be found.”

“You're saying that's wrong?”

“I hope it's wrong. I really do. I'd hate to think there's nothing left for us to learn.”

“Do you hope to provide us with a breakthrough somewhere, Chris?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And what might that be?”

“I don't know. If I knew, I'd tell you now.”

“When will you know?”

He smiled. “Maybe after Uriel.”

“Uriel?”

“When I have something, Todd, I'll be in touch.”

Cunningham frowned. “What's Uriel, Chris? Are you talking about the angel?”

“I'll let you know-”

Alex found an astronomer, a quiet, dark-skinned woman who seemed out of place amid all the jokes and exaggerations. Her name was Silvia, and I suspected she'd been talked into coming. More or less like me. “Silvia,” he said, “what is Uriel?”

She looked pleased to have someone ask a straightforward question. “It's a dwarf star, Alex. Six and a half light-years from here. Maybe a little less.”

“Any planets?”

“A few. Nothing habitable. At least there wasn't the last time I looked.” We could hear laughter in the next room. The end of the evening was approaching. “And there's nothing unusual about it that I know of.”

“You have any idea what Robin was talking about?”

She shook her head. “None whatever. And neither does anybody else. I've seen this interview before, and I can't imagine what he's referring to. I'm not even sure he means the star. Maybe you need to ask an historian. Or a theologian.” She grinned. “Maybe the theologian would be your best bet.”

When the panels concluded, we retired to the ballroom for some drinks and hors d'oeuvres. Alex maneuvered us to a table occupied by Harvey Hoskin, the president of the Society, and Brandon Rupprecht, a biologist. Hoskin had bristly gray hair and a close-cut beard, and he was probably the oldest person in the Jubilee that evening.

We talked about the Society, how there would be a special meeting on the north coast later that year, and who was in line for the Chris Robin Award, which would be given out at the summer meeting in Andiquar. The award recognized “reaching beyond the parameters.” During a break in the conversation, Alex asked how the Society had gotten started.

“This is our twenty-seventh year,” Hoskin said. “It began here at the university after Jim Hovel did a dissertation on Robin's multiple-universe analyses. Jim was on one of the panels tonight.”

“Yes,” said Alex. “We were there.”

“Anyhow, as I'm sure you know-” Hoskin plunged into an account of the mathematics of time-space flexibility. At least, that's what I think it was. “He insisted, therefore, that alternate universes had to exist. I don't have the physics background to go into detail, but you can find it in his book.”

“We have a copy,” said Alex.

“Okay. Then you can imagine why a lot of people got interested. No one before had ever dared talk this way.” He looked across the table at Rupprecht. “At the time he disappeared, he'd become a figure of ridicule. Maybe a lot of people were jealous. I don't know. Anyhow, we- most of us-didn't learn to appreciate him until he was gone. Now, of course, he's a hero. Several of us went to a party one night, and we were talking about him, and I think we began to realize how much he meant to us. I mean, he wasn't afraid to be wrong. For him, it was nice to be right, but the important thing was to ask the right questions. You know what I mean?”

Rupprecht picked up the thread: “And that's how the Chris Robin Society was born.” Rupprecht was average-looking, average height, average everything. His was the kind of face you'd never be able to remember from one day to the next except for his eyes, which tended to freeze you in place.

“Is there really any possibility,” I asked, “any at all, that he might have been right? I mean, I know how crazy it sounds, but is there any chance that maybe you could walk into that closet over there in the corner and find yourself in another universe?”

Hoskin smiled. “It's not forbidden by the laws of physics, is it, Brandy?”

Rupprecht grinned, lifted his glass to his lips, and put it back with the drink untouched. “Above my pay grade,” he said.

I must have looked stunned.

Hoskin noticed. “We have to be cautious about ruling things out simply because they're counterintuitive, Chase. Who would have believed a particle could be in two places simultaneously?” Alex asked whether any members of the group had actually known Robin.

Hoskin passed the question to Rupprecht.

“I knew him,” he said, with a sad smile. “Chris was okay. Not the most patient guy in the world. But I was sorry to lose him.”

“What was he like?”

“He told jokes on himself. Took himself seriously but didn't expect anybody else to. If he had, I don't think he'd have survived as long as he did. He wanted to do blue sky science. That was all he really lived for. Find something new. Figure out how to travel backward in time. Find out what drives complexity. But that era was over long ago. All we do today is try to design a better engine and do studies on why life evolves in different ways on different worlds. If it shows up at all. So for a long time, nobody took him seriously. But he learned to live with that.”

Hoskin jumped in. “Something else that fascinated him was the occasional sightings of unidentified ships.”

“Unidentified ships?”

“You know, the sightings they have at the stations every once in a while? A ship will show up, cruise past, not identify itself, and just leave the area.”

“I've heard of them, sure,” said Alex. “But I never really thought much about the stories.”

“They're there. Something is. They're on the record. The sightings go back a long time. Centuries.”

“But that just means people get lost. Wander into the wrong system, and clear out again.”

“Well, there's something strange about some of them-” He turned toward me. “You're a pilot, Chase-am I right about that?”

“Yes, Harvey, that's correct.”

“If I watch a ship make its jump into transdimensional space, what do I see?”

I wasn't sure what he was asking. “Nothing,” I said finally. “It just disappears.”

“Exactly. Like turning off a light, right?”

“Yes.”

“But the ships involved in the sightings, some of them anyhow, don't just blink out. They fade out. It takes a few seconds, but it's a different process. They gradually become invisible.”

“So what did Robin think they were?”

“He never said. But they intrigued him. And I'm pretty sure I know what he suspected.'“

“Which was-?”

“That they were ships from another civilization. Or maybe another universe.”

I'd had enough to drink, so I let the AI take us home. It was a bright, cold evening, with a few clouds drifting across a moonless sky. “Well,” I said, “that was an interesting experience.”

“Yes. And a profitable one.”

“What makes you say that? I can't see any of those people, for all their enthusiasm, buying a book because Robin scribbled a comment in it.”

“Oh, that's probably true.”

“Then what-?”

“Chase, we can get a substantial price for the Robin artifacts.”

“Really? Why?”

“The guy is the stuff of myth. Ghosts. Colliding universes. Ships from other realities. Then he disappears.”

“I'm not sure I'm following you.”

“We won't get a good price for his stuff if only a few people are interested in him.”

“I agree.”

“And, of course, nobody cares about physicists. I mean, nobody understands them. But a mad scientist? Who maybe got carried off to another universe? Or maybe came from one himself?”

“Alex, I don't think I like where this is going.”

“It's all P.R., Chase. What we need to do is shape the public perception.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”