I figured I had to be the only man on the planet spending millennium eve alone. I'm sitting in a bar watching CNN cover the fireworks from all round the globe, as civilization does not crumble before their cameras.
The anticipated Y2K infrastructure meltdown is just not happening. I, for one, am not surprised. Software rehabilitation is my business. My consultancy had done significant Y2K work, completed, tested, and in service. Some clients just wanted the comfort of someone on call, which is how I ended up hanging around on expenses in the bar of one of the fancier hotels in the city.
Couples drift in and out from the ballroom (I assume, from the tuxes and evening gowns) or any of the various private parties. Apart from the staff, I am the only unattached person in the room. So naturally I notice when an unattached woman strides in. Stunning, perfectly proportioned, tall, athletic, long dark hair, vaguely Asian cast of neatly symmetrical features. She is wearing a shape-hugging pantsuit of that material that reflects a different colour from every angle: indigo, blue, green, red. A model or actress, in this town. She does not appear to be expecting company -- she does not even glance around the room. But she perches at the bar near me (best vantage for the TV) and orders champagne. She signs it to a room, and focusses on the CNN reports.
I gesture at the TV and explain how CNN has set up all these self-contained site teams around the world with their own power, water, food, and fuel, to survive and cover the end of the world.
"It's turning out to be biggest non-event of the millennium," I muse. "Except perhaps the 3rd world war."
"I know." she says. "I am Historian."
"So what brings you here, of all places?" I ask.
"Field research." she says. "I am to witness."
"You are expecting something?"
"There are probabilities."
She said probabilities, not possibilities. Her English seems a bit odd.
"I am having difficulty placing your accent." I say. "Where are you from?"
She hesitates for a moment. "From entropically downstream."
I am wrestling with interpreting the phrase as somewhere in the tropics, when it clicks into semantic focus.
"You mean, from the future."
"You could say, yes."
Well, this was certainly an imaginative line. I could not see just how it would be used to fend off advances, which must surely be its intent. I figured I would play along.
"So tell me, what of note happens next year?"
"No prominences." she says promptly.
"Prominences?"
"Events of high consequence probability quotient."
"Okay." I try to digest that. "So what does happen?"
"Everything."
She notes my quizzical frown.
"Distributed by probability, of course." she expands.
"The many-worlds hypothesis", I muse.
"Theorem," she says.
I raise an eyebrow.
"It follows directly from Bell's theorem," she explains.
Now it happens I minored in physics. But Bell's theorem (quantum mechanics is either inconsistent or non-local) is not exactly standard tinseltown party chitchat.
"So, you are in theoretical physics," I suggest.
"Oh no," she chuckles. "I am field historian."
Her emphasis seems to place less distinction between history and physics than between theory and fieldwork.
I am wondering how to follow this up when the program switches to live coverage of the countdown somewhere in L.A. I can hear a few scattered groups joining in the count. On the stroke of midnight we clink glasses. By my watch the stroke is nearly a second late. Then I calculate that the signal from the on-location unit probably had to go to Atlanta via satellite, then back up to satellite and down again to the local receiver. Does no-one use land lines anymore? Not when they are expecting Armageddon, I suppose. Well, there has been no buzz from my pager or chirp from my cellphone. Good signs.
The historian appears to be wearing a small smile of satisfaction. She drains her glass and says "Let us go to place more conducive to this foreplay."
Wham! She might as well have hit me over the head with a two-by-four. She now has my FULL and UNDIVIDED attention. I make a show of finishing my drink while surreptitiously rearranging myself for decorum when I stand. One advantage of briefs over boxers. Then she has linked her arm in mine and is striding off to the elevators.
In the elevator I try to recover some composure. Maybe her command of English is flawed. But I can think of no innocent reinterpretation of "foreplay". This is no ambiguous word, like intercourse. Perhaps it is a setup for some elaborate swindle. I promise myself to sign no contracts. Maybe it is to be simple robbery. Then they have the wrong mark. I never carry cash, and always carry the equalizer.
When we arrive at her room the door simply opens to her twist of the handle. No keycard. It's not possible to leave these doors unlocked, I think. Then Aha gotcha! Like in science fiction novels, she is trying to dazzle me with her mastery of our primitive technologies. But it just does not work like that. Even the most primitive technologies are sophisticated in their own way. I could place before you a dozen Victorian kitchen implements, and you would not be able to tell me the purpose of a single one. So, with that little door trick she has shown me that she really is twentieth century.
The room is freshly made, with no sign of luggage or personal items. Nor is there any sign of illumination, though I can see clearly enough. It is rather like seeing by starlight, only sharper, with colour. I slip out of my jacket and holster, laying them carefully on the desk so as not to clunk. I turn back in time to see her do something with her belt, and the pantsuit seems to flow off her body, into a little puddle at her feet. I make a mental note to check out that garment later; but at the moment I am fully taken with her body. Her skin is smooth and flawless, with no sign of tan lines. The small, firm breasts of a teenager. Improbably luxuriant pubic hair, with a perfectly symmetrical, sharply defined boundary.
I hesitate momentarily, wondering how to match her speed and grace in disrobing. She steps out of the puddle, out of her shoes, and nuzzles my neck, then licks me from larynx to earlobe. I stand transfixed by lingual caresses as she deftly undoes my buttons. I am intrigued by her scent. There is no perfume, that I can detect. Just a fresh, clean aura. Sort of like a new-washed infant. She must be vegetarian. Now she is down to my shoes, and I am glad that I can step out of my Birks with a modicum of poise. Then she lifts me effortlessly onto the bed, and proceeds to demonstrate the flexibility and stamina of a gymnast in peak condition, combined with the innocent delight of a child. It is fortunate that I am fairly fit and well conditioned, and can rise to the occasion.
Afterwards, as we are recovering (okay, as I am recovering), I start to collect my wits. What on Earth is her game? I determine to challenge the time traveller story, and her physics.
"Tell me" I say "about Grand Unified Theory."
She looks up at the ceiling for a moment.
"I cannot convey mathematics. You do not have concepts or tools."
"Try me" I say.
"Do you have twisters?"
I sense she does not mean tornadoes.
"Curlers?"
Or plastic hair rollers.
"Tensors?"
Again I experience a semantic click. She must mean curlors and twistors. The terms are new to me, but I can imagine, in principle, how they might be forms of advanced calculus, beyond tensors.
"Okay" I concede, "how about some results from theory."
Again the glance at something just above her line of sight.
"Unification temperature is 31 Nonillion Kelvin. Do you want ten significant digits?"
I shake my head. I cannot imagine what I would do with the information. And anyway, she is just making it up. Quite adroitly, I must admit. Well, I will challenge her math. That was my major.
"How about Fermat's last theorem? Conjecture, I mean."
"No, it is theorem. The proof is arduous, but quite fruitful, illuminating elliptical equations. But you should know. It is ancient result."
Damn, she's good. How many non-mathematicians are even aware of the recent proof?
"Okay, tell me something that I cannot know already."
"Ah, here is interesting result. P=NP."
I am stunned. How can this girl be so well primed? There is a class of problems that mathematicians consider "hard", meaning insoluble in practice. What she has just asserted is that systematic solutions do exist. If true, this would be a staggering result. It would undermine the foundations of public key encryption, for example. And the claim is just on the edge of plausibility.
"Okay," I say. "Outline the proof for me."
"It proceeds most directly," she says, "by demonstration. For example, take shortest circuit problem: Set up interference network, illuminate with laser, and shortest circuit is demonstrated by photons."
I mull this over. It is not immediately obvious how to construct an interference network to encode an arbitrary collection of nodes and weighted edges; but again, the proposal has a faint ring of plausibility.
"I must say for a historian you are well versed in mathematics," I concede.
"I just look it up," she says.
"But when?" I ask. "Where? How?"
"When you ask," she says. “Here. Like this," rolling her eyes upwards slightly.
"Show me what you see," I demand.
"I cannot," she says. "You are not Equipped."
My disappointment shows.
"But," she adds, nuzzling up, "I like how you are equipped."
And she proceeds again to demonstrate her vigour and stamina.
Afterwards, lying in a state of torpor, I realize I still do not know her name.
"What should I call you?" I ask.
"Already you want to choose name?" she demands.
"Choose? No. I just want to know what I should call you."
"You do not need name to address me. We do not choose name until we are better acquainted."
She was doing a fine job of demonstrating a cultural gap.
"Okay, if someone else wanted to refer to you when speaking to me, how would they do so?"
"If that person was acquainted with us both, then by name" she patiently explained. "Otherwise, by contextually unique identifier."
"But what do you do if there is no context, like in a document or contract?"
"You confuse appellation with identification. Already you have many sound means of identification: fingertips, irises, DNA."
I decided to abandon that avenue of enquiry.
"How, exactly, did you get here?" I ask.
"I cannot convey technical details. You lack vocabulary and concepts."
"Okay," I say. "How about just the broad outlines?"
"There is device to create region of negative entropy through focus of negative energy" (this is beginning to sound like the anti-scientific drivel of my more spiritual acquaintances) "created at boundary of large pulse of energy."
"How large?" I ask.
"Several Universes."
"You mean the energy equivalent of total mass conversion of the entire universe?"
"Plus all energy. Several times."
"And just where do you get all this energy?" "From several universes. Actually, more than several, because conversion is not fully efficient."
I ponder for a moment such prodigious amounts of energy. My spiritual friends could not conceive of processes on that scale. Consuming entire universes; by the gross. This girl has a most extravagant imagination.
"So," I say, "how about going the other way?"
"We are already going downstream."
"I mean back where you started. How do you get back."
"There is no return path. One can only jump upstream."
"So what do you do?"
"I do research."
"Without interfering?" I ask dubiously.
"Interference is futile," she says. "There cannot be any development without complete context. Consider, for example, Francis Bacon. He tried so hard to introduce scientific method, and his peers could only see theological debate."
I try to recall the little I know about Bacon. I think there was some ridiculous speculation that he had written Shakespeare, and some claim that he invented gunpowder, though I am sure he must have got it from the Chinese via Marco Polo or somehow. But I don't know anything about him introducing scientific method. I'll have to look it up on the web...
I must have dozed off. Suddenly I am aware that the room is dark. I am alone. The bedside clock says 03:17. At least 8 minutes fast by my watch. I switch on the lamp. My clothes are in a heap on the floor. The magic jumpsuit is gone. I glance in the bathroom (empty), then check the door. It is locked on the inside, with deadbolt and security chain. This girl is a regular Houdini. I read somewhere that you can lock a door on the inside from outside using platinum wires or something, but I can't see just how. I climb back into my clothes, checking my holster. Undisturbed. I do a sweep of the room and bathroom. Nothing but hotel gear. Nothing under the bed. Going out the door, I check the lock from the outside. As I thought, there is no way to set it unlocked. No way in without the keycard. As I make my way back to my own room, I figure she must be good at sleight of hand. All in all a most memorable millennium.
It was just a few weeks after the WTC terrorist attack. I was in New York for analyst interviews, and a tour of some of the field offices. I ducked into a bar/restaurant for a quick, if late, bite of lunch. I slipped off my shades, and there she was sitting in a booth near the back, looking up expectantly. I strolled back and slid into the booth.
"Fancy meeting you here," I began. Then stopped. There was something different about her mouth, the set of her eyes.
"I'm sorry," I stammered, "I thought you were someone else."
"My . . . colleague," she clarified.
"But you look so much alike," I said. "I would have thought you were sisters, if not twins."
"We are unrelated. This look is . . . fashionable."
My senses did a double somersault. All at once I was totally convinced of the whole time traveller story. She was referring to bodies as casually as clothing. These women had to be from way downstream. But then, what were they up to? One didn't travel into the past, as the cost of several universes, just to watch a non-event on TV. Did they come to change history? Was something supposed to happen, that they forestalled? Like maybe World War III?
"She was . . . disruptive."
Huh? I must have been musing aloud. I was getting very uneasy about this.
"What do you know of her activities?" the look-alike continued.
"Nothing." I felt, and sounded, defensive. "I only saw her the once, nearly two years ago. She just vanished."
"Vanished?"
"When I awoke, I was alone," I said, quoting the Beatles, Norwegian Wood.
"You were intimate."
It didn't sound like a question, so I didn't elaborate.
"What were your discussions?"
"Uh, nothing. Mathematics, physics."
She flashed me a smile.
"Let us go to place more conducive to this conversation."
"I just gotta hit the can," I said, rising.
"I will accompany," she said, slipping her arm around mine.
I had, of course, been planning to slip out the back door or something. She was way ahead of me. My unease was blooming into chilling fear.
The facilities were downstairs in the basement, beside the storeroom. I figured there had to be a ramp or dumb waiter up to the kitchen. If I could just get away, I could go where she would never find me again. But there was no way to make a break for it. Her arm around mine betrayed the strength of a pro wrestler. What could she possibly be wanting with me?
"I must restore harmony," she said.
I must have been thinking aloud again. The cold sweat down my back turned to ice. It just had to be coincidence that her words were straight out of Jim Kelly's story "Think Like a Dinosaur."
The men's room was one small cubicle, with toilet at the back and pedestal sink at the side, fan in the ceiling, no escape. She followed me in, closing the door and putting her back against it. I unzipped and started to pee, then whipped around, still peeing, and shot her point blank, right between the eyes.
I kept an eye on the body as I finished peeing in the sink, my ears slowly recovering from the tremendous report in that confined space. No movement. I stooped to recover the casing, but it had bounced into a puddle of pee. Screw it. It was a custom load anyway, untraceable. I checked for the slug. No exit wound. Must have mushroomed on impact. Good lethality. No use for ballistics. Nonetheless I would have to dispose of the barrel. Good thing I had packed the spare, disguised as a rather handsome pen. I wedged open the door and stepped carefully over the body and spreading pool of blood. I closed the door behind me. All I heard was the regular kitchen clatter from above. New York was getting back to normal. I slipped the Glock into its holster, and went quietly back up the stairs, wiping my hands on my thighs. The restaurant appeared unperturbed. I strolled through to the street. I almost made it to the corner before being overtaken by the shakes. I staggered over to a utility pole and lost my breakfast.
The next few days were a blur of activity. I had anyway been planning to retire in a couple of years. I had already transferred my holdings to an offshore trust, before the IPO. Now I arranged power of attorney for my broker, and instructed him to find an agent to flog the condo. I set up anonymized email accounts through Finland. I bought a nice second-hand yacht down in Fort Lauderdale, distributed a stash of banknotes in caches around the vessel, provisioned up for four months, and cast off for parts undisclosed.
I am still unsure how I managed to get the drop on her. She was practically reading my mind. It must be that, until the split second before I drew, I had no idea what I would do. That decision must be way off in the tail of the probability distribution. Which means there are (were, would be) many alternate histories without the shot. It does not bear contemplation. My awareness is in this timeline. My problem is how to hide from an entity that can see all of future history. My solution is to leave no records. I deal in cash, mostly in countries where official records are, at best, stacks of handwritten paper that soon succumb to mould and insects.
In the meantime I am boning up on advanced calculus and quantum computation, and corresponding with younger mathematicians. If the work looks at all promising, I'll endow a permanent institute somewhere and fund a few graduate students. I plan to get this memoir published, having made a few alterations to protect my identity. I figure the more widely the story is disseminated, the less I am a target. And I keep looking over my shoulder for tall athletic historians.
http://www.scrollinspace.com/article.php?story=20030914212320454