Raquel Explains Everett's Thesis
“So,” he said, “Tell me about Hugh
Everett’s Thesis. And remember, I’m not a real professor—so talk slowly, using
words of one syllable, or even fewer.”
“Oh, it seems complex—and of course
it is—but to describe it is easy. You remember that the
margins between energy and matter are rather indefinite. Quanta appear to be
either waves or particles, depending on when you look. It’s embarrassing,
because physicists measure things—and yet it's measurement causes the
confusion. For our purposes it’s just an analogy—a reminder not to be dogmatic about
things we don’t really understand.”
“So,” she continued, “We have the
analogy of Schrödinger’s famous cat. It’s in a box. Is it alive, is it dead? We
don’t know. Like quanta which have not yet been observed, we say ‘It’s in an
indeterminate state.’ The only way to know is to look—but also like
quanta—looking is what causes the cat to live or die.
Forgive me, Jack, I’m not a physicist. I’m sure a great deal is getting lost in
translation.”
Jack nodded, “Sure. No problem.”
Reassured, she continued, “So Everett
tells us it’s not a question of whether quanta are particles or
energy, or whether the cat is alive or dead—but a question of which reality you
are talking about. Cats don’t exist in an indeterminate state—so it must be alive
in one reality and not the other—and both realities are co-existent. It’s the
same for quanta.”
Jack laughed, “I see. That makes it
a great deal clearer.”
She waved her hand impatiently,
glancing around
for another analogy. There was a chess set on a side table. “Here,” she said,
placing it between them, “Let’s suppose I have chosen white, a slight
alteration of the state of the universe, since I might have chosen black. If I
had, we’d have a different game. The evening would turn out differently—and everything
that follows from it would be different.”
“Maybe that would be best,” Jack said.
She shook her head. Having started,
she did not intend to let him off easily. She picked up a white pawn, “In this
reality, we do play. I am White. I make the first move—P-Q4—or wait, maybe
P-K3—but no, perhaps a Knight move would be best. In each case the history of
the universe is slightly altered. A trifling difference, but who can know what
the ultimate effect might be? Perhaps catastrophic, like that butterfly in China whose
flapping wings cause a hurricane in Cuba.”
...
“Anyway,” she continued, “We are sitting here at the chessboard—and suddenly the North Star goes supernova, or not. We are showered with gamma rays, or not. Your children are born with stripes, or not. You answer with a Pawn move, I move a Knight. You spill your drink, I rub the blister on my heel, or not, or not, or not.
“O.K.,” Jack said, “I think I’m with
you so far.”
She sat for a moment frowning, and
biting her lower lip. The pawn she held had gathered a cosmic weight of gloomy
consequence. She replaced it carefully it in its original position. At last she
continued, “Every moment of every day, everywhere in the universe, events occur
which alter reality. And think of the magnitude of it. There are probably a hundred
billion stars in this galaxy, and a hundred billion galaxies, or so. Can we
seriously believe that none of them has a planet identical to Earth where two
people named Jack and Raquel are having a silly conversation that avoids the
ultimate question? There must be millions, and that’s just our Universe.”
“Good grief.”
“Yes. But Everett’s theory suggests
that there are other universes, that reality is not just this way, but all
possible ways—an infinite number of worlds, created in part by our own choices.
You and I are certainly on some of those other worlds, making still other
choices.” She looked at him seriously, compelling him not to scoff, “This isn’t
any weirder than cats who are both alive and dead.”
He nodded, “O.K.”
She waved at the chess board and
continued, “So, of course I didn’t make just one opening move. In all possible
worlds, I’ve tried all the possible openings, and you’ve made—or will make—all
the possible responses. And beyond the chess board lurk infinities of
possibility from which our poor, finite minds select what we need to spin
stories from darkness.”
...
They walked to the streetcar holding
hands ... As they came around the corner of
the building they saw the streetcar stopped a block away. They hurried to the
platform. The bell on the streetcar clanged. It started slowly forward, and
then accelerated, approaching their stop at an almost alarming speed. She gave
him a hurried peck on the cheek as the car came to a stop and the automatic
door opened. “We all like to be called,” she said as the door closed.
“Wait!” he said, “What was the
question? The one they were avoiding on Andromeda?”
But the door had closed so he did
not hear her reply.
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[O.K. So much for the excerpt from the work published in this dimension--but to further illustrate the fact that possibilities are endless, consider a scene cut from the published text.]
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[O.K. So much for the excerpt from the work published in this dimension--but to further illustrate the fact that possibilities are endless, consider a scene cut from the published text.]
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Later that same evening, or perhaps
in another Portland in some alternate reality, Raquel wakened from a nervous
dream. She was filled with sleepy remorse, aware that her explanation had been stupid. Reality was nothing like chess. Chess was just
a contest of human skills and attention. There was nothing to it really, a
checkered plane with alternate squares and equal resources. The rules were so simple
that, unless ‘White’ made a mistake, it must always prevail.
In centuries of play great masters
had discovered all the best opening moves, and other masters had figured out the
most effective responses. Even beginners could soon learn and remember the best
ones. What was the point of inventing other openings? Why not set up the board
with those moves already played?
And other people (Nabokov, she
remembered) imagined intricate and surprising end games. ‘It’s only in media res,’ she thought, ‘… where we
always find ourselves … that any doubt exists. The great chess masters remembered
entire games, and even a dull-witted computer could win at chess, given time to
anticipate, and memory to recall, all the games that had ever, or could ever,
be played. Anticipation and memory would thus become the same thing. Mistakes would be impossible and White would always win.
Jack, caressed her shoulder… “What?
Did you say something?”
She flinched, startled out of her
half sleep.
‘Oh God!’ she was naked, a little
cold, and Jack lay behind her, also naked but radiating heat like a dwarf
star. How did he get here? Awake now, she recalled her flirty kiss as the
streetcar approached, ashamed to remember her playful tug on his shirt collar. ‘Oh
God,’ she mourned, ‘So blatant! I must have been drunk.’
He’d followed her into the car, and up
the hill to the University stop. They had crossed the Park Blocks arm in arm to
her apartment, their embrace anticipating everything to come, which (she now recalled)
was both the cause and effect of his presence in her bed. He kissed the back of
her neck, lifting her hair to kiss her behind her ear. She shivered. His left
arm slid from her shoulder to caress her breasts.
She slapped it, then clutched it to her
chest, like a valuable possession. “No Jack!” she said, and as urgently as they
had earlier made love she apologized, “I was wrong. I lied. About Reality. It’s
not like chess.”
“Oh? What’s it like?” he asked,
sleepily.
“It’s different. It’s more
complicated.”
“O.K. Tell me tomorrow. I’ll be
here.”
That night, elsewhere in the city,
and in all possible Portlands, in this and other universes,
lit by uncountable multitudes of moons, other lovers made other choices.
Things that might have gone one way, went another, but in the morning, their worlds
appeared much as they had before. A few might understand how everything was new
and different, but fewer still would remember their other options, or have any notion
of their other lives continuing in different directions in other present times.
