Dean Koontz: Brother Odd

"Sir, what is the purpose of heavy water?"

"It is used chiefly as a coolant in nuclear reactors, but here I believe it has other purposes, including perhaps, secondarily, as an additional layer of shielding against cosmic radiation that might affect subatomic experiments."

In the vestibule, we ignored the plain stainless-steel doors to the left and right, and went forward to the door in which were embedded the words PER OMNIA SAECULA SAECULORUM.

"'For ever and ever,'" said Romanovich, scowling. "I do not like the sound of that."

Pollyanna Odd, surfacing again, said, "But, sir, it's merely praising God. 'For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory, for ever and ever, amen.'"

"No doubt that was Heineman's conscious intention when he chose these words. But one suspects that unconsciously he was expressing pride in his own achievements, suggesting that his works, performed here, would endure for ever and ever, beyond the end of time, where only God's kingdom otherwise endures."

"I hadn't thought of that interpretation, sir."

"No, you would not, Mr. Thomas. These words might indicate pride beyond mere hubris, the self-glorification of one who needs no word of praise or approval from others."

"But Brother John is not an egomaniacal nutbag, sir."

"I did not say that he was a nutbag. And more likely than not, he sincerely believes that, through this work, he is devoutly and humbly seeking to know God."

Without a hiss, For ever and ever slid aside, and we proceeded into the thirty-foot-diameter chamber where, at the center, standing on a wine-colored Persian carpet, four wingback chairs were served by four floor lamps. Currently, three lamps shed light.

Brother John, in tunic and scapular, with his hood pushed back from his head, waited in one of those three chairs.

IN THE COZINESS OF HONEY-COLORED LIGHT, WITH the surrounding room in shadows and the curved wall darkly lustrous, Romanovich and I settled in the two chairs to which we had clearly been directed.

On the tables beside our chairs, where usually three fresh warm cookies would have been provided on a red plate, no cookies were in evidence. Perhaps Brother John had been too busy to bake.

His hooded violet eyes were as piercing as ever, but they seemed to reveal no suspicion or hostility. His smile was warm, as was his deep voice when he said, "I have been inexplicably weary today, and at times even vaguely depressed."

"That is interesting," Romanovich remarked to me.

Brother John said, "I am glad you came, Odd Thomas. Your visits refresh me."

"Well, sir, sometimes I think I make a pest of myself."

Brother John nodded at Romanovich. "And you, our visitor from Indianapolis -I have only seen you once or twice at a distance and have never had the pleasure of speaking with you."

"That pleasure is now yours, Dr. Heineman."

Raising one large hand in genteel protest, Brother John said, "Mr. Romanovich, I am not that man anymore. I am only John or Brother John."

"Likewise, I am only Agent Romanovich of the National Security Agency," said the assassin's son, and produced his ID.

Rather than lean forward from his chair to accept and examine the laminated card, Brother John turned to me. "Is he indeed, Odd Thomas?"

"Well, sir, this feels true in a way that librarian never did."

"Mr. Romanovich, Odd Thomas's opinion carries more weight with me than any identification. To what do I owe the honor?"

Putting away his ID, Romanovich said, "You have quite a vast facility here, Brother John."

"Not really. The vastness you sense may be the scope of the work, rather than the size of the facility."

"But you must need many specialists to keep it functioning."

"Only six brothers who have had intense technical training. My systems are all but entirely solid-state."

"On occasion, tech support comes in from Silicon Valley by helicopter."

"Yes, Mr. Romanovich. I am pleased but surprised the NSA would be interested in the work of a spiritual seeker."

"I am a man of faith myself, Brother John. I was intrigued when I heard that you have developed a computer model that you believe has shown you the deepest, most fundamental structure of reality, even far below the level of quantum foam."

Brother John sat in silence, and finally said, "I must assume that some of my conversations with former colleagues, which I allowed myself a couple of years ago, were reported to you."

"That is correct, Brother John."

The monk frowned, then sighed. "Well, I should not hold them to blame. In the highly competitive secular world of science, there is no expectation of keeping a confidence of this nature."

"So you believe you have developed a computer model that has shown you the deepest structure of reality?"

"I do not believe it, Mr. Romanovich. I know that what the model shows me is true."

"Such certitude."

"To avoid a bias toward my views, I didn't create the model. We inputted the entirety of substantive quantum theory and the evidence supporting it, allowing the computer array to develop the model with no human bias."

"Computers are creations of human beings," said Romanovich, "so they have bias built in."

To me, Brother John said, "The melancholy I've struggled with today does not excuse my bad manners. Would you like some cookies?"

That he offered cookies only to me seemed significant. "Thank you, sir, but I'm saving room for two slices of cake after dinner."

"Back to your certitude," Romanovich said. "How can you know what the model shows you is true?"

A beatific look overcame Brother John. When he spoke, his voice had a tremor that might have been inspired by awe. "I have applied the lesson of the model… and it works."

"And what is the lesson of the model, Brother John?"

Leaning forward in his chair, seeming to refine the silence of the room to a hush by the force of his personality, he said softly, "Under the final level of apparent chaos, one finds strange order again, and the final level of order is thought."

"Thought?"

"All matter, when seen at its root, arises out of a base web that has all the characteristics of thought waves."

He clapped his hands once, and the previously dark, lustrous walls brightened. Across them, around us, floor to ceiling, intricate interlacing lines of numerous colors presented ever-changing patterns that suggested layers like thermal currents in an infinitely deep ocean. For all their complexity, the lines were clearly ordered, the patterns purposeful.

This display possessed such beauty and mystery that I was at the same time mesmerized by it and compelled to look away, struck both by wonder and fear, by awe but equally by a sense of inadequacy, which made me want to cover my face and confess all the baseness in myself.

Brother John said, "What you see before you is not the thought patterns of God that underlie all matter, which of course we have no way of actually seeing, but a computer representation of them, based on the model I mentioned."

He clapped his hands twice. The astonishing patterns faded, and the walls went dark again, as though the display had been controlled by one of those devices that some elderly people use to turn the room lights on and off without having to get out of bed.

"This little exhibition so profoundly affects people," Brother John said, "resonates with us on some level so deep, that witnessing more than a minute of it can result in extreme emotional distress."

Rodion Romanovich looked as shaken as I suppose I did.

"So," said the Russian, after regaining his composure, "the lesson of the model is that the universe-all its matter and forms of energy-arises out of thought."

"God imagines the world, and the world becomes."