James Hogan: Mission to Minerva

"That's right!" Julie seemed impressed.

Hunt glanced at the other two girls, who were hovering behind. "So what are we doing-starting a party?"

"Oh. This is Becky, who's visiting from Virginia… and Dana."

Hunt gestured across the booth. "Jerry, my neighbor."

"You live near here?"

"Redfern Canyons-on the west side from here."

"I think I know it. Where they have all the valleys and ridges cut into the hills so it looks like somewhere in California. With a creek and ponds down the middle."

"That's it."

Becky, who was looking mildly awed, found her voice finally. "This is really the Dr. Hunt… who was there at Ganymede when the aliens came back, and then discovered that whole world inside the computer on Jevlen?" She shook her head. "I always think of people you see on shows and read about in magazines as flying everywhere in limousines and living in places with security gates and fences. But here you are, just a regular guy in the local bar."

"I hope we weren't interrupting something," Dana said.

"We're quaffing away all the benefit from a couple of hours of healthy working out this morning," Hunt replied. "But I've always had this theory that too much health is bad for you."

"So that tastes really good, I bet." Julie indicated their drinks.

"The first one didn't touch the sides going down," Jerry said.

"Actually, Jerry was trying to sell me on a business proposition. Restaurant nightclubs for older fossils like us to get out to and creak around in. What do you think?"

Julie looked perplexed. "I'm not sure what to say. You don't exactly look over the hill or anything like that, Dr. Hunt."

"Oh, don't worry about it," Hunt told her cheerfully. "People have the wrong attitude. What's wrong with getting over a hill? Think what happens on a bicycle. All the hard work's over. You just leave everything to gravity, sit back, enjoy the view, and pick up speed. Life's the same. That's why everyone says time goes so much faster. You know-" The call tone from the seefone in the holder on his belt interrupted. "Excuse me." He took it out, flipped it open, and thumbed the Accept button. The head and shoulders of a young man in a white shirt greeted him on the screen. A caption below gave the sending code and advised that the call was from the UNSA Goddard Center. "Hello. Vic Hunt here."

"Dr. Hunt, this is ASD. We have an incoming off-planet call on hold. The caller is asking for you."

Off-planet? Hunt wasn't especially expecting anything of that nature. UNSA communications from distances farther than about the Moon usually came in as recordings because of the propagation delays. Ironically, an interactive call was more likely to be from the Thuriens' interstellar net, which communicated virtually instantaneously via spinning microscopic black-hole toroids, and linked to the Terran system via Earth-orbiting relay satellites. "Who is it?" he asked, at the same time conveying an apology with his eyes to the others around him. But the face on the screen hesitated, seeming not to know how to answer. "It doesn't matter," Hunt said. "Just put it through." A moment later, he was staring incredulously in total befuddlement.

The face looking back at him was of a man around forty, with tanned, lean-lined features giving him an alert and active look, and wavy brown hair starting to show touches of gray just discernible on the matchbook-size screen. He seemed amused, even impudently so, waiting several seconds as if savoring the effect to the utmost. Finally, he said, "I suppose this must come as a bit of a shock."

Which perhaps qualified as one of the greatest understatements in all Hunt's years of experience. For the face was his own. He was talking to some bizarre version-existing in some other where, and for all he knew, some other "when"-of himself. He could do nothing but sit there, stupefied, unable to muster a coherent response. The three girls exchanged mystified looks. Then Jerry said, "Are you all right, Vic?"

The words jolted Hunt sufficiently to make him look up, though for the moment still only marginally aware of his surroundings. Finally, with an effort, he forced his faculties back to something resembling working order. "Er, I'm sorry," he said, standing up. "If you'll excuse me, I need to take this privately." He crossed to the exit and left.

"What was it, a ghost?" Jerry muttered to the others.

Outside in the parking lot, Hunt climbed into his car and closed the door. The face of his other self was still there, waiting on the screen of the seefone. "Okay, I give up," he told it. "So… just what in hell is going on?"

"I'll try to be brief, because there may not be a lot of time," the image answered. "First, the Thuriens are trying the wrong approach. It isn't an extension of the h-space physics the way they've assumed. That only applies within particular wave solutions evolving vertically and manifesting internal space and time separation. Horizontal movement involves a different concept. Think of the dynamics of the data structures that we found in JEVEX's computing matrix… As I said, there may not be a lot of time. This is an early test run. We haven't learned how to sustain coherence for extended periods yet. I've got a compressed file here that will give you what we've managed to figure out so far. The main thing you need to know about is the convergences. But codes can be different, even between nearby regions. Can you send me something to scan for any transmission corrections we might need to make?"

"What…?" Hunt was still numbed by the shock.

"A file out of your system there. Anything. We need to know the codes you're using so the one here can be set to match."

"Oh… Right…" Hunt shook himself into action sufficiently to bring up a directory of his personal library and flagged one of the items for transmission.

"Using the phone," his alter ego observed. "Where have I caught you?"

"Er… I'm in the parking lot outside Happy's. I was with Jerry Santello… Here, it's coming through now."

"Okay, got it. Let's see, now…" The alter-Hunt looked away. "Which time was that?" he inquired as he worked, evidently consulting some off-screen oracle.

"A Saturday-the time that Julie from admin showed up with a couple of her friends. There's an Orioles-Braves game due to be played later."

"I don't recall that. It was probably different on this time line. The parallelisms can show surprising discontinuities." Then, in a louder voice, apparently to someone nearby, "Have we got it yet?"

"Jerry was selling the restaurant-dance-bar thing again," Hunt said.

"Oh, that. Yes. Tell him to forget it. It's a scam. The pictures in the brochure he's got are faked. It's a shell company set up by a Ukrainian outfit who'll take the money and fold. If you want a better deal, buy Formaflex in Austin. Small pilot experiment. Nobody knows about it yet-limited license to deal in Thurien matter-duplicator technology. It's going to go over big." Alter-Hunt winked, then looked away again. "Okay? Are we ready? Can I send-"

The connection died, as twenty-two thousand miles above the Earth's surface the object that had appeared out of nowhere dissolved into a haze that dispersed and faded, leaving nothing.

Hunt waited fifteen minutes, but nothing more came through.

Even before the first contact with Ganymeans, when the Shapieron from ancient Minerva returned from its strange exile out of normal spacetime, the majority of Earth's physicists had come to favor the explanation of quantum weirdness known as the Many Worlds Interpretation, or MWI. Its claims were so bizarre and counterintuitive that many maintained it couldn't have been conceived by unaided human imagination or unwitting self-deception. Therefore, it had to be true. The discovery that a race of advanced, starfaring aliens had reached the same conclusion seemed as strong an endorsement as anyone could wish for and pretty much won over the last of the doubters.