Distress

party trick were just a long-winded way of saying that X minus X would always equal zero.

Wu was suggesting that Mosala’s whole approach to building a TOE amounted to much the same thing: all the mathematics simply canceled itself out. On a grander scale, and in a far less obvious manner—but in the end, a tautology was still a tautology.

Wu spoke quietly as equations flowed across the display screen behind her. To spell out these connections, to short-circuit one part of Mosala’s work with another, Wu had had to prove half a dozen new theorems in pure mathematics—difficult results, all of them, and useful in their own right. (This was not my own uneducated opinion; I’d checked the databases for citations other earlier work, which had prepared the ground for this presentation.) And that was the extraordinary thing, for me: that such a rich and complex restatement of “X minus X equals zero” was even possible. It was as if an elaborately twisted length of rope, weaving in and out of its own detours a few hundred thousand times, had turned out not to be knotted at all, but just a simple loop—ornately arranged, but ultimately able to be completely untangled. Maybe that would make a better metaphor—and in the interactive, viewers with force gloves could reach in and prove for themselves that the “knot” really was just a loop in disguise…

You couldn’t grab hold of a couple of Mosala’s tensor equations and simply tug, though, to find out how they were joined. You had to unpick the false knot in your mind’s eye (with help from software—but it couldn’t do everything). Subtle mistakes were always possible. The details were everything.

Wu finished, and began taking questions. The audience was subdued; there were only a couple of tentative requests for clarification, expressing no hint of acceptance or rejection.

I turned to Mosala. “Do you still think she’s on the right track?”

She hesitated. “Yes, I do.”

The auditorium was emptying around us. In the corner of my eye, I could see people’s gaze lingering on Mosala as they made their way past us. It was all very civilized—no swooning teenagers begging for autographs— but there were unmistakable flashes of infatuation, reverence, adoration. I recognized some members of the fan club whose support had been so evident at the press conference—but I still hadn’t so much as glimpsed Kuwale anywhere in the building. If ve was so concerned about Mosala, why wasn’t ve here?

I said, “What does that mean for your TOE? If Wu is correct?”

Mosala smiled. “Maybe that strengthens my position.”

“Why? I don’t understand.”

She glanced at her notepad. “It’s a complicated issue. Maybe we could go into it tomorrow?”

Wednesday afternoon: our first interview session.

“Of course.”

We began to walk out together. Mosala clearly had another appointment; it was now or never. I said, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. I don’t know if it’s important, but…”

She seemed distracted, but she said, “Go on.”

“When I arrived, I was met at the airport by someone called Akili Kuwale.” She didn’t react to the name, so I continued. “Ve said ve was a ‘mainstream Anthrocosmologist,’ and—”

Mosala groaned softly, closed her eyes, and stopped dead. Then she turned on me. “Let me make this absolutely clear. If you so much as mention the Anthrocosmologists in this documentary, I’ll—”

I broke in hurriedly, “I have no intention of doing that.”

She stared at me angrily, disbelieving.

I added, “Do you think they’d let me, even if I wanted to?”

She wasn’t mollified. “I never know what they might do. What did this person want from you, if it wasn’t coverage for their lunatic views?”

I said carefully, “Ve seemed to feel you might be in some kind of danger.” I contemplated raising the question of emigration to Stateless, but Mosala was already so close to flashpoint that I didn’t think it was worth the risk.

She said acidly, “Well, that’s the Anthrocosmologists for you, and their concern is very touching, but I'm not in any danger, am I?” She gestured at the empty auditorium, as if to point out the absence of lurking assassins. “So they can relax, and you can forget about them, and we can both get on with our jobs. Right?”

I nodded dumbly. She started to walk away; I caught up with her. I said, “Look, I didn’t seek these people out. I was approached straight off the plane by this mysterious person making cryptic remarks about your safety. I thought you had a right to hear about it; it’s as simple as that. I didn’t know ve was a member of your least favorite cult. And if the whole subjects taboo… fine. I’ll never speak their name in your presence again.”

Mosala stopped, her expression softening. She said, “I apologize. I didn’t mean to chew your head off. But if you knew the kind of pernicious nonsense—” She broke off. “Never mind. You say the subjects closed? You have no interest in them?” She smiled sweetly. “Then there’s nothing to argue about, is there?” She walked to the doorway, then turned and called back, “So—I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon? We can finally have a talk about some things that matter. I'm looking forward to that.'

I watched her walk away, then I retreated back into the empty room and sat down in a front-row seat, wondering how I’d ever talked myself into believing that I could “explain” Violet Mosala to the world. I hadn’t even known what my own lover was thinking, living with her week after week, so what kind of ludicrous misjudgments would I make with this highly strung, mercurial stranger… whose life revolved around mathematics I could barely comprehend?

My notepad beeped urgently. I took it from my pocket; Hermes had deduced that the lecture was over, and audible signaling was now acceptable. There was a message for me from Indrani Lee:

'Andrew, you may not fully appreciate what kind of coup this is, but a representative of the people we discussed last night has agreed to speak with you. Off the record, of course. 27 Chomsky Avenue. Nine o'clock tonight.'

I clutched my stomach, and tried not to laugh.

I said, “I'm not going. I'm not risking it. What if Mosala finds out? Of course I'm curious—but it’s just not worth it.”

After a few seconds, Hermes asked, “Is that a reply to the sender?”

I shook my head. “No. And it’s not even the truth, either.”

The address Lee had given me was a short walk from the north-east tram line, through what looked— almost—like a patch of middle-class suburbia back home… except that there was no vegetation, ostentatious or otherwise, just relatively large paved courtyards and occasional kitsch statuary. No obviously electrified fences, either. The air was chilly; autumn was making itself felt here, after all. The dazzling coral of Stateless gave the wrong impression entirely; the natural cousins of its engineered polyps would not have thrived, this far from the tropics.

I thought: Sarah Knight had been in touch with the Anthrocosmologists, and Mosala had never got to hear of it. She would hardly have spoken about Sarah in such glowing terms, if she’d known there’d been some kind of deal between her and Kuwale. That was pure supposition, but it made sense: research for Holding Up the Sky must have led Sarah to the ACs, who were at least part of the reason why she’d worked so hard to get the contract for Violet Mosala. And maybe the Anthrocosmologists had now decided to offer the same deal to me. Help us keep watch over Violet Mosala, and we’ll give you a world exclusive: the first media coverage of the planet’s most secretive cult.

Why did they feel it was their duty to guard Mosala, though? What role did TOE specialists play in the Anthrocosmologists’ scheme of things? Revered gurus? Unworldly holy fools who needed to be protected from their enemies by a secret cadre of devoted followers? Sanctifying physicists would make a change from sanctifying ignorance—but I could imagine Mosala finding it even more galling to be told that she was some kind of precious (but ultimately, naive and helpless) conduit for mystical insights, than to be told she was in need of being humbled, or healed.

Number 27 was a single-storey house of silver-gray granite-like reef-rock. It was large, but no mansion; four or five bedrooms, maybe. It made sense for the reclusive ACs to lease themselves something out in the suburbs; it was certainly more discreet than booking themselves rooms in a hotel swarming with journalists. Warm yellow light