Blasphemy

Pick a number at random on the real number line: with probability one you have picked a number that has no name, has no definition, and cannot be computed or written down, even if the whole universe were put to the task. This problem extends to allegedly definable numbers such as pi or the square root of two. With a computer the size of the universe running an infinite amount of time, you could not calculate either number exactly. Tell me, Edelstein: How then can such numbers be said to exist? How can the circle or the square, from which these two numbers derive, exist? How can dimensional space exist, then, if it cannot be measured? You, Edelstein, are like a monkey who, with heroic mental effort, has figured out how to count to three. You find four pebbles and think you have discovered infinity.

Ford had lost the thread of the argument, but he was startled to see Edelstein’s face pale, shocked into silence, as if the mathematician had understood something that staggered him.

“Is that so?” cried Hazelius, stepping down from the Bridge and brushing Edelstein aside. He placed himself squarely in front of the screen. “You talk a fine streak, you boast that even the word ‘God’ is inadequate to describe your greatness. All right, then—prove it. Prove you’re God.”

“Don’t,” said Kate. “Don’t ask that.”

“Why the hell not?”

“You just might get what you ask for.”

“Fat chance.” He turned back to the machine. “Did you hear me?Prove you’re God.”

There was a silence, and then the answer appeared on the screen: You construct the proof, Hazelius. But I warn you, this is the last test to which I will submit. We have important business and very little time.

“You asked for it.”

“Wait,” said Kate.

Hazelius turned to her.

“Gregory, if you have to do this, do it right. Make it count . There can’t be any room for doubt or ambiguity. Ask it something that only you know— only you, and no one else in the entire world. Something personal. Your deepest, most private secret. Something only God— the real God— could possibly know.”

“Yes, Kate. That’s quite right.” He thought for a long minute, and then spoke quietly. “All right. I’ve got it.”

Silence.

Everyone had stopped their tasks.

Hazelius turned toward the Visualizer. He spoke calmly and quietly. “My wife, Astrid, was pregnant when she died. We had just found out. Nobody else knew of her pregnancy. Nobody . Here is your test: tell me the name we chose for our child.”

Another silence, filled only by the ethereal singing of the detectors. The screen remained blank. The seconds crawled by.

Hazelius snorted. “Well, that settles it. If anyone had any doubts.”

And then, as if from a great distance, a name swam into focus on the screen.

Albert Leibniz Gund Hazelius, if it was a boy.

Hazelius remained still, his face expressionless. Everyone stared at him, awaiting a denial that did not come.

“And if it was a girl?” Edelstein cried, stepping toward the screen. “What if it was a girl? What would the name have been?”

Rosalind Curie Gund Hazelius.

Ford stared in utter astonishment as Hazelius folded to the floor, as slowly and gently as if he had fallen asleep.

44

BY THE TIME STANTON LOCKWOOD REACHED the Oval Office for the emergency meeting, the president was pacing the center of the room like a caged lion. Roger Morton, his chief of staff, and the ubiquitous campaign chief Gordon Galdone were standing on either side of his pacing ground, like referees. His ever-silent secretary, Jean, clutched her steno book primly. Lockwood was surprised to see the president’s National Security Advisor in video conference, split-screened on a flat panel display with Jack Strand, the Director of the FBI.

“Stanton.” The president came over and grasped his hand. “Glad you could get here at such short notice.”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

“Have a seat.”

Lockwood sat while the president continued to stand. “Stan, I called this little meeting because we’ve got some shit going on down there in Arizona with the Isabella project that Jack’s just brought to my attention. Around eight o’clock Mountain Daylight Time all communications to and from Isabella were cut off. From all of Red Mesa, even. The DOE Offsite Project Manager tried to raise them on the secure lines, by open cell lines, even by regular land-lines. No luck. Isabella is running at full power and it seems the team is below, in the Bunker, totally cut off. The situation was vetted up the ladder and just came to the attention of Director Strand—who informed me.”

Lockwood nodded. This was very strange. There were backup systems to the backup systems. It shouldn’t happen. Couldn’t happen.

“Look, it’s probably some glitch,” said the president, “power failure maybe. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it—not at this sensitive time.”

“Sensitive time,” Lockwood knew, was the president’s euphemism for the upcoming election.

The president paced. “And that’s not the only problem.” He turned to his secretary. “Jean? Roll it.”

A screen dropped from the ceiling. Static hissed; then the image of Reverend Don T. Spates filled the screen at his cherrywood roundtable, speaking to an eminence grise. His voice rolled from the sound system like thunder. The segment had been edited down to eight minutes of the high points of the show—sound bullets. When the tape ended, the president stopped pacing and faced Lockwood. “That’s the second problem.”

Lockwood took a deep breath. “Mr. President, I wouldn’t be too concerned. This is crazy stuff. Only the fringe is going to buy this.”

The president turned to his chief of staff. “Roger? Tell him.”

Morton’s spatulate fingers coolly adjusted his tie, his gray eyes on Lockwood. “Before Roundtable America had even ended, the White House had received almost one hundred thousand e-mails. We hit two hundred thousand a half hour ago. I don’t have the latest tally, because the servers crashed.”

Lockwood felt a thrill of horror.

“In all my years in politics,” said the president, “I’ve never seen anything like it. And wouldn’t you know it, right at this very moment the goddamn Isabella project goes silent!”

Lockwood glanced at Galdone, but as usual the lugubrious campaign chief was reserving counsel.

“Could you send someone out there,” Lockwood asked, “to check it out?”

The FBI Director spoke. “We’re considering it. Perhaps a small team . . . in case there’s a . . . situation out there.”

“A situation?”

“It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that we may be dealing with terrorists or some kind of internal mutiny. A very remote possibility. But we do have to consider it.”

Lockwood felt a spiraling sense of unreality.

“So, Stanton,” said the president, clasping his hands behind his back. “You’re in charge of Isabella. What the hell’s going on?”

Lockwood cleared his throat. “All I can say is, this is extremely unusual. It’s way outside the protocols. I can’t begin to understand it, unless . . .”

“Unless what?” the president asked.

“The scientists deliberately shut down the communications system.”