Posts
Dr. Darrell Edwards III was sitting at his desk, grading papers, when his monitor blinked, notifying him of an incoming Flash. He put down his stylus and pushed the tablet aside. Opening the Flash screen, he saw he had two messages waiting. Both of his Grad Students had sent in their reports, earlier than he'd expected. He hoped that the messages would confirm he'd made some simple error in the math. If not, he'd be back to square one. He touched the screen with one hand to clear the alert, and with his other he called up his flash center, setting it so that the two flashes would display side by side.
It took less than a second to complete the command, but in that brief moment he thought of his experiment. Ever since he had begun to seriously consider a career as a physicist, he had been consumed with the idea of discovering the graviton particle. It nettled him that in the nearly two centuries that particle physics had existed, the graviton had eluded scientists. They knew what properties it must exhibit; its charge, mass, spin, and the like. But no particle exactly matching those properties had ever been found. The elusive neutrino had been found over 150 years ago. Even the theoretical Higgs Boson had finally been observed nearly 50 years after it was first proposed. But the graviton, the mechanism behind one of the universe’s fundamental forces, still could not be detected.
Then, last year, a collective of American universities, including Darrell’s own University of Chicago, had completed construction of the Super Particle Accelerator. It had gotten its name from an over-optimistic cadre who had hoped to use it to prove certain proposals set forth by M Theory. Whether or not it could fulfill that role, it was the most advanced atom smasher on Earth. The “on Earth” distinction was important, as the Ares Particle Accelerator currently under construction by the EU outside their Arsia Mons colony would make the Super Particle Accelerator look like a child’s toy. Still, it was more advanced than CERN’s Grand-perè atom smasher.
Darrell’s latest experiment had been, like almost all of his experiments, an attempt to observe the graviton. It had failed in that respect, to Darrell’s chagrin. In fact, the results of his experiment were so strange that he felt he must have made some fatal mistake. He had assumed at first that he'd entered his data incorrectly, but his own longhand equations produced a similar result. He ran the experiment again, in the process stepping on the toes of other scientists waiting to use the particle accelerator. The results were the same, and once again his math proved out. Assuming the fault must lie in the math, he had sent his data to two of his most promising grad students, to have them work out the equations blindly. He might have presented his findings to the scientific community at large so they could check his results, but he hadn't dared. He was sure that his error was something that would be immediately obvious to any other competent physicist, and he feared becoming a laughing-stock. Such an apprehension was ridiculous, but his was a pride that bordered on hubris, and he dared not appear vulnerable to his colleagues.
Darrell scanned the first flash. The student who had written it was known for his flippant attitude, and the text reflected that. Darrell skimmed the first several paragraphs. The gist seemed to be that the student felt Darrell was wasting his time giving him such pointless assignments, especially when the results were nonsense. The second flash was much the same, save for the lack of snide comments. It was written so formally that it read like the student had planned on publishing it. In particular, one section caught and held his attention.
“It must be assumed that an error was made, either in the transcription of the data to the student, or in the student’s fundamental assumptions regarding the mathematical approach necessary. Nonetheless, the equations provided -as well as several checks and proofs of checks- gave a similar, though impossible answer. In all cases, the output of energy was said to be infinite.”
“Infinite.” Darrell muttered the word under his breath. It had never struck him as a word he would come to loathe, but the answer had come up so many times that it seemed to be mocking him. He read and reread both flashes before powering down his terminal and heaving a deep sigh. To have not only himself but two of his brightest students come to the same bizarre conclusion meant one of two things. Either he had made some small but significant error when setting up the experiment, or there was something in science’s current assumptions about the nature of the Universe that was totally wrong. He could only imagine that the former must be true. Darrell would not allow himself to entertain even for a moment the idea that he had discovered a source of infinite energy. The idea was simply ludicrous.
It was two weeks later that Darrell Edwards first met Jean du Lac. It was a warm summer day, and Darrell was enjoying a late lunch at an outdoor café in the Hyde Park Shopping Center. He was just turning to the Metro section of his Newsreader when a shadow fell across him. He looked up to see a tall, curiously dressed man. His skin was so light as to almost be translucent, though Darrell could see little more than his face. Long ash colored hair poked out under a dark wide-brimmed hat. Despite the weather, the man was wearing a long canvas coat, which was unbuttoned. Under it was a high-collared shirt and vest, with a cravat tied around his neck. His hands were gloved and wrapped around a cane with a silver handle. It was a look that was gaining some popularity among young people in certain circles.
Darrell always thought it looked ridiculous, but he had gotten enough comments about his anachronistic style of dress that he knew he probably looked just as weird to the man looking down at him. That day, as most days, he wore a sweater-vest under a tweed jacket, his collared shirt adorned with a bow tie. His khaki pants were cinched with a faux leather belt, and he was fond of telling colleagues that he far preferred the feel to that of pants that automatically tightened themselves around the wearer’s waist. He wore his hair short, and his dark skin was completely free of tattoos or piercings. If his eyesight had been poor, he might even have gone so far as to wear glasses.
“May I sit?” the man asked. The voice was stronger than his lank, pale form would suggest; a baritone that sounded like it should come from someone 50 kilos heavier.
Darrell turned his eyes back to his Reader and said “There are plenty of empty tables in this café.”
“I would like to speak with you,” the man said.
“I would like to be left alone,” Darrell said.
“Please.” the man lowered himself into the seat opposite Darrell. “I will not be long, Dr. Edwards.”
Darrell looked up sharply, alarmed that the stranger knew his name. Now that he was closer, he could make out the man’s features. He had a long narrow nose, thin pale lips, and eyes of some indeterminate light color. Green, or perhaps grey. He was long boned, and the coat helped to hide the fact that he was almost painfully thin. He seemed spectral, or like a recently deceased corpse.
“Who are you?” Darrell asked, more sharply than he had meant to.
“Jean du Lac,” the man said, extending his hand. When Darrell didn’t take it, he clamped it back onto the cane. “I heard about an experiment you performed recently, one with some interesting results.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Darrell turned his eyes back to the Reader. He had finally confided with some of his colleagues about his failed experiment, but he certainly hadn’t spoken about it to anyone like this. He was well acquainted with most of the University’s Physics students, and he was fairly certain he’d never seen this Jean du Lac around.
“Please, Dr. Edwards,” Jean said. “I’m not here to mock you. In fact, I think you discovered more than you realize.” He waited, but Darrell did not speak. He leaned closer, and almost in a whisper, he said “I believe you’ve discovered magic.”
Darrell almost laughed in Jean’s face. He had not known what to expect from this young man, but he certainly hadn’t thought he’d hear the ravings of a lunatic. Magic? It was so ridiculous he thought for a moment that he was in fact being mocked.
“I realize it sounds insane.” Jean said, his voice taking on a fevered tone. “We’re two years away from the 22nd Century, and here's a total stranger talking to you about magic. The word sounds silly, even to me. But does exist, and it always has. Belief in it has been destroyed by the miracles of science. But it’s real. I can prove it, if you let me.”
Now Darrell did look up, and was a little frightened by the look on Jean’s face. He didn’t look like a madman, bug-eyed and nervously licking his lips. Instead, he was looking at Darrel with pleading earnest in his eyes. It startled Darrell even more than blatant insanity would have.
“Prove it?” Darrell asked, his own voice barely a croak. He rallied almost at once, and in a more firm tone he said “Leave. I don’t have time for nonsense.”
Jean sighed. “My friend told me this wouldn’t be easy. But I think I must convince you.”
“What friend? Who told you about my experiment?”
“One of your students, someone I’ve known for a long time. I think you know who. Please, speak with him, and then contact me.” He extracted a piece of paper from an inner pocket of his coat and placed it on the table. “I think it’s time the world knew the truth, and I think you’re the man to do it.”
Darrell was on the verge of telling Jean to leave again, but it wasn’t necessary. With his last word, the young man stood up and walked away. Darrell noticed that he walked with a slight limp. The cane then was not a silly affectation. With the curiosity that led to him becoming a scientist, he wondered what had happened to the young man. Any doctor should have been able to treat that limp. Then the detached indifference of a born city boy descended upon him. What did it matter to him how that flake had injured himself? He’d probably twisted his ankle attempting to summon evil forces in a copse of trees under a full moon, or some tripe like that.
Standing up, the remains of his lunch forgotten, Darrell glanced down at the folded piece of paper on the table. For reasons he couldn’t have explained even to himself, he picked it up and looked at it. It had the man’s name, a Flashpoint address, and the address of a hotel in Hyde Park. Shoving it in his pocket, he strode out of the Shopping Center. He did have a very strong suspicion where Jean had gotten his information from, and Darrell was going to have some very stern things to say to his Grad Student.
Darrell was not a man given to anger, and the worst of it had boiled off by the time he reached the apartment. Despite that, he knocked on the door harder than was necessary. He didn’t have long to wait before Hiroshi Akira answered. Akira was short, not much over five feet tall. He looked to be in his early 20s, but somehow he gave the impression of being much older. Darrell could tell he had been training. Akira taught self-defense classes to supplement his meager earnings as a Grad Student, and his bare chest showed that he was in the prime of his health. He was breathing heavily, his pectoral muscles rising and falling rapidly, but he had not worked up a sweat.
He looked surprised to see Darrell at his door, but didn’t flinch at the stern gaze he was presented. “Dr. Edwards,” he said, stepping away from the door and gesturing for Darrell to enter. “Please, come in.”
Darrell had never seen the inside of Akira’s apartment before. The man spoke with a slight accent, but according to his records, he had been born in Chicago. Darrell had always assumed that he was first-generation American, and like many others, he had learned his parent’s language before English, and had never been able to fully shake the foreign accent.
The front room was furnished in a mix of Japanese and American styles, with several sheets of rice paper hanging from the walls with Japanese calligraphy on them next to framed photographs of famous Chicago landmarks. Darrell was wondering if the Japanese characters were hand painted when one of them suddenly changed into a different set of incomprehensible shapes.
This was nothing unusual to Darrell. Nearly everyone had pictures on their walls that altered at regular intervals. As if to confirm this, the photograph of the Cloud Gate on the opposite wall changed to that of a panoramic view of the Magnificent Mile, complete with the old Water Tower.
In one corner was a shrine of some sort, containing a watercolor of an old man with a serene smile on his face. Most of the middle of the room was taken up by a large mat. Darrell noticed a sword that lay on the ground at the far end of the mat from the door. Darrell wondered if Akira had been practicing with it before being interrupted. The sight of an ancient weapon made him feel uneasy, and he felt his anger ebb even further.
“Please, sit,” Akira said, pointing towards a table with two chairs in the corner opposite the shrine. “Would you like some tea?”
“No,” Darrell said. He had not intended to sit, and hadn’t realized he’d been moving towards the chair until he was halfway across the room. Akira had a disconcerting habit of talking to people older than him as if they were children. He had a way about him, something that made people want to obey him. Darrell planted his feet, standing on the mat with his fists balled. If he could have seen how childishly defiant he looked, he might have laughed.
“Then,” Akira said, “may I ask what you’re doing here?” He seemed to feel he had spoken rudely, and checked himself. “Meaning no disrespect, of course, Dr. Edwards.”
“I met someone today,” Darrell said, pleased that his tone was even and controlled. “A gentleman named Jean du Lac.”
For a moment, Akira looked stunned. Then he sighed, and shook his head. “The young fool. I told him not to contact you.”
Darrell found the phrasing puzzling. Young fool? Du Lac was young by Darrell’s standards, but had looked at least five years older than Akira.
“Then,” Darrell said, “I assume you know what he told me?”
Akira nodded, and then repeated his request that Darrell seat himself. Darrell remained obstinate until Akira began to move towards the table. He followed reluctantly. Having seated himself, Akira asked “How did you guess that I was the one who spoke to him?”
“Simple,” Darrell said. “Several years ago, at a faculty party, you mentioned that you had an interest in the occult. It’s unusual to meet a physicist with a hobby like that. Most, myself included, wouldn’t bother with such pseudoscientific nonsense.”
“Pseudoscience,” Akira said, “is a tricky word. Fifty years ago, ESP was considered to be paranormal. Now, we have documented cases of telepathy, telekinesis, and other such abilities. There is even a bill in Congress to create government offices to identify, research, and monitor psychic phenomenon.”
“This isn’t a case of some man with an overdeveloped frontal lobe finding out what another man ate for breakfast. This lunatic was claiming that I looked into a microscope and found magic.” Darrell spat out the last word, feeling that it left a sour taste in his mouth. Akira nodded, but did not speak. With barely a pause, Darrell said, “There’s one thing I don’t understand. How did you know anything about my experiment? I’ve only spoken to a few people about it so far, and the data I gave you were empirical. There was nothing in there to even hint that it was part of an ongoing experiment.”
“It wasn’t me,” Akira said, “nor did I mean to reveal anything to anyone else. I was speaking with du Lac, and by chance I told him that I’d been given a very puzzling project by my teacher.” He paused for a moment, considering how he would explain. “I often find it helpful to discuss a troublesome problem with someone else. Even if they can’t help, I find that it helps me organize my thoughts, and come to a conclusion. I explained to him the dataset you flashed me, and how no matter what I did with the numbers, I always ended with an answer of infinity.”
He paused again, this time to see if Darrell would say anything. He just sat there, seething inwardly, so Akira continued. “Du Lac knew exactly what I was talking about. He told me that this was not the first time he’d heard of such a result.” Darrell was about to ask something. Akira knew what he was going to say, and he cut him off. “I did not show him any of the data. I have no idea how he found out the details of your experiment, but I do realize that it was my indiscretion that led him to investigate your work.”
Darrell harrumphed. He felt that “indiscretion” was an understatement. To him, it was nothing short of a betrayal. That Akira hadn’t meant to do it only made it worse. The look on his face must have been grim, for Akira’s next words were almost a whisper.
“Are you going to take this matter before the Board?”
Darrell almost started with surprise. The idea had not even occurred to him, though it did seem logical now that Akira pointed it out. He technically hadn’t done anything wrong, but the morally ambiguous nature of Akira’s act would be enough to make any board sit on the case for as long as it could, and effectively destroy his career before it had started.
Darrell found himself slipping into the familiar forms of the teacher and the scientist. He said “I haven’t decided my next move yet. True, you had no specific instructions not to divulge the nature of the problem I assigned you, yet the fact that I did not give you the full details of the experiment should have made non-disclosure obvious. To go behind my back was unwise, and if word of this were to get out, it would be difficult if not impossible for others to trust you with sensitive data in the future.” He paused to let the words sink in before continuing. “However, if you give me your assurance that this indiscretion, as you put it, will never be repeated, I might be persuaded to ignore it, provided I see that you stick to your word.”
To Akira’s credit, he did not leap upon the chance. That would have seemed insincere to Darrell, for it would have been out of character. Instead, after seeing that Darrell was finished, Akira bowed his head and not looking at Darrell, he said, “Dr. Edwards, on my honor, I will do as you say. But, if it is to be permitted, may I ask a favor of you?”
“I don’t see how you’re in a position to ask me anything, but go ahead.”
“I trust that when Mr. du Lac spoke to you, he gave you contact information?”
“He did,” Darrell said.
“Then, this is my request. I urge you to speak with him again, to let him give proof of his claims.”
Darrell was taken aback again. In his wildest imaginings he never would have expected Akira to ask him to take the so-called magician seriously. All he could manage was a simple “Why?”
"Because I feel that this is an opportunity," Akira said. "If he could prove to you that he is not insane, or lying, you would have something few scientists have ever had: evidence of something once thought impossible. Surely, as a scientist, you must be curious."
Darrell had to admit to himself that he was. It was one thing to claim that something was impossible, but without proof, Darrell’s opinion was only that. And he would get some satisfaction from debunking the arrogant young man. He didn’t know what sort of trick du Lac would have prepared to back his claims, but Darrell knew that he would not be impressed by any feat of prestidigitation the young man could come up with, no matter how artfully presented. All in all, it was an intriguing prospect.
Seeing he had piqued Darrell’s interest, Akira said “And if he fails to convince you, you may do with me as you will. In fact, I will resign my post in the Physics Department today.”
If Darrell heard the last part, he did not show it. He said “Very well, I will see this man. And once I’ve been satisfied he’s just a snake oil salesman, we’ll talk further. Be in my office Monday morning. We will discuss your future there.”
Darrell stood up. Akira did likewise. For a moment, he looked like he might bow to his teacher. Instead, he looked Darrell in the eyes and extended his hand. Darrell shook his hand, both in farewell and to seal the deal, and left Akira’s apartment. Stepping outside, he saw that it had become dark while he had been in the apartment. Stepping out onto the street to hail a cab, he decided that the du Lac matter could wait until tomorrow.
The hotel Jean was staying at was a surprise to Darrell. From the moment he stepped out of the cab, he could tell that Jean was not just a nut; he was a nut with money. The hotel had been built during a brief resurgence in Art Deco architecture 10 years ago. The interior was all marble and dark wood, done with taste rather than ostentation. Behind a desk that seemed to stretch to both horizons sat a dozen clerks. Darrell announced himself to one, and upon calling Jean’s room to verify he was expected, she gave him a card that opened a private elevator to his room.
The room was more like a penthouse than a suite, and blended current and classic styles in a way so subtle that it seemed completely natural. The pictures on the walls were of far higher quality than the ones Darrell had seen in Akira’s apartment. The reproduction of Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, while smaller than the original, nonetheless looked like it could have been lifted right off the wall of the Art Institute were the famous painting resided. And when it changed to a photograph of the Chicago Skyline, Darrell had to remind himself he wasn’t looking out a window.
Jean waited for him at the elevator, which opened directly into the room. He stood in shirtsleeves, and seemed relieved that Darrell had shown up. His smile had none of the cocky assurance Darrell had seen on it the day before, but was broader and showed more teeth. He gave off an air of a racehorse waiting at the gate.
“Dr. Edwards,” Jean said, “I’m glad you had a change of heart.”
“A change of heart is not what brought me here,” Darrell said, taking the hand offered him. He noted that Jean’s handshake was unexpectedly firm. “I’m here to prove to myself that your claims are just that.” He swept a critical eye around the suite. “I hope you didn’t choose this room to impress me.”
Jean’s smile didn’t waver. He stepped back, leaning slightly on his cane, and said “No. Usually I don’t bother with such luxury. As you may have guessed, I have a good deal of money, or rather, my family does. I don’t usually go for such extravagance. I chose this room because it suits my purposes. We are on the top floor, and the rooms below us are empty for three floors.”
“How is that important?” Darrell asked, noticing that Jean was a lot more expansive today.
Jean considered the question for a moment, and then said “I will explain that in a moment. First, I think a little demonstration is in order. Please, have a seat.” He gestured to a row of couches in a pit at one end of the room, forming a semi-circle. At the other end was a Media Center that would have put some theaters to shame. As Darrell seated himself, Jean stood in front of the Center, a large coffee table between them. Darrell felt a bit uncomfortable, being in such a large and empty room, with a man standing before him like a stage magician about to perform tricks for a children’s party.
But then, Darrell thought, that’s what he is, isn’t he?
“Dr. Edwards,” Jean said, “I ask you to keep an open mind.”
“I can do that,” Darrell said. “I’m a scientist.”
The look on Jean’s face made it plain he was struggling to think of a good way to respond to that. Finally, he said “Alright. Then think of this as an experiment. You’ve formulated a hypothesis, prepared an experiment to test the hypothesis, and you are prepared to make your measurements.”
“An interesting way to put what you’re about to do.”
Jean, who had started to lift his arms, paused. He looked a little silly, standing there with his arms half raised to his chest, staring at Darrell, as though he had been frozen in place while doing breathing exercises. “Dr. Edwards, we don’t have to be so antagonistic. I can tell you we’re not as different as you think.” He paused while Darrell made a scoffing sound, and then continued. “Would it surprise you to know that I hold a Bachelor’s Degree in Biology?”
Darrell was surprised. While it was true that Jean had the pallor and gangly frame of the stereotypical “lab rat,” nothing else about him seemed to fit the bill of a serious scientist.
“I would have continued my education,” Jean said, “but I discovered something else. That something is what I’m trying to show you now. I don’t expect belief from you right now, but I’d ask you to not dismiss me out of hand. I promise if I cannot convince you today that I’m not insane, I’ll never bother you again.”
Darrell couldn’t be sure if it was just his imagination, but he thought he had heard a subtle emphasis on the word “belief.” Was this man a religious fanatic as well?
“I promise you,” said Darrell, choosing his words with care, “that I will attempt to put my prejudices aside for the moment. I want my conclusions to be genuine, not biased.” Jean nodded, and then raised his arms again. To Darrell’s shock, the young man began unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt. He rose from his seat, prepared to bolt from the room, convinced that Jean was some sort of pervert.
“Stop!” Jean held a placating hand out. The word had a strange air of command about it, and Darrell paused halfway up. “I’m sorry,” Jean said. “I should have told you what I was going to do.” He smirked in a self-deprecating manner, and said “I just wanted to show you that I have nothing up my sleeves, so to speak.”
Darrell resumed his seat, almost as annoyed at himself as he was at the young man. “Was that a joke?”
“A feeble one, I suppose,” Jean said. “But also the honest truth. I want to show you that I have no devices on me capable of performing what I’m going to try to do.”
Darrell looked around the room again and reflected that the man might not need to be wearing anything to do some fantastic trick. Most of the flat surfaces in the room, including the coffee table, floated in the air without legs, proof that the walls contained superconductors. Of course, that was not unexpected. Even Darrell’s apartment, which could have fit in one corner of one room of this suite, had superconductors in the walls that let him hang lights without attaching them to anything. He even could have gotten legless furniture, if he could have afforded it.
Jean saw Darrell looking at the coffee table between them. “I’m not going to do levitation or anything that this room can easily do by itself. In fact, I had to think long and hard to come up with a simple performance that would be difficult to explain away. Are you ready?”
“Am I ready?” asked Darrell.
“Yes. I am not doing this by myself. If this is to work, I need you to push aside your Disbelief.”
Darrell could almost hear the capitalization in the last word. “I’ll try,” he said.
“Very well. Watch.”
Jean flicked one hand, and the lights dimmed to near darkness. It caught Darrell momentarily off-guard. But before he had a chance to recover, to wonder if this was all the man was going to do, Jean began moving both his hands. He seemed to be sketching a pattern in thin air. Then, with one finger of his right hand extended, he drew a circle three times. The first time, there was no apparent effect. The second time, he saw a faint glowing outline following the path of Jean’s finger. It didn’t fade, instead it became brighter. After Jean completed the third circuit with his finger, there was a brilliant flash, and the circle of light darkened and solidified. It began to fall, but Jean caught it, and in the same motion tossed it to Darrell.
Darrell caught the ring. It felt like nothing he had ever touched before. It was like air somehow become solid. He stared at it, thinking that he couldn’t possibly be holding anything. As if it heard his thought and agreed with him, the ring disappeared. It didn’t fade, or become lighter in his hand. It was just gone, as if it had never been there.
The lights came back up, but Darrell hardly noticed. He continued to stare at his hand, still positioned as if gripping something. He sat in that pose for several moments, and then realized his jaw was hanging open. A moment later, he realized he’d been holding his breath. He attempted to both close his mouth and exhale at the same moment. The result was his breath came out in a hiss, like a deflating tire.
Darrell looked back up, and felt the blood return to his face. Jean was still standing in front of the Center, buttoning his shirt back up, and now his smile was so broad he might have been selling toothpaste. But this time, there was genuine warmth in the smile. Darrell had expected to see triumph or vindication on the man’s face. Instead, he looked like someone who was regarding an old friend.
Darrell opened his mouth, and closed it. He did that several more times, a hundred questions all vying to be let out at once. When he did speak, the question he asked at once seemed very foolish.
“Why did it go away?” he asked, like a very young child watching a helium balloon drift into the air.
Jean strode to a chair, on which was draped a jacket and a tie. As he put them on, he said “Because you Disbelieved it.”
“Dis-disbelieved?” Darrell asked. “But it was there. I saw it in my hand. I felt it. It was…real.” The last word almost had to be forced out. Everything in him told him that it couldn’t have been possible, that there was no way a ring could be drawn from nowhere, and then disappeared so completely. It defied the Law of Conservation of Mass-Energy. More than that, it defied simple logic. But he had felt it. He had touched it. He knew it had been there.
“Of course, I can’t read your mind,” Jean said, sitting down on another couch in the pit. “But it was plain on your face. You knew it was there, but the rational part of your mind, the one that has been trained carefully by a lifetime of indoctrination, told you it couldn’t be real. For one instant, you didn’t believe in it, and that was all it took. It was a very minor invocation, and the force needed to break it was slight.”
“I don’t understand,” Darrell said.
Jean answered with an apparent non-sequitur. “Why do you suppose there is no magic in the world?”
“What?” Darrell was confused. “I thought you’ve been trying to convince me that there is.”
“I didn’t say that magic isn’t real. I said that there is no magic in the world. There’s a difference. It’s not entirely true, anyway. Even in this age of technology, there are still pockets, tiny parts of the world, where magic is still worked on a daily basis. But I’m getting ahead of myself.” Jean paused, gathering his thoughts.
“Why,” he said, “if magic is real, is there no proof of it in the real world? Because of Disbelief. Belief is a very powerful force, and like everything else in Nature, it has an opposite. Disbelief is every bit as powerful as Belief. For centuries Western Society has firmly Disbelieved in magic. Where this began, I can’t say. I have my own theories, but that’s not important now.
“Disbelief in magic causes it to be disrupted. Take that little bit of conjuration I just showed you. If I tried that in front of two people, and one of them didn’t believe I could do it, it wouldn’t have worked. His Disbelief would infect the other, cause him to doubt. Even with just you, isolated as we are, I had to break down your Disbelief to work the magic that made that ring. That was why I dimmed the lights.”
Darrell, who had been staring at his hand again, looked up sharply. Jean looked like he was trying not to laugh. “There was nothing magical in that. I had programmed the lights to dim when I made a certain gesture.” He flicked his hand, and the lights dimmed. He flicked his hand again, and they came back up. “I did that to distract you. I knew you would realize in a moment that I could have done that without magic, but as long as I was able to hold your attention, to keep your thoughts from returning to your Disbelief, I would be able to work my spell. I tossed it to you so that you would know it was no illusion.”
“So what now?” Darrell asked. He had an image of being whisked away to some strange and fantastic secret world of magic. That was what always happened in children’s books; the initiate was introduced to the reality of magic, then was shown the hidden world of magicians, part of the so-called real world but hidden from it. He knew it was a silly notion the moment it occurred to him, but at that moment he was willing to believe anything.
“That,” Jean said, “is up to you. Like St. Paul, the scales have fallen from your eyes. Now you have to decide what you’re going to do.”
Darrell thought about it. He couldn’t go back, he knew that. He had become a scientist to try and understand the true nature of the Universe. It seemed to him that he was now on the verge of understanding it in a way he never would have dreamed possible. To go back to his experiments, pushing sub-atomic particles around to see what happened, was unthinkable. He had always been driven by a need to know, to solve any and every mystery put before him, and he knew that he couldn’t just let go of this. He had to see how far he could take it.
In later years, Darrell would come to see the moment in which he had held the ring as the instant his life had changed forever. Sometimes he would regret it, other times he would rejoice in it. But for the rest of his life, he would always marvel at the fact that his life had changed because for one second he had held a ring made of air in his hand.
“I want to learn more,” he said. “I want to learn how to do this for myself.” Jean smiled, and Darrell knew he had passed the point of no return.
Over the course of the next three years, Darrell often looked back on the moment he had blithely asked “So what now?” He remembered wondering about the magical world, and now he wondered if he’d been naïve to think such a thing could exist.
He had been surprised, and in a way was still surprised, by the lack of sophistication in the art of magic. As far as he could tell, no one had given magic serious study in over 300 years. Almost all of the books concerning the subject Darrell was able to locate had been written prior to the 18th Century. The few books he found from after that period were concerned mostly with the growing threat of Disbelief, which had started a few hundred years earlier, but had been only a minor irritant until The Enlightenment.
There was no consensus on what Disbelief was, but all sources agreed that it was a sort of anti-magic; a mental barrier that nullified most magical effects around the subject. The key was that the Disbelief had to be absolute. There couldn’t be a shadow of a doubt in the person’s mind. For most of human history, such iron-clad determination in the non-existence of magic was found only in those who believed that they possessed talismans to ward off magic, those raised from birth to believe that magic did not exist, and people with the willpower and mental discipline to convince themselves that magic couldn’t be real. While the first type was somewhat common, until The Enlightenment, people of the other two categories were very rare. Then the Age of Reason began, and philosophes in their salons debated with each other, and concluded that magic defied the principles of Natural Philosophy, and therefore must be the figment of lesser minds. The idea became more and more widespread, and by the Industrial Revolution, the civilized world had built up walls of Disbelief so strong that the practice of magic nearly died out.
If magicians were angered by their disenfranchisement, they hid it well. None of the ones Darrell had met treated it like a serious discipline. Jean had been excited at first to have a student, but after Darrell had mastered the basics, Jean became more and more apathetic. He saw magic as a diversion, as did most of the magicians Darrell encountered.
They didn’t look or act like Darrell imagined magicians would be. They didn’t stride purposefully like larger-than-life figures, arrogant and confident in their skills and abilities to get them through any situation. Some of them were rich eccentrics like Jean, the rest were the kind of person you’d try to ignore if you saw them on the bus. They weren’t a society. Darrell could hardly even call them a club. They were like hobbyists, stamp collectors who only met occasionally at trade shows or conventions to show off some new trinket.
Darrell heard rumors from time to time about other magicians, ones who took the study and practice of magic much more seriously. Secret cabals that met in remote mountain citadels in Europe, or hidden tribes in South America and Africa, still practicing the old ways before the Europeans or Muslims came upon them. There were also tales of Medicine Men still performing ancient rituals in Amerindian reservations, never revealing their secrets to the White Man, not even fellow practitioners. These people, especially the European magicians, scoffed people like Jean and Darrell, referring to them as dabblers or hedge wizards, unworthy of being called true mages. Jean preferred to ignore such scorn, but to Darrell it rankled.
Most of the books Darrell read about magic had come from Jean’s personal collection. Most of them were histories, detailing the grand past of magic before the Church and Science managed to nearly destroy it. Back in those times, there had been discipline in magic. Apprentices spent years learning how to treat magic with respect, learning what areas they excelled at, before being allowed to try their first invocation. Darrell had conjured a small flame in his hands after only two months of practice. It had felt like an achievement at the time, but now it felt more like a cheat.
He thought back to his own education as a physicist. Science wasn’t just a job, or even a career. It was a discipline, earned through sweat and hard study. Darrell felt that was missing from the practice of magic. Every magician he met was content to view magic as a mysterious, unknowable force. But Darrell refused to believe that magic defied natural law, like it had snuck in the back door while the rest of the Universe wasn’t looking. Magic was a force, and every force in nature had rules, which could be discovered, quantified, and applied. Magic didn’t have to be understood to be used, but then, that was true of technology as well. Most people had no idea how their computers worked. In fact, it was said that computers were so complicated that no one person knew everything about how they operated. But you didn’t have to know how a flash got from the person who sent it across the Cloud to your personal terminal. You just got it. And magic was the same way.
But at the same time, Darrell felt that someone should apply rigorous study to magic, and he felt he was the person to do it. He had been onto something when he’d performed that experiment with the atom smasher. He hadn’t discovered the graviton, but he had discovered something far more important.
Though Jean didn’t go on about Darrell revealing the truth of magic to world like he had before, the friendship had done both men some good. Jean had stopped dressing in what Darrell considered to be a cross between Victorian gentry and Kansas scarecrow. He had also put on some weight and gotten some color in his skin, though he was still pale and thin, especially when standing next to Darrell. He looked healthier and younger than when they’d met three years ago. For Darrell’s part, he had relaxed his own style, adding elements of modern dress to his wardrobe. He was also far less uptight than before.
He still taught classes at the University of Chicago, though the board had chastised him several times for his sudden lack of enthusiasm. He also hadn’t written a paper or attended a conference in three years, which in the scientific community was akin to career suicide. The unofficial motto of scientists was “Publish or die.” It wasn’t that physics no longer interested him, but he had been more interested in learning all he could about magic. Even the pathetic dearth of information didn’t deter him. That very lack gave him a mission, one he realized he should have been working on for three years now. He decided that he had to start making up for lost time.
“Do you realize there’s not been an intensive study of the principles of magic in almost one thousand years?” Darrell asked Jean one morning. They were sitting in the kitchen of a cabin Jean’s family owned in northern Wisconsin. The property was near a lake surrounded by summer homes. It was the off-season, which was when Jean and Darrell liked to come up there. Not only was it secluded, allowing them privacy to practice magic, but the almost complete lack of other people meant that they didn’t have to worry about Disbelief clouding their spells. Jean had been reading the newspaper, but he put it down when Darrell started speaking.
“It’s unbelievable,” Darrell said. “Magic’s been around since before we crawled out of the sea. The foundations were laid down sometime in the Middle Ages, which from what I can see consists of ‘We don’t know how it works, but it does.’ From then until the 18th Century, the only real study has been in perfecting already existing techniques. After that, all research comes to a halt. We know more about the composition of distant stars than we do this force that’s around us constantly.”
“You’ve read the books,” Jean said, referring to the texts he had shown Darrell. “Science rejected magic because they couldn’t understand it. It defied explanation, so they ignored it.”
“Yes, yes,” said Darrell, “and that’s when Disbelief began spreading. But we have methods and equipment at our disposal now that the natural philosophers could never have dreamed of. Look at the experiment I performed three years ago, when I accidentally found the energy that we draw upon to perform magic. Magic can’t be unknowable, or infinite. It’s part of nature. And everything in nature has a logical, quantifiable framework.”
Darrell paused to see what Jean would say. Instead of speaking, the pale man reached an arm out lazily, one finger pointed at a discarded fork on the kitchen table. It quivered, and then floated up into the air, rotating slightly. Bits of syrup dripped off it onto the table. Darrell had discovered early on that muttering mantras and incantations had nothing to do with performing magic. They were just a way of focusing the will of the magician. Simple tricks like levitating a fork became easy with practice, negating the need to chant supposed words of power.
“I don’t need to know the ‘logical framework’ of magic to do it. You’ve said so yourself on several occasions.”
“No, not for parlor tricks like that,” Darrell said. “But look at what wizards were supposed to have done back in the past. Those shamans living in the reservations today are supposed to be able to cure illnesses, alter the weather, all sorts of things that are beyond a couple hedge wizards like you and me.”
Jean scowled, losing his concentration and causing the fork to drop with a tinny clang. “You know I hate that term.”
“Well, that’s what we are, unless we apply ourselves to understanding the workings of magic.”
Jean shrugged and returned to his paper. Darrell hated that about the man. He had seemed so passionate about magic when they’d first met. Darrell couldn’t believe that he could be content to perform useless tricks and pretend he was part of something bigger. Jean lacked drive. Darrell had realized long before that Jean was a typical bored rich kid, with too much free time on his hands. But instead of hosting lavish parties, or collecting expensive cars, he had trolled the Internet, made some contacts, and learned the fundamentals of magic. When the few simple tricks he had taught himself or figured out on his own stopped being amusing, he looked for someone else to teach. Having a student revitalized his interest for a while, even gotten himself excited over the idea of revealing the existence of magic to the world, but after that he became bored with it again. Darrell had the feeling that Jean only brought him up here because he found the physicist’s continued interest briefly contagious.
Jean had probably been the same way about Biology. Darrell had discovered that Jean’s limp was caused by a birth defect that no amount of therapy had ever been able to alleviate. Darrell suspected it was this that had first interested Jean in Biology. He had told Darrell that his parents, who were dedicated environmentalists, had been thrilled by this interest. But when he had realized that serious study in the field would be hard work, the interest had left him. He wouldn’t have gone into a Master’s program even if he hadn’t been diverted by the discovery of magic.
Darrell spent the rest of the day trying to get Jean interested in seriously studying magic. But the man had no desire whatsoever, and deep down Darrell knew that even if he did convince Jean to help him, such help would be spotty at best. He was depressed the rest of the week they spent up in the cabin. Then, as he was packing to return to the University, it dawned on him that there was something Jean could do to help, if Darrell was able to convince him. And, he realized, there was one other person he could talk to who might be more interested in Darrell’s venture.
Upon his return to the city, Darrell experienced the now familiar closed-in feeling he always felt when surrounded by people. His magical training had increased his sensitivity to the world around him, and in particular he had become sensitized to Disbelief. He could almost see it; a thick fog exuded by every person he encountered. It emanated off them, as though it was exuded by their pores. He had always been uncomfortable around crowds, a real liability for someone living in an area as densely populated as Chicago, but now he felt like he was choking when surrounded by people.
When he had first started meeting other magicians, he’d noticed that they all walked among people in a hunched, hurried manner, like someone trying to get out of the rain. He knew that now he did the same. The only one who seemed impervious to the claustrophobic sensations of Disbelief was Jean, who strode everywhere in an almost regal manner, despite his limp and cane.
Darrell got out of the cab at the University and retreated to his office. Querying his former student’s terminal, he was told that Hiroshi Akira was teaching a self-defense class on the grounds, but would be finishing shortly. Impatient, Darrell rushed over to the Athletics Center, eager to tell his former student about the project he had in mind.
The class had ended minutes before Darrell’s arrival, and he entered to find Akira in loose pants and slippers similar to the ones he had been wearing three years ago in his apartment. He was practicing some sort of martial art form. He had heard from other students who had taken his classes that even though he was Japanese, his technique was a form of Chinese wushu, and was a blending of old and new styles. Darrell watched Akira for a minute or so, absorbed by the strange movements. He, like many Westerners, though of martial arts like they saw in kung fu movies, full of fast explosive motion and people yelling at the top of their lungs. Instead, Akira moved slowly, like he was underwater, moving every part of his body at once in precise, measured steps. The form was beautiful and serene, and Darrell felt himself calm just watching Akira.
As he watched, he began to notice things about Akira he’d never seen before. Though they had kept in touch via correspondence, this was Darrell’s first encounter with the man since he’d gone on to his post-graduate studies two years earlier. He had learned much since then, and had found that he could get a sort of sense about a person by studying them. He thought the ability was somewhat akin to what spiritualists called an aura. It didn’t convey anything as specific as a person’s mood, at least, not that Darrell had ever been able to determine, but he was often able to glean general (and often vague) information about a person by studying them. He figured it was probably less than someone trained in psychology or reading body language could determine with greater ease, but it was something.
What he noticed was a small surprise: Akira showed no trace of Disbelief. Of course, Darrell hadn’t expected to see the great walls of Disbelief most people erected, but he had expected at least a trace of it. The only people he’d ever met with no Disbelief were fellow magicians. He supposed that even the most die-hard believers probably harbored a small amount of skepticism, especially if they hadn’t actually seen irrefutable displays of magic. Either Akira had experienced magic often enough to be completely convinced, or he was a magician and for some reason hid it from other practitioners.
However, he barely had time to think about it before Akira finished his form. His back still to Darrell, he stood straight, and bowed, as if to an invisible master. He murmured something Darrell didn’t hear, and then reached to the end of the mat for a towel. As he dried himself, he turned and saw Darrell standing there.
“Dr. Edwards,” he said, pausing in the act of wiping sweat off his face. “This is an unexpected honor. Is something wrong?”
Darrell realized he had been staring. “No, nothing’s wrong,” he said. “I had something I wanted to discuss with you. It can wait, though, if you’re busy.”
“No,” Akira said. “I am finished for the day. I can meet you in your office in ten minutes, if you like.”
“That’ll be fine,” Darrell said. “I’ll be there.”
Akira arrived in Darrell’s office almost exactly ten minutes later. He was fully dressed now, and smiling. He extended his hand to Darrell, who took it gladly.
“Kaypa?” Darrell said. Akira could tell that his former teacher was excited; he tended to slip into street slang in such instances.
“It is good to see you again, Dr. Edwards,” Akira said. “I trust you are well?”
Darrell returned Akira’s grin. “Yeah, and it’s good to see you too. Would you please close the door?”
After doing so, Akira asked “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
Darrell gathered his thoughts for a moment, and then spoke. “I have a project in mind, and I think you’d be the perfect person to help me with it.” He explained to Akira his idea of establishing a scientific basis for magic. He stumbled a bit in the explanation. Even after three years of being a practicing magician, he still felt a little silly talking about it out loud, as though he were a child playing a game. Part of it was that he didn’t have much opportunity to discuss magic frankly with others, but there was also a part of him that still found the idea that magic was real, let alone that he could manipulate it, a bit hard to digest.
Akira remained silent for a while after Darrell had finished his proposal. Darrell said “Of course, I know you’re still working on your post-graduate studies. I don’t want to interfere with that. But I think it’ll be years before I’ve even got the fundamentals down. There’ll be plenty of time after you’ve completed your Doctorate to come in with me. This’ll be a massive undertaking, and I need your help.”
“A project like this will require funding,” Akira said. “I doubt the University would be willing to provide you with the grants, not if you tell them what you are actually attempting.”
“That won’t be a problem,” Darrell said. “I’ve spoken to Jean about this. As you know, his parents head the Du Lac Group. He’s assured me he can convince them to give us all the funding we’d need. He said he’d present it to them as research proposal for a new alternate fuel source.”
Akira snorted at that.
“It’s not as dishonest as it may sound,” Darrell said. “If my underlying assumptions about the nature of magic are correct, it’s entirely possible that we may be able to find a way to harness it as a power source.”
“I suppose it’s no more ridiculous a notion than Benjamin Franklin’s experiment with the kite in a thunderstorm,” Akira said, “though there has been significant debate as to whether or not he ever actually did it.” Darrell nodded, waiting for Akira’s answer to the proposal.
Akira stood, holding out his hand. Darrell rose from his own seat, taking Akira’s hand. “Dr. Edwards,” Akira said, “I would be honored to assist you in your experiments.”
Darrell spent the better part of a year almost living in the Super Particle Accelerator facility before he had finally confirmed the existence of the energy he had accidentally discovered in his experiments to find the graviton. As he had suspected, it was unlike anything set forth in the Standard Model. Nor was it what his experiment had first suggested: a source of infinite energy.
“This isn’t the first time something like this has happened,” he said to Akira as he showed him the results. “I don’t remember the details, but another experiment was performed in the last century that came up with similar results: infinite energy.”
Akira asked “Someone else was on the track of this before us?”
“No,” Darrel said, “they were working on something completely different. But it put them on the track to the theory of ten-dimensional space.”
“What is this then,” Akira asked. “Evidence for more than ten dimensions?”
“Not at all. This is the Fifth Force.”
The experimental data had confirmed his hypothesis, that magic was not only a natural process, but one that existed outside of the realm of particle interactions as physics currently understood it. It represented a new force, as independent of the well-established Fundamental Interactions as gravity was of electromagnetism. He was able to gather enough data from his atom smashing tests to define the characteristics of magic’s mediator particle. He named the particle the thaumaton, after the Greek word for “miracle.”
At the same time he had made a second discovery. Darrell experimentally proved that the thaumaton responded to directed human will. This discovery was less groundbreaking since it was obvious to anyone who had ever successfully channeled magic that it responded to a magician’s desires. But Darrell knew that quantitative data would be necessary if he ever wished to convince the scientific community of his discoveries.
By the time he’d drawn these conclusions Akira had received his doctorate and was able to devote more of his time to assisting Darrell. He charged Akira with the task of determining how thoughts were able to direct the interactions of thaumatons with other subatomic particles. Akira had already developed several hypotheses, based on texts he had read from esoteric disciplines that concerned themselves with what they called “the power of human thought.” The theory he favored was that thaumatons were themselves created by the human mind, but were rarely ever created in sufficient quantities to have a marked result on the macroscopic world.
“It would explain a number of things,” he said to Darrell one day. “It could explain the existence of phenomena we take for granted, like the exceptional talents many people display. It could very well be that some talents, like athletic prowess, are the result of the mind producing thaumatons in sufficient quantity to affect the physical world. It could also explain why some people are unable to channel magic. Something in their brain chemistry prevents the creation of enough thaumatons to produce any noticeable effect.”
Darrell could understand Akira’s interest in the second idea. For reasons neither could understand, some people, even without the handicap of Disbelief, were unable to create magical effects. Akira was one, to his great annoyance.
“But more important than that,” Akira said, “it could explain Disbelief itself. I have two theories on the matter. My first theory is that Disbelief is created by thaumatons that form a protective barrier of a kind, one that prevents other thaumatons from interacting with other subatomic particles. My other theory is that magic and Disbelief are like opposite opposing electrical charges. Disbelief, whatever it is, either absorbs or disperses thaumatons.”
“You know that’s not how electrical fields interact with each other,” Darrell said. “At least, I hope you do.”
Akira dismissed the objection with an irritated wave of the hand. “The analogy isn’t perfect. However, I think it makes sense. We both know that Disbelief works to nullify the effects of large concentrations of thaumatons in a system. The trick is only to determine experimentally how this is done.”
While Akira set to work designing experiments, Darrell went on to practical experiments. His studies had suggested that human understanding of magic only scratched the surface of what thaumatons were capable of doing. He was pleased to see that his own experiments piqued Jean’s interest. Jean had gotten himself put in charge of the funding for Darrell’s experiments. His parents had been more than happy to hand over the responsibility, as they had been trying for years to get him to take a greater interest in their company. Their elation was somewhat tempered by the lack of results Darrell’s experiments were garnering, at least according to the watered-down progress reports Jean was giving them.
Jean had no technical knowledge of the type of work Darrell and Akira were performing, but he did understand the practical applications. He took their ideas and ran with them, experimenting with an almost frightening zeal. It seemed to Darrell that he was approached by Jean at least once a week, eager to show off some half-completed magical technique. Darrell cautioned him not to do anything foolish, but the warnings fell on deaf ears. Darrell consoled himself with the fact that Jean’s experiments were innocuous enough. As Akira pointed out one day “It’s not as though he’s trying to make a pact with demons. And at any rate, his experiments are helping me with my own. At least, when I can get him to perform his new techniques in a place where I can study the effects.”
They had been refining their theories and techniques for almost three years when Jean approached Darrell with his own proposition.
“What do you plan on doing with all this work we’ve been doing?” he asked Darrell one day.
“I thought I might write a book,” Darrell said. “Maybe go on a lecture circuit.”
Jean didn’t laugh in Darrell’s face, but it looked like it was an effort not to. “A book? A lecture tour? After six years not publishing a single paper? You know what your colleagues will say.”
Darrell nodded. “It’s crossed my mind more than once. But I haven’t been doing all this for my own amusement. Besides, I have Akira’s career to think about, as well as my own.”
“Akira’s doing well enough for himself,” Jean said. “Your theory about magic being a…what do you call it again?”
“Fifth force.”
“Yes, fifth force. He’s been able to spin that off into new data about the Forces everyone else knows about. He’s managed to remain respectable, while you…”
“While I’m a crackpot,” Darrell said. “A has-been, a burn-out. Is that what you’re saying?”
Jean held up his hands in supplication. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. But you see what I’m saying?”
Darrell sighed. “Yes, I know. I shouldn’t have kept my head under a rock all this time. But I know how ludicrous my theories will look to people. I mean, I would have thought they were deranged ravings six years ago. But now…” He trailed off, unsure what else to say. He knew that the only people who would listen to him would be the fringe element, no one who would be taken seriously.
Jean spoke, seeming to have read Darrell’s thoughts. “I have an idea. I know somewhere you could present your theories. Where reputable scientists will listen to you.”
Darrell waited, but Jean didn’t continue. Darrell could tell he was being dramatic, waiting for Darrell to ask him before he’d tell.
Finally, Darrell cracked. “Where is this place?” he asked.
Jean’s mouth broke into a wide toothy grin, making him look 15 years old. “It’s in Bern, Switzerland, in February.”
Darrell stared uncomprehending for a moment. Then he realized what Jean was talking about, and it was his turn to stifle a laugh. “Maybe I really have gone insane. For a moment, I thought you were saying I present my findings to the World Symposium Scientific.” When Jean only continued grinning, Darrell said “No, that’s utterly ridiculous. They’d never invite me to speak at the Symposium.”
“They would, and they have,” Jean said. “I made a substantial donation on behalf of the Du Lac Group, with the condition that you are given a presentation.”
Darrell stared at Jean, his mouth open. “How…what…” he said. “You did this without asking me first?”
Jean waved that aside, as if getting Darrell’s consent was a minor detail. “We both know that you want to present your findings to the scientific community.”
“Yeah,” Darrell said, “but will anyone attend my presentation?”
“They won’t be able to fit them all inside,” Jean said. “Think about it: a once-respected physicist comes out of a six-year stint in oblivion to present the results of his unpublished experiments? There won’t be enough seats.”
“Yes,” Darrell said, “I’m sure they’ll come, with tar and feathers. And when they hear what I have to say, I’ll probably be escorted from the Symposium straight to a small padded cell.”
“That won’t happen,” Jean said. “I’ve spoken to some other people who will also be in attendance. Not only will the scientists hear what you have to say, but we will make sure you can provide proof.”
“Proof?” Darrell asked. “You can’t expect me to channel magic in a room full of the planet’s most stubborn disbelievers? It can’t…” Darrell paused, remembering one of Jean’s more successful experimental techniques. He asked “These others you mentioned, you mean some of the others like us?” Jean nodded. “So, you’re telling me you want to attempt an Unclouding?”
Jean nodded again, and Darrell’s mouth went dry.
The preparations for the Symposium took up most of Darrell’s time in the months that followed. While he thought that Jean was probably right that his presentation would be filled with the curious, he also feared it would carry a heavy stigma. Partly it would be because of his virtual disappearance from the field for almost six years, but he knew that once word got out that he’d bought his place at the conference, it would all be an uphill battle from there. He wouldn’t be the first to do so, but that wouldn’t make it any better.
A week after Jean had spoken to him, a story had been leaked across the nets that Dr. Darrell Edwards III would be speaking at the World Symposium Scientific. The exact nature of his talk wasn’t disclosed, except a tantalizing promise of “the results of six years careful study and research which Dr. Edwards claims will change the world’s long-established preconceptions about the world we live in.” Darrell had no doubt in his mind that Jean been the leak, especially when the young man started giving Darrell daily updates on the rumors circulating the nets.
Darrell moved in a daze, hardly believing all that was going on around him. It wasn’t until he ran across Jean on his flash card confirming their tickets to Bern that the reality of what he was going to do sunk in.
He woke up the day of the conference in a cold sweat. Though not normally a drinker, he was so anxious during the two hour suborbital flight from O’Hare to Bern Belp that he had two glasses of brandy to fortify his nerves. He was considering a third when the shuttle landed and he, Akira, Jean, and the others they had brought along disembarked.
Darrell’s was the last presentation scheduled for the first day of the conference. At Jean’s suggestion, he had not attended any of the other presentations, or appeared in any of the public areas. This was done for two reasons; Jean wanted to keep the mystique going as long as possible, and he also didn’t think Darrell would be able to handle the ribbing he would be sure to get from his colleagues.
However, the precaution seemed to be unnecessary. Darrell had calmed down considerably since they’d checked in at the Symposium. He was in his element, and he felt a strange feeling of serenity permeate his body as he stood at the podium, waiting for the doors to open. This was far from his first lecture, and although a room full of students was a far cry from the crowd he was about to address, he still felt calm. How he would feel once he began his presentation, and his colleagues heard what he had to say, was something he couldn’t guess at, and tried not to think about.
“I was thinking about something the other day,” Darrell said.
“Yes?” Jean asked.
“You remember that day, when you told me that the scales had fallen from my eyes?”
Jean didn’t have to think about it. To both men, “that day” had always referred to the day six years ago, in a hotel room, when Jean had introduced Darrell to magic.
“I remember,” Jean said. “I was comparing you to St. Paul.”
“I was thinking about that, and it occurs to me that we’re continuing that metaphor now. Because like St. Paul, I had an epiphany, and I’m about to spread the news of that epiphany to the world.”
“You’re not writing letters to people,” Jean said.
Darrell shrugged. “Like Akira says, ‘the analogy isn’t perfect.’”
When the scientists began pouring into the auditorium, Darrell noted that they were very quiet. There were mutterings here and there, but everyone became still as soon as they sat down and the lights in the auditorium dimmed. Darrell could understand this; they all wanted the presentation to begin as soon as possible to hear what this strange upstart from Chicago had planned.
Darrell didn’t speak right away, and an impatient silence filled the auditorium. He looked around, and spotted the magicians Jean had brought along. They were interspersed widely among the assembly, on its outer edges, forming a rough circle. He couldn’t see Jean, but Darrell knew he was in the middle of the back row, drawing upon the energy of the other magicians. Darrell had found in his studies that many superstitions about magic were just that, but one thing that was true was that magic circles were powerful. They funneled and channeled thaumatons, allowing one magician to concentrate and magnify the power of the others making up the circle. In the front row, Akira nodded encouragingly to Darrell.
Darrell began his speech. He started by explaining that the findings he was about to uncover had began during his search for the graviton. As he did so, he could see the charged lines forming between the magicians, with a lone figure in the back row as the apex. He barely heard what he was saying as he watched Jean work the Unclouding.
The spell was Jean’s pride and joy, a ritual designed with one purpose: breaking down walls of Disbelief. Jean had taken Darrell and Akira’s research, and used it to find a way to use thaumatons to attack Disbelief head on. The effect was limited and temporary; a single magician couldn’t hope to disrupt another person’s Disbelief for more than a fraction of a second. But if a group gathered in a circle, a number of people many times larger on the inside could be stripped of their Disbelief for hours at a time. It was much longer than Darrell needed.
Darrell didn’t need to be told when the ritual was complete, he could feel it. Disbelief lifted from the room like morning mist retreating from the first rays of dawn. Darrell thought back to that day in Jean’s hotel suite. He remembered the feelings that had enveloped him when he had held that ring of air. The memory was a balm and a focus, and he used it to fuel his own magic.
He extended one hand towards the projector, and it died. It didn’t turn off, it was more like someone had snipped the power cable with wire cutters. The room was plunged into darkness. Darrell channeled the thaumatons thrumming through his body and used them to illuminate himself. The silence in the room deepened as the scientists stared, unable to understand what they were seeing. Then, around them, other members of the audience stood, glowing as brightly as the man on the stage. They held their arms outstretched towards him, and the light around their bodies leapt from them, and flew to Darrell, who caught the light in his hands and let it flow around his body like a star’s corona. His body lifted off the raised dais of the auditorium, and he moved forward until he was past it, hovering inches away from the front row.
“Ladies and gentleman; I’ll be frank,” Dr. Darrell Edwards said, floating above them like some avenging angel. “Magic is real. And it scares the hell out of me.”
