Through the Eye of Time Read Online Free Page B
Author: Trevor Hoyle
primeval atom all those thousands of millions of years ago.
Then â nothing.
The cup would cease to exist. The atomic structure which obligingly kept to the shape of a cup for the purpose of drinkingtea would quite arbitrarily decide to take on some other formation, or perhaps not to assume a definite pattern at all. Chaos would rule. Particles would interact at random in a formless plasma of non-matter. Or perhaps entropy would come, once and for evermore, to hold the universe in a state of lukewarm apathy. The ultimate heat death in which everything stayed where it was because it couldnât be bothered to go anywhere else. In the absence of matter and energy interchange, communication would cease. Lightspeed would become a meaningless and futile concept. Spacetime would be defunct. And without these universal ground rules time itself would stop. Dead.
Karve believed intellectually in the probability, if not the actual possibility, of these thoughts; he was too much the scientist to refute them and turn his face away in blind obstinacy. Intellectually yes, they could happen, but emotionally his own senses rebelled against the dogma of clinical scientific objectivity. The
feel
of the cup touching his fingertips could not be measured by any device known to man. The sense of well-being he experienced from the broad shaft of sunlight warming his hand, and the memories it evoked of other sunfilled days, could not be contained in a scientific treatise or marked by the indices on a Gaussian curve. Even looking out, as he did each day, from the apex of the pyramid, imbued his whole being with the inexpressible wonder of vibrant life so that the entire body of human knowledge lay in its shadow. The fact of existence, the mystery of creation, were still the abiding and elemental truths.
The sheets of figures, the innumerable grey columns, called him back to duty. He was an old man, his days of innovation and creativity long past. His brain was now the repository of a million facts, a human card index lacking the spark of synthesis which was the basis of scientific inquiry.
Only connect
, he thought. The answer was that simple.
His First Assistant came through on audio. Karve listened patiently but yet with a trace of weariness to some meandering second-hand complaint from RECONPAN. It had been filed by deGrenier, who had insisted on a personal interview with the Director.
âI would have thought,â Karve told his First Assistant, âthat Systems Engineering or perhaps Archives could have settled this to everyoneâs satisfaction.â The two areas he most dreaded becoming involved with, and this particular problem combined them: hardware and administration.
âDeGrenier has taken the matter up with both sections, sir, and neither can offer an adequate explanation.â The First Assistant paused, and then like a mother hoping to reason with a recalcitrant child: âI think under the circumstances it might be wise â¦â
Karve pushed the CENTiNEL report to one side. âSend deGrenier in,â he said, and while he waited studied the china cup and saucer on the desk as if expecting them to dematerialize before his eyes.
DeGrenier was brisk, businesslike and to the point.
âIâm sorry to take up your time, Director, but somebody has been tampering with the information retrieval system. Yesterday I requested biographical details to build up a Subject Profile and this is what came up.â
Karve took the yellow print-out, comprising several sheets folded concertina fashion. He read:
RATE OF DECAY AS PER UPDATED CENTiNEL REPORT (REF 29-1493b/0012) IN ACCORDANCE WITH MASTER FILE (HEAD QUARK/SUB ANTI/SUB CHARM/SUB STRANGE) WITH THE FOLLOWING ADDITIONS, DELETIONS AND AMENDMENTS:
Then followed row upon row of symbols and figures, several thousand of them neatly tabulated in blocks of electric type.
âI take it that these arenât the biographical details you were
Then â nothing.
The cup would cease to exist. The atomic structure which obligingly kept to the shape of a cup for the purpose of drinkingtea would quite arbitrarily decide to take on some other formation, or perhaps not to assume a definite pattern at all. Chaos would rule. Particles would interact at random in a formless plasma of non-matter. Or perhaps entropy would come, once and for evermore, to hold the universe in a state of lukewarm apathy. The ultimate heat death in which everything stayed where it was because it couldnât be bothered to go anywhere else. In the absence of matter and energy interchange, communication would cease. Lightspeed would become a meaningless and futile concept. Spacetime would be defunct. And without these universal ground rules time itself would stop. Dead.
Karve believed intellectually in the probability, if not the actual possibility, of these thoughts; he was too much the scientist to refute them and turn his face away in blind obstinacy. Intellectually yes, they could happen, but emotionally his own senses rebelled against the dogma of clinical scientific objectivity. The
feel
of the cup touching his fingertips could not be measured by any device known to man. The sense of well-being he experienced from the broad shaft of sunlight warming his hand, and the memories it evoked of other sunfilled days, could not be contained in a scientific treatise or marked by the indices on a Gaussian curve. Even looking out, as he did each day, from the apex of the pyramid, imbued his whole being with the inexpressible wonder of vibrant life so that the entire body of human knowledge lay in its shadow. The fact of existence, the mystery of creation, were still the abiding and elemental truths.
The sheets of figures, the innumerable grey columns, called him back to duty. He was an old man, his days of innovation and creativity long past. His brain was now the repository of a million facts, a human card index lacking the spark of synthesis which was the basis of scientific inquiry.
Only connect
, he thought. The answer was that simple.
His First Assistant came through on audio. Karve listened patiently but yet with a trace of weariness to some meandering second-hand complaint from RECONPAN. It had been filed by deGrenier, who had insisted on a personal interview with the Director.
âI would have thought,â Karve told his First Assistant, âthat Systems Engineering or perhaps Archives could have settled this to everyoneâs satisfaction.â The two areas he most dreaded becoming involved with, and this particular problem combined them: hardware and administration.
âDeGrenier has taken the matter up with both sections, sir, and neither can offer an adequate explanation.â The First Assistant paused, and then like a mother hoping to reason with a recalcitrant child: âI think under the circumstances it might be wise â¦â
Karve pushed the CENTiNEL report to one side. âSend deGrenier in,â he said, and while he waited studied the china cup and saucer on the desk as if expecting them to dematerialize before his eyes.
DeGrenier was brisk, businesslike and to the point.
âIâm sorry to take up your time, Director, but somebody has been tampering with the information retrieval system. Yesterday I requested biographical details to build up a Subject Profile and this is what came up.â
Karve took the yellow print-out, comprising several sheets folded concertina fashion. He read:
RATE OF DECAY AS PER UPDATED CENTiNEL REPORT (REF 29-1493b/0012) IN ACCORDANCE WITH MASTER FILE (HEAD QUARK/SUB ANTI/SUB CHARM/SUB STRANGE) WITH THE FOLLOWING ADDITIONS, DELETIONS AND AMENDMENTS:
Then followed row upon row of symbols and figures, several thousand of them neatly tabulated in blocks of electric type.
âI take it that these arenât the biographical details you were
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