The Man from Nowhere. Rachel Lee
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of like playing the odds.”
“Oh, that makes me feel secure.”
His smile widened. “We’re both here talking, and the restaurant hasn’t vanished. So the large numbers work just fine for most purposes.”
“But in quantum computers, what happens?”
“That’s the problem we’re trying to sort through. Things get dicier, of course, at such a small scale. But then studies actually proved the so-called observer effect—have you heard of that?”
“Something about the act of observing affects the measurements?”
“At the quantum scale, yes. But it goes way beyond that. I won’t bore you with details, but a number of experiments show that conscious intent can affect the basic randomness we expect at the quantum level. One extended study of them at Princeton, in fact. The effect wasn’t huge. Just a nudge this way or that, tiny but statistically relevant. That throws a big monkey wrench into quantum computing.”
“Wow. And you were working on that?”
“Doing some research, yes. You can’t move into nanotechnologies unless you can guarantee reasonable accuracy. If a process relies on quantum randomness, you have to correct for influences that actually reduce that randomness.”
At that she felt herself smile. “Now I’m in over my head. I just know how much I depend on my computer to be accurate.”
“Exactly. So there’s a lot of work to be done. But it’s unleashed some fascinating questions.”
“And that’s why you said science should be about questions, not answers.”
“Well, partly.” His face shadowed a bit, but he continued. “We need solutions, but solutions aren’t necessarily answers, if you get my drift. And some people don’t even want to ask the questions.” He fell silent, then dipped a corner of toast in his egg, and popped it into his mouth. He appeared to have gone elsewhere in his mind, whether to his former research or some darker place she couldn’t know.
But one thing seemed to be clearer for her: there was no reason to believe this man intended her any harm whatsoever. Once again she began to feel embarrassed by the mix of emotions that had led her to go to Gage.
Even though the sheriff hadn’t thought she was out of line for being nervous about this guy sitting across from her house every night in the wee hours, she herself felt as if she had made a mountain out of a molehill.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I overreacted by getting the sheriff involved.”
It took him a moment to drag himself out of the well of thought he’d fallen into. “I understand perfectly. The world being what it is, you’d be strange if you hadn’t gotten nervous about me sitting across from your house every night. It’s not like I’m someone you know from around town.” Then he shook his head very slightly and smiled faintly. “Not that anyone can be sure of anyone just because they know them by sight.”
“You’ve lived in a big city?” His answer would seem to suggest that.
“Yeah. So I understand. I may be out there a few more nights, because it’s a convenient place to rest.”
She noticed he didn’t ask if that would continue to bother her. Apparently he felt he’d answered her questions sufficiently. And just like that, she felt nervous again, because the bottom line was that she hadn’t learned a damn thing about him really. The death of his dog? A personal tragedy? References to computer research? Conveniently lacking any verifiable details?
All of a sudden she didn’t feel silly anymore. In fact, she wondered if she’d just been treated to a good sales job.
She pushed back her plate and stood. “I feel stalked,” she said flatly. Then she grabbed her purse, threw bills on the table and walked out.
No one followed her to her car. When she glanced back as she was about to climb in, she saw Grant still sitting at his table, staring into space.
Yes, she felt stalked. That was exactly the word, the one she hadn’t actually put her finger on until just now.
And there were a lot of good reasons for her to feel paranoid about that.
Trish’s computer hummed quietly as she searched the Net for information. Outside, another bright, cool day was beginning to degrade into cloudiness that might bring rain or even snow. She didn’t know or really care. She was too busy trying to verify what Grant had told her last night about the research he’d been doing, then trying to find out if it led her to him.
Either she didn’t know the best search question to ask or the subject wasn’t one of the most popular. Either way, several hours passed during which she scanned articles that hinted at the matters Grant had spoken of last night without success.
He appeared to be right about one thing: from what she was seeing, not many scientists wanted to ask whether conscious intent could affect the quantum field.
She did, however, gradually realize that some terms were appearing repeatedly without explanation, as if they were understood. And she realized there was a certain evasiveness when they came up. Either that or they were used within such strictly defined limits that she couldn’t get the meaning.
Finally she changed her search criteria from quantum physics and linked conscious with Princeton. Up popped a Web site link for the Princeton Engineering Anomalies Research Lab.
She might not have studied physics in depth, but as an accounting major with a minor in economics, she had studied a lot of statistics, and as she delved deeper she discovered that the things Grant had discussed in loose generalities were actually being investigated with mind-blowing results. While the ultimate conclusion was that conscious intent had such a small effect on random number generators that it could be ignored, the fact remained: the statistics showed the effect to be way, way beyond chance.
Good Lord! she thought. What a door to open: human thought could affect the functioning of a machine…or the rate of radioactive decay. In small ways, yes, but even those small ways were a window to a whole different view of the universe. And it further elucidated what Grant had meant about some scientists being afraid to ask the questions. Of course they were afraid to ask. None of them would want to be labeled fringe lunatics.
She sat back in her chair, stretched and thought about what she had just learned. Grant, whoever he was, hadn’t been spouting some kind of extremism last night, but a valid scientific viewpoint, however much mainstream science might try to skirt it. That much at least hadn’t been a sales job.
However, there was no way to search for him, not with only one name, first or last she didn’t know. No matter how many ways she tried it, the word grant came up more often for grant applications and awards than anything else. How convenient.
She sighed, then spoke aloud to the empty room. “Get over this obsession,” she told herself. “Just get over it. Load the damn shotgun if you’re that worried, and then forget about it.”
Not a normally obsessive person, her behavior, her contradictory responses, had begun to seriously trouble her. The man limped around town in the middle of the night, sat on a public park bench for a whole twenty minutes, had spent time last night trying to reassure her in some way, and there was nothing left to do except regain her own sense of proportion and rationality.
Sitting here at the computer working the “Grant problem” as if she had nothing better to do with her time was out of character.
Wasn’t it?
She sighed again and rubbed her eyes. “What is going on?” she asked the room. The room, of course, didn’t answer.
But some little voice in her head finally did.
It’s