Online Novel, Working title:

Hell Bent

Darwin, religion, and thought itself, seen as they can only be seen from a fictional world

Revision 7-20-08, by Don W. Stoner

Copyright © 2002, Donald Wayne Stoner

Table of Contents:

Chapter I

Who Let the Gods Out?

It is said, by learned men that it is impossible to know, even in principle, the precise outcome of any experiment performed at the quantum mechanics level. I find this highly discomforting. Why, you ask? This means, quite simply, that we have recently lost ground to the gods.

"To the gods?" you ask. "Yes," I say! For who else but they could be pulling nature's strings. In the words of Albert Einstein, perhaps the greatest prophet of our age, "God does not play dice with the universe." And I am greatly afraid he might be right. After all, the universe has no hands in which dice might be held.

As those with any understanding of the subject will affirm, randomness does not just happen - it must be caused; and true randomness requires a deliberate conscious effort. Random numbers are not generated by accident but by very complex mechanisms - mechanisms too complex to find their origins or explanations in the quantum physics of the mere particles involved. So, if not by those events, if not by dice, as we might say, then the only remaining possibility is that the gods have retaken their lost territory.

I'll grant you that all of those little decisions which are made constantly throughout the universe appear to be quite random, but we must not be lulled into a false sense of security by mere appearances. Appearances can be deceptive. The apparent randomness we observe in our laboratories must be a deliberate ploy on the part of the gods to conceal their identity from us; but we must not be fooled; and we must not fool ourselves. We are, once again, at their mercy.

Oh for that glorious age when the universe was trapped under the ponderous thumb of Newton's laws - when scientific laws were something to be reckoned with - the ultimate fiat of a powerful emperor. But no longer! That edifice has crumbled; Isaac Newton has backed away at the advance of Werner Heisenberg. And now, all we are left with are the whimsical expressions of a fickle deity.

Oh for the time when - dare we say it? - when man himself was for a brief moment beyond the reach of the gods, living safely on his own planet, well beyond their clutches, and under the control of none of them. What is more, he was, for one shining instant, not even responsible for his own actions - having to answer to no one of any consequence. For if even a man's very thoughts were no more than the end result of some electrochemical reaction in his cerebrum, the last domino in a chain to topple, as it were, then who could fault him for the particular way in which that domino happened to fall? There was only what was - and never what ought to have been. But, alas, those days are no more.

Consider from where thou art fallen, Oh man! Your physicists have once more opened the chest and released the demons. And what demons they are likely to be! What possible control can ever be regained over the myriads unleashed by Heisenberg.? None, I tell you! Each does as he pleases - or as someone pleases.

"Zeus," or something like him, has returned. We must now be wary! For if history has taught us anything, it is that the gods cannot be trusted to act in accordance with the will of men. And now we find they have established a stronghold at our very doorstep - for the quantum world permeates every particle of our very being. Here we sit surrounded and infiltrated by an omnipresent cast of deity, with no possible means of defense - no way to take protective measures - as they bide their time and plan their attacks.

And what might they be up to? Or more fearfully, what couldn't they be up to? What couldn't the gods control to gain their ends? If they are free to dictate the paths of any recoiling photon-electron pair, their power is virtually unlimited.

Perhaps you are not yet concerned. You may be agreed that the gods are now more numerous than before; but you ask, "Aren't they also much smaller? If they do not all pull together, then maybe we are not quite yet undone." I would like to take comfort in this; but I cannot. What if their actions are unified in intent? What if they were all to gang up against us? If the gods were universally agreed, even the Red Sea could be made to part without a moment's preparation.

And what if you are right in assuming that the gods are divided in purpose. Are we then justified in believing in our own invincibility? Absolutely not! For there remains another problem. Even a single sub-microscopic event could play the horseshoe nail in the old fable whose loss occasioned the loss of the horseshoe, the horse, the soldier, the skirmish, the battle, the war, and ultimately the entire kingdom. So even a single god, acting alone, could accomplish more than we might guess. A single hair-triggered sneeze, if detonated at a critical nexus, could completely reshape history!

Chapter II

Sneeze at the Nexus

Marco had positioned himself strategically behind a stone pillar in the musty old lecture hall and had withdrawn well into his loosely fitting robe. Considering the past performance of the professor, this lecture might well turn into another source of excitement and intrigue; but Marco was not really feeling up to class participation. His lingering cold had caused him to miss the first part of this lecture and he had not yet been able to go over the notes with Lorenzo. If he could just maintain a low enough profile until lunch, ... well one step at a time.

Under normal conditions, Professor Galilei was interesting enough. There had been that time when the class had been taken out into the field and shown how the smoke and report from a fired musket would occur simultaneously when fired close by, but not when the musket was fired at a distance. This had been a mystery and, as a few calculations had shown, the professor's explanation could not possibly be correct. Sound, if it traveled at all, could not possibly move fast enough to explain what had happened. Nobody or nothing could be that fast. And yet the report had come late ... Could there be ... ? His head began to ache so he dropped the thought. It seemed that even brain-teasers weren't going to be able to keep Marco awake today; and today's lecture promised to be less than interesting.

Professor Galilei had assumed his position behind the dark oak lectern and, thoughtfully, rubbed his unruly beard with his left hand. Picking up a quill with his other hand, he carefully scratched something into his notes. Then, raising his head, he scanned his pupils, testing each for alertness.

It was hopeless; even before the professor's sharp eyes met his, Marco had relocated to a station more conducive to attention. He hung his leather lunch wallet, by its thong, from the hook under his table and absently gave it a kick as he settled himself into the seat. It swung easily back and forth reminding him of more relaxed hours to come. The ink pot was within the radius of Marco's dangling sleeve; so he made careful note of this to avoid a possible accident.

Having satisfied himself of his students' alertness, Professor Galilei turned to face the diagram. The years were just beginning to slow him, but not by much. Marco watched the colored patches of light from the high southern windows dance on the professor's slightly balding head as he turned. The effect was more conducive to dreamy thoughts than studious ones. Marco's eyes finally found their way to the diagram which pictured a ship at wharf with men rolling barrels down a ramp to others stacking them below.

"It would seem that a straight ramp would be the ideal shape to expedite unloading the vessel with maximum speed," the professor droned. Marco's eyes wandered to the crude wooden model on the dais and began to fathom it's purpose. "Today we will investigate a curved ramp."

The professor continued his ramblings, and Marco began to resume a posture of comfort. The silly black gown that he and the other students were expected to wear was nicely warm and he found himself being lulled into a daze by the professor's continuous buzz. Marco's nose tickled slightly but a mere twitch, and all was once again in order. The whole university atmosphere was almost ideally tailored for a daydream and Marco took full advantage of it. The light from the leaded glass danced on the model, on the professor, and then right into Marco's thoughts. A cold wasn't really the end of the world.

Still, it was annoying. Marco's nose began to tickle again. If only he could hold out until noon. He absently rubbed his nose with the sleeve of his robe and thought about his lunch hanging in his wallet. He gave it another kick to assure himself it was still there. Not surprisingly, it was. Marco bent down and studied it, swinging north-south as though it contained loadstone instead of pasta. That was an interesting thought, but the classroom had suddenly become too quiet.

Suspecting that someone might be watching him, Marco sat up. That someone was the professor who had stopped the lecture and was also staring at Marco's wallet. Embarrassed, Marco glanced away, as casually as possible, up to the south windows, pretending not to notice. He realized at once he had made a tactical blunder.

"Achoo!"

In fact, the silence in the old stone lecture hall seemed to roar in Marco's ears as he grimly turned to face the professor, but Professor Galilei's eyes were still solidly fixed on Marco's lunch. Marco followed that gaze down to the wallet which was still swinging north-south as if the table from which it hung had never been turned. "Loadstone," he thought again; this time it was more than just an idle thought. It was yet another puzzle.

Puzzle or not, this was a bad time to let one's mind wander off into another trance. There were more pressing matters readily at hand. Marco slowly forced his gaze back to the professor who was just beginning to come out of a trance of his own. Finally, Professor Galilei picked up his quill and started writing again.

Marco knew he was in trouble. His ears were flaming as he mopped up the ink with his handkerchief and carefully settled himself back into his seat. The rest of the lecture was lost on Marco - shrouded by his raging thoughts and embarrassment.

Eventually, even the worst trials must come to an end, and Marco's sufferings finally found their reprieve. The tower bells began chiming the hour and the students stood to attention. Lorenzo threw Marco a quick smirk from across the hall. Well, as soon as the professor left, they would have some liberty out in the quad. Marco could eat and maybe even recover emotionally, but for now they stood as the professor gathered up his materials.

While they waited, the tall, carved wooden door to the north hall creaked slowly open and a timid old man slowly poked his head through the gap. Professor Ricci. Osilio Ricci was truly a relic. He spent most of his time in the library archive these days and seemed to carry his share of its dust around with him. It was rumored that he had once even taught Professor Galilei - if that kind of antiquity could be imagined.

Osilio addressed Professor Galilei, in a surprisingly strong voice, from his station behind the door, "Say Galileo, are you free for lunch today?"

Chapter III

A Fairy Tale

In my story, the remainder of Marco's life took a different course than we might have expected. More would be remembered of the colorful, local fishmonger than of Marco Huxley, the quiet, reclusive shopkeeper.

Galileo, on the other hand, sustained no emotional injury from the interchange. To the contrary, he gained a valuable insight into the dynamics of rotational physics. This was an insight which would serve him well, years later, when he would be called to task by the Inquisition.

What might have happened if Galileo had been able to prove the earth rotated to his Inquisitors? What if they had been able to watch its rotation under the reference of his pendulum? Would the present rift between the Church and science have ever occurred? What would today's world be like if the Church and science spoke with a united voice? What other reality might the gods of history have chosen for us to take for granted as inevitable? Was the present world really such an obvious foregone conclusion as we so often assume?

In my story, Galileo's pendulum won the day for the Copernican system. As a result, the Church came to realize they had narrowly missed making a serious mistake, although, just how narrowly, they never actually understood. Other consequences follow like falling dominos: As anyone might have guessed, the Pisa/Florence area remained the world center for academic pursuits. After turning out such giants as Leonardo da Vinci and Galileo, it was no surprise that they continued to produce more of the same. It would have been difficult for an upstart university to overcome this much prestige and momentum and draw away a significant share of the best minds. Nor would anyone be surprised that the Catholic Church could extend a thousand-year streak of intellectual domination for yet a few hundred years more.

This much, anyone might have guessed. Some other details may require a bit of explaining:

Because my story is a fairy tale, it must necessarily have an imaginary setting. I have selected the once-upon-a-time and far-away-land of Pasadena, California - California itself being a land known by all avid students of fantasy to deviate remarkably from reality. More precisely, I have conjured a certain highly scientific institute of technology which I envision to be located there - one which captures more than its fair share of peace prizes, awarded by the foundation of a man named Alfred Nobel, who, as I paradoxically conjecture, was a manufacturer of explosives and the inventor of dynamite.

So, in my story, as the New World grew in world prominence, the Church spread its intellectual influence to the far away land of California, where it established that satellite institute of higher learning, which eventually grew to prominence in its own right. But enough of this rhetoric; I am here to tell you a story and you sit patiently waiting to hear it while several centuries have just slipped past us.

Chapter IV

The Catholic Institute of Technology

"Hey George!" The voice belonged to Dr. Wilbur Chan who was running to catch up, awkwardly carrying a load of papers in both arms. "Are you going to the debate?"

"I Haven't got the time." It came out sounding ruder than George had intended. He took a breath and added, "It looks like we've both got some papers to deal with," regaining control of his voice. The entire load of term-project outlines had been due this week and Dr. George Molino was likely to be inundated for the next month. They certainly represented many hours; but George's entire load was cradled neatly under a single arm of his 280 pound frame. Relativity was not always restricted to the physics department.

George's thoughts snapped right back on his problem - the inquisition. It was always there, watching him. The Catholic Institute of Technology - Cathtech as it was usually called - would have been a pretty nice place to teach biology, if it hadn't been for the Inquisition and their blasted policy about heresy.

Dr. Molino suddenly felt very tired. He dropped his ample mass down on an old concrete and wooden bench and gazed across the shallow pond between where he sat and the building named after Father Dabney. There was a very gentle morning breeze which helped fend off the sun's early start on what promised to be a scorcher, but it provided no relief to the doctor's thoughts, which were quietly fuming as his adrenalin began pumping again. This time, the Inquisition was going too far.

Dr. Wilbur Chan settled his lesser frame down at the other end of the bench and assumed the same stare as George. Sensing his friend's need, he waited quietly.

The world faded and the debate began in George's mind. "There must be a certain amount of tolerance for even those opinions which seem to contradict the Holy Writ," he reminded himself. He wasn't convincing himself, shouldn't there be some reasonable limits? Well, actually, there were, but not enough to satisfy Dr. George Molino. The Department of Biological Heresies had taken a pretty hard line. Now they insisted that all views be heard in his classes - right here at C.I.T. Absolutely all of them! Well, sometimes it seemed like it. Some of the most insidious heresies were taught right alongside straight doctrine - a "fair hearing" the inquisition called it; but did they need to do it again and again for every new class of students?

To be fair, there was good reason behind the Inquisition's position. Might not some bright new student notice something that had always been missed before? People who champion "discredited" positions aren't always wrong. After all, hadn't they almost burned Galileo at the stake? They surely would have if he hadn't proved the world turned under his freely rotating pendulum. And to think the Inquisition had once believed this contradicted the Holy Writ! It was now hard to see how they could ever have come to that conclusion - yet they had. To say their case was extremely weak would be generous - at least in hindsight.

George recalled an engraving he had once seen of that famous experiment. He remembered that Galileo had fastened the weight to the end of the pendulum using a little bag instead of connecting it directly as other scientists had done later. He wondered why.

And then there was that Kurt Godel fellow. He came right out and claimed there was no such thing as truth at all. No, that wasn't it; not exactly anyhow. What he had claimed was that there was truth which could never be proven to be true; that no matter how carefully the inquisition put their system of evaluations together, that it would either be missing pieces or it would make faulty conclusions. This was certainly heresy if anything was. It even implied an intrinsic fault in Church authority. Yet the inquisition had responded very gently.

It had been an honest mistake, after all; a case of not seeing the forest because of all of those trees getting in the way. In Godel's case, the "trees" had been a very elegant formal system for constructing logical expressions. He had then created a string of symbols, using his nomenclature, which stated that it itself could not be derived. Godel had failed to notice that his string was a simple paradox - like the statement, "this statement is false." Missing that, he had insisted the string must either be true or false - allowing only that the string might be true, but underivable, or false - and only derivable by defective reasoning.

The Vatican just pointed out the overlooked possibility - that Godel had merely stated a paradox - and dismissed him without so much as slapping his wrists. Having learned their lesson, they had reasoned that it was better that all challenges be freely raised and answered rather than suppressed. That was humility; but now it had gone past that.

Ok, that was actually good. But now the Inquisition insisted that even undergraduates could challenge time-honored interpretations of the Holy Writ. And it had happened - right in one of George's own classes! He had a "random creationist" to deal with - one so ignorant that he hadn't yet read the Scriptures from cover to cover. "How can a student who does not even know what the Word says be sufficiently arrogant to challenge it?" he wondered, almost out loud - his agitation beginning to show.

"OK, let's have it," Dr. Chan finally broke the silence. Barely a trace of his East Asian origins remained in his accent.

"I have a random creation project to deal with." It was all George needed to say. The theory that all life forms were the result of random mutations was not a new one; but since it had been rigorously refuted by Doctors Gould, Eldridge, and Hoyle, everyone thought they'd heard the last of it.

Dr. Chan leaned back and stared up at the dark, square, and towering St. Milikan library, closing his eyes for a moment. The building remained in afterimage, silhouetted against a falsely-colored sky. It's architecture so incongruous with the rest of the surrounding buildings. Many new things didn't fit in very well with the old. "And the Inquisition says?" he finally asked, trailing it off.

"That I have to make allowances for his ignorance and answer the particular argument he made." George finished the sentence.

"Burden of proof is yours?"

"I'm the professor."

"Is that really going to be all that hard? What argument did he make?"

"Oh, basically that a whole new set of circumstances can make a new life form randomly appear in a short time and from a small population of individuals."

"Did he make any suggestions as to what these bizarre circumstances might be? Did he actually suggest how they might turn the mathematical equations on their head?"

"No. Of course not. It's strictly an argument from ignorance. But you know the Inquisition - just because it was always true before doesn't mean it's still true. It's my burden to prove that it couldn't have happened."

"I thought Sir Fredrick Hoyle already did that." Dr. Chan was genuinely surprised. "What's wrong with his argument? Isn't it presented in nearly every respected textbook?"

"Well Charles - that's my student - isn't quite far enough along to follow the mathematical argument. We're supposed to ignore that until next semester. So I am supposed to answer him with my hands tied." George paused a moment, "What's really bugging me is that he has a clever trick up his sleeve."

"Oh?"

"He's using a few classification errors as evidence that one kind can mutate into another. Some biologist goofed and classified one kind of trilobite as two. Because they really are one kind, there really is a linkage - obviously. But instead of admitting the biologist goofed, Charles claims evidence for a transition between kinds. Because of this, he expects everyone to ignore the mathematics and pretend one plus one is really six." And for some reason, the inquisition seems to be backing him - at least on a preliminary basis.

"Even if that were fair, ... well there isn't much we can do about that, is there. Let's say, ... if your student were right, wouldn't the fossil record show the constant flow between kinds instead of the eternally repeated episodes of stasis which it so obviously records?" Dr. Chan was actually beginning to raise his voice a little.

Dr. Molino took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This was starting to get away from both of them now; professors just didn't get emotional. Professors studied the evidence, they didn't get excited about it. Student's or no students, this was a scientific question and science was science.

"All Charley did to explain how those sudden jumps happened was to claim the population was always small enough, and the change always happened quickly enough, that we wouldn't notice it in the fossil record - completely ignoring the mathematics. Nothing that would stand up to rigorous analysis; but on the surface, it sounds plausible. I think I have to translate all of the mathematics down to his level and put it into such a clear package that it will be obvious, even to him."

Both sunk into a lethargic trance and watched the swallows swoop under the eves shadowing the worn brick tile walkway. Out in the sunshine, reflected patterns danced on the underside of the poured concrete arch that served as a footbridge across the pond. At least the sunshine was nice and the morning was peaceful and quiet. Things would all work out somehow. They always did.

Chapter V

Angela

Dr. Chan took his lunch on the lawn behind the Dabney lounge. Wine, sourdough, and cheese. Somehow they seemed to be a tradition at 'Tech. What made them go together so well? Subtle variations in flavor? They had all been modified by micobiological organisms. Was that all there was to it? That stuff was George's department, not his. The sunlight filtering through the leaves overhead and the breeze were actually very pleasant; so was the Gouda - and no classes until three o'clock. No students 'till three.

This brought his thoughts back to the realities of the day. Could George's student, Charles, be the same as the Charley in his morning electronics class? Certainly a bright kid, perhaps a little extra green still. He tended not to read his assignments because he had an easy go of thinking the problems through on intelligence alone. That was pretty normal, considering the grade of students 'Tech drew, but Charley seemed to be out on the tails of the bell curve, even here.

It was going to catch him eventually. Intelligence alone wasn't always enough. Sometimes there were traps which only experience could solve - antiintuitive effects like the Lorentz transformation or tunnel diodes. Charley was bright, but Einstein could still give him a leg up, if Charley would ever bother to read the textbook.

Could it be the same Charley? It sounded like a possible match. Willbur Chan picked up the discarded wax with his napkin and dropped both into his sack, along with the empty. George's office was over in the building called "Bridge," just the other side of the courtyard. The exercise would be good for him.

Although the exercise may have been a good idea, his thoughts were not very pleasant company. Dr. Chan had never been able to communicate very smoothly with Angela, George's secretary. His mind was torturing him now as he walked. He imagined he was driving somewhere and she giving directions. He would ask "Should I turn left here?" and she would answer "Right." Or he would be unable to see to his right and would ask "Are there any cars coming?" and she would answer "No" because all she could see coming was one very large truck.

Even with this preparation, Angela greeted Dr. Chan with a question which caught him completely off guard. "Do you want to talk on the phone?"

That certainly wasn't his reason for stopping by, but what could possibly make Angela assume it might be. "Why would I want to talk on the phone?" he asked cautiously, wondering what the trick was this time.

"Do you want to talk on the phone?" she repeated.

It was happening again. How could he answer her question until she answered his. "Why would I want to talk on the phone?" He asked again, trying to stress the importance of his knowing the answer before he would be able to answer her question.

"Do you want to talk on the phone?" this time she sounded annoyed.

He gave up. He had no idea what Angela meant and she obviously wasn't going to provide any more information. He chose the best answer he could, under the circumstances, and tried to sound polite, "No thank you."

Angela turned with a huff that conveyed both exasperation and resignation. She stormed to the back of the office and grabbed a receiver which had been resting off the hook on George's desk. "No he doesn't want to talk to you Dr. Molino."

"What?" Dr. Chan was flabbergasted. Is that George calling me?

"I can never understand you." Dr. Chan clumsily tried to apologize. It was clear enough that Angela didn't understand him either.

George had called from "Gates." He had seen Chan from a second floor window and had guessed where he would be heading. As it turned out, they did have the same Charley in their classes. George wanted to set up a meeting to swap notes, but some things needed to be squared away first. The professors had a little "homework" of their own to do before they scheduled an appointment to plan their strategy. George wanted to run through Hoyle's calculations once more; and Chan agreed to try to figure out which students were most likely to be working with Charley. It was always better to know against whom you were really playing. Unlike many other institutions, 'Tech gave students more work than they could possibly handle alone; consequently, students were expected to help each other if they expected to pass. Sometimes the professors had to do the same if they expected to remain a step ahead.

Before he left, Dr. Chan tried once more to speak to Angela. "Does Dr. Molino have any classes tomorrow?" He asked.

"Tomorrow's Thursday." her voice carried a finality that suggested there was nothing more to be said; but she also leaned her head slightly to her left as if to offer a clue. To her left were a row of filing cabinets, a bulletin board, a large colorful chart of some kind, and a small calendar advertising chemical supplies. Was she indicating the calendar?

"I know that." Dr. Chan was still trying very hard to be polite, "What I wanted to know was if Dr. Molino had any classes tomorrow - on Thursday."

"Dr. Molino has no classes on Thursday." It was spoken as if it were a waste of her time having to phrase her sentence exactly as Dr. Chan had requested it. Dr. Chan nodded silently and left.

Chapter VI

Hoyle's Mathematics

That night, Dr. George Molino sat down with his computer and went through the exercise once again. He set up a mathematical colony of individuals assigning each a survival value. He programmed a random sequence of mutations and adjusted the survival pressure. And he watched. He modified the population size, mutation rate and survival pressure in every possible combination. And he watched again - and again.

Hoyle had been right, of course. The computer always showed the same result. If a large population of individuals could barely take advantage of favorable mutations, a smaller population certainly couldn't. Mathematics simply prohibited it. The larger the population, the larger the genetic target for favorable mutations. Those mutations would soon spread to the rest of the population. The more favorable mutations, the faster upward the evolution. Unfavorable mutations were, of course, weeded out quickly and had little to do with the rate. When parameters were selected to match California Condors at one extreme, or bacteria at the other, well, nature always did exactly what the equations predicted. It was lucky for the Condors that captive breeding had brought their numbers back up.

But the Inquisition would no more allow this as evidence than it would the very words of the Holy Scriptures. The computer program would just go over Charley's head. Biology professors were not supposed to come off like guardians of secret knowledge. Truth had to be perfectly obvious and transparent, even to a freshman. As the visible representative of the Dept. of Biological Heresies, George was required to convey the same "humility" they assumed. "You know, we could all be wrong," he could hear their admonition still echoing. "Humility indeed," he snorted to himself, "It's not 'humility' when I have to fight the battle and they enforce the rules!"

Sometimes he wished he hung out over on Wilbur's side of the campus. Unlike physics and engineering students, biology students were, for some dumb reason, not expected to minor in mathematics. That really needed to be changed! Maybe next year ... or the one after that.

But back to the problem at hand. How could he answer the specific objections which Charley intended to address in his semester project? God's creatures certainly were separated into different kinds, but the rules for identifying the boundaries had not been completely clear in all cases. Horses and donkeys bred mules. Did this mean they were all of the same kind? But mules were sterile. Did this prove the boundary? What about wolf-dogs and fox-dogs? His thoughts were growing too large for his study so he moved himself and them out into the garden.

There he acquisitoned an ornate cast-iron lounge and leaned back under the stars - such as they were. It was a beautiful night; but Pasadena was never the best place from which to watch stars. He had once spent hours starring at the Andromeda galaxy from the coastal State Park called El Capitan. The sky had been aflame with heaven's host and there had been an invigorating chill that night. It seemed years ago and now just a dying memory. There were certainly fewer stars visible from Pasadena - there was also much less chill.

Were all those other stars really still out there? George mused. Could objective reality cease to exist while he wasn't watching it? If real stars, as large and energetic as they were, could be impossible to see from Pasadena, then couldn't Charley be right about his evidence being invisible? Technically, yes, if one were careful not to look at the evidence from too many directions. At least it still contradicted the mathematics and the Scriptures! Or didn't George really understand either of those?

In his project outline, Charley had identified several weak areas where he planned to attack. For example, God had created marsupials only in Australia and South America. There certainly appeared to be something like a cause and effect connection between those different kinds; but that was not the same as saying there was no design involved. Random mutations simply didn't match the mathematical or Scriptural evidence. Or did he really know that?

What if there were no design? If he were not created in the image of an intelligent God, then in whose image? What if his very brain were a random accident with survival the only design criteria. Then what would his thoughts be? Obviously, nothing but a contrivance to survive. If Charley were right, would his thoughts even be logically valid? And if invalid, what could he ever know? What would truth or even morality be?

It didn't really matter. Whether or not his thoughts were valid, Dr. George Molino would have to stand before his inquisitors having acted truthfully and morally. That much was expected. He finally noticed he was tired and went off to bed.

What if indeed? What if there were no design or creator - above us only sky? What if our thoughts were no more than a contrivance to promote survival? Can a man under duress be trusted to always tell the truth? What if the human brain was designed under duress - by a million generations doing whatever was required, just to escape death? The ultimate duress - the ultimate result. Might our brains, the very seat of our logic and understanding, be willing to lie, even to ourselves, if they see an inch to be gained in promoting mere survival?

Questions similar to these kept Dr. George Molino up late for many nights to come. If Charley were right, then what was morality. If morality was a mental illusion to preserve survival, then Charley could be passed or failed on the simple criteria of which choice best served Dr. Molino's survival as a respected professor at Cathtech. So, if Charley were right, then it wouldn't matter morally whether Charley was right or wrong. Charley could be failed either way - if that made George's life easier. And if Charley were wrong, he could be failed because he was wrong. This made an easy solution, but was it the right solution? What was right? What was truth?

Dr. Molino knew what he had been taught, but the Inquisition had also warned him to always "test everything!" Did they mean this too? Everything was everything. But if his own mind could not be trusted, how then could it test itself? This was a very interesting problem - one which could only be answered if the answer happened to be that truth existed. If truth didn't exist, then he could never be certain that it didn't exist. George wasn't sure he could be sure about anything.

Fortunately, life for George continued with or without certainty. The daily routine of eating, sleeping and survival, mixed with a little seasonal excitement, finally performed the miracle of driving such thoughts from the front of George's mind. But, as we will see, not permanently.

Chapter VII

Charley

"Tan-gent, Cos-ine Hy-per-bol-ic Sine. Three Point One Four One Five Nine."

A few of the students were shouting the old school chant in the hallway just outside the main lecture hall in the building called "Bridge." Some of the freshmen might have thought the name had something to do with the bridge over the pond outside. It didn't.

Inside the hall, Dr. Molino stood between the multipaneled chalkboard and the enormous desk which separated him from the steeply pitched array of half-desk half-seats. These were now being quickly abandoned by the departing mob of biology students.

Chapter VIII

The Grant

Chapter IX

God's Creatures

Chapter X

What is Truth

Chapter XI

The Demonstration

Chapter XII

Games and Pranks

Chapter XIII

Fenris

Chapter XIV

Defeat

Chapter XV

Theories

Chapter XVI

Nightmare

Chapter XVII

Beckman

Chapter XVIII

The Light

Chapter XIX

Missing Pentagrams

Chapter XX

Phone Call

Chapter XXI

Visiting Deity

Chapter XXII

Hell Bent

Chapter XXIII

Creatures of Darkness

Chapter XXIV

Funeral

Chapter XXV

Supernova

Chapter XXVI

Final Conflict

Chapter XXVII

Epilogue