Among the other three panelists, two hands went up. “'Anything that is not expressly forbidden is possible,'“ said one, a young woman who might have been a model for one of the clothing companies. “But I think the likelihood is remote.”
The others nodded.
A hand waved in the audience. Another young woman. “If he could have actually gone to the other side, wouldn't he have taken someone with him? To serve as a witness? But nobody else disappeared that night. At least not on Virginia Island.”
The panelists looked at one another. The moderator drummed his fingers some more. “It's a valid point, Jessica,” he said. “But he might not have wanted to risk someone else's life until he was sure he could do it and return.”
I looked at Alex. “That's pretty wild stuff.”
“Gives the notion of the Universal Cab Company a whole new meaning,” he said.
A bearded man seated beside me wanted to know whether there was any truth to the claim that Robin had predicted the earthquake. That he knew it was coming because it was the result of colliding branes. At first I thought he was talking about people, but then I recalled that physicists use the term brane to indicate the edge of a universe. Assuming universes have edges.
The question went to a panelist named Bill. Bill was tall, thin, clearly well into his second century. “I've heard that story,” he said. “Can you cite a source, sir?”
“No,” he said. “I've tried. I've heard it often enough, but I don't know where it comes from.”
Bill looked at the other panelists. They shook their heads. All were familiar with it, and one even commented that it sounded plausible to her. But nobody could pin it down.
Another hand went up. A man with gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He had the mien of a department chairman. “The night Robin disappeared,” he said, “is it true he was returning from Skydeck?”
“That's correct.”
“Had he actually gone somewhere? Or was he just hanging out at the station?”
“He'd been out somewhere,” said Bill.
“Do we know where?”
“Nobody has any idea.”
Another hand went up. “What about the black holes?”
“What specifically were you referring to?” said the moderator.
“Robin's overall interest in them. What was that all about?”
“Hey,” said someone on the far side of the room, “who doesn't have a fascination with black holes?”
They all laughed. “Of course,” said a woman in back, “but is it true he spent time charting their courses? Their trajectories? Whatever?”
The moderator looked at the other panelists. The panelist who'd not thought it possible that Robin had crossed into another universe was middle-aged, well dressed, and wore a sardonic grin throughout the proceedings. Her nameplate identified her as Dr. Matthews. “It's true,” she responded. “He did do that.”
“Do we know why?”
“A hobby, I'd guess. Frankly, I'd be surprised if someone like Robin didn't have an interest in black holes.”
During the course of the evening, we saw a broadcast interview with Robin in which he dismissed the theory that the universe is a hologram. I was surprised that anyone had ever been able to take that idea seriously, but apparently there was some supporting evidence. “But,” said Robin, “there are alternative explanations for the evidence. There's a lot we still don't know, but sometimes one simply has to fall back on common sense.”
One of the speakers, Charlie Plunkett, identified as an engineer with Corbin Data, described an attempt by Robin to show that the voices in an allegedly haunted house might actually be connections with an alternate universe. “Unfortunately.” he said, “the results were inconclusive.”
In a program titled “Alternate Selves,” the panelists discussed the notion that, in an infinite sea of universes, every possibility, somewhere, would come to pass. That meant there were other editions of ourselves out there somewhere. We were consequently asked which of our alternate selves we would, if given the chance, choose to meet. Members of the audience opted for themselves as war heroes, entertainment superstars, lady-killers. The bearded guy beside me wanted to be CEO at Colossos, Inc. “Why? So that I never again have to deal with a boss.”
A substantial number wanted simply to meet a version of themselves who was accomplishing something that would be remembered. One admitted hoping that “it might still turn out to be me.” That drew applause.
When his turn came, Alex didn't surprise me: “I'll settle for where I am,” he said. “I love dealing with antiques.”
Then it was my turn. A few years back, I'd fallen in love for the one and only time in my life. And I let him get away. If I actually had the opportunity, I'd like to meet the Chase Kolpath who had held on to him, married him, and settled into a quiet life. I'd like very much to know how that would have turned out. But I wasn't going to say anything about it in front of that crowd, so I told them I'd enjoy spending an hour with the Kolpath who'd made a fortune as lead singer with the Bandoliers.
During that same panel, an historian went in a new direction. “His IQ is on the record,” he said. “It was over 260, too high for any human being. Maybe he didn't get carried off by a corporate giant. Or caught in another dimension. Maybe he simply went home.”
When I asked him later if he thought there might actually be something to that suggestion, he shook his head sadly. “No,” he said. “I wish I did.”
Shortly before he disappeared, Robin was interviewed by Todd Cunningham, the celebrated talk-show host who, at the time, was at the very beginning of his career. Robin looked better in motion than he did in the still pictures. He seemed relaxed, amiable, a guy with a sense of humor. A large smile appeared when Cunningham asked him why he persisted in saying things that left him open to criticism by his colleagues.
“I'm not sure they're my colleagues,” Robin said.
“Other scientists, then.” Cunningham smiled in the self-deprecating manner that suggests his guest is twisting the truth, and that had since become his trademark.
Robin allowed himself to look uncomfortable, but I got the sense he was in complete control. “There's no easy way to say this, Todd, but the reality is that most of us, even physicists, maybe especially physicists, aren't generally open to new ideas. We think every important discovery was made during the Golden Age. That nothing of any significance remains to be found.”
“You're saying that's wrong?”
“I hope it's wrong. I really do. I'd hate to think there's nothing left for us to learn.”
“Do you hope to provide us with a breakthrough somewhere, Chris?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And what might that be?”
“I don't know. If I knew, I'd tell you now.”
“When will you know?”
He smiled. “Maybe after Uriel.”
“Uriel?”
“When I have something, Todd, I'll be in touch.”
Cunningham frowned. “What's Uriel, Chris? Are you talking about the angel?”
“I'll let you know-”
Alex found an astronomer, a quiet, dark-skinned woman who seemed out of place amid all the jokes and exaggerations. Her name was Silvia, and I suspected she'd been talked into coming. More or less like me. “Silvia,” he said, “what is Uriel?”
She looked pleased to have someone ask a straightforward question. “It's a dwarf star, Alex. Six and a half light-years from here. Maybe a little less.”
“Any planets?”
“A few. Nothing habitable. At least there wasn't the last time I looked.” We could hear laughter in the next room. The end of the evening was approaching. “And there's nothing unusual about it that I know of.”
“You have any idea what Robin was talking about?”
She shook her head. “None whatever. And neither does anybody else. I've seen this interview before, and I can't imagine what he's referring to. I'm not even sure he means the star. Maybe you need to ask an historian. Or a theologian.” She grinned. “Maybe the theologian would be your best bet.”