The existence of a Superworld is nothing I can prove, but at least my hypothesis is self-consistent.
Let’s look at the other formula. We find that in this Superworld Zero the number of Significant Names equals 120, that is, 1. Again 1! How is that to be understood, one Name for everyone?
I looked in the encyclopedia. It says there that the Significant Name is the emblem of a person’s fate. It tells how a person’s death will come. Flued, for example, means “From water,” Udarvan means “From lightning.” No exception to the Rule of Names has been recorded. Had there ever been one, it would have been remembered throughout the generations.
But one Name only for the inhabitants of Superworld Zero? What could it say about the death of each, so that the information would be common to all, true for all?
The message could be only “You will die.” Only that information is common to every death.
To sum up: If there exists a Superworld Zero (a world having the number N = 0), then it is homogeneous, not divided into Lands in which every person must spend a portion of his life. Each inhabitant may live in any place, at any time, in Superworld Zero. And secondly: No one knows what he will die of; he knows only that he will die. What do you think, Dave? Would you like such a world?
Actually, the difference is not so great, Gavein thought. A Name contains such general information about one’s death that few conclusions can be drawn from it. Only after the fact does it become evident that the Rule of the Name was fulfilled. And the number of Lands? If we didn’t have to move, life wouldn’t be so very different. But it’s more interesting to move… You travel, you get to know a new Land, a new way of life. If people didn’t have to move every thirty-five years, a lot of them wouldn’t stick their nose outside their door. Imagine the isolationism!
He grew serious. Had Ra Mahleiné and he not had to move from Lavath to Davabel, she would not have traveled by prison ship. Would not have been beaten. Would not have got cancer. They would have been a normal, happy couple…
112
The pistol worked. Gary tried it out at a distant garbage dump. He applied for a gun permit at the police station. Cukurca OK’d the application: the professional opinion of a psychiatrist was needed to establish the existence of a mental disorder—such as a persecution complex—but Gary’s last beating had left clear marks on his face.
One day Daphne sent Gary down to the Tunics for some chili.
Jutta led him to the kitchen, rummaged among the shelves. Unlike Margot, she had a thick band of hair on her shaven head, from front to back. It was tied in a braid that fell to her shoulders.
“Look, Gary, what we just bought,” she said, friendly. If not for their dress and hair, both girls would have been normal, even nice.
In a corner of the living room stood a tall clock with brass columns and a blue ceramic face. He felt a chill.
“It was on discount at Morley’s,” she said proudly. “Just for us, because we’re one of their best customers. I love that blue, don’t you? It’s like the clock is smiling.”
For Gary it was the grin of a skull. And he had never heard of anyone’s receiving an exclusive discount from Morley’s. He said nothing.
With Cukurca’s approval he got his gun permit. He intended to practice at a police firing range. Unfortunately his pistol didn’t pass inspection. Although he had cleaned and polished the weapon with care, it was more a danger to the person shooting than to the person shot at. The pistol was taken from him, but Cukurca made it possible for Gary to buy a used Lupar Attac, a powerful fifteen-cartridge gun, police-issue.
Gary paid to take a course on shooting. Every day, unless he was on a run, he’d be at the police firing range. Meanwhile Daphne spent hours at his place working on an article. So he could only meet Sabine right before or right after shooting practice. Balloch, the instructor, said that Gary was making excellent progress, but Gary doubted that. Aiming wasn’t easy, since with his strabismus he had no depth perception. Also, he had difficulty concentrating at the range; he would think about his next rendezvous with Sabine, or about how much time he could spend with her without Daphne growing suspicious.
Sabine, as he got to know her better and won her over more, became more and more interesting. She had a good body: slender hips, shapely breasts. There were some freckles on her back and chest—but a lot fewer than Daphne had. She was full of life and quite intelligent. When he stopped noticing her colorless hair and pink eyes, he saw a lovely girl.
Obviously this arrangement could not go on forever: an hour here, an hour there wasn’t enough for Sabine. Gary knew what he should do, but out of laziness or cowardice, or both, he put off speaking with Daphne.
113
Talk about cold water in my face. My notes could be published under the title “Letters from Zef to Dave about the Book; or, The Wave Theory of Stupidity.”
Babcock informed me that my topic is an old idea. Two hundred years old. Some Bonacci Junior, professor at a university in Llanaig, came up with the series. And he did it better than I did, because mine doesn’t begin at the beginning. I should have figured that out, damn it!
The correct series is:
1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, …
You need two 1s at the beginning for their sum to make 2. The author of Nest of Worlds knew this form of the series, having had at his disposal the works of Bonacci Junior.
114
Daphne worked till dawn. The article had grown considerably—it could be published now in two or three hefty installments. She kept making corrections and retyped the most marked-up pages. Gary couldn’t doze off because of the clatter of the keys. But he had to stay there; Daphne wouldn’t allow him to go lie down. He spent the night in the armchair, drinking beer after beer as long as there were cans in the refrigerator. When he closed his eyes, he saw Sabine’s breasts, then stopped seeing them—only gray fatigue was left, and the beer ran out.
Daphne, bent over the machine, muttered phrases. Sometimes she crossed or whited something out and put a new page in the noisy roller. She was exhausted, but the end was in sight, so she couldn’t stop. Cold sweat covered her pale forehead.
Sunlight was coming in when she sat back with relief and said, “Finally.” She smiled at him and made a circle with thumb and finger.
Gary lifted his weary, swollen eyes and gave a weak smile. “Tomorrow it begins,” he said. “We’ll get police protection, for sure, against the gang. I’ll take this to Cukurca.”
“Day after tomorrow. It won’t make tomorrow’s paper.”
He nodded agreement. Then his head fell, and he was snoring.
Daphne put the manuscript in order, threw off most of her clothes, and wriggled under the cold blanket. She had trouble sleeping, because it was getting brighter with every minute, the night retreating to the dark corners. She shivered, first from the cold, then from the tormenting pang of hunger, then all sorts of disconnected thoughts ran through her head. At last she lost hold of reality.
115
At the publisher, she spoke to the man who had temporarily replaced the editor-in-chief. Her article was rejected—that is, it was accepted, but only on the condition of so many changes that she would have had to redo the whole thing.