Collected Short Fiction, page 952
The longest of the aliens proffered a ball of dried orange fungus the size of Schwartz’s thumbnail.
“It is an equivalent dose. We give it to you.”
“Equivalent to all three of my tablets, or to one?”
“Equivalent. It will give you peace.”
Schwartz smiled. There was a time for asking questions and a time for unhesitating action. He took the fungus and reached for a glass of water.
“Wait!” Pitkin cried, appearing suddenly. “What are you—”
“Too late,” Schwartz said serenely, and swallowed the Spican drug in one joyous gulp.
The nightmares go on and on. He circles the Earth like the Flying Dutchman, like the Wandering Jew, skyport to skyport to skyport, an unending voyage from nowhere to nowhere. Obliging com mittees meet him and convey him to his hotel. Sometimes the committee members are contemporary types, indistinguishable from one another, with standard faces, standard clothing, the all- purpose new-model hybrid unihuman, and sometimes they are consciously ethnic, elaborately decked out in feathers and paint and tribal emblems, but their faces, too, are standard behind the gaudy regalia, their slang is the slang of Uganda and Tierra del Fuego and Nepal, and it seems to Schwartz that these masqueraders are, if anything, less authentic, less honest, than the other sort, who at least are true representatives of their era. So it is hopeless either way. He lashes at his pillow, he groans, he wakens. Instantly Dawn’s arms enfold him. He sobs incoherent phrases into her clavicle and she murmurs soothing sounds against his forehead. He is having some sort of breakdown, he realizes: a new crisis of values, a shattering of the philosophical synthesis that has allowed him to get through the last few years. He is bound to the wheel; he spins, he spins, he spins, traversing the continents, getting nowhere. There is no place to go. No. There is one, just one, a place where he will find peace, where the universe will be as he needs it to be. Go there, Schwartz. Go and stay as long as you can. “Is there anything I can do?” Dawn asks. He shivers and shakes his head. “Take this,” she says, and gives him some sort of pill. Another tranquilizer. All right. All right. The world has turned to porcelain. His skin feels like a plastic coating. Away, away, to the ship. To the ship! “So long,” Schwartz says.
Outside the ship the Capellans twist and spin in their ritual dance as, weightless and without mass, they are swept toward the rim of the galaxy at nine times the velocity of light. They move with a grace that is astonishing for creatures of such tremendous bulk. A dazzling light that emanates from the center of the universe strikes their glossy skin and, rebounding, resonates all up and down the spectrum, splintering into brilliant streamers of ultra red, infraviolet, exoyellow. All the cosmos glows and shimmers. A single perfect note of music comes out of the remote distance and, growing closer, swells in an infinite crescendo. Schwartz trembles at the beauty of all he perceives.
Beside him stands the seal-slick Antarean. She—definitely she, no doubt of it, she—plucks at his arm and whispers, “Will you go to them?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
“So will I. Wherever you go.”
“Now,” Schwartz says. He reaches for the lever that opens the hatch. He pulls down. The side of the starship swings open.
The Antarean looks deep into his eyes and says blissfully, “I never told you my name. My name is Dawn.”
Together they float through the hatch into space.
The blackness receives them gently. There is no chill, no pressure at the lungs, no discomfort at all. He is surrounded by luminous surges, by throbbing mantles of pure color, as though he has entered the heart of an aurora. He and Dawn swim toward the Capellans, and the huge beings welcome them with deep, glad, booming cries. Dawn joins the dance at once, moving her sinuous limbs with extravagant ease; Schwartz will do the same in a moment, but first he turns to face the starship, hanging in space close by him like a vast coppery needle, and in a voice that could shake universes he calls, “Come, friends! Come, all of you! Come dance with us!” And they come, pouring through the hatch, the Spicans first, then all the rest, the infinite multitude of beings, the travelers from Fomalhaut and Achernar and Acrux and Aldebaran, from Thuban and Arcturus and Altair, from Polaris and Canopus and Sirius and Rigel, hundreds of star-creatures spilling happily out of the vessel, bursting forth, all of them, even Pitkin, poor little Pitkin, everyone joining hands and tentacles and tendrils and whatever, forming a great ring of light across space, everyone locked in a cosmic harmony, everyone dancing. Dancing. Dancing.
1975
The Stochastic Man
This new novel, like much of Robert Silverberg’s recent work, deals with one of the classic themes of science fiction, in this case, precognition. That it treats the theme with uncommon range and depth is also typical of Silverberg’s work. Here, then, is a story about two men who can see the future and how this awesome gift affects them and those around them in a turn-of-the-century New York City.
It is remarkable that a science which began with the consideration of games of chance should have become the most important object of human knowledge. . . . The most important questions of life are, for the most part, really only problems of probability.
—Laplace: TheorieAnalytique des Probabilities
Once a man learns to see he finds himself alone in the world with nothing but folly.
—Castaneda: A Separate Reality
1.
We are born by accident into a purely random universe. Our lives are determined by entirely fortuitous combinations of genes. Whatever happens happens by chance. The concepts of cause and effect are fallacies. There are only seeming causes leading to apparent effects. Since nothing truly follows from anything else, we swim each day through seas of chaos, and nothing is predictable, not even the events of the very next instant.
Do you believe that?
If you do, I pity you, because yours must be a bleak and terrifying and comfortless life.
I think I once believed something very much like that, when I was about seventeen and the world seemed hostile and incomprehensible. I think I once believed that the universe is a gigantic dice game, without purpose or pattern, into which we foolish mortals interpose the comforting notion of causality for the sake of supporting our precarious, fragile sanity. I think I once felt that in this random, capricious cosmos we’re lucky to survive from hour to hour, let alone from year to year, because at any moment, without warning or reason, the sun might go nova or the world turn into a great blob of petroleum jelly. Faith and good works are insufficient, indeed irrelevant; anything might befall anyone at any time; therefore live for the moment and take no heed of tomorrow, for it takes no heed of you.
A cynical philosophy, and adolescent, too. Adolescent cynicism is mainly a defense against fear. As I grew older, I suppose I found the world less frightening, and I became less cynical. I regained some of the innocence of childhood and accepted, as any child accepts, the concept of causality. Push the baby and the baby falls down. Cause and effect. Kick the football hard and it sails through the air. Cause and effect, cause and effect. The universe, I conceded, may be without purpose, but certainly not without pattern. Thus I took my first steps on the road that led me to my career and thence into politics and from there to the teachings of the all-seeing Martin Carvajal, that dark and tortured man who now rests in the peace he dreaded. It was Carvajal who brought me to the place in space and time I occupy on this day.
2.
My name is Lew Nichols. I have light sandy hair, dark eyes, no significant identifying scars, and I stand exactly two meters tall. I was married—two-group—to Sundara Shastri. We had no children and now we are separated, no decree. My current age is not quite 35 years. I was born in New York City on 1 January 1966 at 0216 hours. Earlier that evening two simultaneous events of historic magnitude were recorded in New York: the inauguration of the glamorous and famous Mayor John Lindsay and the onset of the great, catastrophic first New York subway strike. Do you believe in simultaneity? I do. There’s no stochasticity without simultaneity, and no sanity either. If we try to see the universe as an aggregation of unrelated happenings, a sparkling pointillist canvas of noncausality, we’re lost.
My mother was due to deliver in mid-January, but I arrived two weeks ahead of time, most inconveniently for my parents, who had to get to the hospital in the small hours of New Year’s Eve in a city suddenly deprived of public transport. If their predictive techniques had been keener, they might have thought of renting a car that evening. If Mayor Lindsay had been using better predictive techniques, I suppose the poor bastard would have resigned at his own swearing-in and saved himself years of headaches.
3.
Causality is a decent, honorable principle, but it doesn’t have all the answers. If we want to make sense of things, we have to move on beyond it. We have to recognize that many important phenomena refuse to be packed into neat causal packages but can be interpreted only by stochastic methods.
A system in which events occur according to a law of probability but aren’t individually determined in accordance with the principle of causality is a stochastic system. The daily rising of the sun isn’t a stochastic event: it’s inflexibly and invariably determined by the relative positions of the earth and the sun in the heavens, and once we understand the causal mechanism, there’s no risk in predicting that the sun will rise tomorrow and the next day and the next. We can even predict the exact time of sunrise, and we don’t guess it, we know it in advance. The tendency of water to flow downhill isn’t a stochastic event either: it’s a function of gravitational attraction, which we hold to be a constant. But there are many areas where causality fails us and stochasticity must come to our rescue.
For instance, we’re unable to predict the movements of any one molecule in a liter of oxygen, but with some understanding of kinetic theory we can confidently anticipate the behavior of the whole liter. We have no way of foretelling when a particular uranium atom will undergo radioactive decay, but we can calculate quite accurately how many atoms in a block of U-235 will disintegrate in the next ten thousand years. We don’t know what the next spin of the roulette wheel will bring, but the house has a good idea of what its take is likely to be over the course of a long evening. All sorts of processes, however unpredictable they may seem on a minute-by-minute or case-by-case basis, are predictable by stochastic techniques.
Stochastic. According to the Oxford English Dictionary this word was coined in 1662 and is now rare or obs. Don’t believe it. It’s the OED that’s obs., not stochastic, which gets less obs. every day. The word is from the Greek, originally meaning “target” or “point of aim,” from which the Greeks derived a word meaning “to aim at a mark,” and, by metaphorical extension, “to reflect, to think.” It came into English first as a fancy way of saying “pertaining to guesswork,” as in Whitefoot’s remark about Sir Thomas Browne in 1712: “Tho’ he were no prophet . . . yet in that faculty which comes nearest it, he excelled, i.e., the stochastick, wherein he was seldom mistaken, as to future events.”
In the immortal words of Ralph Cudworth (1617-1688), “There is need and use of this stochastical judging and opinion concerning truth and falsehood in human life.” Those whose way of life is truly stochastic are prudent and judicious, and tend never to generalize from a skimpy sample. As Jacques Bernoulli demonstrated early in the eighteenth century, an isolated event is no harbinger of anything, but the greater your sampling of events the more likely you are to guess the true distribution of phenomena within your sample.
So much for probability theory. I pass swiftly and uneasily over Poisson distributions, the Central Limit Theorem, the Kolmogorov axioms, Ehrenhaft games, Markov chains, the Pascal triangle, and all the rest. I mean to spare you such mathematical convolutions. (“Let p be the probability of the happening of an event in a single trial, and let s be the number of times the event is observed to happen in n trials. . . .”) My point is only that the pure stochastician teaches himself to observe what we at the Center for Stochastic Processes have come to call the Bernoulli Interval, a pause during which we ask ourselves, Do I really have enough data to draw a valid conclusion?
I’m executive secretary of the Center, which was incorporated four months ago, in August, 2000. Carvajal’s money pays our expenses. For now we occupy a five-room house in a rural section of northern New Jersey, and I don’t care to be more specific about the location. Our aim is to find ways of reducing the Bernoulli Interval to zero: that is, to make guesses of ever-increasing accuracy on the basis of an ever-decreasing statistical sample; or, to put it another way, to move from probabilistic to absolute prediction; or, rephrasing it yet again, to replace guesswork with clairvoyance.
So we work toward poststochastic abilities. What Carvajal taught me is that stochasticity isn’t the end of the line: it’s merely a phase, soon to pass, in our striving toward full revelation of the future, in our struggle to free ourselves from the tyranny of randomness. In the absolute universe all events can be regarded as absolutely deterministic, and if we can’t perceive the greater structures, it’s because our vision is faulty. If our perceptions of cause and effect were only good enough, we’d be able to attain absolute knowledge of what is to come. We would make ourselves all-seeing.
4.
Carvajal is dead now, dying exactly when and as he knew he would. I am still here, and I think I know how I will die too, but I’m not altogether sure of it, and in any case it doesn’t seem to matter to me the way it did to him. He never had the strength that was necessary to sustain his visions. He was just a burned-out little man with tired eyes and a drained smile, who had a gift that was too big for his soul, and it was the gift that killed him as much as anything. If I truly have inherited that gift, I hope I make a better job of living with it than he did.
Carvajal is dead, but I’m alive and will be for some time to come. All about me flutter the indistinct towers of the New York of twenty years hence, glittering in the pale light of mornings not yet born. I look at the dull porcelain bowl of the winter sky and see images of my own face, grown much older. So I am not about to vanish. I have a considerable future. I know that the future is a place as fixed and intransient and accessible as the past. Because I know this I’ve abandoned the wife I loved and given up the profession that was making me rich and acquired the enmity of Paul Quinn, potentially the most dangerous man in the world, Quinn who will be elected President of the United States four years from now. I’m not afraid of Quinn personally. He won’t be able to harm me. He may harm democracy and free speech, but he won’t harm me. I feel guilty because I will have helped put Quinn in the White House, but at least I’ll share that guilt with you and you and you, with your blind mindless votes that you’ll live to wish you could call back. Never mind. We can survive Quinn. I’ll show the way. It will be my form of atonement. I can save you all from chaos, even now, even with Quinn astride the horizon and growing more huge every day.
5.
I was into probabilities for seven years, professionally, before I ever heard of Martin Carvajal. My business from the spring of 1992 onward was projections. I can look at the acorn and see the stack of firewood: it’s a gift I have. For a fee, I would tell you whether I think particle chips will continue to be a growth industry, whether it’s a good idea to open a tattooing parlor in Topeka, whether the fad for bare scalps is going to last long enough to make it worthwhile for you to expand your San Jose depilator factory.
My father liked to say, “A man doesn’t choose his life. His life chooses him.”
Maybe. I never expected to go into the prophecy trade. I never really expected to go into anything. My father feared I’d be a wastrel. Certainly it looked that way the day I collected my college diploma (NYU ’86). I sailed through my three years of college not knowing at all what I wanted to do with my life, other than that it ought to be something communicative, creative, lucrative, and reasonably useful to society. I didn’t want to be a novelist, a teacher, an actor, a lawyer, a stockbroker, a general, or a priest. Industry and finance didn’t attract me, medicine was beyond my capabilities, politics seemed vulgar and blatant. I knew my skills, which are primarily verbal and conceptual, and I knew my needs, which are primarily security-oriented and privacy-oriented. I was and am bright, outgoing, alert, energetic, willing to work hard, and candidly opportunistic, though not, I hope, opportunistically candid. But I was missing a focus, a defining point, when college turned me loose.
A man’s life chooses him. I had always had an odd knack for uncanny hunches; by easy stages I turned that into my livelihood. As a summer fill-in job I did some part-time polltaking; one day in the office I happened to make a few astute comments about the pattern the raw data was showing, and my boss invited me to prepare a projective sampling template for the next step of the poll. That’s a program that tells you what sort of questions you ought to ask in order to get the answers you need. When one of my employer’s big clients asked me to quit and do free-lance consulting work, I took the chance. From there to my own full-time consulting firm was only a matter of months.
When I was in the projection business, many uninformed folk thought I was a pollster. No. Pollsters worked for me, a whole platoon of hired gallups. They were to me as millers are to a baker: they sorted the wheat from the chaff; I produced the seven-layer cakes. Using data samples collected by the usual quasi-scientific methods, I derived far-ranging predictions, I made intuitive leaps, in short I guessed, and guessed well. There was money in it, but also I felt a kind of ecstasy. When I confronted a mound of raw samples from which I had to pull a major projection, I felt like a diver plunging off a high cliff into a sparkling blue sea, seeking a glittering gold doubloon hidden in the white sand far below the waves: my heart pounded, my mind whirled, my body and my spirit underwent a quantum kick into a higher, more intense energy state. Ecstasy.
