Antiphony Read Free

thought-problem to some arbitrary amount of time, such as one second. And then he would be able to say that the wavelength of one photon is equal to the Planck length, which is the smallest possible length in the universe: 1.6 × 10 --35 meters. The Planck length is the distance a photon travels in a Planck time, which is the shortest possible time in the universe. So, from here he can simply divide a cubic centimeter by the Planck length and divide a second by the Planck time, multiply those two numbers together, and voilà, he has his answer. The calculations would only take a couple of minutes to set up on a laptop computer.
    Having reduced this problem to a set of easily knowable computations, he sets forth down the corridor that leads to the elevator that will lift him to his hotel room and his notes. He is reassured by the fact that everything is knowable—everything can be found.
    This hallway is much dimmer than the main lobby, and it takes his eyes a moment to adjust. There is a quiet, muffled air here, away from the hubbub of people checking in or checking out and bellmen hoisting luggage onto their gleaming brass carts.
    Then, as his pupils widen to allow a few more particles of light in, the problem of his little transparent cubic centimeterbox comes at him again from another, more philosophical angle. The thought that enters his head is disturbing enough that he mentally holds it away from himself for a moment, a horrifying sight he must avoid seeing. Is it not true, according to quantum theory, that the probability wave of each photon fills the entire universe? So, when he looks at it from that perspective, the answer to the problem jumps from a certain discrete, knowable number all the way to infinity.
    How many photons can fit in a cubic centimeter?
    The answer is… all of them.
    This is the kind of maddening thought that keeps him awake at night. The job of the physicist must have been so easy in the days before relativity and quantum theory were conjured up to wrestle with each other at opposite ends of the physical scale of the universe. Every time he feels he has an answer to a problem like this he is toying with, it seems to flip around on itself and turn into something entirely different, depending on which way he is looking at it, like the snake that circles around to eat its own tail. The thought of all the photons in the universe crowding into his little see-through box has released a slippery sensation in his abdomen; a set of heavy, wet washrags, it seems, are sliding against one another in his gut, and he is suddenly seized by a tremendous urge to defecate, just as the bell sounds its beckoning tone and the doors to the elevator slither open. Perhaps he can get in and make it up to his room. He calculates a moment and decides against it. He really does have to go—now.
    Fearing the worst, Theodore looks around for a bathroom, there must be one nearby. There, just down the hall. He stridesquickly towards the paired doors and charges into the bright, tiled room, grateful to find that all the stalls are empty. He slides the bolt into place and drops his trousers to the floor, twisting his boxers around the dark socks on his ankles as he falls back upon the toilet seat with not a moment to spare, the contents of his bowels spilling into the echoing bowl full of water with a thundering sound loud enough that he wonders whether anyone outside the bathroom can hear it.
    Lately, he has found himself to be ravenous, eating a huge meal for dinner, like the steak he had last night, and following it up with another big meal for breakfast—two eggs over easy, sausage links, bacon, toast, juice and coffee—and he wonders where it all goes. He hasn’t gained an ounce. He has always had a tight-knit, wiry sort of body, but he’s been eating twice as much as usual. Then, after these huge meals, he will find himself at an inopportune moment such as this, strapped in to an airplane or