Mr g Read Free

dot. Then, with a faint pop, it disappeared altogether. I was delighted. I made other universes. With each one, I tried a different variation. To some, I gave a slight lateral nudge. To others, a bit of extra spin. Some I squeezed just at the moment of creation, to add a smidgeon of energy. In some, I even altered the number of dimensions of space: four, seven, sixteen, to see what might happen. And why not try fractional dimensions, like 13.8. Some universes never came into being, unable to accommodate all the initial conditions. Some leaped into existence with a frightening energy and then petered out. Some remained flaccid from the beginning; others careered through the Void, producing high-pitched trills and vibratos. One universe remained constant in size but spun faster and faster until it split apart at its midsection. Several began expanding, then contracted down to almost nothing, hesitated, and expanded again in a kind of frothy rebirth—then repeated the entire cycle, expansion, contraction, expansion, contraction, on and on in an unending series of births, destructions, and rebirths.
    After a time, a gigantic number of universes were flying about—spinning on their axes, throbbing and pulsing, expanding and contracting at fantastic speed. My aunt was nowhere to be seen. Uncle Deva, as sympathetic as he was to my enterprise, had ducked for cover. In short order, as seemed almost inevitable, some of the universes began colliding with others. Each collision made a terrific explosion, sending fragments of worlds hurtling through the Void, oscillating dimensions, fractured energies.
    It occurred to me that I had not carefully considered whether I should make one universe or many. Perhaps I should have been more circumspect. One universe would avoid the possibility of collisions, but then again it might become boring. One universe would have one truth. Many would have many truths. There were advantages and disadvantages to both propositions.
    I sat down, centered myself, and began mulling over the matter. Then I meditated. I tried to let all thoughts flow from my mind. I breathed in the Void, breathed out the Void. Breathed in the Void, breathed out the Void. Slowly, I grew calm. A peace spread over the Void. Aunt and Uncle appeared as tiny lights, dancing together to a waltz in andante, and a peace descended on them as well, and the Void settled and sighed and drifted in unwinding time. I breathed in and I breathed out and I came to the decision that there should be only One, one universe, and the myriad temporal universes that I had made faded and dissolved, and the one universe remained.
    And then, while still meditating, I decided to create quantum physics. Although I keenly appreciated the certainty of logic and clear definition, I also felt that the sharp edges of existence needed some rounding. I wanted a bit of artistic ambiguity in my creations, a measured diffusion. Perhaps quantum physics invented itself. It was gorgeous in mathematical terms. And subtle. As soon as I had created quantum physics, all objects—even though objects at that point existed only in my mind—billowed out and swelled into a haze of indefinite position. All certainties changed into probabilities, and my thoughts bifurcated into dualities: yes and no, brittle and supple, on and off. Henceforth, things could be hither and yon at the same time. The One became Many. And a great softening blanket of indeterminancy wrapped itself over the Void. My breathing slowed to a sleepy imperceptibility. Listening carefully, I could hear a billion billion tiny rattles and tinklings from all over the Void, the sound of new universes waiting to be. With the invention of quantum, each point of the Void had developed the potential to become a new universe, and that potentiality could not be denied. My creation of time, and then space, had made a universe possible—and that possibility alone, nestled within the quantum foam of the Void, was sufficient