Phase Space. Stephen Baxter
saw it. He was guided by Virgil –’
‘Who?’
The Monsignor said, ‘The greatest Latin poet. You must have heard of the Aeneid. The significance to Dante was that Virgil was a pagan: he died before Christ was born. No matter how wise and just Virgil was, he could never ascend to Heaven, as Dante could, because he never knew Christ.’
‘Seems harsh.’
The Monsignor managed a grin. ‘Dante wasn’t making the rules.’
Himmelfarb said, ‘Dante reaches Satan in Hell, at the centre of the Earth. Then, with Virgil, he climbs a tunnel to a mountain in the southern hemisphere –’
‘This one.’
‘Yes.’ Himmelfarb shielded her eyes. ‘The Paradiso, the last book, starts here. And it was when my translation reached this point that the thing I’d put in my head woke up.’
‘What are you talking about?’
The priest grinned like a teenager. ‘Let me show you my laboratory. Come on.’ And she turned and plunged into the forest.
Irritated, Philmus followed.
In the mouth of the wood it was dark. The ground, coated with leaves and mulch, gave uncomfortably under her feet.
The Monsignor walked with her. He said, ‘Dante was a study assignment. Eva was a Jesuit, officer. Her science was unquestioned in its quality. But her faith was weak.’
Himmelfarb looked back. ‘So there you have your answer, Monsignor,’ she called. ‘I am the priest who lost her faith, and destroyed herself.’ She spread her hands. ‘Why not release me now?’
Boyle ignored her.
The light was changing.
The mulch under Philmus’s feet had turned, unnoticed, to a thick carpet. And the leaves on the trees had mutated to the pages of books, immense rows of them.
They broke through into a rambling library.
Himmelfarb laughed. ‘Welcome to the Secret Archive of the Vatican, officer Philmus.’
They walked through the Archive.
Readers, mostly in lay clothes, were scattered sparsely around the rooms, with Virtual documents glittering in the air before them, page images turning without rustling.
Philmus felt like a tourist.
Himmelfarb spun in the air. ‘A fascinating place,’ she said to Philmus. ‘Here you will find a demand for homage to Genghis Khan, and Galileo’s recantation … After two thousand years I doubt that anybody knows all the secrets stored here.’
Philmus glanced at Boyle, but his face was impassive.
Himmelfarb went on, ‘This is also the heart of the Vatican’s science effort. It may seem paradoxical to you that there is not necessarily a conflict between the scientific world-view and the Christian. In Dante’s Aristotelian universe, the Earth is the physical centre of all things, but God is the spiritual centre. Just as human nature has twin poles, of rationality and dreams. Dante’s universe, the product of a thousand years of contemplation, was a model of how these poles could be united; in our time this seems impossible, but perhaps after another millennium of meditation on the meaning of our own new physics, we might come a little closer. What do you think?’
Philmus shrugged. ‘I’m no Catholic.’
‘But,’ said Himmelfarb, ‘you are troubled by metaphysics. The state of my electronic soul, for instance. You have more in common with me than you imagine, officer.’
They reached a heavy steel door. Beyond it was a small, glass-walled vestibule; there were sinks, pegs and lockers. And beyond that lay a laboratory, stainless steel benches under the grey glow of fluorescent lights. The lab looked uncomfortably sharp-edged by contrast with the building which contained it.
With confidence, Himmelfarb turned and walked through the glass wall into the lab. Philmus followed. The wall was a soap-bubble membrane that stretched over her face, then parted softly, its edge stroking her skin.
Much of the equipment was anonymous lab stuff – rows of grey boxes – incomprehensible to Philmus. The air was warm, the only smell an antiseptic subtext.
They reached a glass wall that reached to the ceiling. Black glove sleeves, empty, protruded from the wall like questing fingers. Beyond the wall was an array of tiny vials, with little robotic manipulators wielding pipettes, heaters and stirrers running on tracks around them. If the array was as deep as it was broad, Philmus thought, there must be millions of the little tubes in there.
Himmelfarb stood before the wall. ‘My pride and joy,’ she said dryly. ‘Or it would be if pride wasn’t a sin. The future of information processing, officer, perhaps of consciousness itself …’
‘And all of it,’ said the Monsignor, ‘inordinately expensive. All those enzymes, you know.’
‘It looks like a DNA computer,’ Philmus said.
‘Exactly right,’ Himmelfarb said. ‘The first experiments date back to the last century. Did you know that? The principle is simple. DNA strands, or fragments of strands, will spontaneously link in ways that can be used to model real-world problems. We might model your journey to Rome, officer, from –’
‘San Francisco.’
The air filled with cartoons, twisting molecular spirals.
‘I would prepare strands of DNA, twenty or more nucleotide bases long, each of which would represent a possible transit point on your journey – Los Angeles, New York, London, Paris – or one of the possible paths between them.’
The strands mingled, and linked into larger molecules, evidently modelling the routes Philmus could follow.
‘The processing and storage capacity of such machines is huge. In a few grams of DNA I would have quadrillions of solution molecules –’
‘And somewhere in there you’d find a molecule representing my best journey.’
‘And there’s the rub. I have to find the single molecule which contains the answer I seek. And that can take seconds, an eternity compared to the fastest silicon-based machines.’ The cartoons evaporated. Himmelfarb pushed her Virtual hand through the wall and ran her fingers through the arrays of tubes, lovingly. ‘At any rate, that is the challenge.’
Monsignor Boyle said, ‘We – that is, the Pontifical Academy – funded Eva’s research into the native information processing potential of human DNA.’
‘Native?’
Abruptly the lab, the wall of vials, crumbled and disappeared; a hail of pixels evaporated, exposing the Edenic forest once more.
Philmus winced in the sunlight. What now? She felt disoriented, weary from the effort of trying to track Himmelfarb’s grasshopper mind.
Himmelfarb smiled and held out her hand to Philmus. ‘Let me show you what I learned from my study of Dante.’ The young priest’s Virtual touch was too smooth, too cool, like plastic.
The Monsignor seemed to be moaning again. Or perhaps he was praying.
‘Look at the sun,’ said Himmelfarb.
Philmus lifted her face, and stared into the sun, which was suspended high above Eden’s trees. She forced her eyes open.
It wasn’t real light. It carried none of the heat and subtle weight of sunlight. But the glare filled her head.
She saw Himmelfarb; she looked as if she was haloed.
Then she looked down.
They were rising, as if in some glass-walled elevator.
They were already above the