Weaver (2 page)

PROLOGUE

APRIL 1940

The boy slept beside the calculating engine.

Rory walked into the room. The sleeper, Ben Kamen, lay slumped over his desk, bulky volumes of physics journals opened around him, pages of foolscap covered with his spidery Germanic handwriting.

Crammed full of the components of the Analyser, the room smelled sharply of electricity, an ozone tang that reminded Rory of the wind off the Irish Sea. But this was Cambridge, Massachusetts, and he was in MIT, an oasis of immense concrete buildings. He was a long way indeed from Ireland. Nobody knew he was here, what he was doing. His heart hammered, but his senses were clear, and he seemed to see every detail of the cluttered, brightly lit room.

He turned away from Ben to the bank of electromechanical equipment that dominated the room. The Differential Analyser was an engine for thinking. There were tables like draughtsmen’s workbenches, and banks of gears and wheels, rods and levers. This clattering machine modelled the world in the spinning of these wheels, the engaging of those gears. Earlier in the day Rory had fed it the data it needed, carefully tracing curves on the input tables, and manually calculating and calibrating the gear ratios. He ripped off a print of its results. The Godel solutions were ready.

And Ben Kamen was ready too. Sleeping, Ben looked very young, younger than his twenty-five years. There was nothing about him to suggest his origin, as an Austrian Jew. One hand still held his fountain pen; the other was folded under his left cheek. His features were small, his skin pale.

Rory looked over what was assembled here: the brooding machine, the boy. This was the Loom, as he and Ben had come to call it, a machine of electromechanics and human flesh which - so they believed, so their theories indicated - could be used to change the warp and weft of the tapestry of time itself. And yet none of it
was his,
Rory’s. Not the Vannevar Bush Analyser which was being loaned to the two of them by MIT; they were students of the Institute of Advanced Studies at Princeton, an
d they had come here to Cambridge ostensibly to run complex relativistic models with the Analyser. Not the dreaming boy himself - and still less the contents of his head. All that Rory O’Malley owned was the
will,
to bring these components together, to make it so.

Rory pulled a lock of black hair back from Ben’s brow. He wore it too long, Rory thought. Ben didn’t stir, and Rory wasn’t surprised. The sleeping draught he had poured into Ben’s midnight coffee was strong enough to ensure that. Ever since their time together serving in the International Brigade in Spain Rory had always been fond of Ben, poor, deep, intense Ben. But he needed him too, or at least the peculiar abilities locked up in that head of his. Rory saw no great contradiction in this mixture of manipulation and affection. He was intent after all on nothing less than a cleansing of history, a reversal of the greatest crime ever committed. What was a little subterfuge compared to that?

He pulled a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket. It bore a poem of sixteen lines in English, translated roughly into Latin. He scanned it one last time. This was the core of his project, a mandate to history laden with all the meaning and purpose he could cram into it. Now these words would be sent out into the cosmos, crackling along Godel’s closed timelike curves like Morse dots and dashes on a telegraph wire - all the way from the future to the past, where some other dreaming head would receive it. All he had to do was to read to Rory, read out the Gödel trajectories computed by the Analyser, read the bit of doggerel. That was all, like reading to a child. And everything would change.

Ben stirred, murmuring. Rory wondered where in the many dimensions of space and time his animus wandered now.

Rory began to read. ‘“Ah child! Bound in time’s tapestry, and yet you are born free/Come, let me sing to you of what there is and what will be ...’

The boy slept beside the calculating engine.

And then—

Julia Fiveash seduced Ben Kamen. No, she consumed him.

She took him inside three days of her arrival in Princeton from England. He couldn’t have stopped her if he’d tried. He wasn’t a virgin, with men or women, but after she pushed him to the carpet of his room and wrapped him in her long English limbs he felt as if he had been, before.

The second time they made love it was actually in the study of his mentor, Kurt Gödel. And Ben started to fret about her motives.

He lay on Gödel’s sofa, his jacket pulled over his crotch for modesty. Julia, boldly unclothed, stalked around Gödel’s room, flicking through the papers on his desk, running her delicate fingertip over the books on
the shelves. Many of the books were still in their boxes, for Gödel had not been here long; reluctant to leave his beloved Vienna, he had hesitated until the last possible minute, when the Nazis had already started to roll up Europe like a giant carpet.

Julia’s golden hair shone in a shaft of dusty sunlight. She was tall, her limbs long and muscular, her belly flat, her breasts small; she walked like an animal, balanced, confident. Her body was the product of a lifetime of English privilege, Ben thought, a life of horse-riding and tennis, her sexuality mapped by one healthy Englishman after another. She had conquered Ben as easily as the English had conquered much of the planet.

He longed for a cigarette, but he knew he dare not light up in Gödel’s own room.

He plucked up his courage to challenge her. ‘What are we doing here, Julia? What do you
want?’

She laughed, a throaty sound. She was twenty-eight, three years older than he was; her age showed in her voice. ‘That’s not a very nice question. What do you think I want?’

‘I don’t know yet. Something to do with Gödel. You used me to get you in here, didn’t you? Into this study.’

‘Can you blame me for that? Kurt Gödel is the world’s greatest logician. He’s building a new mathematics, so they say. Or dismantling the old. Something like that, isn’t it true?’

‘You’re a historian. You’re attached to Princeton University, not this institute of math and physics. Why would
you
care about Gödel?’

‘You’re ever so suspicious, aren’t you? But those suspicions didn’t make you fight me off. He’s such a funny little man, isn’t he? Short and shabby with that high brow and his thick glasses, scuttling like a rabbit in his winter coat.’

‘He’s been known to take lovers among his students. Despite his unprepossessing looks. I mean, he’s still only in his thirties. Back in Vienna—’

‘The first time I spotted Gödel he was walking with Einstein. Now you can’t miss Einstein, can you? Do you know, he was walking in carpet slippers, out in the middle of the street! Is he friendly with Gödel, do you know?’

‘They met in 1933, I believe. Friends - I don’t know. Einstein is the most exotic of the European beasts here in this American zoo, I suppose. But even Einstein had to flee Hitler.’

‘Ah, Hitler! I’ve been in his presence, you know.’

‘Whose?’

‘Hitler’s. I shook his hand. I wouldn’t claim to have
met
him, exactly; I doubt he remembers me at all. I was an exchange student. I wanted to see for myself what the Germans were up to, rather than swallow the usual horrid p
ropaganda. The transformation of that country from economic ruin in just a few years is remarkable. They made us very welcome. Hitler has a very striking presence; he has a way of looking
through
you. Goebbels, on the other hand, pinched my bum.’

He laughed.

‘And now you’ve all come scuttling here, haven’t you? Running from the monster, all the way to America.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Such a poky, dusty room, to be lodging a world-class mind. Gödel should have come to Oxford. Einstein too. Better than this. I mean, they have cloisters built of brick! Bertrand Russell says that Princeton is as like Oxford as monkeys could make it.’ She laughed prettily.

‘Perhaps Einstein and Gödel feel safer here than in an England which contains such people as you.’

‘You’re not very nice to me, are you, all things considered? Anyway Gödel would be under no threat in the Reich. He’s not even a Jew.’ She began plucking books from the shelf, and flicked through their worn pages.

Ben gathered his clothes from where they had been scattered on the floor, and began to pull them on. ‘You’ve had your fun. Maybe it’s time you told me what you want from me.’

‘Well, there are rumours about you,’ she said smoothly. ‘You and your professor. Look at these titles.
Being And Time
by Martin Heidegger. An
Experiment With Time
by John William Dunne.
On the Phenomenology of
the Consciousness
of Internal Time
, Edmund Husserl. You worked with Gödel in Vienna, and now that he is here at the IAS you’re starting to work with him again, aren’t you? But not on the outer reaches of mathematical logic.’ She glanced at a pencil note on the flyleaf of the Husserl, scrawled by Gödel himself. ‘My German is still poor ... “The distinction between physical time and internal time-consciousness. Is that right?’ As she leafed through the books there was a scent of dust, and stale tobacco - of Vienna. ‘Ah.
The Time Machine
by H.G. Wells. Thought I’d find
that
here!’

He began to feel defensive, shut in, a feeling he remembered from Vienna, when he had been the target of the ‘anti-relativity clubs’ and other anti-Semitic groups. ‘How did you find all this out? Slept with half the faculty, did you?’

She smiled at him, naked, entirely composed. ‘And I know what else you’ve been working on. Something even Gödel doesn’t know about. Something to do with relativity, and all this mushy stuff about internal time and the mind ... Something that goes beyond mere theory. And I know you haven’t been working alone. I’m talking about Rory O’Malley.’

‘What do you know about Rory?’

‘I have a feeling I know more about your Irish friend than you do.’ She ran a languid finger up the length of his bare arm; he shivered, despite himself, and buttoned his shirt. ‘Come on, Ben. Spill the beans. The rumour is—’

‘Yes?’

‘That you and your Irish boyfriend have built a time machine.’

He hesitated. ‘It’s not like Wells’s fantasy, not at all. And we played with ideas - concepts - that’s all. We went through some of the calculations—’

‘Are you sure that’s all?’

‘Or course I’m sure! We haven’t
done
anything. We decided we mustn’t, in fact, because—’

‘Rory O’Malley isn’t terribly discreet. Surely you know that much about him.
That’s not what he’s been saying.’

As the import of her words sank home, Ben’s stomach clenched. Was it possible? But how, without his knowledge? Oh Rory, what have you done?

Julia saw his fear, and laughed at him. ‘I think you’d better give Rory a call. We’ve a lot to talk about.’

‘I studied physics,’ Rory said slowly. ‘I was a bright kid. I was fascinated by relativity. I bet there weren’t so many other fifteen-year-old students in Dublin in the 1920s who owned a copy of Einstein’s 1905 papers - still less who could read them in their original German.

‘But I was drawn to history as well. Why was a man like Einstein singled out for his Jewishness? Why, come to that, had the Christian church - I was an Irish Catholic - always been in such dreadful conflict with the Jews? So I began to study history. Religion. Philosophy ...’ He spoke uncertainly, plucking at his fingers.

Rory was dark, darker even than Ben. He joked that the Irish strain had been polluted by swarthy Spaniards washed ashore from the wreckage of the Armada. There was a trace of scar tissue at Rory’s neck, the relic of the Nationalist bullet that had nearly killed him in Spain. Rory was a stocky, bullish man, an Irishman who had made himself a place in America, and had embraced mortal danger in Spain. Yet he seemed intimidated sitting before Julia, who was dressed in her customary style, an almost mannish suit of jacket and trousers, with a shirt-like blouse and a loosely knotted neck-tie, her perfect face framed by cigarette smoke.

The three of them sat in Rory’s apartment, here at the leafy heart of Princeton. The living room was small but bright, with long sash windows
pulled open to admit the green air of an American spring day. They sat on battered, grimy furniture amid loose piles of books, volumes on physics and history, on the roots of Christianity and the philosophical implications of Einstein’s relativity. It was a jumbled, disorganised, dusty room, but it reflected Rory O’Malley, Ben thought, as if it were a projection of his own mind.

It had taken a couple of weeks for Julia to set up this meeting. She hinted darkly that she had wanted some time to verify some aspects of Rory’s ‘account’ for herself, and she had arrived today with a slim briefcase, presumably containing the fruits of that research. Ben found himself gazing at the briefcase with dread.

And he felt uncomfortable at how Rory was opening up his soul, and Ben’s, to Julia’s interrogation.

He said sharply, ‘You don’t have to talk to her if you don’t want to, Rory. I mean, who is she?’

Rory looked at him bleakly. ‘Don’t you
know?’

Julia just smiled.

‘I’ll tell you who she is,’ Rory said. ‘She’s an officer in the fucking SS. That’s who she is. She’s done more than shake Hitler’s hand.’

Ben stared at her, appalled.

Julia extracted a fresh cigarette from the silver box she carried. ‘Oh, don’t look so shocked, Benjamin. I apologise for keeping it from you. But you’d hardly have slept with me if you’d known, would you? Let’s get on with it. You met in Spain, during the Civil War.’

Hesitantly, uncomfortable, Rory spoke.

When only twenty-two, Rory had moved to New York from his native Dublin, ostensibly to study. But, a strong-minded idealist, he had quickly made a name for himself as an outspoken columnist. Then he had gone to Spain to work on a book on the seven-centuries-long history of coexistence and conflict between Christianity and Islam in the peninsula.