“There was lots of sophisticated behavior by earlier forms of humans,” said Mary. “
Homo ergaster
,
Homo erectus
,
Homo habilis
, even the
Australopithecines
and
Kenyanthropus
.”
“Well, I realize this is your field, Professor Vaughan—” Had she really in all the time they’d spent quarantined together never volunteered that Louise could call her Mary?—“but I’ve been reading up on this on the Web. As far as I can tell, those earlier kinds of man didn’t really have behavior any more sophisticated than a beaver building a dam.”
“They made tools,” said Mary.
“Oui,”
said Louise. “But weren’t they repetitive, virtually identical tools, turned out over the centuries by the thousands? All made to the same mental template, the same design?”
Mary nodded. “That’s true.”
“Surely there has to be some natural variation among stone tools,” said Louise, “just based on chance accidents and random differences that occur when implements are chipped from stone. If there
was
consciousness at work, even without coming up with a better idea on their own, early humans should have seen that some tools happened to be better than others. It’s like you don’t have to think of the round wheel right off the bat; you might start with a five-sided one, then accidentally make a six-sided one—and note that it rolled slightly better. Eventually, you’d come up with the perfectly round one.”
Mary nodded.
“But if there’s no consciousness at work,” said Louise, “you simply toss aside the better version as not fitting your mental template of what was supposed to be produced. Right? And that’s what happens with the tools in the archeological record: instead of gradual refinement over time, they just stay the same. And the only explanation I can think of for that is that there was no conscious selection of better variants: the toolmaker simply wasn’t
aware
, he couldn’t see that
this
particular way of hitting nodules produced something better than
that
way. The design was frozen.”
“Interesting take,” said Mary, genuinely impressed.
“And when we see complex repetitive behavior in other animals—such as building a dam—we call it instinct, and that’s what that kind of toolmaking was. No, until
Homo sapiens
, there was no consciousness, and—here’s the kicker—in fact, for the first sixty thousand years that
Homo sapiens
existed,
there was no consciousness
.”
“What are you talking about?” said Mary.
“When did anatomically modern humans first appear?” asked Louise, picking up her coffee cup again.
“About one hundred thousand years ago.”
“That’s the same figure I saw on the web. Now, do I understand that right? A hundred-K years in the past, creatures that looked exactly like us, that walked exactly like us, first appeared, right? Creatures with brains that were the same size and shape as our brains, judging by their cranial cavities?”
“That’s right,” said Mary. She’d finished her chips, and got some Kleenex out of her purse so she could wipe her greasy fingers.
“But,” said Louise, “according to what I read, for sixty thousand years, they thought no thoughts. For sixty thousand years, they did nothing that wasn’t instinctual. But then, forty thousand years ago, everything changed.”
Mary’s eyes went wide. “The Great Leap Forward.”
“Exactly!”
Mary felt her heart pounding. The Great Leap Forward was the term some anthropologists gave to the cultural awakening that occurred 40,000 years ago; others called it the Upper Paleolithic Revolution. As Louise had said, modern-looking human beings had been around for six hundred centuries by that point, but they created no art, they didn’t adorn their bodies with jewelry, and they didn’t bury their dead with grave goods. But starting simultaneously 40,000 years ago, suddenly humans were painting beautiful pictures on cave walls, humans were wearing necklaces and bracelets, and humans were interring their loved ones with food and tools and other valuable objects that could only have been of use in a presumed afterlife. Art, fashion, and religion all appeared simultaneously; truly, a great leap forward.
“So you’re saying that some Cro-Magnon 40,000 years ago suddenly started making choices, and the universe started splitting?”
“Not exactly,” said Louise. She’d evidently finished her first coffee; she got up and bought a second one. “Think about this: what
caused
the Great Leap Forward?”
“Nobody knows,” said Mary.
“For all intents and purposes, it’s a marker, right there in the archeological record, showing the dawn of consciousness, wouldn’t you say?”
“I suppose,” said Mary.
“But that dawning isn’t accompanied by any gross physical change; it’s not like a new form of humanity appeared who suddenly started making art. Brains
capable
of consciousness had existed for sixty thousand years, but they
weren’t
conscious. And then something happened.”
“The Great Leap Forward, yes. But, as I said, no one knows what caused it.”
“You ever read Roger Penrose?
The Emperor’s New Mind
?”
Mary shook her head.
“Penrose is an Oxford mathematician. He contends that human consciousness is quantum-mechanical in nature.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that what we think of as intelligence, as sentience, doesn’t arise from some biochemical network of neurons, or anything as crude as that. Rather, it arises from quantum processes. Specifically, he and an anesthesiologist named Hameroff argue that quantum superposition of isolated electrons in the microtubules of brain cells creates the phenomenon of consciousness.”
“Ah,” said Mary dubiously.
Louise sipped some of her new coffee. “Well, don’t you see?” she said.
“That
explains the Great Leap Forward. Sure, our brains had been just as they are today since one hundred thousand years ago, but consciousness didn’t begin until a quantum-mechanical event occurred, presumably at random: the one and only spinning off of a new universe that happened the way Everett thinks it does.”
Mary nodded; it
was
an interesting notion.
“And quantum events, by their very nature, have
multiple
possible outcomes,” said Louise. “Instead of that quantum fluctuation, or whatever it was, creating consciousness in
Homo sapiens
, the same thing might have happened in the other kind of humanity that existed 40,000 years ago—Neanderthal man! The first splitting of the universe was an accident, a quantum fluke. In one branch, thought and cognition arose in our ancestors; in another, it arose in Ponter’s ancestors. I read that Neanderthals had been around since maybe 200,000 years ago, right?”
Mary nodded.
“And they had even bigger brains than we did, right?”
Mary nodded again.
“But on this world,” said Louise, “in this timeline, those brains never sparked with consciousness. Ours did instead, and the edge that consciousness gave us—cunning and foresight—led to us absolutely triumphing over the Neanderthals, and becoming rulers of the world.”
“Ah!” said Mary. “But in Ponter’s world—”
Louise nodded. “In Ponter’s world, the opposite happened. It was Neanderthals who became conscious, developing art and culture—and cunning; they took the Great Leap Forward while we remained the dumb brutes we’d been for the preceding sixty thousand years.”
“I suppose that’s possible,” said Mary. “You could probably get a good paper out of that.”
“More than that,” said Louise. She sipped some more coffee. “If I’m right, it means Ponter might get to go home.”
Mary’s heart fluttered. “What?”
“I’m basing this in part on stuff Ponter told me, and in part on our own world’s understanding of physics. Suppose that each time the universe splits, it doesn’t do it the way amoebas do—with one amoeba becoming two daughters, and the parent disappearing in the process. Suppose instead it happens more like vertebrates giving birth: the original universe continues on, and a new daughter universe is created.”
“Yes?” said Mary. “So?”
“Well, then, you see, universes actually are of different ages. They might
appear
absolutely identical, except for your choice of breakfast this morning, but one of them is twelve billion years old, and the other is”—she looked at her watch—“well, a few hours old now. Of course, the daughter universe would
seem
to be billions of years old, but it wouldn’t really be.”
Mary frowned. “Umm, Louise, you’re not by any chance a creationist, are you?”
“Quoi?”
But then she laughed. “No, no, no—but I see the parallel you’re alluding to. No, I’m talking real physics here.”
“If you say so. But how does this get Ponter home?”
“Well, assume this universe, the one you and I are in right now,
is
the original one in which
Homo sapiens
became conscious—the one that initially split from the universe in which Neanderthals became conscious instead. All the other googolplex of universes in which conscious
Homo sapiens
exist are daughters, or granddaughters, or great-great-great-great-granddaughters, of this one.”
“That’s a huge assumption,” said Mary.
“It would be, if we had no other evidence. But we
do
have evidence that this particular universe is special—Ponter’s arrival here, out of all the places he might have gone. When Ponter’s quantum computer ran out of universes in which other versions of itself existed, what did it do? Why, it reached across to universes in which it
didn’t
exist. And, in doing so, it latched first onto the one that had initially split from the entire tree of those in which it did exist, the one that, forty thousand years previously, had started on another path, with another kind of humanity in charge. Of course, as soon as it reached a universe in which a quantum computer didn’t exist in the same spot, the factoring process crashed and the contact between the two worlds was broken. But if Ponter’s people repeat the exact process that led to him being marooned here, I think there’s a real chance that the portal to this specific universe, the one that first split from their timeline, will be re-created.”
“That’s a lot of ifs,” said Mary. “Besides, if they
could
repeat the experiment, why haven’t they already?”
“I don’t know,” said Louise. “But if I’m right, the doorway to Ponter’s world may open again.”
Mary felt her stomach fluttering—and not just because of the potato chips—as she tried to sort out her feelings about that possibility.
Chapter 43
Adikor Huld stared at the mining robot Dern had provided. It was a sorry-looking contraption: just an arrangement of gears and pulleys and mechanical pincers, vaguely resembling a stubby pine tree denuded of needles. The robot had obviously endured a fire at some point; there had been one in the mine about four months ago, Adikor recalled. Some of the robot’s components had fused, some metal parts were extensively fatigued, and the whole thing had a blackened, sooty look to it. Dern had said this unit was to have been sent to the recycling yards, anyway, so no one would mind if it were lost.
It was tricky determining how to control the robot, though. Although there were robots with artificial intelligence, they were very expensive. This one didn’t have the smarts to do what needed to be done on its own; it would have to be operated by remote control. They couldn’t use radio signals; those would interfere with the quantum registers, ruining the attempt to reproduce the experiment. Dern finally decided to simply run a fiber-optic cable from the robot’s torso back into a small control box, which he perched on a console in the quantum-computing control room. He used twin joysticks to move the robot’s hands, having the machine press down on the top of register 69 just as Ponter had originally done.
Adikor looked at Dern. “All set?”
Dern nodded.
He looked at Jasmel, who was also present. “Ready?”
“Yes.”
“Ten,” said Adikor, standing next to his control unit; he shouted the countdown just as he had the first time, even though there was no one out on the computing floor to hear him.
“Nine.” He desperately hoped this would work—for Ponter’s sake, and for his own.
“Eight. Seven. Six.”
He looked at Dern.
“Five. Four. Three.”
He smiled encouragingly at Jasmel.
“Two. One. Zero.”
“Hey!” shouted Dern. His control box jerked off the desk and clattered to the floor, skittering across it as the fiber-optic cable coming out of its back end was pulled tight.
Adikor felt a great wind swirling about, but his ears didn’t pop; there was no significant change in pressure. It was as if air was simply being
exchanged
…
Jasmel’s mouth formed the words, “I don’t believe it,” but whatever sound she was making was drowned out by the wind.
Dern, dashing across the room, had stopped the console from being pulled farther by clamping down on its cable with his right foot. Adikor hurried over to the window to look down on the computing floor.
The robot was
gone
, but—
—but the cable was pulled taut, half an armspan above the floor, stretching from the open control-room door to three-quarters of the way across the computing facility, until—
Until it
disappeared
, into thin air, as if through an invisible hole in an invisible wall, right next to register column 69.
Adikor looked at Dern. Dern looked at Jasmel. Jasmel looked at Adikor. They hurried over to the monitor, which should be displaying whatever the robot’s camera eye was seeing. But it was just an empty, black square.
“The robot’s been destroyed,” said Jasmel. “Just like my father.”
“Maybe,” said Dern. “Or maybe video signals can’t travel through that—whatever that is.”