Blink of an Eye (6 page)

“How do you do that without looking?”

“I did look, remember? The
M
intersects with
commandeer
and the
S
intersects with
also-ran
,” Seth said.

Phil slapped the magazine closed. “I heard you told Baaron a few things.”

“You heard that?”

“Yeah. True?”

“True.”

Seth saw that Phil was watching the dancers now. Seth decided long ago that women had an inexplicable effect on his mind, minimizing its ability to process thought in logical constructs. Without fail, females turned Seth into someone he really didn't think he was, someone lost for clear thoughts and words.

Phil, however, would kill to sit alone on a bench with a girl. Any girl. He aggressively denied the desire, of course.

Phil saw Seth had noticed and ducked his head. “See ya.”

“See ya.”

He headed off, hands deep in his pockets, head lowered.

They had named the philosophy building Moses—ironic but appropriate considering its current occupant. Seth had always thought that the chair of philosophy, Samuel Harland, PhD, was the spitting image of Charlton Heston with his dirty blond hair and soft blue eyes. He was the only man in the place worthy of the building's name.

He knocked on the department head's office door, heard a muffled “Enter,” and stepped in.

“Good day.”

“Have a seat,” the professor said.

Seth sat. “That bad, huh?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Baaron is seething.”

Seth paused. If there was one person in his life he could confide in, it was this man. “You wouldn't expect the academic dean of an esteemed institution such as this to let a little folly get under his skin.”

“You wouldn't,” Harland said. “But for whatever reason, you most definitely do get under his skin.”

“I engaged him with famous quotations—”

“I
know
what you did. You could have been a little more selective, don't you think?” Harland couldn't hide the glint of humor in his eyes.

Seth shook his head. “I don't know how I get myself in these crazy situations.”

“I think you do. You're a blatant challenge to his theories of order.”

“For what it's worth, I did speak the truth,” Seth said. “Isn't that what you've always told me? To doggedly pursue the truth?”

“Pursuing the truth and
presenting
it are two different disciplines. How do you suppose I would fare around here if I walked around blasting my peers into the next county? This is becoming a habit for you.”

Seth rubbed his hands together and placed them on his knees. “You're right.”

Baaron was brilliant, deserving of his lofty status at the university. But put him in a room with Seth, and half his chips seemed to go on the blink. He was an easy target, one that Seth couldn't resist shooting at now and then. It didn't help that Baaron reminded Seth of his father.

The tension had set in a year earlier, when Seth wrote a paper on the Strong Force that questioned prevailing thought. The paper was picked up by several scientific journals and published to some acclaim. It was hardly Seth's fault that the prevailing theory, which Seth trashed, was authored by none other than Gregory Baaron, PhD. The world of physics was a small one.

“You're going to have to learn more tact, yes? You have to learn how to blend in a little.”

Seth's trust in Harland was in large part due to the man's humble form of brilliance. If Seth's formal education had taught him anything, it was that celebrated intelligence had nothing to do with intellectual honesty, with being genuine. People who appreciated both brilliance and frank honesty were in short supply. The system preferred the kind of brilliance that lined up with the flavor of the day.

Samuel Harland was anything but the flavor of the day. He had no interest in kissing the elitists' beliefs so he could smoke his pipe in the Faculty Club. He simply and methodically pursued every thought to its logical conclusion and put his faith there, in what he saw at the end of the trail.

The smile faded from Seth's face. “Well, you'll have to forgive me, but I'm not built for a system like this one. I can't seem to fit in.”

Harland nodded. “Baaron's got some of the faculty on his side. They're talking about official reprimands.”

Seth looked out the window. “I'm thinking about dumping the program. Heading back down to San Diego.”

“You've said that before.”

“Maybe I should have done it before. I talked to my mom last night. She lost her job.”

Harland hesitated. “The best thing you can do for your mother is finish your doctorate. What are you going to do for a living—pump gas?”

“We both know of a dozen corporations that would offer me decent money right now.” Seth stared at the window and sighed. “Did you hear about the calculation I drew on the board?”

“I heard something about the Lagrangian field equation.”

“That was part of it. But I came up with an equation that limits possible futures to one.” Seth smiled. “That should be music to your ears.”

“How so?”

“It supports the existence of an all-knowing higher being.”

“Ah, yes, the higher-being theory. You've decided to swing that way, is that it?”

“No. I'll remain comfortably blank on the subject for now, despite my proof to the contrary.”

Harland chuckled. “You've actually proven God's existence now?”

“I wouldn't go that far, but it does have a ring to it, don't you think?” Seth leaned forward and took a sheet of paper from Harland's desk. “May I?”

“Be my guest. You're going to show me the equation?”

“No. I'm going to translate it into a hypothetical syllogism of sorts.” He spoke his argument as he wrote it out in longhand.

(A) If an all-knowing God exists, then he knows precisely what THE
future is. (He knows whether I'm going to cough in ten seconds.)

(B) If God knows what THE future is, then that future WILL occur, unless
God is mistaken. (I WILL cough in ten seconds.)

(C) Because God cannot be mistaken, there is NO possibility that any
other future, other than the one future that God knows, will happen.
(There's NO possibility I won't cough in ten seconds.)

(D) THEREFORE, if God exists, there is only ONE future, which is THE
future he knows. (I cough in ten seconds.)

Seth set the pencil down. “Basically, if God exists, the probability of there being more than one possible future is zero. And vice versa. To believe God exists also requires you to believe that the future is unalterable. By definition. There can only be
one
future, and no amount of willing can change it.”

“And the ramifications of this theory?”

“Religion has no purpose.”

“Knowledge of fact doesn't necessarily prove singularity of future.”

“You're only splitting hairs between knowledge of fact and probabilities.”

Harland nodded slowly. They'd argued the subject on several occasions, and he didn't seem eager to dive in again.

Seth looked out the window. “You should reconsider deism—”

A pigeon slammed into the window with a loud
thunk
.

Seth blinked. “Ouch. You'd think that would break the window.”

“What would?”

Seth looked at him. “The force of the bird slamming into the window.”

Harland looked at the window. “What bird?”

“What do you mean, what bird? You didn't just see that?”

“No.”

Seth looked at the window. “You didn't hear a loud
thunk
just now?”

“No. I didn't hear—”

A pigeon slammed into the window with a loud
thunk
. It fell away in a flurry of feathers.

“Like that?” Harland asked.

Seth stared at the clear pane of glass. Yes,
exactly
like that.

“Huh. I could've sworn I just saw that ten seconds ago. Like a déjà vu.” He shook his head.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Odd. Very odd.

“Another year here and you'll be out,” Harland said. “Stay with it.”

Seth sat back. “Now you're sounding like Clive Masters.”

“Anyone with half a brain would say you should finish.”

“So you're saying . . . ?”

“Play ball at the reception Thursday. Smile, be nice. Try to keep your foot out of your mouth. Maybe even offer some kind of apology to Baaron—”

“Suck up.”

“In the vernacular.”

“Be reasonable and do what's best for everybody.”

“Yes.”

Seth stood and walked to the window. His fingers slipped into his pocket and toyed with the Super Ball. The pigeon was hobbling along the grass, dazed.

“I wouldn't dream of anything else, Professor.”

chapter 6

t
he bruise on her face was hidden from Samir, but he had to know something terrible had happened by the tremble in her voice. The tragedy was too large in her mind to discuss at first—they rode in silence.

Miriam had awakened in the car and wept for her friend. At home, her father, Salman, refused to hear anything of it, insisting that if it had happened as she said, the matter was beyond his influence. She went to her room and fell asleep on a pillow soaked with tears. She'd heard of stonings and even drownings before, of course, but only in stories of mad men in remote desert regions. Never could she have imagined seeing her best friend drowned by Musa. Wicked, wicked Musa.

The Nizari sect lived and they were an insane lot!

Haya awakened her before noon. Samir was waiting to take her to her appointment, she said. Miriam had almost forgotten. The sheik Al-Asamm wanted to see her. Why? Did he have a son for her to marry? Then he would approach Salman, not her.

She didn't care. Sita was all she could think of. She washed away her tears and readied herself.

Samir drove her through the streets of Riyadh, seeming to understand her need for silence, past new structures designed by Western architects. Nearly a quarter of Saudi Arabia's population was expatriate, imported labor and expertise to build the city and serve the House of Saud. The foreigners were effectively cut off from the lives of most Saudis, sequestered in communities designed for them, but their touch could be seen everywhere. To many fundamental Muslims, the slow Westernization of this, Islam's birthplace, was a blasphemous tragedy.

Today, for the first time, Miriam thought it symbolized the hope of freedom.

They wound through the suburbs, sandstone brick-and-mortar construction. Square. Everything square. And then they were in the desert, which stretched endlessly to Dhahran on the Persian Gulf. The Americans had used Dhahran as a base during the Gulf War.

“Sita was drowned by her father this morning for defying Hatam,” she said.

“Wha—No!”

“Yes.” She lifted her hand to her mouth, afraid she might begin crying again. The tires droned under them.

“The savage!” Samir said. “He is a pig!”

Miriam swallowed the lump rising in her throat.

“How is that possible?”

“Her father is Nizari.”

He gripped the wheel and shook his head, clearly surprised. “The Nizari hardly exist. Not among the respectable.” He seemed to be at a loss for words. “I'm so very sorry, Miriam. Some men can be beasts to their women.” He looked out his window, jaws flexing. “I could understand a beating, but drowning? It's not—”

“A beating?” she cried. “No man should have a right to beat a woman! What gives a man that right? It's inhumane to drown your daughter, and it's inhumane to beat your wife!”

They were the strongest words she had ever spoken in Samir's hearing. He mumbled his agreement, but her words obviously stung his ears. She sat next to him, as she frequently did when they were alone, for the rest of the trip. But today she sat dazed and numb.

Fifteen minutes after they left the city, Samir turned onto a small sandy road that led to a solitary Bedouin tent. Two Mercedes rather than camels formed a kind of gate in front of the main canvas flap.

Samir stopped the car. Dust drifted by.

“He's waiting inside.”

Miriam stepped out. A Bedouin woman dressed in a traditional black abaaya, but without the full-face veil, exited the tent and watched her. Bedouin veils rode on the bridge of the nose, allowing the world free access to the eyes.

Miriam reached the tent and gazed into the smiling eyes of the strange woman.

“You may remove your veil in here,” the woman said.

Perhaps the sheik was not so concerned with tradition. Not wanting to be rude, Miriam removed her veil and entered.

Abu Ali al-Asamm, a white-bearded holy man, sat on a large silk pillow and talked in hushed tones to a woman on his right. A maroon carpet with gold weaving covered most of the floor, and on this carpet was a single low table. Otherwise there was only a stand for tea and a large bowl of fruit—hardly the furnishings of a typical tent. Apparently, they had come on short notice with only what would fit into the cars outside.

Talk stilled as the tent flap fell behind her. The sheik was on the heavy side, and getting to his feet was not an easy task. He stood and stared at her with eyes that betrayed as much wonder as curiosity.

“Miriam.”

She dipped her head, feeling exposed. He knew her name, obviously, but he spoke it as if some mystery were contained between the syllables. What was this all about? Did he know about Sita's drowning?

The sheik walked toward her, eyes beaming. “It is such a pleasure to finally meet you.” He took her hands and kissed them. “Such a beauty, just like your mother, may God give her rest.”

“I don't know what you mean,” she said. “You know my mother?”