Sincro
Salvatore Sanfilippo

I crossed the threshold of Novus Hill at ten past eight. A stubborn weariness, one I'd felt since waking up, still weighed on me. I reached the B-wing elevator and said, "Identification Emily Howlett, materials physicist." The doors slid open, and I slipped into the metal cabin. I studied my reflection in the mirror, corrected a smudge of makeup, and fixed my bangs with a flick of my fingers. The elevator stopped on the fifth floor. I stepped into the corridor; Viktor was walking toward me.

"Viktor, everything alright?"

"I'm looking for Zahariev." I checked the time on my phone.

"He's never in before nine."

"I know. His son called. He missed an appointment last night and hasn't answered his phone since."

"Are you sure he's not sleeping in his office? It's happened twice before."

"I checked. He's not there."

I was out of ideas.

"You'll see, he'll show up at nine. Keep me posted," I said, and continued on to the materials department.

Without breaking my stride, I ordered a coffee from the bot: "Leave it on my desk," I added. In the locker room, I grabbed a clean lab coat. Helen entered the room.

"Nice skirt. That's a gorgeous green," she commented.

I gave a silly little bow.

"I should be the one congratulating you. Viktor says you're making good progress."

"The demo is in two months—barring any setbacks."

"Setbacks? I don't know what you're talking about." She smiled.

I said goodbye to Helen and took the hallway that led to the junior researchers' offices. To get there, you had to pass the materials testing chambers. As I turned the corner, I saw the red light flashing on the gamma chamber's panel. It was unusual to start an experiment before ten. I walked over to the panel and read the description:

Gamma Motion, activity: 34.2 TBq

Lead Researcher: Manuel Zahariev

Warning, exposure risk: 12sv/h

A wave of dizziness hit me; I leaned against the wall for a moment. Finally, I hit the emergency shutdown command.

"Interruption in progress, awaiting countdown. Ten, nine, ..."

I waited, clutching the handle. The voice counted down to zero, and an instant later, I heard the actuators unlock the doors with a sharp click. I rushed into the antechamber, through the second door, and into the gamma chamber. Just as I had feared, the professor was inside, sprawled face-down on the floor.

"Professor Zahariev!" I yelled, but got no response, though I could hear his faint gasps. Carefully, I rolled his bony frame onto his back, supporting his head with my hand. When his face was turned toward the ceiling, his skin looked burned. I immediately called Viktor.

"I found him. He's in the gamma chamber." I tried to catch my breath; I was sobbing, my voice trembling so much I could barely speak. "He's been exposed to radiation. We need medics." I hung up to tend to the professor, who seemed to be slowly regaining consciousness.

"I saw destiny..." Zahariev said, "It's in the Synchro, I saw our..."

His voice was a mere thread.

"Don't strain yourself. I've called for help."

He mumbled a few more syllables, his hand waving chaotically.

"Try to stay calm."

He fell silent, his breathing ragged. Sweat beaded on his bruised forehead, above which his hair was singed. When the medics reached us, Viktor was with them. He helped me to my feet and escorted me out as they placed the professor on a stretcher.

The news of Zahariev's death came in the latter half of the afternoon. I wasn't surprised. At his age, exposed to such a high dose of radiation, he'd had little chance.

I received a text from Viktor:

"They just finished questioning me."

"Can you talk about it?"

"I think so. I didn't sign anything."

"The bar in ten minutes."

"I'll be there."

I saw few physicists in the hallways. I found Viktor at the far end of the counter, glued to his phone. I ordered a cappuccino from the bot.

"Caffeine may interfere with sleep. Are you sure about your choice?"

"Yes, for God's sake. Just bring it to me."

Viktor arrived when I had already started sipping it.

"Sorry about that. It's a mess."

"I can imagine." I stared at him with a sour smile.

"What's wrong, are you jealous?"

"Never mind..."

I turned away to hide my red eyes.

"Tell me something. It'll be my turn soon."

"Don't worry, it's just a formality."

I let out an impatient sigh.

"They asked me what he was trying to do."

"But didn't they see the recordings?"

"I know. They absolutely wanted my opinion."

I started calculating how I would answer. I planted my elbows on the table. Viktor had progressively lowered his voice.

"I said that I think he stayed inside the chamber to observe the Gamma Motion. Without protection."

"Christ..." I stared at the foam left in my cup.

"Do you think he was... that he wasn't lucid anymore?"

"Lucid? You saw what he did."

I thought back to Professor Zahariev, to any past incident that might have hinted at some dormant instability.

"I don't know. He was strange. And then there were those words, 'I saw destiny in the Synchro.' What was he trying to tell me?"

Viktor moved closer.

"There doesn't have to be a logic to it. Sometimes people just can't take it anymore, and that's that."

Shortly after, it was time for my questioning. I entered Zahariev's office, which the police had first rummaged through and then chosen as the venue for their interviews. I laid out the facts as I remembered them, including Zahariev's exact words, the phone call with Viktor, and the minutes I waited for the medics.

At that point, Sergeant Aidman turned to his colleague.

"Sarah, I'm done."

Investigator Sarah Hu began to speak.

"Doctor, did you and Professor Zahariev get along?"

"Not really. We had our differences."

"Can you explain what kind?"

"I... beyond a certain personality clash, my research was focused on more practical matters. The professor preferred to study the Synchro from a theoretical standpoint."

Hu wrote something on her tablet, then looked back at me.

"This is a research center. Can you explain why a theoretical exploration would cause you problems?"

"Zahariev and I worked on the Synchro used in the most common optical processors. That tablet of yours certainly contains a reflective processor. I wanted to conduct research with practical applications."

The investigator took off her glasses.

"Why did the professor focus his efforts on more theoretical questions?"

I thought about it, trying to formulate a proper answer.

"Do you prefer not to answer?"

"Sorry, I was looking for the right words. I believe he was aiming for a theoretical explanation of Gamma Motion."

Hu looked at me with greater interest.

"This Gamma Motion has come up several times. Can you tell us what it is?"

"Let's see... I'll try."

I took a sheet of paper with the Novus Hill logo from the table and folded it into a square.

"More than forty years ago, Zahariev synthesized the Synchro and created the photosistor, kicking off the optical processor revolution. Shortly after, it was discovered that if you irradiate a lamina of Synchro-A with gamma rays, the surface emits photons in the visible spectrum that form..." I swirled my finger on the paper's surface as if I were doodling, "...patterns, we could call them. Like little moving pictures."

The investigator looked up from the paper.

"Did the professor consider this phenomenon important?"

"Officially, no. Some time ago, Zahariev conducted detailed experiments. There was great excitement among physicists, and many took an interest in the phenomenon. It led to nothing. So, today, Gamma Motion is considered a dead end. But Zahariev didn't give up. He searched for an explanation for years. Because of his obsession, he only partially participated in the optical computing revolution, even though it all started with him. But then he threw in the towel. In the two years I worked with him, he never admitted to still having an interest in Gamma Motion, or to studying it in any way."

Sarah Hu nodded.

"Let me rephrase the question. Do you believe Zahariev was conducting experiments here, at Novus Hill, to explain this phenomenon?"

"I believe so. He never got over that failure."

She spread her arms.

"That sounds more like speculation."

I was feeling hot. I took a breath.

"My statements are based on the experiments we were conducting. They weren't openly about Gamma Motion, but they were always related to the quantum model of the Synchro."

"I see. Thank you, Doctor."

Hu glanced at her colleague, who returned her gaze.

"I'd like to show you the recordings of the incident."

"I've already seen them. I'd rather not see them again."

"Alright, I'll ask you the question directly. What was Manuel Zahariev trying to do during the experiment that ended up killing him?"

I didn't hesitate.

"I believe he wanted to observe the Gamma Motion with his own eyes."

"To see the phenomenon more clearly?"

"No. You can see it perfectly on the capture screens."

"Why, then?"

"I have no idea."

"Can you elaborate on that answer?"

I remained silent for a moment.

"I'd rather not say any more."

"You seem shaken. We're almost done."

She swiped the tablet screen.

"Let's see what you think of this."

She handed me the tablet. It contained a few lines of text.

"It's a note found in the experiment's log. It seems to be a verse by a certain Borges."

I read the words on the screen.

Where will the centuries be, where the dream

of swords the Tartars dreamt,

where the strong walls they battered down,

where Adam's tree and the other wood?

"What does it mean?"

My question disappointed Hu, who tapped her knuckles on the desk.

"They don't mean anything to you?"

I thought about it for a while, unable to find a plausible connection.

"No, nothing."

"Thank you. We're finished."

I stood up and left.

I woke to the soft light of dawn. I kicked off the covers and swung my legs out of bed. I drank my coffee at the kitchen table. I put on the same skirt as the day before and pulled the same pink sweater over my head. I reached the metro while the sun was still low.

At Novus Hill, I went straight to my office and set the lock to 'do not disturb.' For three hours, I reviewed the projects I had wanted to pursue over the past two years. I wrote the email.

Dear Director,

I have read your communication from this morning. While the appointment of the new head of the reflective materials section is being finalized, I request authorization to proceed with the experiments for the project attached to this message.

The basic idea is simple, but not, in my opinion, without merit: to remodulate the Synchro-C in cheaper optical processors towards a form with a lower refractive index. A lower refraction will increase the transit speed of light in certain critical sections of the processor, improving the maximum achievable performance in a manner that is certainly not revolutionary, but tangible. The core of the research is the process used to obtain a reduced-refraction Synchro-C. Standard production techniques do not allow us to go below the current thresholds. Thus, this research, by a rather happy coincidence, draws upon and connects back to the early studies of the late Professor Zahariev. The lowering of the Synchro-C's refraction, when used as a fast crystal, would be induced by gamma bombardment. I believe this is a good way to remember the professor.

Attached to this letter is the list of physicists who, during last September's council, have already supported this research proposal.

Emily Howlett

After sending the email, I continued with my work, drafting the specifications for the first experiments and refining the project's objectives.

At noon, my head started to spin. I smoothed down my skirt and left the office. Beyond the reception, I spotted Helen chatting with Nikita, a physicist from her group. Nikita turned towards the restrooms; I quickened my pace to catch up with Helen.

We had lunch together, facing each other: me with my tofu salad and Helen with her salmon sandwich.

"Is Viktor in his office?"

"He's out today," Helen said.

"Nothing new there."

Helen gave in to her frustration.

"I'm sorry to say it, but he's putting us in a difficult position. We're two months away from presenting the project."

"Maybe he's under pressure." I regretted saying it.

"Under pressure? And yet he'll be there tonight."

"At Area Zero?"

"He said yes. Are you coming?"

"What time?"

"The exhibition starts at 9, but we're meeting at 7, at the Octagon. We'll have a drink and then head to Area Zero."

"I think I can make it."

It was six in the evening. I was trying to keep a procession of distressing thoughts at bay, each one insisting on surfacing. The phone chimed with an important message notification.

"Hey, Case, what's up?" I yelled into the phone, over the sound of the shower.

"You've received an email from the director of Novus Hill."

"What does it say?"

"The director authorizes you to proceed with the experiment on low-latency crystals."

I rinsed my hair for a few more seconds and turned off the water. I wrapped my hair in a towel and read the email in full. There was no reason to stall my work, especially since—the director had added at the end of the message—the appointment of Zahariev's successor would take longer than expected.

I was trembling with the desire to get to work, but I was late for the Octagon. I got dressed and did my makeup with my hair still damp, then grabbed my coat and left the house.

At the pub, I downed the first pint in ten minutes. Helen appeared out of nowhere and placed a new mug under my nose. I tried to drink more slowly but was again surprised with an empty glass.

We reached the exhibition. I walked among the displays, leaning against Viktor's body. I persuaded him to skip the second-generation oracle pavilion, the most ridiculously pompous one. He protested that I was tipsy, but finally agreed.

We stood, mesmerized, before a contemporary painting whose dimensions towered over us. It subtly changed its elements as sensors aimed at our bodies scanned the reactions the work provoked in us. To produce it, a third-generation oracle had interpolated the artistic space defined by the entire output of the recently deceased Yumi Sakuragi, of whom this work represented the glorified synthesis, the apex of her poetics.

I tore my attention from the painting and grabbed the hem of Viktor's jacket.

"Can you tell me why you weren't here today?"

We were alone; the others had gotten stuck at the previous pavilion. Viktor looked at me with a devil-may-care smile. I tried to press him.

"Are you having problems?"

"Who doesn't have problems?" And he immediately leaned in, pressing his lips to mine.

"Maybe it's this batch that's no good."

James stared at me, his protective goggles perched on the tip of his nose. His gaze was one of impatient reproach.

"Emily, the quality of the Synchro has nothing to do with it."

"Probably, but what does it cost us to try?"

"Only a whole lot of effort."

"One last try."

"As you wish."

He went to the storeroom while I was busy reconfiguring the conversion experiment. He returned with a cylindrical container, placed it on the steel bench, and released the lid's lock. He took out a fifty-millimeter crystal and centered it on the tilting supports.

"We're ready."

We moved to safety, outside the chamber that had seen Zahariev's death and which, for four days, had been our voluntary prison. I started the experiment on the panel; duration: six minutes. During that time, James kept his eyes fixed on his phone. We went back inside. I placed the crystal on the optical tester, and a green laser fell perpendicular to its surface: fragments of jade light painted a tangle of fractal lines.

I looked at the refractive index and shook my head.

"Nothing?"

"Same as before," I replied.

He pulled off his gloves.

"I'm stopping. We need to figure out where we're going wrong."

"That's what we're trying to do, isn't it?"

"I mean we need to figure out what's wrong with the theory, not the practice."

It was Friday evening; we had to admit we'd been going at it for so long that we'd been drained of every inventive spark. I took the Synchro crystal we had just converted and stared at the numbers on the screen: the optical properties, the atomic configuration, the purity index. I gently waved the small disk in front of James's eyes, like a priceless trophy. The Synchro shimmered with violet reflections. I was careful not to cut myself.

"So incorruptible, and yet so capable of corrupting those who try to understand it." Then I tossed the disk into the bin without the slightest regret.

On Saturday, I struggled to sleep past eight. I retrieved two Sinatriv pills from the bedside table and swallowed them with the first sip of coffee. At the peak of my concentration, I settled on the sofa, laptop on my lap. I queued for non-priority access to the scientific oracle. While I waited, I went back and forth to the kitchen, returning with a piece of chocolate and a piece of bread.

I took a few bites, looking at the buildings beyond the window, the disk of the sun hitting the facades head-on. I heard three rising notes and a vaguely female voice:

"Connection to the oracle has been established."

I cleared my still-hoarse throat and began to speak.

"We are trying to convert Synchro-C into a form with a lower refractive index to make it faster. The process is similar to the gamma bombardment in the historical experiments of Niemi and Zahariev."

"I understand the context. Please input the exact parameters."

I sent the file to the oracle. I waited.

"The described procedure has never been tested, both due to a lack of scientific interest and the abandonment of gamma bombardment techniques. Have you considered using Synchro-A as the fast crystal?"

"Too expensive. We want to produce faster Synchro-C processors while maintaining their low production cost."

"I had not considered economic factors. If your experiment has an applied dimension, proceeding as you have done is sensible."

"You're not helping," I whispered.

"I apologize, I was merely—"

"Disregard the previous sentence."

I needed to look at the problem from a broader perspective.

"Tell me about the gamma-induced transformations of Synchro in a more general context."

"The study of interactions between gamma rays and Synchro stemmed from the famous Suzhou incident. The video memory of one of the first photosistor computer prototypes, made of Synchro-A, produced patterns on the Chinese researchers' screens due to the effect of gamma rays. The following year, Zahariev managed to reproduce the Suzhou incident deterministically, proving that the phenomenon manifests on the surface of laminar type-A Synchro and christening its effects with the name Gamma Motion. From that moment—"

"Skip the historical perspective, focus on the scientific part."

"Understood. Zahariev focused on studying the Gamma Motion produced by Synchro-A. The phenomenon, which still lacks a clear quantum explanation, manifests as the emission of optical photons in coherent patterns during gamma irradiation at specific harmonics and angles of incidence. Niemi used similar techniques to vary the optical properties of Synchro-B, creating the first dynamic diffractives, which, however, were subject to rapid degradation. The field of study proved to be of little interest: new production techniques for the higher-performing Synchro-A rendered Niemi's efforts irrelevant. Gamma Motion was never explained and remained confined to surfaces smaller than two square millimeters, lacking, moreover, any practical interest."

The oracle's voice stopped.

I walked barefoot around the sofa. The Sinatriv made the cold floor feel quite stimulating.

"What were the most commonly used exposure parameters during Niemi's experiments?"

"Niemi always used the same set of harmonics discovered by Zahariev for the reproduction of Gamma Motion. The emission powers, temperatures, and the crystalline form of the starting Synchro varied significantly, for example for the diff—"

"That's enough, thank you."

I remained silent, mulling over my experiment.

"End session."

I threw the leftover bread in the trash and called James.

"Emily, what's up?" We rarely spoke outside of work.

"What if... the parameters we assume are correct are actually wrong?"

He took a moment to reply.

"That's a vague statement, especially for a Saturday. We agreed to take a break."

"The harmonics could be wrong."

"Impossible. The same harmonics have been used in every experiment of this type."

"Failed experiments, forty years old."

"The same harmonics reproduce Gamma Motion even in our lab, and they're the same ones Zahariev, Niemi, Gustavi, and all the others used."

"But we're attempting a different kind of transformation."

"Mmm... Let's talk about it on Monday. I'll think it over, alright?"

"Alright."

I tried to let it go. I got ready at a leisurely pace. At 12, I left the house to go to the medical clinic. The cold was biting; I had dressed too lightly. Luckily, with the clear sky, the sun warmed one side of the street.

When my turn came, I undressed in the changing room and entered the diagnostic office. The walls with their rounded volumes concealed sophisticated instruments, a contrast to the room's minimalist appearance, which thankfully was well-heated.

"Hello, Emily," the medical oracle said. "How can I help you?"

"I wake up as if I haven't rested."

"You didn't report these symptoms at your last check-up."

"It's been happening for a week, maybe two."

"Please, step onto the medical scanner."

I moved onto the circular platform. Two thin lines traced my body, crossing above my navel.

"Now place your hand on the surface to your right."

I did as the oracle said. A few seconds passed.

"Your blood parameters are normal. Can you give me more information about how you feel?"

"Tiredness. Sometimes when I walk, I feel pain, especially in my hips."

"I understand. Remain still."

I heard a high-pitched hum.

"There is no indication of any pathology. Your problems are attributable to a period of stress. Please follow the lifestyle guidelines in the message I have sent you."

"What if it doesn't go away?"

"If the symptoms persist, or if they worsen, we will perform another check-up. You will simply need to press the new evaluation button I have included in the report."

"Okay, thank you."

"It's a pleasure, Emily."

I went back to the changing room and got dressed. On the street, I consulted the lifestyle guidelines; there was advice to favor activities in natural environments. I turned towards River Park. The wind had partially died down.

I walked among the maple trees, on the park's main path. The phone rang.

"Weren't we supposed to talk on Monday?" I asked James.

"You've planted an idea in my head."

I laughed heartily; a few birds took flight from the branches.

"Listen, I'm with Anna Mirzaie at an Italian wine tasting—in theory, at least. We ended up working, half-drunk, in an early twentieth-century farmhouse."

"And here I am, walking in the park like a lost soul. Say hi to Anna for me."

I heard them talking but couldn't make out the words.

"She says hi back," James replied. Then: "I'll make it brief. I told Anna about our experiment. A theoretical physicist sees things differently. She went wild. She modeled the experiment in reverse, starting from the properties we obtained and extrapolating the harmonics needed for the reconfiguration we want."

I sat down on a bench.

"Do you have the list of frequencies?"

"Right here in front of me, just as it came out of the mathematical oracle."

"Do I even need to ask?"

"No, I know you. I've already sent you everything."

His tone changed.

"Emily, don't get your hopes up. Anna repeated to me ad nauseam that this is just theoretical speculation."

"It's also a breakthrough in a moment of absolute stalemate. I want to test the new harmonics as soon as possible."

"We'll know what they lead to on Monday. In the meantime, study the calculations I sent you. I'll do the same later."

"See you Monday. And thank Anna."

I hung up. I read James's message: the harmonics were very different from ours, the calculations a bit cryptic. I leaned my head back on the bench. A squirrel darted back and forth on the gnarled branch of a ginkgo tree.

"Yeah, right... Monday," I said to the squirrel, which for a moment seemed to look at me.

I walked briskly towards the metro. On the avenue leading to Novus Hill, I greeted Hinton, who had taught the physics lecture for the refresher course. I changed and went to the gamma chamber. I studied Anna's work more carefully; rather than the exact harmonics, she had derived the ranges where the function minimized the error.

I started the experiment with the central values. The tester indicated an improvement in refraction, but they were variations comparable to those observed in the experiments already conducted with James. I tried with the values at the minimum and maximum limits of the range: still only minor improvements.

I went to my office and activated the terminal. I requested a joint consultation with the mathematical and scientific oracles on Anna's hypothesis, entering the three new results I had obtained. I followed their logical processes on the screen; they had started from two discordant points of view but then found an agreement and developed the implications of the mathematical premises. Their conversation ended with new values for the harmonics. I transmitted the parameters to the lab and went back there. I reran the experiment from the external panel. I waited motionless, leaning against the wall. I went back in. I placed the Synchro disk on the tester and, when the gleam of the lasers ceased, I observed the result on the screen. I called James.

"Emily, I'm busy. I'll call you back later." His tone was annoyed, wrapped in a background hum.

"It works," I said, ignoring his request. "We have the low-latency Synchro-C."

At the end of the meeting, the physicists abandoned the chairs they had been confined to for nearly two hours. All except me. I remained under the intense light of the conference room, at the center of the irregularly shaped table.

I saw Helen break away from the cluster of physicists she was chatting with and walk towards me.

"What's wrong? You should be happy."

I hesitated.

"I'm very pleased," I said without changing my expression. She shook her head, but thankfully let the subject drop. We left the room together, she towards her office and I in search of Viktor, who had been among the first to leave the meeting. I wanted the encounter to seem casual. I went towards the restrooms; I didn't find him and turned back. I ran into him coming out of the bar.

"Viktor, I'm glad you were there."

"Of course." He smiled. "You did a good job, but with success, you've lost all your charm."

"Cut it out."

"You're beautiful, you know that?"

It caught me a little by surprise.

"Viktor, I need to talk to you."

"I can't. We're preparing the paperwork for the trials with Optrix."

I let my annoyance show. He tried to recover.

"We'll talk soon, okay? I have to go."

He disappeared in a second.

That same evening, I sent him a message:

"I'm home. Are you coming?"

He replied almost immediately.

"I don't know if I can make it."

"You'd better..." I replied suggestively.

He knocked on my door around 8.

"Fuck you," I said, accepting a measly bouquet of flowers. He closed the door behind him. I threw the small bouquet on the floor, opened my fist, and revealed the two fuchsia pills. I placed one on my tongue, slowly, staring into his face; the other, I slipped into his mouth. I dragged him to the bedroom and began to undress him there.

Our naked, spent bodies, side by side, both of us looking at the ceiling, breathing heavily.

"Was that what you had to tell me?"

"How much time do we have?"

"An hour. Then I have to go."

"I have something else to tell you."

"I figured," he sighed.

I gave him a look of disapproval.

He crossed one leg over mine.

"Come on, talk."

It took me a while to begin.

"I wonder, what would have happened if my experiment had failed?"

"Is that all?" I turned to look at his profile. "You would have tried another one."

"Maybe. And what if I had become obsessed?"

"You were a little obsessed. That's why it worked."

"It took Anna Mirzaie. I could still be there, banging my head against the wall."

"I've already told you what I think: if it hadn't been her, it would have been someone else. Niemi, forty years ago, didn't have our resources."

"Perhaps." I pulled the sheets up to my chest. I continued.

"I can't get Zahariev out of my head. Maybe the same thing happened to him. The same harmonics might reproduce the Gamma Motion at a higher intensity."

"Get it out of your head," he warned me.

"Why? We just need to repeat Zahariev's experiment. With laminar Synchro-A and the new harmonics."

Viktor shot up into a sitting position.

"Emily, you're on the right track. Don't ruin everything."

"What's the problem? I can continue my research and retry Zahariev's experiment."

"That's insane," he said, suddenly agitated. "Who have you talked to about this?"

"Only you. I wanted an opinion, not a scene."

"This ends badly. Don't mention it to anyone, alright?"

"Viktor..."

"Believe me. Those are crackpot experiments that were only tolerated because Zahariev was a co-founder of Novus Hill. And even then, what did he get out of it?" He counted the misfortunes on his fingers as he listed them: "Ridicule from his colleagues, an ex-wife, and two out of three children who wouldn't speak to him. And then... you remember what happened?"

"It wasn't because of the experiments! He was a troubled man."

"What do you know? Maybe he became troubled. You're not the same person anymore either..."

"You're exaggerating," I said, raising my voice. "You can't talk to me like that."

"Fine. Then I'm leaving."

He started to get dressed. I stood up and grabbed him by the wrist.

"Viktor, you're acting absurdly."

"Me?" he said, poking his chest with his index finger. "Forget this whole thing, Emily. Do it for yourself."

"Or else what?"

"Or else... whatever," and he dismissed the sentence with a wave of his hand in the air. He finished putting on his shoes and left, slamming the door.

I didn't have a close relationship with Director Thorp. We understood and respected each other enough, and that was sufficient. Meanwhile, the results of the fast-crystal project had elevated my professional status at least a little—enough to request a meeting without an appointment. Still, I waited for the day to draw to a close; the director's office was a constant crossroads of meetings, and I needed more calm.

"Doctor! Please, sit down. I'll be right with you."

He pressed the phone to his face.

"Are you there? I sent you the authorization. Yes, yes, the financial plan is there too. Good, thanks."

He hung up and leaned back in his chair.

"Now, to us." His tone betrayed his fatigue.

"I'm sorry to have bothered you. It's a matter of no urgency that—"

"No, no, believe me," he interrupted. "If I can help you, that's what I'm here for."

I felt confident.

"Well, you see, I believe that certain experiments of Professor Zahariev have regained their interest."

"Which experiments are you referring to?" he asked in a calm tone.

"The ones on Gamma Motion."

"You think so?" This time, he posed the question with skepticism.

"We have the new harmonics. You understand that this brings certain facts back into question..."

"Please, stop. This morning, Dr. Kohlheim's concerns seemed rather bizarre to me. I thought it was jealousy."

"What concerns?" I asked, confused.

"Dr. Viktor Kohlheim is worried about you, about certain obsessions that have already led the most important physicist of this institute to lose control."

I felt my cheeks flush. I tried to regain a shred of composure.

"Director, I assure you this is merely a scientific curiosity."

"Do you think I was happy about Zahariev's experiments?"

"I couldn't say," I replied, lying.

"It was horrible to see one of our best minds waste himself like that. But I couldn't oppose Zahariev, I'll tell you that frankly. With you, however, I can."

"I understand. I withdraw my request. Believe me, Kohlheim has greatly exaggerated this matter."

"Will the others in your group be able to give it up?"

"I haven't spoken to anyone about it, only Dr. Kohlheim."

The director nodded, his gaze lost in the distance. He leaned more heavily on the armrests.

"I'm happy to hear that." Now his expression was more good-natured. "Perhaps Kohlheim really is jealous," he said conspiratorially. I took advantage of the lighter mood and laughed along with him. Shortly after, I took my leave cordially.

In the corridors of the research center, I met no one, only the bots performing their end-of-day cleaning; as I passed, they would stop close to the walls, following a program that made them seem timid. The glow of still-lit offices rarely seeped from under the doors. I entered my own and sat down to wait.

An hour later, the few external noises had completely subsided. I transferred the experiment to the laboratory's terminals. I headed down the corridor with my bag and coat, to give the impression I was leaving the building. I reached the gamma chamber unseen. Still wearing my coat, I placed the Synchro lamina on the support and loaded the professor's experiment, modified only in the choice of gamma harmonics. I set the start delay and went out to the safe area. From the external panel, I gave the confirmation and activated the capture screen, designating my phone as the external viewer.

I hurried to the restrooms and locked myself in the nearest stall. The first images flashed before my eyes. It was a flash, in which the Synchro lamina, faithfully projected onto my phone, produced a Gamma Motion that extended across the entire surface of the disk. The image appeared too fleetingly for me to make sense of it, but long enough to notice that the phenomenon had occurred on a completely exceptional scale. Then there was darkness, then other images, this time for a very long time, several seconds in which I saw what seemed to be a hand. The image was turbulent, extreme in its contrasts, made of saturated light against a cobalt background. It disappeared only to reappear in a new form. Now there were indecipherable figures: vaguely perspectival lines, perhaps the glimpse of an object; flickering followed by new moments of darkness.

The experiment reached its maximum time. The gamma ray emission stopped, the images ceased abruptly: the screen remained dark. I retraced my steps to the external panel; from there, I deleted the last session. I started walking slowly again, to allow my heartbeat to slow down. I composed myself as much as possible and turned towards the exit of Novus Hill, apparently serene.

The night was spent between heat and cold shivers, my back damp with sweat, the infinite mental repetition of the images produced by the Synchro. Before going to work, I forced myself to regain a suitable appearance. I arrived at Novus Hill without being late and, at 10:30, the time for the morning break, I left my office to cross the threshold of the bar. Viktor was sitting alone, but I had already spotted Gilhard at the pastry display. I went to Viktor and sat down opposite him, pretending to believe the seat was vacant. I pasted an expression of total apathy on my face.

"Hi, Emily." There was a note of surprise in his voice.

I drank from the juice without taking my eyes off him.

"How are you?" He had the solicitousness of someone who has inadvertently knocked you over.

"Are you kidding me?"

His face darkened.

"You're an asshole."

"Maybe I am." He brushed his fingers against my hand. "But it was better than letting you..."

Suddenly, I felt he was being sincere, that I could trust him.

"Viktor, come with me to the lab. I have to show you something."

"I don't want to see anything."

I set aside all pride.

"It's important." I was sure I could persuade him.

"Listen to me." He leaned back in his chair and enunciated his words: "If you conduct experiments not approved by the council, I will report you to the scientific committee."

For a few moments, I held his gaze; then disappointment overwhelmed me. I remained there, disoriented, looking at my hands still outstretched towards him. Gilhard returned with his tray; I should have given him the seat and was on the verge of doing so. Instead, I threw the glass of orange juice in Viktor's face. He closed his eyes and brought a hand to his mouth. The glass fell onto the table and then rolled off, shattering on the floor. Viktor took his hand away from his lip: his fingers were red with blood. He stood up and pulled his shirt away from his torso. "I'm going to the bathroom." Gilhard was frozen. All eyes were on us. Gilhard put down his tray and followed Viktor. I stood up, my dress stained with splashes, went to my office, grabbed what I needed to go home, and headed for the exit.

On the metro train, I filled out an early departure request. I wondered what would happen, how I would explain the assault on Viktor. I clung to the metal pole to steady myself up. As we slowed down, the words NORTH END became more legible. The doors opened. I stepped onto the platform amid the din of the imminent departure beeps.

A girl was waiting to board the train; since she was in front of me, she ended up blocking my way. She wore a black sweatshirt with a pink star, had curly black hair, lightened at the tips, and was unusually tall. In my attempt to get past her, with the other passengers on either side of the doors, our bodies touched. She wrapped her arms around my waist and pulled me towards her. I flinched and was about to push her away when she put her mouth to my ear and said:

"You've seen the truth of Gamma Motion. Today at five at North Church. Don't be late." She pulled away and nodded, looking me in the eyes.

"Who are you?" But she fled onto the train, followed by the small crowd that had been holding back. The doors closed, and the train departed.

I spent the afternoon oscillating between the certainty of going and the certainty of avoiding the meeting. I was scared. When I was sure I would back out, certain elements would end up instilling confidence in me. "You've seen the truth of Gamma Motion," she had said; I don't know how she knew about my experiments, but she herself—or whoever sent her—must have been part of the scientific community.

Half an hour before I needed to, I sat on the steps at the foot of the North Church portal. Shortly after five, from a side street facing the church, I saw the curly-haired girl appear, this time accompanied by a man. They arrived walking at a brisk pace. The girl was blunt:

"Give us your phones, rings, tablets—everything you have."

The man slipped off his backpack and opened the zipper.

"Why?"

"They're not allowed. Let's be quick."

I could go home or do as they said. I handed the man my phone.

"Anything else in your bag?" he asked. I shook my head. He put the backpack back on and walked away.

"Follow me," the girl said.

We walked down the street they had come from. We turned left almost immediately, then right onto a side street. We arrived near a taxi.

"Get in." She pointed to the back door. She took one of the front seats, so I got in as well. The taxi's screen was off, and there was no welcoming voice; it seemed out of service. The girl used her phone to black out the windows and start the vehicle.

"These are necessary precautions," she explained.

We traveled for fifteen or twenty minutes, during which I tried in vain to get an explanation. I felt some jolts.

"A drone is picking us up," she informed me.

I had traveled on mixed-route transport countless times in my life, yet the idea of being whisked away to a considerable distance heightened my fears.

The flight lasted at least an hour, or that was my impression. By the time we landed, boredom had prevailed over anxiety. Thankfully, the road journey was very short. The door opened; we got out of the car. We found ourselves in a tiny indoor parking lot: the surfaces were bare concrete, with enough space for a handful of cars and, on one side, interrupting the uniformity of the walls, only a set of elevator doors. From those doors emerged a mature woman. When we were a short distance away, I had no doubt: it was Jessica Ginsberg, Nobel laureate in physics.

In the center of the immense laboratory, I saw a white hemisphere towering over everything, hollow on the inside, its mouth facing the ceiling. The hemisphere rested on a cubic pedestal, supported by small spheres at the points of contact.

On the pedestal's wall, four screens—almost adjacent, arranged two above and two below—projected black-and-white images of men and women engaged in a wide variety of activities.

The elderly scientist and I were alone, in the echo of our footsteps.

"Usually, there are still people here at this hour. Our research is entirely clandestine; many have other jobs, and everyone offers their time as and when they can. However, in your case, I've offered you the courtesy of a more intimate meeting."

They want me to see as few faces as possible, I thought. I simply thanked her.

"Thirteen years ago," she resumed, "a series of practical and theoretical studies on the Gamma Motion phenomenon was undertaken."

"These images..."

"Yes, they are produced by Gamma Motion. We know you have obtained results."

She read the discomfort on my face.

"Come now!" she exclaimed. "Don't be like that. Believe me, your privacy is a small price to pay."

I didn't reply; I had other priorities.

"Who are those people?" I stared at the distant screens.

"Men, women; mathematicians, musicians, chemists, architects... there are all sorts."

"Are they... working?"

"They are all engaged in their art. In years of observation, we have received nothing else."

I was overcome with curiosity.

"Who is transmitting the images?"

"Ah! The answer will reveal something that has perhaps been torturing you for some time."

She gazed at the hemisphere.

"You see? The detector points straight towards the constellation Canes Venatici. As you know, in the original experiments, it is necessary for the Synchro lamina to rotate on two axes."

She waved her outstretched hand in front of her chest.

"Therefore, the images appear and disappear in a way that seems random. This is a misunderstanding. If the Synchro is well-laminated, you just need to point its normal towards a precise point in space, which, however, is constantly moving relative to us. That point is near Canes Venatici, and it coincides with the source of GW190521."

"Are you serious? How did they not notice?"

"Zahariev's experiment generates a localized effect. With your harmonics, on the other hand..."

I thought of the images from the previous night: their appearing and then vanishing had struck me deeply.

"It's possible," I said. But everything else was unclear.

"Forgive me. What is this GW19... that number you said?"

"GW190521 is a gravitational wave received in May 2019, followed by a similar wave in September 2064. We know that the waves are the result of extreme cosmological events. The images become stable only by following the reception point of those two specific gravitational events, although," she added, "a direct verification is impossible. Even placing two meters of tungsten between the detector and space, the transmissions continue undisturbed."

A shiver ran through me.

"Neutrinos," I murmured. Jessica Ginsberg smiled. "Perhaps. Who knows... Certainly, the gamma rays are just a catalyst."

We walked slowly towards the screens.

They showed a harpist engaged in exhausting progressions on the strings; a screen on which illegible words were continually added, modified, erased; a man at a mirror applying makeup with a thin brush; the board of a game similar to chess, filmed from above, surrounded by the heads of four players.

"I'm here because I was at risk of seeing the same images."

In the presence of the laboratory's vastness, Jessica Ginsberg seemed vulnerable to me.

"I wanted to involve you for some time, you know? But there was resistance." She adopted a more uncertain tone. "After the death of Manuel Zahariev, we decided to block the entry of external physicists. But sometimes, it's events that decide."

I turned towards her.

"What does Zahariev have to do with this?"

"We brought him here." She gestured to the floor of the room. "A month before his death."

She continued reluctantly.

"He said... he didn't want to come in. He used those words. He begged us to leave him alone. Bizarre behavior, don't you think? You know what kind of man he was."

I brought my hands to my cheeks.

"I don't believe it," I said under my breath. "To subject him to such humiliation after a lifetime of—" but a thought interrupted me.

"Do you realize what you've done?"

"What? Acknowledged what he was due? Zahariev was old; it was a tribute to his career."

"Some tribute," I said bitterly.

"There's no proof he killed himself over this. It's illogical."

I thought back to the poem I had read during the interrogation; it was unlikely she didn't know about it. Suddenly, I asked:

"Are the images... our destiny?"

I didn't even know what I was alluding to myself. She looked at me, her green eyes narrowed into slits.

"You want to know if they come from the future?"

"Yes."

"Well, they are undoubtedly images from Earth. We have seen the Moon several times, reflected on surfaces; other times in the background, beyond windows. And then, we often see bots, mostly as assistants: they bring food, drinks, tools. They repair complex objects, like terminals and musical instruments; and of course, they tidy up the rooms." She pointed with her index finger at the images on the screens. "Compared to today's bots, these are much more sophisticated and less specialized, both in function and appearance. It's always the same bipedal model, for all activities. And then there are the everyday objects. Many are similar to ours, often identical, but there are some that we could in no way replicate today."

"None of this makes sense," I stated.

She shook her head.

"For the moment, they are just images of creatives at work: people obsessed with their art, their science. You see, now? Until we know more, what you have seen must remain within these walls."

On the screen, I saw a young tailor bent over a mannequin bot. Using a tool vaguely similar to a pen, he was unstitching and restitching a dress I would have gladly worn: at once splendidly elegant and yet very bizarre, with sleeves reminiscent of an orchid flower and a skirt of organza layers floating in mid-air.

"The time jump?"

She stared at me, helpless. I saw in her eyes the surrender to the cosmos.

"A fold in space-time? The events that generated the two gravitational waves are very far away, but they could have had effects along their path. Some prefer other theories: that from the future, they are able to choose the origin of these transmissions at will, and they choose to send them from a point in space that we are keeping an eye on. Or even, that at that point there is an emitter relatively close to us, difficult to detect, that sends projections of a predicted, imagined future."

She returned to more practical matters, in her tone of voice as well.

"But now, please, follow me; there is someone who has been racking their brains over these problems for years. He did everything he could to get here in time."

We took the corridor that cut through the back of the room. We turned several times, as if in the labyrinth of an anthill; there were never any windows, only artificial light and a succession of doors interspersed with sometimes short, sometimes endless spaces.

We arrived at a small waiting area. It had red armchairs and a slightly messy kitchen: two coffee machines, some snacks, a basket of apples, no bots in operation. The scientist asked if I was hungry or thirsty; I accepted a glass of water. She had me sit down and assured me she would be back in a few minutes. She disappeared behind a door.

A short while later, I heard the sound of footsteps and Jessica Ginsberg's voice closer, speaking softly with a man who had a familiar tone. The door opened and Viktor appeared.

The events that followed were so painful for me that I retain only a fragmented memory of them. After an intense crisis—sedated, at my own request, with medication—I arranged to be taken home. Although I lacked the strength to articulate my words clearly, I continued to speak with him. He stayed there, even though I had first cursed him and then begged him to disappear.

"The man I loved is dead," I repeated in a low voice, "When I thought, for once, that my feelings were reciprocated."

"Stop saying that."

"I didn't care about all the baggage you carried, you know? But to pretend to love me... For what, to control my every move? It's so cowardly, Viktor. It's so revolting."

He continued to deny every accusation, but he never said he loved me again, because he had seen the violence of the reaction that had followed. Finally, the girl who had brought me there came to pick me up. She was very thoughtful, brought me cookies and water, and waited for me to eat a little—I couldn't finish the second cookie. The elevator took us back to the parking lot, where the taxi was waiting. I took a seat in the back, as before, slumped against the window, consumed by despair. We left.

At work, they granted me a long paid leave. Officially, I was to recover from a nervous breakdown; in truth, Viktor had arranged with the director for the assault against him to result in my temporary removal. I spent my evenings at parties, clubs, and some more demanding raves. I had casual acquaintances, with different, disconnected groups of people. I used drugs regularly, woke up late, and didn't answer his calls.

I didn't breathe a word of what I knew to anyone. On one thing, Jessica Ginsberg was right: secrecy was an essential precaution.

Two months passed. I got a dog: a honey-colored mutt. I dragged him out for walks that lasted for hours. Walking helped me; step by step, I analyzed the events that had overwhelmed my life. At night, my escapades continued unchanged, if with less enthusiasm, and with a mechanical way in which I abandoned myself to a calculated recklessness.

One evening, I sat on a bench opposite the entrance to Novus Hill. I waited for Viktor to get out of work, but in vain. Two hours later, I went back home. I tried again at the same time, on the same bench. Finally, I saw him appear in a moss-green jacket, his long hair disheveled. I waved in his direction; he squinted. "Viktor," I called. He stopped, and finally started towards me.

"Emily." He remained standing at a distance.

"Aren't you going to sit?"

He sat to the right of Planck, who was curled up at my feet.

"And you?" he asked the dog.

"He's Planck."

"Planck," he repeated, bending down to pet the animal's back.

He looked at me and shook his head. We stared at the square in silence for a while, in the damp evening light.

"So?" I asked, "When are you taking me to the old lady?"

Ravin Sreenivasan arrived at the Durand-Zahariev Foundation museum excessively early, in my opinion. To prevent him from getting lost, one of our collaborators escorted him to the small lounge connected to the information office, where the monthly interviews usually took place. We had arranged the armchairs so that, even while seated, one could glimpse a part of the exhibition in the distance: especially the triangular-based totems, with their long, narrow screens on each of the three sides.

When I stood before him, he seemed too young and thin as a rail.

"Welcome," I said to the boy, and to make him feel more welcome, I invited him to take off the shoulder bag he was wearing. As soon as he set down his bag, I shook his hand cordially.

"In the end, I forced you to see me."

He spoke with such an unusual accent that I struggled to discern the words.

"Don't say that, we're happy to have you here," I stammered. I glanced fleetingly at the time: thirty minutes would be enough.

"Let's see... you come from Bengaluru," I read from my phone. "That's not exactly around the corner." With that pretext, I managed to catch the boy's name.

"I had to insist on the travel expenses as well."

"Indeed, Professor Ginsberg informed me of your repeated emails to the Foundation."

I tried to steer the conversation elsewhere.

"Would you like to sit?"

"I'd like to walk. I was sitting for the entire flight."

"Of course, I don't feel like being planted in a chair either."

"Just a moment, I'll get my tablet."

He retrieved the tablet from his bag, and we set off along the main path, which proceeded in chronological order. Ravin approached the simulation of Zahariev's first experiment, almost fifty years old. He moved away from it, uninterested.

"You are by far the first student."

I thought he might be pleased.

"Otherwise, only important people," he immediately pointed out.

"What would you do in our place?"

"It's not at all straightforward."

"Do you mind explaining?" I managed to mask my impatience.

"I consulted the visitor history. In six years, only famous people: professors, many physicists at the end of their careers, far from the peak of their energies. But the worst part is that they are almost always scientists."

"We have also invited philosophers, like yourself, if that's what you're referring to, and then writers, epistemologists. Even some visual artists."

"To what extent?" he asked challengingly.

"Rarely," I conceded. "But the StarGrams are a physics problem."

He shook his head with a self-satisfied smile.

"It would seem more logical to me to listen to others. You've gotten almost nothing out of it."

I thought about dismissing him abruptly, but I held back. We arrived near my image. Ravin approached and began to read. I tried to preempt him:

"I had asked not to be included; the curators didn't listen to me."

"I didn't know you had a role in the color reception."

"It was a group effort, don't believe otherwise. Nadine De Balzac intuited the existence of the overlapping channels; I just found the right synchronous configurations to separate them."

We continued on to the foot of a totem. The screen showed a person seen from behind, almost certainly a woman. The terminal she was bent over revealed a page of text interspersed with extensive sequences of symbols: though not very legible, they looked like mathematical equations.

"Is it live?" asked Ravin.

"The delay is five milliseconds."

"Look around." I extended my arm in front of me. "All the totems show the images as they arrive at the detector."

"At least from your failure, we've gained some transparency."

This time, I couldn't suppress a tone of indignation.

"I figured it out right away, you know? To you, we're inconclusive scientists playing with our spatial grimoire."

"I didn't say that," he defended himself. I continued my invective.

"Making our work public was necessary. We had to cross-reference our theories with other thinkers. You see a failure in that? Fine, everyone has their opinions. But please avoid offending me."

He didn't apologize.

"You must have come all this way for a reason," I said curtly.

"Alright." He sat down on a bench along the path.

"I've been working on the StarGrams problem for almost a year, for my speculative philosophy exam. I didn't come here with the first idea that popped into my head."

"Of course not." I sat down too.

"I believe the images are a well-organized protest by some dissidents."

I felt my patience abandoning me.

"I'd like to listen to you," I began, exhausted, then recovered my tone a bit, "But, please, bring the discussion to an acceptable level."

"And you, try to listen to me without prejudice. Just a few minutes, after which I'll leave."

It seemed like a good compromise.

"As I was saying, I think it's an organized group that has found a way to get these images to us."

"That seems a bit vague as a hypothesis."

He activated his tablet and handed it to me.

"This research was published eight months ago by Peking University. It didn't pass the mathematical oracles' verification, but we philosophers, if it concerns topics that interest us, also draw from the pile of failed research."

I read the title: The Semantic Well Problem.

"Maybe I'll read it later." I returned the tablet to Ravin.

"The basic thesis is very accessible," he resumed. "The new oracles are trained using more and more of the product of their own work; human input dwindles every year. The mathematical model isn't exactly ironclad but... the Chinese researchers believe that, at this rate, we will reach a condition of a semantic well."

"Which is to say?"

"It means that the oracles could begin to degrade, to provide progressively worse answers. According to the research's mathematical model, the deterioration is highly non-linear. It could happen unexpectedly, in a sudden and violent manner."

"Nothing might happen. It's research not approved by the oracles," I observed. "In any case, can you explain what all this has to do with dissidents?"

"Imagine a society that has completely entrusted itself to oracles, more so than ours. Then imagine their failure, due to an excess of input already synthesized by the oracles themselves. What would be the cure? To have human beings generate the highest possible quantity of creative solutions, in all possible disciplines, so as to keep the oracles' interpolative furnace alive. In practice, throwing coal into a furnace that is otherwise beginning to die out."

I refuted the boy's theory:

"Do you realize it would have been enough to send us a message?" I had used that argument who knows how many times.

"You're mistaken. If such a social scenario were to arise, a highly plausible hypothesis would be the establishment of oligarchic governments, lest civilization collapse; lest, perhaps, even extinction. Those still capable of practicing the arts and sciences, especially at the highest levels, would be forced into long hours of creative work, just as the images show. Even with coercion, if necessary. And usually, dictatorships do not like to be overthrown, nor do they like to send messages that would erase them from history."

"Rather extreme."

"Do you really think so? We've seen worse in the past."

Only a few minutes were left. At this point, I might as well find out how far he would go.

"So, rather than a protest, it would be a way of showing us what things have come to."

"Exactly. Someone wants to warn us without attracting attention. Among them are physicists, mathematicians, computer scientists, experts in all human subjects. Someone might have found a way to send images into the past; it could even be a very small group, potentially even a single individual."

I looked at the young man's face. In the absurdity of such a fanciful theory, I saw again the failure we too had experienced, in our inability to explain the StarGrams to the world. I used a more compassionate tone:

"Do you realize that carrying out such an action is impossible? Installing cameras that work for years, keeping them always active, managing to justify their presence to this phantom regime."

"Those people are already monitored. They send us the images used by the government to keep an eye on them. Perhaps in many cases, they are the same images they feed to the oracles. They just had to bend them towards the past."

It was useless. For every one of my arguments, he would invent an even greater fantasy. Fortunately, we had reached the time limit.

"Fine, I will read the research."

"You won't," he replied.

I smiled cordially.

"Thank you for sharing your theory with me."

He observed me enigmatically.

"Are you disappointed?"

"I expected even less attention than I received."

"I'm sorry."

He slipped his phone from his pocket.

"Can I wait for the taxi sitting here?"

"Of course. I'll keep you company." I was a little regretful about how things had turned out.

In the meantime, I sent a message to Viktor:

"Are you at the university? I have to tell you something incredible."

"Taxi called, seven minutes," the boy said.

I nodded in approval.

I received Viktor's reply:

"Cafeteria at 12?"

"I'll be there."

He would have a field day with the dissidents from the future. I looked up from my phone and saw the totems completely dark.

"Excuse me," I said to Ravin, "There's a technical problem with the screens."

I called Robin and asked him to check the data flow to the museum.

This was the last thing I needed.

"They're running some checks," I explained to Ravin. Technical problems were inevitable, but that it had happened at the end of our meeting annoyed me. Fortunately, the museum was not very crowded at that hour.

The phone rang. This time it was Rebecca Vidal, the head of the detector.

"Emily, can you come to the lab? We have a problem."

"What's wrong?"

"We're not getting anything anymore."

"A failure in the gamma source?"

"No, everything is working. We're not receiving anything. The satellite detectors have stopped receiving too."

"I'm on my way."

I took my leave of Ravin; he would wait alone. He assured me it wouldn't be a problem; he seemed to be in a good mood.

I started towards the labs. I felt anxiety rising: we had never lost the images from both the ground station and the satellites at the same time. Immediately after, I stopped in my tracks, frozen. I went back to the boy.

"Follow me," I urged him, "I think you just changed history."