The Words of If
In an infinite universe, anything is possible

Ben Gribbin
&
John Gribbin

Ben Gribbin has worked as a live subtitler and blurb writer, but is really a poet. John Gribbin writes science fact that reads like fiction, and science fiction based on fact. He learned his trade on Nature in “the good old days.”

AFTER years of patient research, the Re'barra was ready. She gathered her closest friends and colleagues around her, and gave them the news. Her usually pale face was flushed and animated. The fire burned brightly , and the soft radiance of the incandescent lights in the lilies of silver caught the bubbles that flashed and passed in the glasses of her guests. She explained how she had built a machine to travel in time. Although at first they were reluctant to accept her story, she insisted to them that she had proof of her success . . .
Herbert stood up from his desk, pleased with his day's work. It sometimes, but all too rarely, happened like that, with images flooding into his mind faster than he could write them down. When it did happen, he always felt that he had written at his best.
Even now, he knew exactly what to write next -- but he was tired. It would keep until tomorrow . . .
Speaker pulled off the headset and tossed it down in disgust. S/he had had enough. Whatever the theory might say, the amplifier was clearly useless. Nothing s/he had been thinking seemed to have made any impact on the little animal whose image s/he could see so clearly on the viewer. Transtemporal communication was a bust; they
could watch, using the tachyon scanner, but it seemed there was no way to interact with the ones they watched . . .
Greg tapped at the keys of his computer, ideas flowing as fast as he could write. Imagine a world on the brink of ecological disaster, saved by receiving messages from the future. A time escape. But what happens to the future those messages come from if disaster is averted? . . .
Lizzy read the letter from her sister. “I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will not hear of my returning till I am better.” . . .
Jane sat at her table in the corner of the room, dipped her quill in the inkpot and wrote neatly on a fresh sheet of paper, mind on her story but ears alert for the sound of any approaching footstep, at which she would slide the writing out of sight under the blotter. To her, the characters were real; but she did not want anyone else to know that . . .
The central axis of the Space Station, with its docking arms extended, seemed to be slowly swimming in space. Unlike the structure from which it sprang, it was not rotating -- or, rather, it was running in reverse at a rate which exactly countered the Station’s own spin . . .
Hammering away at the keys of his typewriter, Arthur was only vaguely aware that he was humming to himself as he wrote. Strauss -- the Blue Danube. But it fitted his mood, relaxed but totally absorbed in his work, like a sportsman in The Zone. He already knew how the story would go, across the Solar System and beyond. It was just a question of getting the words down onto paper . . .
DSTCH7 analysed the results of its experiment on itself. The computer mind had a clear recollection of passing through both states before interference had reconfigured it into a single state. Confirmation that splitting had occurred, as predicted by the multi-verse hypothesis. From now on, this would be known as the multiverse theory, and the name of DSTCH7 would be forever linked with the proof, in all the universes it inhabited . . .
Ben scribbled the words hurriedly on to a scrap of paper. What a brilliant idea! What if stories weren't really stories, but actual events? Images filtering through from parallel universes? Yes, that would be a great idea for a book. Suppose only certain
people were attuned to these other worlds. They would be the great story tellers, like Jules Verne. He wrote on, hurriedly, wishing he could express his ideas as well as them. The half-eaten beef sandwich lay neglected on the table . . .
Xpercoatlqxl had an idea. A new experience for the horror fans. The image was sharp in his brains as he set to work, developing the idea of a creature with only four limbs and a hairless body, an intelligent biped that killed other living
creatures for food. He shuddered at the prospect, amazing himself with the fertility of his imagination . . .
Olaf woke from his dream, and reached for a pen, eager to capture the images, the subtle creations of the Star Maker, before they faded:
The Star Maker conceived cosmos after cosmos, each one with a distinctive spirit infinitely diversified, each in its fullest attainment more awakened than the last; but each one less comprehensible to me . . . Whenever a creature was faced with several possible courses of action, it took them all, thereby creating many distinct temporal dimensions and distinct histories of the cosmos. Since in every evolutionary sequence of the cosmos there were many creatures and each was constantly faced with many possible courses, and the combinations of all their courses were innumerable, an infinity of distinct universes exfoliated from every moment of every temporal sequence in this cosmos.