each and every one of your ancestors. We don't act like we know it, but we're now on the edge of an equivalent paradigm shift. Or a whole series of them. The universe was still the size of your living room until the big telescopes came along. Now we have an idea of just how fragile and isolated our situation really is. And I believe, as Jennifer did, that when all this kicks in, this information that's only sixty or seventy years old, we'll have a very different view of our place and purpose here. And all this rat-race, turf-war, dog-eat-dog stuff we do all day will be revealed for what it is. The revolution is coming, Detective. And it's a revolution of consciousness. That's what Jennifer believed.
But you were fucking her, weren't you, Professor. And you wouldn't leave Betty-Jean.
I didn't actually say that last part. Though I kind of wanted to, by then. One of the things I knew about Bax Denziger: He's a twelve-kids-and-one-wife kind of guy. Still, for all his TV ease and brightness, and his high-saliva enthusiasm, I sensed uneasiness in him, reluctance—qualms. There was something he did and didn't want to reveal. And I too was in difficulty. I was having to relate his universe to mine. Having to, because Jennifer had linked them. And how 'about' my universe, also real, also there, also 'the case', and with all its primitive passions. To him, my average day must look like psychotic soap opera—crazed surface activity. Jennifer Rockwell had moved from one world to the other, from revealed creation to the darkness of her bedroom. I pressed on, hoping that he and I, both, would find the necessary words.
Professor, were you surprised when you heard?
Consternated. We all were. Are. Consternated and devastated. Ask anybody here. The cleaning ladies. The Deans. That someone so... that someone of such radiance would choose to extinguish herself. I can't get my head around it. I really can't.
She ever get depressed that you knew of? Mood swings? Withdrawal?
No, she was unfailingly cheerful. She got frustrated sometimes. We all do. Because we—we're permanently on the brink of climax. We know so much. But there are holes in our knowledge bigger than the Bootes Void.
Which is?
It's more nothing than you could possibly imagine. It's a cavity 300 million light years deep. Where there's zip. The truth is, Detective, the truth is that human beings are not sufficiently evolved to understand the place they're living in. We're all retards. Einstein's a retard. I'm a retard. We live on a planet of retards.
Jennifer say that?
Yeah, but she also thought that that was what was so great about it. Beating your head against the lid.
She talked about death, didn't she. She talk to you about death?
No. Yes. Well not habitually. But we did have a discussion about death. Quite recently. It's been in my head. I've been playing it back. Like you do. I'm not sure if this thought was original to her. Probably not. But she put it... memorably. Newton, Isaac Newton, used to stare at the sun? He'd blind himself for days, for weeks, staring at the sun. Trying to figure the sun out. Jennifer—she was sitting right there where you're sitting. And she quoted some aphorism. Some French guy. Some duke. Went something like: 'No man can stare at the sun or at death with a, with an unshielded eye.' Now here's the interesting part. Do you know who Stephen Hawking is, Detective?
He's the... the guy in the wheelchair. Talks like a robot.
And do you know what a black hole is Detective? Yeah, I think we all have some idea. Jennifer asked me, why was it Hawking who cracked black holes? I mean in the sixties 'everybody' was going at black holes with hammer and tongs. But it was Stephen who gave us some answers. She said, why him? And I gave the physicist's answer: Because he's
But you were fucking her, weren't you, Professor. And you wouldn't leave Betty-Jean.
I didn't actually say that last part. Though I kind of wanted to, by then. One of the things I knew about Bax Denziger: He's a twelve-kids-and-one-wife kind of guy. Still, for all his TV ease and brightness, and his high-saliva enthusiasm, I sensed uneasiness in him, reluctance—qualms. There was something he did and didn't want to reveal. And I too was in difficulty. I was having to relate his universe to mine. Having to, because Jennifer had linked them. And how 'about' my universe, also real, also there, also 'the case', and with all its primitive passions. To him, my average day must look like psychotic soap opera—crazed surface activity. Jennifer Rockwell had moved from one world to the other, from revealed creation to the darkness of her bedroom. I pressed on, hoping that he and I, both, would find the necessary words.
Professor, were you surprised when you heard?
Consternated. We all were. Are. Consternated and devastated. Ask anybody here. The cleaning ladies. The Deans. That someone so... that someone of such radiance would choose to extinguish herself. I can't get my head around it. I really can't.
She ever get depressed that you knew of? Mood swings? Withdrawal?
No, she was unfailingly cheerful. She got frustrated sometimes. We all do. Because we—we're permanently on the brink of climax. We know so much. But there are holes in our knowledge bigger than the Bootes Void.
Which is?
It's more nothing than you could possibly imagine. It's a cavity 300 million light years deep. Where there's zip. The truth is, Detective, the truth is that human beings are not sufficiently evolved to understand the place they're living in. We're all retards. Einstein's a retard. I'm a retard. We live on a planet of retards.
Jennifer say that?
Yeah, but she also thought that that was what was so great about it. Beating your head against the lid.
She talked about death, didn't she. She talk to you about death?
No. Yes. Well not habitually. But we did have a discussion about death. Quite recently. It's been in my head. I've been playing it back. Like you do. I'm not sure if this thought was original to her. Probably not. But she put it... memorably. Newton, Isaac Newton, used to stare at the sun? He'd blind himself for days, for weeks, staring at the sun. Trying to figure the sun out. Jennifer—she was sitting right there where you're sitting. And she quoted some aphorism. Some French guy. Some duke. Went something like: 'No man can stare at the sun or at death with a, with an unshielded eye.' Now here's the interesting part. Do you know who Stephen Hawking is, Detective?
He's the... the guy in the wheelchair. Talks like a robot.
And do you know what a black hole is Detective? Yeah, I think we all have some idea. Jennifer asked me, why was it Hawking who cracked black holes? I mean in the sixties 'everybody' was going at black holes with hammer and tongs. But it was Stephen who gave us some answers. She said, why him? And I gave the physicist's answer: Because he's
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