“Of course not,” Hunt agreed. “But we’re getting an idea of what to look for, maybe.”

Duncan snorted. “Look where? We can’t even find where JEVEX is, let alone look inside it.”

Shilohin looked up, at last digesting the full message of what Hunt was saying. “Our physical universe evolved from huge numbers of elementary particles in space, and laws of physics and probability that contained implicit mechanisms for the self-organization of complex structures,” she said. “And out of it there emerged not only complexity sufficient to manifest intelligence, but the whole world of impressions and experiences-all far removed from the underlying quantum reality-which intelligence perceives. So, is it so inconceivable for comparable levels of complexity to have arisen in this… ‘matrix universe’? That’s what you’re saying.”

“Why not?” Hunt said. “We’re pretty sure that Nixie’s world can’t exist anywhere in the universe we know. Yet I’m convinced that it exists somewhere. And perhaps this sheds some light on how its magical properties could have arisen. Although there might be some parallels to our own universe in the kind of way I’ve suggested, which would at least give us the basis of objects moving in space as something they share in common, the ‘laws’ expressing the physics of the underlying reality will derive not from the quantum rules of our universe, but from the directive imposed by the system programmers. Therefore, there’s no reason why our notions of normality and causality should apply there at all. Which fits with all the things that Nixie has been telling us.”

“You’re not saying that the programmers intended anything like this to happen?” Duncan checked.

Hunt shook his head. “And I don’t think the Jevlenese ever twigged onto the fact that it had. The whole thing was an accident: a freak by-product of the purpose that JEVEX was built for-and, of course, the inhabitants that finally appeared as part of it had no inkling of it, either. Why should they? There was no more reason why they should be aware, intuitively, that their reality was ultimately founded upon information quanta than we are that ours is on energy quanta.”

Now visibly intrigued, since the prospect of evolution was implied, Danchekker returned to his chair and sat down. “Very well, Vic. Let us agree to entertain this fantastic hypothesis of yours for a moment… purely for the sake of argument, you understand.”

“Of course,” Hunt said, nodding solemnly.

“One thing that bothers me is the question of size. Clearly it would have to be much smaller than our universe. For it to be comparable, there would have to be the same order of magnitude of active cells in it as there are particles in existence, which would be absurd.”

“The ratio of the size of the fundamental cell to the dimensions of the universe as a whole would be much greater,” Shiohin said. “So the macrocosm would be much closer to the level of quantum granularity. Nonlinearities and curvatures would be more apparent, probably.”

“Boundary effects might play a big part,” Duncan mused, half to himself

Danchekker nodded. “Yes, I accept all that. But what I was getting at was something more fundamental. To support anything as complex as life and intelligence requires a high degree of complexity. That in turn implies a corresponding richness of structure. And you can’t build rich structures from a few elements.” He gestured to the others appealingly. “You see my point. There is no escape from the necessity of large numbers. Enormously large numbers. And my question is, where would you possibly find a sufficiently vast computational space to accommodate the processes that you’re suggesting? It’s an ingenious suggestion, Vic. I’m not disagreeing with that. But if my initial estimates are anything to go by, to give what you’re talking about even a reasonable chance of engendering a world as complex and varied as the one we’ve heard described by Nixie and VISAR, you’d need a computer the size of a pla-”

Danchekker’s voice stopped abruptly as he realized what he had been about to say. The others all saw it, too, in the same instant. Shilohin looked stunned. Duncan slammed back abruptly against the backrest of his chair.

“Christ,” Hunt breathed. They all looked at each other incredulously.

So that was what was so important about the mysterious planet, Uttan!

And why the Ganymeans weren’t having much luck locating JEVEX on Jevlen.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

“In the visions of Hyperia that I glimpsed only briefly, I sometimes saw devices of wondrous complexity,” Thrax said. “Devices created by the beings who inhabit that realm, and yet able to move as bewildering cooperations of parts of their own accord; impossibly coordinated motions of parts that moved parts that moved parts, and all of them dancing in unison to unfold some hidden plan. Are the Hyperians thus able to divest themselves of the burden of having to project their thoughts, Master? Can they enchant matter itself with the capacity of thought, such that it serves their wishes unbidden?” He looked at Shingen-Hu, who was sitting next to him on the rocks by the dusty track. But the Master was lost in his own dejection and seemed not to hear. Thrax took in his wan, sunken features and disheveled appearance, his hair unkempt and robes turning to rags. “They build devices that see and speak across vast distances; others that voyage to worlds beyond the sky. Where does this place exist, Master? Is it a space that encloses all space? Or a dream that we manufacture in our minds?” He looked again. But Shingen-Hu sat staring dully down at the grassy slopes below the track and showed no reaction.

Shingen-Hu had been overcome by a morose deadness of mind and spirit ever since the attack by servants of Nieru’s enemies at the ceremony on the sacred mount, when Thrax’s chance to emerge had been thwarted. Convinced that his god had abandoned him or been overwhelmed by a more powerful celestial rival, the Master had sunk into a depressive lethargy and lost faith in his arts. His school for adepts was no more. Soldiers, encouraged by priests bearing the green-crescent emblem of Vandros, the underworld god, had come to complete its destruction. Its members had dispersed and fled, and Shingen-Hu lived from village to village on the fringes of the wilderness, reduced to the life of a fugitive mendicant. Thrax, perhaps through basic loyalty, or possibly in hope that the Master’s condition would improve, or maybe simply because he had nowhere else to go, had stayed with him.

Although the day was barely into its second half, twilight cloaked the hillside above them. The sun remained a feeble, emaciated remnant of its former self, its faltering light supplemented by a few dim stars which now remained visible through the eternal night that had descended. Thrax and Shingen-Hu had eaten nothing for two days apart from a few mountain berries and water plants found by a spring. Thrax thought wistfully of the cakes and roasts that his aunt Yonel used to prepare at Dalgren’s house, in days that seemed so long ago. Almost like another world… Thrax shook himself back to the present and forced thoughts of other worlds from his mind.

A movement in the grass just across the track caught his eye. He looked and saw that it was a brown-striped skredgen, up on its hind legs beneath a bush, its nose twitching and its large eyes fixed on them unblinkingly. A picture came into his head of a simmering stew, maybe with pummeled kirta shoots and wild-herb flavoring.

“Master,” he whispered, drawing closer to Shingen-Hu carefully. A Master could paralyze an animal with thought while an assistant dispatched it with a rock or cudgel. “Over there across the path, below the bush. Do you see it? We could eat our fill this evening.” He waited. “Food… A thick stew of skredgen, seasoned with var.” Shingen-Hu’s eyes flickered. He turned his head. “There,” Thrax murmured. “Do you see? You can still do it, Master. Your powers have not deserted you.”