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ALEX, UNSHAVEN AND the worse for wear, nevertheless had managed to produce hot coffee, and ham and eggs, by what everyone agreed to call nine o’clock. He sat down at the dining table with the others. That cottony fog was still rubbing itself up against all the windows of the building and he needed company. He dared not miss a word which might explain this crazy, (super)natural situation.
Not that he was a secretly religious man; he wasn’t the kind to go in for what Marx called ‘the opiate of the people.’ Still, he wouldn’t have minded having an icon about the place just at the moment. Purely for decoration.
He stared at the window every now and then, fearful that the fog might be seeping inside. If so, then you could walk upstairs---and find yourself back down at the bottom again! He shuffled his chair closer to Leonid Bragin, seeking protection. ‘Knowledge is Power," as they say.
Bragin mopped ham fat off his plate with a slice of bread, thumped a slice of goat cheese down on top, and munched away.
"Um," he said, "good thing we've got enough food to last a siege. Um, now Arthur you're saying that this mental odyssey of yours just ploughs on at its own pace whether we want it to or not? Even if we hold no more sessions, will it just continue?"
"Oh, yes. Relentlessly."
"Um, interesting. I wonder---ah---suppose there really is a redstar called Galactica? and suppose your mind is strongly in key with it in such a way that this affects our present paranormally?" Bragin waved his greasy crust at Arthur. "There is, I'm afraid, a big discrepancy."
"I do not understand 'discrepancy'." said Alex.
Bragin explained patiently. "A discrepancy is an inconsistency, something that doesn't add up."
"I know that word! I'm not uneducated. I mean, what kind of discrep....discrep...What the goddamn hell is it?"
"Oh, sorry for the misunderstanding. To cut a long story short, the redstar Galactica is supposed to crash into the Tunguska region in the year 1908, yes? Thereby accounting for the well-documented and infamous enigma. Yet, Eric Delko is heading towards the same scene in the year 1880 to investigate precisely the same event which happened in 1878! There's your discrepancy; thirty years' worth of it."
"How can the same thing happen at two different times, Professor?"
"Right now, I believe it is equally probable that the Tunguska event takes place in 1908 and in 1878---it's undecided. What is going to decide it? The observers of this event---namely us---will! Specifically, Art. Just as soon as Art witnesses the Galactica exploding in 1908, then all this phony business back in 1880 will collapse. Poof! Away with the fog! You will then have your authentic Delko heading for Sakhalin as history decrees. This other trip will be a phantom event without any substance."
"Oh, Professor, you're talking about things way above my pay grade. What causes a 'phantom event'?"
"Aha! There we have it in a word, and that word is----cause. If a ship travels back through time---mind you, I don't say that any such thing actually exists---then obviously this disrupts cause and effect. Maybe the passage of the ship sets up a kind of wake made up of phantom events? But mind you--- maybe such phantoms are swirling all around us constantly, phantoms of unfulfilled possibilities. Our normal consciousness only lets us experience a single chain of cause and effect. But these are extraordinary circumstances we're in now. Art is experiencing possibilities as if they're actual events, and the redstar Galactica is a superb metaphor for what's going on in his mind. Maybe that's all it is, a metaphor."
"And the fog?" insisted Alex. "And none of us being able to leave?"
"Art's mind must be very powerful," said Diana, flushing.
"Indeed, he must be some kind of medium, without realizing it. Obviously, his case should be studied."
"Oh no, you don't!" Arthur thundered. "I've no desire to spend the next ten years locked up in a laboratory."
"Dear boy, I said nothing about locking you up---I said it should be studied."
"Nobody's going to lock up a people's artist." Alex edged even closer, as a cuckling to its dam. He refilled Bragin's coffee cup, nudging and jostling him officiously. "If Comrade Tolkachyov keeps his political views to himself, of course," he added.
"Your mission, Art, is to steer this ship of your mind to a safe---well, that is to say, to its destruction---in the year 1908. You must observe that event, so that it truly happens. And then we'll all be free of this imprisoning mesmerism."
"He's a mesmerist on top of being a medium?"
"You've heard of the Indian rope trick, Alex? Well, it's said that the Indian yogi performs this so-called trick by means of mass suggestion. I think we may well have run across an even stranger case of mass suggestion here!"
"Do you mean it's all clear out there?" asked Arthur. "What? Can we walk off down the hill, provided we can see it?"
"I suspect as much." Bragin steepled his hands as if in prayer.
"And Alex can phone out?"
"How about that voice I heard? I'm not making it up, Professor!"
"No, I know you're not. Isn't it strange, though, that you only heard the voice after Arthur Tolkachyov had used the phone?"
"Ah..."
"Might I voice out one small objection?" asked Art sarcastically. "A minor point, but how come I'm suddenly a master of mass suggestion when I'm such a dud actor. I mean, let's be frank! Do I really need a hypnotist to make me any good?"
Yet Bragin was unabashed. "That's because of your superpowers, don't you see? Your own repressed talent is to persuade audiences. It's an actor's job to convince the audience utterly. The yogi and the method actor have a lot in common, Art, but the Yogi goes a step further. The yogi leaves a perfect illusion. He does so by using a superconscious communication channel. Beyond voices. Beyond body language. Incidentally, the object of the exercise wasn't to enhance your talent, but that's what seems to have happened."
Igor nodded ruefully. "Speaking as a member of the audience, I'm convinced. Although I'll never know how I got the Volga swung round in that space!"
"The trouble is," said Arthur, "I'm convinced too. Shouldn't a yogi be aware of what he's up to? I sure as hell am not."
"But are we really an audience in the conventional sense?" asked Bragin. "Aren't we all very much active participants? Fellow conspirators, if you like?"
Tisha thrust his chair back noisily. "Wow! It's a good thing we didn't decide to make a movie about the young Stalin! Or we'd really be in deep, dark shit."
"In that case, you wouldn't have chosen Tolkachyov for the role."
"Heaven knows what games a Stalin lookalike would have got up to in your hands!"
"Look," said Diana, "if we're all supposed to be fellow conspirators, I suggest we avoid blaming any particular individual, yes?"
Igor thumped on the table, jarring cups and cutlery. "I'm going to speak freely---as an intimate friend, seeing as we all toasted each other so sincerely last night. Audience, participants: I don't give a shit! All this talk, when we should be getting on with it! If Art says it's all carrying on regardless, I'll believe him....he was telling the truth about outside. I want to know what's going on with Eric and this Milan Adamavich. One thing I can tell you is that time's moving much more slowly for Adamavich than it is for Eric. With him it's minutes as opposed to days."
"No, it's not," said Tisah. "Adamavich is living through years of time speeded up."
Bragin dropped his napkin and rose. "Igor's quite right about getting on with it."
"Can I accompany you?" begged Alex.
"If you clean up first."
Alex fairly scurried.
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