When the radiant sea of stars appeared on one of the fifty display screens, all of the scientists and engineers present erupted into cheers. Five superstring computers stood here, each simulating ten virtual machines, for a total of fifty sets of big bang simulations running day and night. This newly created virtual universe was the 32,961st.

Only one middle-aged man remained unmoved. He was heavy-browed and alert-eyed, imposing in appearance, the silver cross at his breast all the more striking against his black sweater. He made the sign of the cross, and asked:

“Gravitational constant?”

“6.67 times 10–11!”

“Speed of light in a vacuum?”

“2.998 times 105 kilometers per second!”

“Planck’s constant?”

“6.626 times 10–34!”

“Charge of electron?”

“1.602 times 10–19 coulombs!”

“One plus one?” He gravely kissed the cross at his chest.

“Equals two! This is our universe, Professor Kristoff!”

ODE TO JOY

An alternate history of the sophon

TRANSLATED BY JOEL MARTINSEN

THE CONCERT

The concert held to close the final session of the United Nations was a depressing one.

A utilitarian attitude toward the body, dating back to bad precedents set at the start of the century, had been on the rise; countries assumed the UN was a tool to achieve their interests, and interpreted its charter to their own benefit. Smaller nations challenged the authority of the permanent members, while each permanent member believed it deserved more authority within the organization, which lost all authority of its own as a result. A decade on, all efforts at a rescue had failed, and everyone agreed that the UN and the idealism it represented no longer applied to the real world. It was time to be rid of it.

All heads of state assembled for the final session, to observe a solemn funeral for the UN. The concert, held on the lawn outside the General Assembly building, was the final item on the program.

It was well after sunset. This was the most bewitching time of day, the handover from day to night when the cares of reality were masked by the growing dusk. The world was still visible under the last light from the setting sun, and on the lawn, the air was thick with the scent of budding flowers.

The secretary general was the last to arrive. On the lawn, she ran across Richard Clayderman,1 one of the evening’s featured performers, and struck up a cheerful conversation.

“Your playing fascinates me,” she told the prince of pianists with a smile.

Clayderman, dressed in his favorite snow-white suit, looked uncomfortable. “If that’s genuine, then I’m overjoyed. But I’ve heard there have been complaints about my appearance at a concert like this.”

Not merely complaints. The head of UNESCO, a noted art theorist, had publicly criticized Clayderman’s playing as “busker-level,” and his performances as “blasphemy against piano artistry.”