Jeremy Reinold -

I closed the door and collected my thoughts.  If I was lucky I could get out of this building without running into any of the two hundred students from this morning.  I should take the back stairwell.  Doctor Foust should have plenty of time now that practice exams were finished.  That said, I don't think I could stomach another question about eigenvalues or about the real meaning behind the Schrödinger wave equation.  As far as I could tell,  it is math.  I hurried down the hallway and into the stairwell.

There were students hurrying below and out the door.  Almost free.  I caught a glimpse of a curly head of hair from above.  This was a girl who seemed to enroll merely to verify her own world view.  It doesn't matter if we're dealing with the Copenhagen interpretation or Many Worlds interpretation.  The waveform collapses, and the result is what we see.  The universe may not be deterministic, but that is far from saying that our thoughts and disposition can influence reality by virtue of their being.  Too many philosophy majors dabbling in the quantum.  I hurried down the stairs and out the door.

I got back to my apartment, grabbed a drink from the fridge, and sat at my desk.  I had my own work as well.  My paper outlining an experiment to test the many worlds interpretation stared at me.  Calling it a paper gave it too much credit.  As of yet, my plans to utilize a macroscopic quantum state and quantum erasure fall flat in the absence of a quantum computer.  So far this seems to be little more than a reiteration of David Deutch's thought experiments from 1985.

I dug through my desk in search of my notepad.  I eyed my flashing KI inside and paused.  Too many thoughts.  How many messages?  Was it David Farwell?  D'veeta?  Jessie Pollick?  How did this thing work?  Was it quantum?  It must be.  Where was the power source?  I think too much.

Many-worlds is too silly.  Too many problems, both theoretical and practical; and yet, this device could communicate across ages.  My relto could transport me to those ages.  Surely there must be a solution.  If there is, I won't find it here.  I grabbed my KI.

Glancing through is saw a bulletin from the Cavern Criers; a statement from Mister Magic; a dozen messages from D'veeta...  The list went on and on.  I opened the most recent from D'veeta.

Contact me.

I sighed.  There's no escaping the grind.  Surface or cavern, always work to be done.

I rolled over to my bookshelf and pulled down a small book with a green leather cover.  Guess I can't avoid this any more, I thought.  I opened the cover and linked.