He could feel the creaking and shaking of the machine
through his fatigues. The noise was
deafening. He was certain it would shake
itself apart at any second. He was
grateful for the darkness of the helmet; it helped him stave off motion
sickness and claustrophobia in the bunker.
“Beginning the alignment,” intoned one of the
scientists. Rosen, maybe? Schrödinger? He focused on ignoring the sudden mental wrenching. His thoughts skittered like droplets of oil,
and colors burst in the blackness of his vision.
The sensations grew further beyond description as the colors
intensified. His eyelids were
transparent. Closing them was no
use.
He could see through the colors now, interpret them. The helmet was gone, although he could still
feel its pressure on his head. He saw
the one with the wild hair (Einstein?) against the back wall, covering his
eyes. He had spoken against the
experiment, insisting that the theory would result in a paradoxical backlash.
The buzz of thoughts filled his mind. “Quantum packet alignment at ninety percent!”
Podolsky shouted. He watched the words
dance in his vision, every color in existence at once. “We are almost there!”
“Entanglement is falling apart!” cried Schrödinger. “He is still too unstable!”
Thoughts were crass, unwieldy. He was. He was a taut string, tightening towards the
tune of the cosmos. He could feel the
colors merging, cracking, annealing.
They reached for him as the scientists screamed and faded to white.
For one brief instant, he felt the touch of God.
(If this story makes no sense, try reading the "History" section of http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quantum_entanglement.)
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