When It's a Jar Read online

  He was working, therefore, from first principles, rather like Archimedes or one of those guys. Also, he wasn’t consciously trying to account for the slightly odd properties of the echo. Even so, his subconscious got onto the problem straight away, and, in the time it took the man to sit up and rub his eyes, it had come up with a viable hypothesis that happened to be perfectly correct. The echo sounded funny because he was inside a cylinder – a cylinder, moreover, that tapered dramatically somewhere out of sight overhead. Sort of a bottle shape.

  Because of the way the mind works, he wasn’t conscious of all the calculus and equations he’d just performed. Instead, he attributed the flash of insight to intuition, which he’d been brought up to mistrust. That’s all the thanks his subconscious got for all that hard work. It’s an unfair world.

  I’m in a bottle, he thought.

  Then he realised that that thought was the only one he’d got, like the very first stamp in a brand-new stamp album. His frown deepened. Once again, his subconscious raced. It realised that it occupied a brain equipped with vast memory-storage capacity, a very big stamp album indeed; therefore, wasn’t it a bit odd that all that space had just one thought in it?

  Well, now there were two, but that wasn’t the point. Surely there ought to be, well, dozens. And, while he was at it, he couldn’t help noticing the substantial quantity of intellectual plant and machinery cluttering the place up – logic and cognitive processes and arithmetic, and God only knows what that one over there was supposed to be for. Unless the inside of his head was just warehouse space, presumably they’d been put there for a reason. I must be somebody, he realised. With a thing, name, and a personality and a, what’s that other thing, a history. And what, now I come to think of it, am I doing in a bottle?

  If he really was in a bottle. He looked around. There was nothing to see, absolutely nothing at all. There was light, quite a fair amount of it. What was lacking was anything for the light to play with.

  Now then. All from first principles, of course, but it didn’t take him long to come up with a theory. I’m in a glass bottle, or just possibly a jar; and the bottle or jar’s in—

  Nothing?

  That’s where a frame of reference is so devilishly useful. A frame of reference lets you know instantly if being inside a glass bottle inside nothing at all is normal, the same old same old, just another day at the office; or whether it’s odd, a bit strange, possibly even a cause for moderate concern. But, as far as he could tell, he had no frame of reference, not even a scrap of a corner of one. Awkward. And, since he was stuck in a bottle surrounded by nothing at all, it wasn’t immediately obvious how he was supposed to go about changing that. In which case, presumably, all he could do was wait patiently in the hope that the frame of reference he must once have had would at some point return and start making sense of things. Well, of course it will. It’ll come back when it’s hungry. They always do.

  At which point (from first principles) he realised he’d discovered the concept of time. For about two and a half seconds he felt rather excited about that, though he wasn’t sure why. A small part of him was trying to tell him that finding out stuff about how the world works is a good thing and something to feel pleased with yourself about. Quite why, he couldn’t say, but the instinct was surprisingly strong. Maybe that’s what I’m for, he told himself; after all, I must be for something, or else why the hell bother having me in the first place? Assuming I exist, of course, but I’m pretty sure I do. Well, of course I exist. I’m thinking, aren’t I? And if you think, you exist, surely. Stands to reason, that does.

  He stood up and peered down at himself. He was, he noticed, a sort of drab pink colour, in striking contrast to everything else, which was no colour at all. When he patted the top of his head, he felt something soft and sort of woolly; it felt a bit like the thin black hair on his arms, legs and body, but longer. He tried to think of a reason for it – how being partially thatched could possibly make him a more efficient pink entity in a bottle – but maybe he was missing pertinent data, because nothing sprang immediately to mind. Also, there were hard, vaguely scutiform plates on the ends of his fingers and toes. Crazy.

  Am I alone?

  Now where, he wondered, had that thought come from? For one thing, it meant he’d invented mathematics, simply by postulating that there might be such a thing as more-than-one. But of course there was, because he had ten fingers and ten toes; therefore, plurality exists. Any damn fool could tell you that. In which case, given the possibility of multiple entities, there might be more like him, maybe as many as five, or ten even, out there somewhere. Out where? He peered, but all he could see was nothing, with more nothing just beyond it, set against an infinite backdrop of zilch.

  Now here’s a thought. I’m in a bottle, but I can’t see it. I know it’s there, because of the echo. Therefore, things can exist without me being able to see them. Therefore, even though I can’t see other entities like myself, there may be some, somewhere. Whee!

  Enough of the abstract theorising; time for some practical experimentation. He walked forward in a straight line (which, for the sake of convenience, he decided was probably the shortest distance between two given points). After three paces, he simultaneously banged his nose and stubbed his toe—

  Ouch. Pain. That made him frown, because he wasn’t sure he liked it. But of course, it must be an inbuilt warning mechanism, to keep you from damaging yourself by, for example, walking into one of those things that exist but can’t be seen. Ingenious and effective, he decided; my compliments to the chef. Still, probably a good idea to reduce one’s exposure to it as far as conveniently possible.

  “Hello.”

  The echo again? No, not possible. It sounded all wrong for that. He turned round, and saw – his reflection? Good guess, but apparently not, because the entity he was looking at, though similar to him in many ways, was subtly different in others. Partially covered in white fabric, for one thing; also longer hair and two curious sort of bumps, or swellings, on the front.

  The entity spoke. “It apologises,” it said, “for any inconvenience.”

  That made no sense, but he was prepared to make allowances. “Do they hurt?” he asked.

  “Excuse it?”

  “The swellings on your front. Are you ill?”

  The entity’s face moved, producing an expression he intuitively suspected was meant to convey displeasure. “It’s supposed to be like that.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Presumably you perceive it as female. Would you mind terribly much not staring? If it’s female, it doesn’t like it.”

  “Sorry.” He turned away, then turned slowly back and deliberately focused a hand’s span above the top of the entity’s head. “Is that better?”

  “Marginally,” the entity replied, “though it’s not easy having a conversation with someone not looking at it. But that’s fine for now,” the entity added quickly, as he started to turn away again. “It’ll just have to get used to it.”

  Hang on, he thought. A million questions were bubbling away inside his head, but there was one he just had to ask. “Excuse me.”

  “Yes?”

  “Why do you talk about yourself in the third person?”

  The entity’s face showed an expression designed to convey perplexity. “Say what?”

  “Well,” he said, “there’s three persons in speech, right? Apparently,” he added, as it occurred to him to wonder how the hell he knew that. “There’s the first, like I, and the second, you, and then for some reason there’s three thirds. But you don’t seem to be using the right one.”

  The entity looked at him for a moment, shook its head and said, “It wouldn’t worry about that right now if it was you. There are…” the entity hesitated. “More pressing issues.”

  “Are there?”

  “You bet.”

  “Wow. Such as?”

  “Your identity,” the entity replied. “Your current status. Talking of which, it would lik
e to assure you that you’re perfectly safe.”

  “Ah.” It hadn’t occurred to him that he might not be. “Well, that’s good.”

  “And, more to the point,” the entity went on, “while you’re in there, so is everyone else.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The entity looked mildly embarrassed. “It’s been instructed to tell you that you’re being held in temporary isolation, pending a review. In another time, place and context, your status here would be aptly conveyed by an annoying hourglass, or an even more annoying running horse. There is no cause for concern.”

  “Great,” he said, trying to sound pleased. “So I’m just—”

  “Here.”

  He nodded. “And that’s all right, is it? I mean, that’s how it’s supposed to be.”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Thanks, you’ve set my mind at rest. You see, I don’t actually know—”

  The entity didn’t seem to want to look at him. “Your memories have been temporarily removed and placed in secure storage. It apologises for any—”

  “So I’ve got some, then. Memories, I mean.”

  “Heaps.”

  “Cool.” He grinned. “So, when can I have them back?”

  “Later.”

  “Right. When is later?”

  “Later is after now,” the entity replied, “just before eventually. Meanwhile, you have nothing to worry about. Everything is as it should be.”

  He nodded again, this time more slowly. “You said I’ve been placed here, and my memories have been removed. Um, who by?”

  The entity’s face changed colour very slightly; a faint reddish tinge. “It.”

  “You?”

  “No, it.”

  “Ah.”

  The entity hesitated, as though looking for the right words. “Since you seem to have a flair for linguistics,” it said, “try this. Not every passive has an equivalent active form.”

  He tried that one, but it wouldn’t run. “Sorry, you’ve lost me.”

  “Just because something is done,” the entity said slowly, “it doesn’t necessarily follow that somebody’s done it. Some things just…” The entity waved a hand vaguely. “That’s how it is.”

  “It meaning you?”

  “No. Yes. Sort of. Look,” the entity snapped, “that’s a really abstruse, complex question, and it’s on a schedule. All you need to know right now is, you’re safe, everything’s fine, and it’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Meanwhile—”

  “It apologises for any inconvenience?”

  “You got it. Oh, and one other thing.” The entity was looking positively furtive.

  “Yes?”

  “If you could just sign this form.” A sheet of paper materialised in the air a few inches from his face. A pen hovered over it like a wingless dragonfly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sign, please. Just a formality.”

  He looked at the pen and the paper. They did seem oddly familiar, but he had no data. “I’m not sure I know how.”

  “Take the stick thing in your hand and rub its pointy end up and down on the flat thing until it makes a mark. Anywhere’ll do.”

  He reached out and took the pen. Without thinking, he cradled it between his index and middle fingers, with his thumb pressed to the side. “Why?”

  “Excuse it?”

  “Why am I doing this?”

  “Oh, it’s just a disclaimer,” it mumbled. “Sort of absolving it from all present and future liability. Legal stuff. You don’t need to worry.”

  “There’s marks on the flat thing already. Hold on,” he added, as something about the marks caught his eye. Bizarrely enough, their shape and form seemed to convey some sort of meaning. “Can I look at them?”

  “Wouldn’t bother if it was you,” the entity said quickly. “Just the usual blahdy-blah. Nothing important.”

  “If it isn’t important, then why do you want me to—?”

  “Just sign, OK?”

  He was aware that he was causing the entity a certain degree of discomfort. Obviously he didn’t want that, so he pressed the pen to the paper and did a sort of squiggle. Immediately, they both vanished. “Sorry,” he said. “Did I do it wrong?”

  “No, that’s fine.” The entity was smiling. “Well, that about covers everything, so it’ll leave you in peace. So, um, enjoy your stay with it, and please feel free to make full use of all the facilities.”

  “Hey, thanks. What facilities?”

  “Um.” The entity shrugged. “Anyhow,” it said. “Have a nice day now, you hear?”

  “Yes,” he replied eagerly, “I was meaning to ask you about that. I take it that when I hear something, it’s because vibrations made by movements or similar events are conveyed to me in some kind of wave, and there’s a specially sensitive membrane or something inside me somewhere that translates those vibrations into sensory input that I’m capable of interpreting. Is that right, or am I barking up the wrong tree entirely?”

  The entity dipped its head. “Pretty much,” it said. “That style of thing, anyhow. Be seeing you.”

  “Oh yes, sight,” he said. “Is that where tiny particles of light—?” But the entity had vanished.

  He stood for a while, his eyes fixed on the particular area of nothing-at-all where the entity had been. Questions, a seething mass of them, tried in vain to leap the waterfall of his mind. Then, abruptly, he turned away, sat down and closed his eyes. So much to think about. Like, for example; suppose you had three lines, and each of the three lines met two of the others; you’d get three angles, so let’s call it a threeangle. Now, just suppose that you made each line in the threeangle into one of the four lines in a square—

  Time passed. So that’s what it does, he thought; and then: is that all? Surely there’s more to it than that. Well, maybe not, but presumably it can pass in both directions. It’d be ludicrously inefficient otherwise. He sat perfectly still and tried to make time pass backwards. Then he frowned. It didn’t seem to be working, but maybe he wasn’t doing it right. So he made time stand still – that, apparently, was easy-peasy – while he considered the matter further. Well, of course, silly me: time must be curved, so that it curls back on itself in a perpetual loop. Glad we got that sorted out.

  He looked down at his toes and counted them. Five on each foot. Why?

  Time passed some more, like a hamster on a wheel, and he figured out a bit more of the basic elementary stuff, like existentialism and relativity. Light, he decided, was most likely split into seven base colours, and he wouldn’t be at all surprised if it was the fastest-moving thing in the universe (which could only have started with a big explosion of some sort, although there was a slim chance that in the beginning there might just have been a word). The flat hard plates on the ends of his fingers could only be the vestigial remnants of claws, dating back to a time when his species had eaten other entities for food (weird idea, but what the heck); needless to say, over the course of many billions of arbitrary units of time, various sorts of entities must’ve adapted to take advantage of their environments, while the ones that didn’t manage to adapt sort of faded away; the ones with claws made it, he guessed, and the ones without weren’t so lucky, though chances were there was more to it than that.

  More time passed. At a wild guess, when the explosion happened, he was prepared to bet that great big chunks of stuff got flung about all over the place, probably catching fire in the process, and if only he could get outside this bottle he’d be able to see them, way up above his head, twinkling against a presumably dark background like little pinpoints of light. That’d be nice. On the other hand, the female entity had told him that being in the bottle was quite normal and he was perfectly safe, in which case he really shouldn’t think about what fun it’d be outside the bottle looking up at the twinkly lights. Instead, maybe he should spare a thought for some of the many other issues he hadn’t got around to tackling yet, such as why he stayed on the ground rather than floating through the
air.

  Even more time passed, and there came a point when he thought: Well, that’s about everything. Actually, that wasn’t strictly true. There were a few loose ends to be cleared up – he wasn’t entirely happy with his conclusions on algebraically closed field theory, he still had some reservations about Big Bang nucleosynthesis, and however hard he tried, he couldn’t get it to come out as a whole number – but broadly speaking, he was satisfied that he’d figured out all the basic, simple stuff that presumably you needed to know before you were considered fit to be let loose on your own. He had no argument with that (what sort of a world would it be, after all, if there were people wandering about who didn’t understand consequentialism and couldn’t calculate the volume of an irregular polyhedron?) but as far as he could see, he’d done everything that could reasonably be expected of him, and now he was just wasting time. He wondered if they realised he was ready; and, if not, how he was supposed to let them know. Logically, there ought to be a bell he could ring or a button or something, but he couldn’t find one.

  “Hello?” he said. But all he got was that dumb echo again.

  This can’t be right, he thought. I must’ve missed something or got something wrong. So he sat down, closed his eyes and went carefully back over everything he’d deduced so far. It took him a while, but everything checked out – no obvious glaring mistakes or stupid false assumptions. He really couldn’t see what else there could possibly be—

  Ah, he thought. That’s the point, isn’t it? It’s an intelligence test, or a test of character, something like that. Along the lines of: unless you can get yourself out of the bottle, you aren’t fit to be free. Well, that shouldn’t be too much of a problem. He’d already figured out that the bottle was in fact a confined space contained inside a strong electromagnetic field, sufficiently powerful that it could be mistaken for solid matter. Well, duh. To get through the field, all he had to do was identify its power source and turn it off. The only snag there was that the power source had to be somewhere outside the bottle, and there was no way he could think of to get his material body through the field in order to find it and throw the switch. Awkward.