My uncle woke me out of a sound sleep, and his visage on the wall
panel said, “Hey, get your body out of bed! We’ve got a time slot for
the z-field in 45 minutes!”
I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and mumbled something about
meeting him at the lab. Next, I rolled out of bed, walked through the
shower, and pulled on a coverall suitable for lab work from my clothing
inventory. Having slipped it on, it fastened itself seamlessly around
me and began its work of adjusting its porosity to reflect changes in
my skin temperature and that of the ambient air, keeping me at my peak
comfort level.
Less than 45 minutes later, I arrived at the lab, and a dialog
between its security system and my ID unit allowed me to walk right to
the z-field insertion lab, where my uncle was already waiting for me.
The z-field probe took up almost half of the lab’s floor space. It
looked much as I remembered it, with the addition of more lighting
ports around its saucer-shaped circumference. It still had the clear
semi-spherical dome over the cockpit, the comfy interior, and simple
joy-stick controls. It did tend toward a drab, steel-grey color
scheme, but you can’t have everything in lab equipment that’s only one
generation beyond the prototype, I guess.
The probe had just reappeared, and its last crew was climbing out as
we approached. Wasting no time, my uncle and I climbed aboard. He set
the control, and we instantly shrank to the size of an apple.
Operating at this size enabled him to maneuver into the chamber where
we were to make our observations. Once in the approximate position, he
adjusted us to the size of a pinhead, made another transit using the
lab’s radio positioning system, and then took up a final position in
the lab’s observation chamber at a billionth of normal size.
The drive unit was the latest in neutrino reaction mass technology.
A warm fusion front end with a conversion efficiency of almost 100% was
coupled to it with a power converter. It could produce six orthogonal
streams of neutrinos capable of generating up to a 2 G acceleration in
any direction. In other words, the lab was using the same drive
technology that millions of people use in personal flitters costing
about a hundred credits [Editor’s note: One hundred credits is the
value maintained by the government to equal an average worker’s work
year of two hundred five-hour days].
As you may remember from our first voyage, the z-field shrinks both
space and time inside the bubble containing the probe. Thus, when the
size of the probe is a billionth of normal size, light outside the
probe appears to travel a billionth of normal speed, or about one foot
per second. At this factor, molecules of air appear to be the size of
large, wet snowflakes spaced about an inch apart. Of course, they
aren’t falling, they appear to be frozen in mid-air. If you look at
them long enough, you can see them moving very slowly in random
directions with respect to one another.
At a size-factor of a billionth, normal light has a wavelength of
about 1500 feet (ranging from 1000 feet for blue light, up to about
2000 feet for red light). Also, the photons themselves are so ethereal
and spread out, that the light emitted from our probe hardly makes
contact with them, passing right through them for the most part. The
smaller the photon and the shorter the wavelength, the more different
they appear. Normal light and even ultraviolet light appear as very
large and ghost-like photons. Such photons form an almost a solid
background to the atoms we see. However, the smaller a photon is, the
brighter and more solid its surface appears, and the less often we see
one. The appearance of the space we are seeing is generally quite
dark, with huge ghost-like photons in the background and brightly
colored molecules in the foreground. Occasionally, a photon from the
high energy regions of the spectrum passes by. These brightly colored
photons range in size from a couple of feet for an x-ray, down to the
very rare gamma ray not much larger than a grain of salt.
Detectors in the lab are set to monitor us. When they sense that we
are in position in the particle chamber, they will trigger a burst of
high-energy and high-speed particles to arrive at our vicinity. This
activity occurs only milliseconds after we reach our destination from
the lab’s point of view, but we have to wait for quite some time from
our own point of view, since there is a factor of a billion between the
rate that time passes for the lab and the rate that it passes for us.
The main thing my uncle wanted me to observe is the way that
high-energy (x-ray class) photons interact when they collide with one
another. These events almost defy any normal description, but I will
do my best to put some of what I saw into words. After some wait,
which I spent looking around in awe, the x-rays began to arrive. They
were generated by pulsed lasers, so that a nearly solid wall of photons
passed by us at its rate of one foot per second. I noticed that
photons impacting the probe simply disappeared. My uncle explained
this by the fact that, when photons encounter a z-field, they are
transmuted to their normal size and speed for the space within the
bubble—in our case they shrink and speed up by a factor of a billion.
The actual count of x-ray photons impacting us wasn’t all that large,
so the radiation hazard from them was negligible.
As they passed by, each photon appeared to be about a foot and a
half long, and about eight inches thick at its thickest point, which
occurred mid-way from its tip to its tail. All of the photons in a
given barrage appeared to undulate in a corkscrew fashion, perfectly in
synch with each other. They were separated laterally by about a foot.
Along with their physical undulation, their color, reflectivity, and
sharpness of focus also seemed to undulate. At least, that’s the best
I can describe it. We observed four barrages coming by us from one
direction, with about two or three minutes between them, then a barrage
came from the opposite direction. My uncle grabbed the joy stick
control and accelerated the probe to follow this barrage, so that we
could get in position to see it collide with the next barrage opposing
it. This only required us to move an apparent distance of about 150
feet. Once in this position, every two or three minutes a barrage
would come from both directions and we could observe actual photon
collisions.
The thing that most impressed me, after maybe an hour of watching
barrage after barrage collide, was that the results were not random.
Sure, the spacing of photons in the opposing barrages was different,
and the phases, or states of undulation, of the photons were also
different each time a collision took place, but I had the chance to
observe many collisions, and I saw a pattern to it.
First, I knew that what I was seeing had to accord with basic
physics. Each impact of two photons invariably resulted in two photons
leaving the scene of the impact. These photons were generally
different in size, and would come away in different directions from the
original photons. There appeared to be three general ways that the
interactions, or collisions, took place. First, the photons might just
miss each other, but be attracted to each other, and therefore they
would deflect into new paths. Second, they might just miss, but repel
each other, and again deflect into new paths. Finally, they might
actually merge. It was this type of collision that resulted in new
photons of different sizes. This is really making a long story short,
but I got the feeling that when two photons impacted in exactly the
same way, the results were exactly the same. And, when they impacted
in very nearly the same way, the results were very nearly the same. To
my mind, the mechanics of what I was seeing were completely
deterministic.
Once, during the entire period of observation, I saw a rare event.
Two photons passed very close and perfectly parallel to each other.
These photons had just the right phase relationship to cause an
attractive deflection of their paths, and they attempted to orbit one
another. Phase relationships between photons in close proximity are
everything. I’m told that close encounters like this can produce
mutual orbiting that can last for any number of orbits. Think of a
double Ouroborus, two snakes eating each other’s tails. I’m also told
that certain collisions can result in a single Ouroborus, the classical
snake eating its own tail. When one of these configurations occurs, it
forms a particle of matter. Most configurations are unstable, and last
only a short time. The instability results from paths, or orbits, that
are essentially chaotic. The thing to note is that the Ouroborus
structure, itself, moves at a speed slower than light, even though the
photons inside continue to move at exactly the speed of light.
When you realize that all particles of matter are configured from
Ouroborus photons, and that photons always move through space at
exactly the speed of light, then the relativistic behavior of matter
moving through space is explained. Einstein’s relativity and quantum
mechanics are simply mathematical transformations of the reality that I
had the chance to see with my own eyes.
As we returned to normal size and left the z-field probe, my mind
continued to numinate over these complex thoughts and images. Mumbling
some kind of goodbye to my uncle, I began planning my next article to
describe what I had seen and how close to a Final Theory we now seemed
to be.
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