On some planets, the new oxygen-utilizing cells had banded together to form larger and more complex organisms. These larger things, made of millions and billions of cells, continued to change as the single cells had done. As new molecular possibilities occurred, always by trial and error, the cells in these composite organisms did not all evolve in the same way. Some of the cells took on specialized functions, such as processing waste material or circulating the needed oxygen or providing mechanical means for the organism to move more easily about. Some of the cells even evolved to coordinate and control the activities of the other specialized cells.
All this had happened in my absence! Mindlessly following the rules of chance and necessity, the warm seas of the planets were churning out highly organized and efficient multicellular organisms. I felt a slight embarrassment that so much could proceed without any direction by me.
At this point, I was hesitant to call these things entirely inanimate. And I could see the rudiments of brains. Not brains with ideas, but conglomerations of cells that were clearly coordinating other cells. Undoubtedly, these specialized conglomerations would become more and more complex as the organism became more complex. The coordinating and control cells would send more electrical signals to one another. They would develop feedback loops. They would have a sensation of changing in response to stimuli. At times, they might exchange signals between themselves with no survival value but simply as a statement of shared existence. I could see the trend. Eventually, the things would have some kind of recognition that they were independent entities, separate from the external world. They would perceive themselves from outside of themselves. In short, they would become aware of themselves. And then they would think. It was only a matter of time.
How mistaken I had been. To believe that I could purposefully decide whether to create animate matter or not. As was now apparent to me, animate matter was an inevitable consequence of a universe with matter and energy and a few initial parameters of the proper sort. If I wanted, I could destroy life. But I was only a spectator in its creation.
I was surprised. I was moved. I was concerned. What was this thing that had been set into motion? First there was time. Then space and energy. Then matter. And now the possibility of life, of other minds. What would the new minds think? What would they grasp? Hadn’t I wanted this? Yes, I had wanted it. But also, I had not wanted it. Certainly I wasn’t prepared. I could feel the weight of the future, heavy, bristling with possibilities. But I could not see the future. The future was a dim, throbbing thing, an invisible galaxy. Was it out of control, my control?
Free Will?
On occasion, I go into meditative states that last an indefinite period of time. Before the first atomic clocks, these states were truly of incalculable duration. Aunt Penelope might tell me, after I had emerged from one of my meditations, that I had been gone a very long time, that she and Uncle had completed many sleepings and wakings while I was absent, that the music had practically ceased in the Void, and so forth. But to me, no time had passed. Or rather, no events had passed worth my attention. Even with the invention of devices to measure time, I still supported the view that time had meaning only in its relation to events. If no events occurred, or events of no significance, then one could say with some justification that no time had elapsed. At any rate, that was how I felt after each of my meditations in past eons. Indeed, the purpose of such meditations, for me, was to free myself from events, to bring my mind back to itself, to transform myself and my thoughts into a state of pure, instantaneous being. Certainly that was easily attained in the Void. In the emptiness of the Void, events never happened except for the occasional excursion by Uncle Deva or Aunt Penelope—and, with due respect to my uncle and aunt, those events could hardly be called significant.
Now, however, things had changed. With so many happenings in the new universe—indeed the new universe was a shouting match of events, one on top of the other—there was never a moment free of significant events. Even in the Void, that most perfect and absolute condition of nothingness, one was always aware that events were racing forward pell-mell in that small but ever-increasing sphere. No matter what one was doing in the Void, no matter where one was in the Void, one could feel the crowd of new developments in Aalam-104729. One could feel the present rushing headlong into the future, even though that future was faint and fraught with uncertainties. The trillions of other universes flying about, throbbing with potentialities, seemed as nothing compared to the explosions taking place in Aalam-104729. No longer could I meditate in complete stillness.
Thus it was that I had removed myself from existence, while at the same time being aware of the clamorings within the new universe, when Belhor and Baphomet appeared again. Belhor looked as he had on the previous visit, a tall and thin figure, dignified and dark. Baphomet, still squat and ugly with his interminable smirk, seemed to have developed a swagger. And now there were two Baphomets. Standing behind the original was a second, smaller Baphomet, who cowered in the most pathetic way and constantly bowed to everything in sight.
“I hope I am not disturbing you,” Belhor said to me.
“We hope we are not disturbing you,” said the larger Baphomet. “We would never ever want to disturb such an eminence as yourself. Not ever.”
“No, we would not,” said the smaller Baphomet. At which point the larger Baphomet jerked around and kicked the smaller beast, who let out a pitiful yelp. “Quiet,” said Baphomet the Larger. “I will tell you when you can speak.” “Yes, master,” said the smaller Baphomet. The larger Baphomet did a backwards somersault and grinned.
Of course they were disturbing me. I was triply disturbed. But I believe in some consideration to others, regardless of their actions, so I merely replied, “What do you want?”
“We have much to discuss,” said Belhor. “Many things have happened since we last met. Interesting things, I would say. It seems that primitive life has arrived in our little universe. Inevitably, the primitive life will evolve and become more … shall we say, complicated. Self-awareness will come next. And intelligence. It is only a matter of the passage of time. Would you agree?”
“Yes,” I said. “Unless I intervene. You are well informed.”
“I make it my business to be informed,” said Belhor.
“Oh, my master very definitely makes it his business to be informed,” said Baphomet the Larger. “My master knows everything about everything. Isn’t it grand.” Belhor gave Baphomet the Larger a fierce look, at which point Baphomet turned and kicked Baphomet the Smaller.
“My request,” Belhor said to me, “is simply that you not intervene. Allow these primitive creatures to evolve and develop self-awareness and intelligence.”
“I will consider your request,” I said.
“With intelligence,” said Belhor, “the new creatures will at least have the impression of making decisions on their own. Of course, whether they know it or not, we know that they will be following the same laws and rules as inanimate matter, the laws and rules that you have laid down. Their behaviors and actions will still be fully prescribed in advance, aside from the slight modifications arising from your quantum concoction. But the creatures will have the impression of freedom of choice. We can let them have that impression, can we not? What harm would there be?”
“Do not play games with me,” I said.
“I would never play games with you,” said Belhor. “I do not play games with anyone, and especially not with you. I am not asking that you do something. What I am asking is that you not do something, that you not intervene, that you let matters follow their own course.”
“Yes,” I said, “I understand what you are asking. I will consider it. There are pros and cons to the development of intelligent life in the universe, and they must be carefully considered. At the moment, I do not see any harm, as you say, in allowing the new animate life-forms to have the impression of making independent decisions on their own.”
“Good,” Belhor said. Sl
owly, he moved to where Aalam-104729 lay on its side and picked it up. The universe made a small, moaning sound. “It is so precious,” said Belhor, “with so many possibilities. Indeed with an infinite number of possibilities. If I may, do you remember our previous conversation, in which we agreed that with a sufficiently large number of outcomes, it would be impossible to imagine everything that might transpire in the future? Do you remember that conversation?”
“Yes, I remember it. I do not forget anything.”
“No, of course not,” said Belhor. “I just wanted to make reference to that conversation. Please, with your permission, let me continue. I want to discuss a matter of principle with you. We have recognized that our intelligent creatures will have the impression of making their own decisions, while at the same time being totally subject to your rules and laws. But the question now is: Will you have foreknowledge of their decisions and actions, even if their atoms and molecules are following all of the rules that you have laid down? And even if you could in principle have foreknowledge, would you be willing to relinquish that foreknowledge in some cases? Please hear me out. Many of these creatures will have brains. There are an extremely large number of possible arrangements even for a small brain. Consider a typical atom, like carbon. Say, for example, that it has 20 possible configurations. There might be 1014 atoms in a single one of your new cells, so that there are then 201014 different possible configurations of a single cell. In one rather modest brain, with 1012 cells, there would then be 201026 possible configurations. That number is enormously larger than the total number of atoms in a galaxy. As you can see, there is a staggering number of different configurations in even one modest brain, all of which may have an impact on a decision being made by that brain.”
“What of it?” I said. “I can do that calculation.” The more I knew of Belhor, the more impressed I was with him. And concerned.
“Of course you can do the calculations,” said Belhor. “To be frank, it is a pleasure for me to converse with someone of your intelligence. And I hope the same for you. Of course you can do the calculations. But why would you want to? At each moment, there is such a huge number of possible configurations for a single modest brain. Now consider that there will be billions of brains on each planet, and billions upon billions of planets. Why would you want to keep track of all of those brains, all of those tedious calculations, all of those possibilities? And remember that the displacement of a single atom in any of those brains might change the outcome of a long sequence of events, ending in a different decision or action.”
“You are clever,” I said. “But I do not understand what you are getting at.”
“I believe that you do,” said Belhor. He was looking at me intently now. Even face on, he was thin, so very thin, like the sharp edge of something. “I am saying that, just as you should not intervene in the development of intelligent minds in our new universe, I request that you should not attempt to predict the behavior of those minds. Let them make decisions and take action without your foreknowledge. The creatures are hardly worth troubling yourself about. They will still follow your rules and laws. But there are so many possibilities. Let the creatures act without your foreknowledge. They will have the sensation of making their own decisions … in fact, more than the sensation. But they will still be following your rules. Again, I am not asking you to do something. I am asking you not to do something.”
“If these hypothetical beings—and I have still not decided whether I will allow them to exist—if these hypothetical beings make decisions without my foreknowledge, then they will not be within my control.”
Belhor said nothing. He continued looking at me.
“Oh, I think the Big Guy is worried,” said Baphomet the Larger. “You know, I never thought the Big Guy worried about anything. My master has got Him worried.”
“Their atoms and molecules will still be following your rules,” Belhor said to me.
“Yes,” I said, “but with the large number of possible configurations, as you have pointed out, small disturbances could change outcomes. It will require some effort to predict all outcomes in advance.”
“Precisely,” said Belhor. “Do you insist upon having complete control of everything you have created? We have discussed this matter before.”
“I must consider all of this,” I said. In my own mind, I was thinking that Belhor was quite right, although I would not give him the satisfaction of immediately approving his request. I did not really want to calculate the zillions of possible configurations involved with each decision of each intelligent creature on each planet.
“Then you will consider it?” said Belhor.
“Yes, I will consider it.”
“Good,” said Belhor, and he smiled in that unsettling way that he had once before. “Now, I am interested again.”
“We are all interested,” said Baphomet the Larger. “Very interested.”
Belhor bowed. “I have enjoyed our conversation immensely. All of us here in these regions have responsibilities towards the new things you’ve made. To life. To life.”
Goodness in Every Atom
I did not tell my aunt and uncle about Belhor et al.’s latest visit, as I knew their hostility towards him. Nonetheless, Uncle Deva seemed uncannily aware of the conversation. Or, if not the conversation itself, at least the issues surrounding life in the new universe. During one of my recreational strolls through the Void, Uncle cornered me. Aunt Penelope was napping, he said, and it would give us a chance to chat “without impediments.”
So, Uncle said cheerfully, I gather that we will soon have animate creatures hopping about in our universe. A very good development, if I may say so. I hope that you have not been thinking otherwise. He made this last remark in a casual tone, but I knew that he was slyly probing me. The easiest thing would be to let it happen, I said. But I have not completely decided on the matter. Oh dear me, said Uncle. Uncle Deva never chastised me in the manner that Aunt P did, but from eons of living with him I knew what “Oh dear me” meant. He was vexed with me. You have done such a masterful job, said my uncle. The galaxies. The stars. The what-you-may-call-its. Even the solitary little hydrogen atoms floating around. But surely the grandest accomplishment of all would be the creation of intelligent life. There are problems, I said. Yes, of course there will be problems, said Uncle. But doesn’t everything have problems? Nephew, what meaning does your universe have without other minds in it? It has beauty, I said. Yes, it has beauty, said my uncle. But who is there to appreciate the beauty, aside from you and me and your aunt? Wouldn’t the beauty have more meaning with other minds to admire it? Wouldn’t it be transformed by other minds? I’m not talking about a passive admiration of beauty, but a participation in that beauty, in which everyone is enlarged. We three are not of the same essence as the universe. But living creatures born into that universe, made of the same material, are of that essence. You have told me yourself that the life-forms are made of the same atoms as everything else in the universe. The beauty you speak of—the stars and the oceans and so forth—is part of their beauty, those living things. And so much enhanced by their participation, by their absorption of that beauty and then the responsive outflowing of their own beauty. It is a spiritual thing, don’t you see?
I so loved Uncle Deva. He was sincere in his beliefs, and sweet. Don’t you want your universe to have some recognition of itself? continued my uncle. I mean, the minds within it? As beautiful as it is, a mountain cannot have recognition of itself. Don’t you want some bits of your universe to know that they are part of a whole, part of a pattern, that some glorious act created time and space and matter and set the whole thing in motion? It was not so glorious, I said. As you remember, I was tired of the unending nothingness followed by more nothingness. I wanted a change. I wanted somethingness. That’s all.
You can say what you want, said Uncle. But even if you had no grand purpose in mind … the fact is, the creation of the thing was glorious. An act can be glorious whatever
its intention and purpose. Intelligence, awareness, mindfulness are going to connect the pieces of our universe in a way that inanimate matter never could.
Uncle looked at me affectionately and sighed. I can see you are troubled, he said. What are you concerned about? I am concerned that something unpleasant will happen, I said, something terrible. Maybe many terrible things. If an act can be glorious whatever its intention, an act can also be disastrous whatever its intention. I am concerned that the intelligent beings in the new universe will come to some harm, that they will suffer. Are you still thinking about Mr. Belhor? asked Uncle. What does he know? Your goodness will prevent suffering. You must believe that. The animate life, once it has developed intelligence, will feel your goodness. No suffering can come from that. I am not so sure, I said. Have faith, said Uncle. Your goodness fills every atom in the universe. It will flow into every creature created. Suffering cannot occur in such a cosmos.
I wish I were as certain as you, I said. I feel this rush, this vibration going through me, the future. The future is happening.
Then it is settled, said Uncle Deva. I have been waiting for this moment for time upon time. Yes, the future is happening. Your aunt and I have been discussing this possibility for some time, and we have a few things to suggest, just a few things, about what we want our creatures to look like.
Bodies and Minds
But it didn’t matter what Aunt Penelope and Uncle Deva wanted the new creatures to look like. Because that development, like almost everything else in the new universe, happened on its own by trial and error, with no need for meddling by outside parties.
In the trillions upon trillions of galaxies, and the billions of planets in each galaxy, every imaginable form of life arose. The light-utilizing creatures developed into wondrous vegetations, some tall and skinny and deeply fixed in the planetary soil, others small and delicate and gorgeously colored. They were rough and barky, soft and silky, sticky, moist, dry, gelatinous, sharp, rounded, generous and open, closed and tight as if protecting a secret. Some lived on land, some under the oceans. Some floated in the air, blown about by winds. Some even left their home planets altogether and drifted through space, finding raw materials in the long wisps of interstellar gas. Some were heavy with exterior scales and bark, some so slight as to be almost invisible, barely a few molecules thick. And so many shapes: circles and disks, spirals, fans, sponges and sheets, floppy flats, filigreed meshes, thick blobs and windings. Generally, the various vegetations lacked their own locomotion. However, nourished by sunlight as they were, they all found habitats and positions where they could orient themselves towards their central star. Their molecular machinery turned sunlight, water, and carbon dioxide into sugars, and they lived on those sugars.