Einstein’s special theory of relativity differs from ordinary Galilean relativity in that the scientist who ended up looking like a beat poet made the assumption that the speed of light is constant in all inertial reference frames.  That and the key word “inertial” makes the theory “special,” as opposed to “general.”  (This is an over-simplification—the general theory is really a non-quantum theory of gravity, generalizing Newtonian gravity).  Back in September, physicists associated with the Italian Opera experiment shook the world in announcing that Einstein’s assumption was incorrect.  A sensor detected CERN-emitted neutrinos 453 miles away—the distance divided by the time lag gives a velocity.

Scientists hit the hooch, refusing to believe the results.  As an ex-scientist, I did too.  Over a century of experiments had confirmed Einstein’s assumption (it’s still true in the general theory, by the way).  I had a number of people ask me about the experiment.  Some even said, “Wow, Einstein was wrong!”  My response was, “Let’s wait and see.”  One experiment doesn’t overturn a theory—repeated experimental confirmation is required.  The lesson learned here is that, whether he was right or wrong, Eisnstein was just a very able theoretician.  Experiments determine the physics and the scientific method always prevails—theories have to be tested.  In this case, the disbelief spurred experimentalists to check the Opera results.

In September, the Opera group announced that they found a potential flaw in the setup that could explain the spurious results.  Now the Icarus group, led by Nobel Prize winner Carlo Rubbia, has redone the experiment and showed that the neutrinos indeed travel at the speed of light.  Special relativity has been restored to its theoretical pedestal until the next experiment that allegedly refutes it comes along.  This is the scientific method in action—complete with media hype.  (That’s another problem.  “Einstein was wrong!” was too common of a headline.  Science News, my first source now for all new science, was more careful and echoed by let’s-wait-and-see attitude.)

There are no absolutes in science.  Scientists check and recheck their theories with experiments.  Sometimes, as in special relativity or quantum mechanics in the first decade of the 20^th century, a mountain of new experimental evidence requires a new paradigm, a new theoretical structure that not only must explain the body of new experimental evidence but also must encompass the old data, at least in suitable limiting cases (e.g. relativistic mechanics and/or quantum mechanics asymptotically limit to Newtonian mechanics when càinfinity or hà0 –again, things like black holes, superconductivity, and neutron stars show that this is over-simplified).  The scientific method constrains our theoretical models—wild conjectures are allowed but, eventually, experimental tests must be performed.

In my sci-fi, especially in the soon-to-be-released Sing a Samba Galactica, I extrapolate current and wild conjectures that are summarized in the statement “string theory will explain everything.”  We haven’t even found that illusive Higgs particle yet…”Any day now,” CERN physicists say.  How can I be so bold to talk about string theory’s consequences?  Don’t scientists know the dangers of extrapolation beyond the frontiers of proven theory?  Sure, scientists recognize this, and I did, as a scientist.  As a writer of sci-fi, though, I have the freedom to extrapolate all I want.  The more I do, of course, the more “hard sci-fi” begins to look like fantasy (there is a continuum between the two—these are not binary choices).

A confirmation of the Opera results would have been very useful because “faster-than-light” (FTL) travel is essential to many sci-fi plots.  With Opera, I could just postulate a “neutrino drive” and be on my way.  That’s the gimmick, of course.  In sci-fi, as in all fiction, with the exception of fantasy fiction, Clancy’s quote that runs in the banner to this website is still true—what you write must seem real.  Many sci-fi writers don’t follow Clancy’s advice (to be fair, Tom doesn’t write sci-fi—not even militaristic sci-fi, as in Heinlein’s Starship Troopers).

Star Trek back in the sixties taught this lesson to millions of TV viewers: Gene Rodenberry and company’s FTL gimmick was the warp drive.  They had Zephram Cochrane invent it and then went about developing their stories—they could have called it the X-drive just as well (although “warp” fits in well with the hyperspace jump—see below).  One of the many movies was even about how the drunken Cochrane still managed to invent it even with those nefarious Borgs around.  Of course, Star Trek just did what many sci-fi writers had already done.  Asimov talked about “jumps through hyperspace” in his Foundation series, for example.  Neither Star Trek nor Asimov bothered to explain how their FTL gimmicks actually work.

I don’t either.  Nevertheless, by appealing to string theory and its theoretical obscurity, and a bit to my own research (and its probably deserved obscurity), I can make those jumps seem more real.  Of course, it’s all a great swindle so that I can get on with the story, just like those Star Trek writers.  Moreover, I’m fairly confident that the unifications claimed by string theorists will not be tested for a very long time.  They realize this and those desiring real experimental tests tend to search for them in that greatest laboratory of all, the Universe.  In other words, they look for astrophysical consequences.  If someday we have a theory of everything, it will have to explain the astrophysics as well as the microphysics.

Writing sci-fi is a dangerous occupation.  There are some writers that try to get the science as correct as possible, sacrificing plot to pseudo-scientific detail obtained through a very tight extrapolation (in some cases, this is just appearance).  However reasonable, some of their long-winded treatises remind me of Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea, where he goes on and on about undersea flora and fauna.  (The parallel with FTL is more akin to the strange power source that powered the sub, though, which we now know as nuclear energy—Verne didn’t dwell on that.)

The British authors Stephen Baxter and Alastair Reynolds come to mind as droners.  Of course, I perceive this on-and-on-droning with many other genres, not just sci-fi (so-called “literary fiction” is plagued with it—for example, Umberto Eco’s Name of the Rose—and Ian Rankin’s mystery novels to a lesser extent).  Reading is a highly subjective activity.  You might even enjoy the works of these authors and think I’m too much into space opera—or anti-European (Baxter and Reynolds are British, Rankin is Scotch, and Eco is Italian).

The real danger in writing sci-fi is simply that your work becomes dated.  In this sense, I might have dwelled too much on the origins of FTL in Sing a Samba Galactica—in a few weeks, you will be able to tell me.  Nevertheless, there were several reasons beyond just obtaining FTL so my characters could putt-putt about the galaxy.  First, I wanted to give something of the flavor of the interaction between science and engineering.  Too many people think of engineers as chefs.  In other words, they think an engineer follows a well-known recipe book, with a bit of innovative thought, perhaps, to come up with his or her engineering creations.  I prefer to think of engineering as practical science.  In Samba, the physicists, Human Annie Li and Ranger Deep Breather, inventors of the theory of the FTL drive, have to turn it over to Ian Holst, a very gifted engineer.  As with the scientific method, this is an important part of today’s interplay between science and technology (I suspect that those experimental glitches in Opera were probably due to engineering snafus).

Second, I wanted to establish the fame of Annie Li before she took off to join the Swarm, that immense collective intelligence formed by millions of sentients who originated in an ancient star cluster.  Her role was to make Swarm more Human, someone or something deserved of being saved (this is an important part of the epic tale in Samba).  Just like Jenny Wong and Henry Posada, whom you met in Survivors of the Chaos, Annie Li’s character transcends humanity and desegregates Humans and the ETs they have encountered.  This bit of a morality play was an important element of Rodenberry’s Star Trek universe.  I hope you’re not surprised it’s part of mine.

In libris libertas…

 

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