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CHRISTOPHER REEVES WOKE up with a headache. It was faint, barely perceptible, yet distracting enough to interfere with his work—a nagging pain that had been troubling him for a while. In light of recent events, however, it seemed a small price to pay for all he had endured.
Dr. Reeves, a professor of physics at a prestigious university, had reached that stage in life when people begin to reflect on the so‑called ‘midlife crisis’. Yet such notions did not concern him in the least, nor did professional burnout or other difficulties he considered contrived.
His crisis was of a different kind: he had ceased to understand the world and the people around him. At some point, fragments of information that had slowly accumulated in his mind fused into a coherent picture, leading him to the unsettling realization that the world had changed profoundly—and would never be the same again.
Although Christopher was sometimes seized by a vague sense of anxiety, he knew it was essential to remain calm and rational. Fortunately, his scientific mindset allowed him to process what was happening and keep moving forward. Perhaps psychologists had yet to invent a single word to describe such a state. In any case, Christopher Reeves was not ill, and his fears seemed entirely justified.
Immediately upon waking, he glanced at his smartphone and noticed two missed calls from the university. ‘Work comes first,’ Reeves thought, as he dialled the number.
‘Hello, Mr. Reeves, so glad to hear from you!’ replied a lively female voice. ‘I called to make sure you’ll arrive on time, since you weren’t feeling well yesterday.’
‘Of course, I’ll be on time. Thank you for your concern, Mrs. Turner,’ Christopher answered respectfully.
‘Oh, wonderful! You know, I just thought—perhaps you might need to stay home? If you’re tired or anything else…’
‘No, no, I’m fine. Thank you!’ Reeves politely interrupted her, while clicking through the TV remote to catch the latest news.
‘I am fine and ready to continue my work in this important office,’ the announcer read the chancellor’s words. Then the screen flashed with a transition, and the anchor went on in a flat tone: ‘And now to other news…’
Talkative Mrs. Turner went on speaking, but Dr. Reeves, glancing nervously at his watch, listened only half‑heartedly. He began to hurry with his preparations, realizing that although he had woken up on time, he was already late for his lectures.
About an hour and a half later, Chris was standing by the university building. He still had a small interval to smoke a cigarette before classes began, and, stepping out of his car, he gave in to the bad habit. Not far from him passed Peter Wood, the mathematics professor, who waved cheerfully. Reeves waved back and involuntarily shifted his attention to a student with a spherical hairstyle that had been ultra‑fashionable in the seventies.
The young man, shaking his luxurious curls, struggled to push his bike into the rack. When he finally managed, he tossed his backpack onto the ground and crouched beside it, resting on one knee. After rummaging through the bag for a while, he pulled out a pair of small earphones, slipped them into his ears, and, humming a tune, headed toward the university steps.
Chris was surprised that the person, dressed in dazzling white trousers, sat down without hesitation directly on the wet asphalt. Not that Reeves was a grumbler or overly fastidious about cleanliness, but he immediately thought that after such ‘crawling’ on the pavement, the clothes would certainly have to be sent to the cleaners. Yet when the young man with the afro hairstyle stood up, his trousers remained impeccably white. The episode left the professor bewildered.
He recalled a family holiday in Menton, how he and his daughter had run through the rain hand in hand. Emily had been terribly worried about her new slip‑ons, which the water might damage, yet they laughed merrily all the same. On the way to the hotel they overtook an elderly lady, and Christopher noticed that the suede Mary Jane‑style shoes on her feet somehow remained perfectly dry. He was utterly puzzled by this absurd incident.
‘Such a strange phenomenon…’ Chris reflected as he climbed the university stairs. ‘But it was a fine moment.’ Returning in thought to the past, Dr. Reeves smiled.
‘Mr. Reeves! Mr. Reeves! May I stop you for a second?’ came the voice of David, the porter.
‘Of course, David, hello! What happened?’ asked Christopher.
‘Something. I wrote everything down, as you asked,’ said the porter, squinting conspiratorially.
‘Sorry, I don’t recall asking you…’
‘The observations! Come on!’ he whispered.
‘Ah, yes! Right! Anything interesting?’ inquired the professor.
‘There is something…’
‘Christopher, there you are! Will you come to my office?’ asked Turner, the head of department, appearing from around the corner.
‘We’ll continue later…’ Chris winked at the porter and followed Turner.
Her office felt homely and cozy, with nothing superfluous and everything in its place. Reeves, settling into a wide chair, began to turn the cactus, trying to examine the pattern on the flowerpot.
‘Amusing little pot, isn’t it?’ the head of department asked cheerfully.
‘Yes, very positive,’ Christopher smirked.
‘The children gave it to me so I wouldn’t forget about home. So, Christopher…’ she said, pausing. ‘I would like to know what is going on.’
‘I don’t understand what you mean, Caroline,’ he replied in surprise.
‘Oh, I think you do. Where is your colleague, our dear Mr. Strong?’
‘I tried to call him, but he doesn’t answer… Only voicemail,’ Christopher said.
‘Did you leave him any messages?’ Turner continued her interrogation.
‘Of course, more than once…’ Reeves muttered uncertainly.
‘Christopher, you are a scientist, a specialist in quantum field theory, in neural network modelling, and God knows in what else…’ Caroline said loudly, then paused again, staring expectantly at the professor.
Chris lifted his eyes from the desk and met her gaze.
‘We’re not in kindergarten, are we?’ she remarked.
Reeves kept looking at her silently, not understanding where she was heading.
‘I know what you’re plotting! Your team!’ the head of department whispered mysteriously, almost conspiratorially.
‘Caroline, allow me to explain…’ Dr. Reeves began.
‘Oh, only now you want to explain something to me? You must not go beyond the bounds of our research, do you understand? You have the experiment protocol!’
‘Of course I understand,’ Christopher said calmly.
‘And deal with your staff!’
‘I simply don’t have enough time for everything, it slips away from me like sand through my fingers…’ he confided.
‘Set your priorities correctly, Dr. Reeves!’ Turner interrupted him.
At that moment Christopher noticed a book lying on the cabinet beside the business folders. On the cover were drawn antique clocks, from whose dial yellow sand was pouring out. He could read only part of the title: ‘Time is…’, since some sheet of paper lay across the cover.
‘How symbolic! Do you read it?’ he asked Turner.
‘Yes, a good book,’ she replied.
‘May I ask, Caroline? Tell me, when do you manage all this? Flowers, coziness, painting…’ Reeves nodded toward the wall painting of the sea with flying seagulls.
‘I painted that myself, you remember, I attend art classes.’
‘I remember, Caroline, it’s a beautiful painting. And yoga…’
‘Yoga too,’ Turner responded with a touch of pride.
‘And morning runs?’
‘Of course!’ Caroline muttered, somewhat puzzled.
‘Well, naturally! Children, family celebrations? Do you sleep well?’ Chris asked.
‘I don’t complain. I have a strict routine. Where are you going with this, Christopher? Don’t you think you’re crossing boundaries?’ she protested.
‘Forgive me, Caroline, you are a good person and I truly value your attitude.’
‘I hope we have understood each other,’ Turner said in an uncharacteristically cold tone.
‘Absolutely. Excuse me, I must go.’
‘Yes, I remember you said you never have enough time. Then make time! And resolve the problem with Strong!’
‘I’ll handle it, don’t worry,’ Reeves promised and left the office.
He checked his wristwatch to see if there was still an interval before the lecture began. It seemed to him that he had spent less than ten minutes in Turner’s office, yet in reality more than half an hour had passed. Scowling angrily, the professor walked briskly into the lecture hall, where the students were already waiting for him.
During the lecture, Christopher kept glancing at the large wall clock in the auditorium. Almost mechanically, he would cast a look, note the time, and plan in his mind what he would speak about next. Whenever he looked at the dial for longer, the second hand would first freeze, then slowly begin to move again, just as it should.
But whenever he became distracted, the clock began to behave strangely, leaping forward by five, ten, or even more minutes without reason. Of course, he was aware of the phenomenon known as chronostasis, when the brain, at a fleeting glance at the dial, first produces a ‘freeze-frame’ and then quickly adjusts the perception of time back to normal.
Yet these ‘perceptions’ were certainly not normal—the time on the clock brazenly jumped ahead, and fragments of Christopher’s life simply fell out, as if someone had cut them away with neat editing scissors. And so today, the lecture was already drawing to a close, while Reeves still had not managed to deliver all the necessary material to his students.
After classes, he decided to visit Strong, who had been absent from the university for the second day without informing anyone of the reason. On the way, Christopher took a pill for his headache and, without much hope of success, dialled his colleague’s number again. But suddenly the call was answered:
‘Strong speaking,’ the subscriber said in a hoarse voice.
‘Edward, finally! Are you all right, friend?’
‘Probably not,’ Strong forced out after a long pause.
‘I’m coming to you. What happened? Turner summoned me for questioning…’
‘Don’t, Chris, I don’t want to see anyone, sorry.’
‘Are you drunk?’ Christopher asked anxiously.
‘Not really…’ Strong muttered.
‘What’s wrong with you? Another quarrel with Anna?’
‘She left me a month ago, do you remember?’ asked Edward, disappointed.
An awkward pause followed, but Chris tried to save the situation, forced to lie:
‘Of course I remember!’ And at once he cursed himself inwardly—how could he forget? Everyone at the university knew about Ed and Anna’s breakup. Each, in their own way, had tried to comfort their colleague. After all, they had been such a beautiful, harmonious couple, both professors: she a biologist, he a physicist.
‘Edward, but you do remember what we talked about? There are things much more important!’ Reeves insisted.
‘I don’t care about our breakup! Not anymore…’ Strong declared bitterly. ‘I don’t care about anything! Not even the experiment!’ he almost shouted into the phone.
‘But you do want to know the truth? Bitter though it may be…’
‘I already know it! Aren’t the ‘red flags enough for you? You still have doubts?’
‘Of course! Only a fool never doubts anything!’ Chris concluded.
‘I don’t want to live like this, to be someone’s slave, a nobody…’
‘Edward, pull yourself together! Nothing will change for you, anyway!’
‘No, this changes everything, everything!’ Strong sighed bitterly.
‘You’ll go on living your ordinary life.’
‘Until they disconnect us? And is that life? Or maybe we can get cheat codes for money?’ Edward laughed nervously.
‘That’s a good idea, Eddie! I’ll be waiting for you at the department tomorrow. Don’t let your colleagues down! I’ve got another call, sorry.’
The mathematician Peter Wood called, to whom Chris had already promised several times to chat over a pint of beer after work. This once Reeves simply had nothing left to invent in order to politely refuse, and despite his acute lack of spare moments, he nevertheless agreed to meet his old friend. Besides, Wood was always ready to give valuable advice in any situation, and that was worth taking advantage of.
Approaching the old pub, Christopher saw a homeless man who reeked strongly of alcohol. He shouted incoherent phrases, obviously trying to attract attention and beg for some money for food.
‘You’ve brought a Trojan horse here! They will destroy our civilization like barbarians! That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’ the homeless man shouted, for some reason staring at Dr. Reeves.
Christopher thought his face looked familiar. Perhaps he had seen him somewhere before, but could not recall where.
‘In your place I would be shouting other slogans, otherwise no one will give you anything,’ the professor said ironically, coming closer.
‘So you’re the smartest, huh? Maybe a minister?’ The tramp laughed theatrically.
‘Don’t I look like one?’ asked Reeves.
‘I trust a nine‑pound note more than our ministers!’ the man replied and laughed again.
‘Here’s ten pounds, buddy,’ Chris said and handed him the banknote.
‘Thank you, sir! And I want to warn you, don’t open the gates that can destroy everything! The world will end.’
‘No, no, I don’t even plan to,’ Christopher grinned, playing along with the drunk.
‘You’re planning, mate! You’re definitely planning! I don’t care that the world is unreal. But you will hasten its end,’ the man said very seriously, looking Reeves straight in the eyes. His gaze was absolutely clear and meaningful, as if he had instantly sobered up.
The professor felt uneasy. He turned away; beneath the streetlamp the wet asphalt gleamed, spreading into golden patches, while the smell of cheap ale and dampness stirred an unpleasant feeling. Taking a few steps to the side, Chris quickly pushed open the heavy pub door, and at once the warm light and the hum of voices enveloped him like a protective blanket.
At the small table Wood was already waiting with a pint of ale, the heavy glass glowing amber in the lamplight. Christopher Reeves hastily took off his coat, sat down opposite, and, without waiting for greetings, began to speak:
‘Pete, something strange is happening to me. Not only to me, but to my colleagues as well. You know, even our porter David keeps observations, writes them down in a notebook, and then shares them with us. I mean…’ Dr. Reeves paused, trying to figure out how to tell his staggering, almost frightening story briefly, leaving out unnecessary details. ‘There are indirect signs… For example, time runs too fast… Have you ever had it that you say something, and then almost word for word the same thing is said on the radio or television? And have you ever met people on whom raindrops simply don’t fall?’
Peter stared at his friend in bewilderment.
‘Sorry for the confusion. In general, we decided to conduct an experiment,’ Christopher continued after a prolonged pause.
At that moment Wood’s face grew even more tense, and Reeves leaned closer, lowering his voice:
‘To simulate the evolution of the Universe as a computational system: the gravitational interaction of ordinary and dark matter, the dynamics of hot gases, the formation of stars, galaxies, black holes. If reality can be described in terms of data bits and computational algorithms, I believe we will find confirmation of it. If our world is a simulation, then we will detect patterns: fractal structures, traces of information compression. And I am almost certain that gravitational attraction is a side effect of the digital Universe, emerging due to the need to reduce informational entropy of objects in space.’
Peter Wood sighed deeply and shook his head in despair.
‘Do you think you can prove it?’ Wood smiled bitterly. ‘I already tried. Several years ago I found mathematical evidence: in the structure of the cosmic microwave background there are fractal patterns, the same as those that arise in neural networks during training. I wrote an article about it and sent it to several journals. Not one accepted it. Not one, Chris!’
Peter slowly raised his glass, took a sip, and set it back down. Christopher sat motionless, waiting intently for the outcome of the story.
‘So I uploaded my work to the institutional repository,’ Wood continued. ‘But just a few hours later the publication disappeared. The server showed an error. And then the department leadership turned away from me. They said I was “undermining the university’s reputation.” Well, you know the rest of the story—I left, “slammed the door,” and moved here.’
Christopher remained silent for some moments, then he raised his hand and covered his face, as if trying to hide from the growing sense of doom.
‘It won’t work, Chris. The system will not allow it. Anything that comes too close to the truth gets erased,’ Wood warned.
‘Turner has already hinted that we shouldn’t go beyond what was planned in the protocol of the experiment.’
‘Well, you see!’
‘But if this is a simulation, then we could explain the phenomenon of the Fine-Tuning of the Universe, the limitation of the speed of light, as well as the random glitches and discrepancies that arise in certain constants and laws of nature over time, which John Barrow wrote about. Too much is at stake, Peter.’
‘I remember that work by Barrow. But even if you succeed, you must also think about the consequences, Chris! What this could lead to,’ Wood said warily.
The next morning the laboratory was in a bustle. Staff moved back and forth, speaking in hushed voices and bending over the instruments occasionally. Thick cables, clipboards with calculations, and cups of unfinished coffee lay on the tables. The screen of the central terminal flickered with lines of code, while nearby someone checked the connections, clicking the switches. Everything was ready: Reeves’s team was preparing to launch the simulation, which was supposed to reveal the mystery of the Universe.
At that moment the door flew open, and David—the porter, who had already shared his strange observations more than once—rushed into the laboratory. His face was pale.
‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘Please, don’t do this! I don’t want to know the results. No one should know. This will lead the world to catastrophe!’ The team members silently watched what was happening. Christopher looked questioningly at Edward Strong, then slowly turned to David.
‘David… but we have to check. This is the only way to understand what is happening.’
‘No, Professor,’ David stepped closer, almost pleading. ‘If we prove that the world is a simulation, everything will collapse. People will not withstand this truth. Chaos will begin!’
Christopher froze, staring at the screens where lines of code awaited execution. In his mind echoed Peter Wood’s words that the system erases everything too close to the truth. He closed his eyes for a moment, pressed his lips together, and finally whispered:
‘You’re right, David. If we open this door, behind it will be chaos.’ He stepped away from the terminal and looked at the team. A heavy silence hung in the laboratory, broken only by the hum of the cooling fans. The screens continued to flicker, but no one dared touch the keyboard to press the launch button.
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