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Look Out . . . It's a Quant?m Wiiirrrllld


Look Out . . . It’s a Quant?m Wiiirrrllld


Copyright 2017 Richards Hall and e.

Published by Richards Hall and e. at Shakespir

Look Out . . . It’s a Quant?m Wiiirrrllld

(zone four.1)



>>> . . . <<<



***the premises thus far as of EARTH Verse 666 newly updated time stamp . . .



0901 . . .

. . . which are neither here nor there, and barely updated since the last time-stamp, which you may never even have passed . . .


First, if you are up to date, there is near nothing new here. As in right here in this short lead up to GO coming up in a page or so, and then, look out. Nothing new apart perhaps from some clarity and orderization. That said, this brief pre-amble may or may not sound a little complex and overly formal. You might just want to skip directly to GO.

Trust me, unless you already know better, the entertainment flows, as you will quickly find out. You may also know better than to trust me. For what it’s worth, as of the prior time stamp this pre-amble replaces (the next page)’s. All of them. They are all now lessor fictional myth of this fictional entertainment.

Go ahead and look, a time stamp is there where it wasn’t.


The EARTHearth devised QSCs, Quant?m Scenic Corporeal Computation, to supervise a continuum of EARTH verses, with a minimum of touch. These are the chronicles of Verse 444, referred to as V444 or just V4. The natural residents of V4 are called E4’s. These natural residents do not know themself as E4, nor do they know V4 as V4, apart from a handful of exceptions, such as Hermann Strumm. Themself, yes.

It may be safe to say E4’s know V4 as four cities adding up to Quant City, which is surrounded by a growing wilderness of computed flatness. That may sound worse than good, but it’s not necessarily all that bad. Truly, as long as the ongoing go is good to go, the going can be good, and never much worse than worse than good. It can get worse, yes.

If I can get squirrellier, I will. I tried to cut the nuts, but it just made it worse.

The reader of these chronicles is assumed to be an E6, apart from special readers, again such as Hermann Strumm, with the telltale E6 residing as an inhabitant or satellite of Verse 666. Verse 666, or V6, is not relevant to these chronicles, nor is that count reliable. Not relevant apart from an observational interest due to an easy to read, and misread, similar habitat, due to liberties taken with the fictional interface.

Along with the natural residents is a manifestation of friendly alien’ism in the form of SATURN’ixm, which is growing Saturnites out of the V4’s, as the V4’s are beginning to perish, either due to too many of them, or due to excessive flattening of the terrain. Terms like alien’ism and SATURN’ixm should be easy enough to recognize as Saturnite derivations, which should in time temper the liberties taken with the fictional interface.

The Saturnites are aware of the V4 and E4 calls. At least some of them are, on the way to all of them. It’s not of too much matter to Saturnites if E4’s flatten away, not that they wouldn’t freely offer sway to help them stay, but they need to deal with the excessive flattening for they themself to sustain, even if not remain, although they may have to remain if hybridization has any say.

It would not cause conflict were the Saturnites to remain in tandem with E4s, but it would most definitely be noticeable and invite conflict from outside the EARTH verse, even if that conflict from beyond would have to meet up with some very nasty teeth, which would be good for a laugh here and there.


That’s it for now, and maybe quite a while. Until next month, Exhale and proceed.


But first, some mapping. Events take place in the following order . . .


Hark Mulligan, Occupation Hero

Look Out, It’s a Quant?m Wiiirrrllld (is it me or should one of those I’s be capitalized?)

The Donut Effect

The No Zone Layer

The Blood Cafe


The No Zone Layer runs somewhat behind and alongside The Blood Cafe, and any zone may slightly bleed into another at some point.

The No Zone Layer and The Blood Cafe tend to occur as attachments to the other three, as in the three obvious zones having covers.

The Donut Effect is sort of the hot zone where the locals begin to realize the reality of the count down of the timing vortex, better known as QSCs. Or maybe not so better known, as there does seem to be a need-to-know directive held in secret and kept as secret as possible from those determined to know.

I can only tell you what I know.

Not that I will.

If I were President I wouldn’t even talk to you. How’s that?




<-- GO -->




Karl Strasse was feeling antsy. OH dear, not more rants about ants.

No, not.

Were any of these people trustworthy and smart enough to see the implications? Consuming beer by the cask as they were at the moment did not help with the overall impression.

Maybe it helped a little.

It was an Oktoberfest celebration, the one event that drew all of them, as in those of them who were his co-workers, to the same place, but even then rarely more than one at the same time. Karl had not anticipated it, but as luck had it, he was in a position . . . this time . . . where he was able to clearly see each one of them, one after the other, one at a time and at the same time.

At least for the moment, the timing was right.

After organizing his opinions he began interviewing. Irene Bakewell was first. He didn’t see her as the smartest or most trustworthy, but she scored well under both categories, and she may have been the least ignorant. She was the type of person out to void ignorance, by gathering it for review and replacing it when possible. Maybe she would win on total points. Then again, maybe she actually was the most trustworthy, and they were all very smart in their own ways. In their own multiple ways.

One zone smart wouldn’t cut it.

“Do you want to die, Irene?’

“You are plastered?” she asked. “Can I get you another stein? Tankard? Tanker?” She giggled mirthfully, and she wasn’t even drunk or drinking. She was from Austria.

No, some of these place names don’t really make sense, as noted elsewhere.

And it was the fest. She was loose. She could take a good joke as a rule, if it wasn’t crude and had logical merit, and then she might just suggest a smile, but today she was relaxed and carefree. “If you could, would you pick a point, an age, and stay at it?”

Think – perma’past. Then let the thought pass, it’s not getting discussed soon.

“What chemicals have you been sniffing, Karl? You shouldn’t be wandering off of the physics floor. Whew! What day is it?” she asked, fanning herself. ”Hot out here.” Karl wondered if maybe Irene was stoned and didn’t know it. Very possibly. There was, indeed, Blight around and about. Blight was a thing, which, again, is not getting discussed soon. Information overload is itself a blight.

Okay, Blight was something like an alcoholic drug with less kick than either.

All I’m saying. For now.

“OH, no,” said Karl. A polka band was setting up on the stage. He didn’t relish the idea of shouting out his questions. An Oktoberfest fest might have seemed an unwise place to conspire, but it did pass as private. He wondered if Irene polka’d. “Irene, what if I was to propose that time was a solid? Is a solid? Will be a solid?”

“And round and square? Why are you proposing this here?” She looked away, trying to block out what Karl suggested. Today was supposed to be fun. It took breaking many layers to let herself have fun. Layers, layers, layers. She didn’t like to drink or sing, or polka, her loss, so she was settling for not thinking about work, and being baked by the sun.

“Maybe roundish, but maybe not so square. Or maybe not. Maybe mostly OH?” And Karl, for one, would know.

“I am not listening to you,” she said.

For the sake of near disclosure, Karl was something of the godfather of the Time Institute, a not yet realized institution in not so yet realized Quant City. It was he and his cronies who thought they had first in time referred to faith in the unknown becoming known as quant?m. They were wrong about that. As for coming to realize what they now thought they knew they would know next, time was on the clock.




To many of the serious brain set it was perplexing that for the size of his intellect, Martin Marin fantasized about time travel. Not just clinically, but in the romantic sense, too. The H. G. Wells scheme. The issue over him wasn’t the fantasy, the issue was people of less intellect didn’t have to fantasize. A reader of the time travel trades – trade – Martin was the sort who would fixate on proving Karl Strasse, as Karl, like Hermann Strumm, had seemed to have gone missing, as discretely advertised in the OH so special time trade.

That will be explained in just a bit. Also, H. G. Wells was not a E4 entity. That’s narrator privilege to help bind you to this scenery. Maxie Horshinsky actually first fictionalized time travel in Quant City in her infamous novel Splooge Eroticity.

Shall we have an excerpt?

No, we shall not.

Martin just needed a hint of clue, or two, or a few, to get started at proving Karl, as any and everyone would. He had never even heard of Karl Strasse before. He would be wishing he’d never heard of Vitus Werdegast.

For the sake of transparency, for once, there was a connection between both Hermann Strumm and Karl going missing, something on the line of a manned bullet fired in time to find someone on the line of a Martin Marin.

“Costs being equal,” asked Martin, “wouldn’t it make more sense to send someone back in time two weeks than to Mars?” Not necessarily Mars Mars, but close enough, not that close enough ever hit a target beyond close enough.

“Are you seriously asking me?” asked Allyson. Was she seriously still with this guy? “I’d think it would cost less to send someone back in time two weeks, no two ways about it.” Needless to say, she didn’t get the concepts of back and forth. Or bulk.

Bunk, yes.

Allyson was the head of the graphics department for Rev magazine, home turf serving the revolving wheel of today’s addictions en route to nowhere, where words were meant to be seen and not read, were understood without even having to be read, if you could even see them, redesigned as they were to be hidden in stylishness, soup and curd. And not affiliated with Mulligan’s even. That would be a hell-uv-a marriage. To some it was less magazine and more trial by smug. This is true, I asked my cousin.

On the one hand, and in many of them, there was something like Rev, while in the other was something like the time trade. The time trade as in that time travel trade going unnamed, unmanned and not going around. It came and went more a-square, leading towards a’cubed, standing still-ish, letting people come to it. It was almost an anti-magazine. So ‘anti’ it was everything not a magazine. For a time, and before the next.

As such, the edge of the time trade could only be found in places like the other side of Rev. Edge, get it? Something to cut you. People who read the time trade loved that sort of thing, not Rev, that is, they loved what wasn’t Rev, and people getting all cut up over it. A precursor to the coming of ripping. They did a lot of their reading hands-off looking in mirrors for bloodless safety’s sake. Not necessarily a fun bunch or worth anyone’s time. Think Karl Strasse when not polka’ing.

OH mercy, the decline of the sacrament of marriage could be traced to the exclusion of polkas from wedding band set lists, and the ability to have fun tossing a woman around. Just sayin’. It wasn’t like women weren’t also in on the fun. Consider, too, the riotous good time little ‘uns have when poppa tosses them up in the air.

“I don’t know. I’m serious, but I guess I’m not seriously asking you.” Martin looked into Allyson’s eyes. Yes, both, as it was tough and distorting to comprehend them one at a time. Allyson decidedly did not like him focusing on just the one that wasn’t sized right, a tryck she played on purpose via make-up Who knew why she didn’t expect it to get anyone and everyone’s attention. “No, I am seriously asking you.”

“How would he get back?” she asked. That was Allyson all over, always thinking backwards, now and after the fact.

She could just walk back. One day at a time,” said Martin. “Naturally.” Of course, it wasn’t about getting back, that part would be about getting forward. Again. Still. A set or two of coordinates or coordinators would certainly help.

Don’t think all this back talk is just talk, baaaQ travel was nearly on the horizon. History is enormously affected by the future. Don’t think not. Nor be not. Just don’t do not.

Or not. Not without the proper license or degree backed by a solid voucher and an even bigger shtick.

Martin had been dating Allyson for a couple of months. He liked her, but he couldn’t figure her out. It wasn’t her, it was him, of course. He never bothered to really try, but when he couldn’t figure out his feelings for a woman, be they clingy, grippy or slippery – his feelings, not women, although . . . it usually ended with him deciding he didn’t really care. Someday caring would find him, or find him out.

As for women, it’s simply best to . . .

“I think that might be awful,” said Allyson.

What? Walking through time? That’s basic.

“Why bother to go back for two weeks?” she asked.

“Maybe to place a big bet on an upset in the big game, or the big race. You know, you might end up with a much better two weeks, and no unpleasant surprises.” Uh huh.

“You think that’s possible? Is that what you’re working on? I sure hope you have a better reason for it.”

It was no secret, to Allyson or anyone, that whatever it was Martin was working on, it had to do with time. Sort of. He was, after all, near royalty for Triton, where he worked on the soon-to-be time theory they would call ‘G’ theory, although not a student or expert on time himself, nor in that department, or with permission. That he could even find the free time for it was amazing. And yet he did, ever all the more.

Triton Triton, the big daddy. Not Triton Timing, not Triton Gaming. Triton. He and the boys of his team were such a whizzz, in time they garnered the title, Zzz’ing Inc. Not yet, nor here, but we’ll call them that to keep it simple, if need be.

Not a student or expert, maybe, but a rabid fan if no else and always hot on the trail for evidence that the experts at Triton might overlook, or not look over, out of sheer arrogance. There was no doubt in his mind time-travel took place. Maybe it wasn’t being done right – yet, but it took place, and was coming more more more. And now there was the crypt’c quest for the missing Karl Strasse. That in itself was a clue of proof time-travel could be taking place.

Except, Martin’s thinking was flawed. Time-travel happening, maybe. Taking place, not so much. Taking place was not time’s game as place is taken in time, unless you consider time might bring place back. At least hold it in place.

Hold place in place? Yeah. So, maybe.

“I know some crazy people,” he said, “and you know, there’s not much room in the past for many more people to be mucking around.” He was off about the room, too. There was no room there whatsoever. Not yet at any rate. Truly, it is just only so absolute.

“My uncle Karl is a time scientist.” Was, actually.

If there were magyckal words that could turn Martin into a real boy, they would be, ‘my uncle Karl is a time scientist’. Even just was. “Honest to goodness?” he asked, from the heart, downright surprised, and Martin was the kind of guy you couldn’t surprise.

Had been.

“Honest to goodness? You know those words?”

That was a poke in the eye, and a regular one. Insinuation and irritation he didn’t like or understand, and hated. He got out of bed . . .and . . . yeah, Martin, what a mystery you’re unsure about how you feel about ol’ Allyson.

“Are you getting something?” Allyson asked. “I could use some water.”

Martin stood with his back to her feeling he was going to split. Not split in the sense of leave, but split in two. If it hadn’t been his apartment, he could have split in three. You can’t always halve everything.

The part of him that needed to meet her uncle was working to cage him, and cage him fast, time travel fast – that in fact, was the part of him that wasn’t so bright. The other part wanted to kill her, see her killed – that, in fact, was another part of him that wasn’t so bright. How was he still living, you might wonder. He did have a place to live, that was a start.

He would have to run out and hire someone to kill her, he couldn’t do it himself, and he’d never hire anyone to kill someone. He didn’t want her dead dead. Maybe for a few hours, minutes. Maybe just see her coughing up water going down the wrong tube. Maybe, OH OH OH, yes, maybe . . . Maybe. . .

Maybe he’d let her get her own water.

Artificial rage, that was his problem. He was trapped. Talk about caring. Talk about caging. He was about willing to be contained by a proposal.




It was some time later, another other time somewhere – another other time somewhere that we’ve taken a peak at – that a personalized ad appeared in the black pages of one of the time travel trades, the time travel trade, saying someone was in search of proof of Karl Strasse, of Oktoberfest polka-time non-fame.

That someone was Peter Strand.

For the relaxed, retiring sort, Pete sure got in and out, and around and about, and jumping zones. Well, he was his daughter’s father.

Although Karl was not teaching time, and never had or would, he was perhaps one of the few people who could teach time as he could have, based on the secrets he knew.

On the other hand, people were teaching Karl. About Karl, about his work with time. These classes where Karl was taught were almost as secret as the secrets Karl kept.

And OH OH OH, how it was that he kept them.

Pete, who had access to the classes through work, as the classes were through work, were taught at work, even though not Pete’s work, were the last place for him to want to take place except as a way to pass the time when out of ideas on how to do his work, that work being performing tasks like pinpoint Karl Strasse, which he was doing on own his initiative. Pete had a tremendous amount of freedom and leeway, once, if ever, he got past initial orientation. And then made it back.

The class of classes, the one that made Pete’s eye balls truly roll into his head and not return was called BALL Anyone getting through that class was going places. The point of it all, both BALL and the research project it prepared one for was to build a better ball, a one that moved on it’s own initiative and found it’s own way to where it was going and when.

And more, when the time came.

The BALL class was from the school of thought they called Micro Quant?m, and sometimes Macro, and they were drawing upon the mechanics of the person-ball for their source of roll, although it was a wonder some people had the know-how to roll out of bed in the morning. Pete frequently found eyes rolling his way in BALL class when the out-of-bed sentiment was expressed.

Pete did like his eight hours every night, which should go without saying. Truly. But Karl wasn’t taught in BALL class. BALL came next, and we’re getting ahead of ourselves, not that we’ll stay there.

What little that was known of what Karl couldn’t hide was only taught in the one place, that is if I know my secrets, and that place was Mulligan’s, a place of many places, an organization of dubious repute, but mainly because almost no one knew of them and those that did pretty much knew nothing about them. It was dubiousness based on minimal and minimalizing repute.

In time Mulligan’s would disguise itself as little more than myth, without a name, just a shadowy continuum of business-nesses and elsely nestesses. Not devoid of vanity, they would let some of the businesses call themselves Mulligan’s. If you didn’t get it, you were there, they had you, and right where you were. Going backwards.

It all seems so wrong. Seemed?


That was just panic-talking. Proceed, but don’t you panic, too. Not yet.

Were Mulligan’s the bad guys? Was Mulligan’s? Was? Already they mysteriously drift from sight, out of memory. But were they going before or after memory? Hiding memory in memory is like giving it away these days, and they weren’t stupid.

And they weren’t the baddest bad guys. OH yes, they had spunk and that can be problematic for anyone else. On paper and in philosophy they were by intent . . . out to be the baddest guys they had to be . . . to fight the very very very baddest guys . . . coming soon to a theatre near you. They set out to be saviors as it were. Them, that is. Them, that was? Who? So don’t go jumping to conclusions. And saviors was never in the equation.

There’s so little to go on. And look, there it goes. Always all the more.

It wasn’t so much a quirk, but Peter Strand, on loan to Mulligan’s as sort of an experiment – more than experiment if he were to succeed and more like experiment if he failed – sat in on the Karl class and felt talking to Karl in person was the thing for him to do. One of them. It was almost destiny that he found Karl, almost destiny, so not so much, not his. But he was certainly someone who would think to look for him, putting different destiny in motion.

In almost no time at all Pete found there was no trace of Karl Strasse anywhere, and he had by that time developed some skill at locating people. Knowing he was out of his league when it came to time, he deduced time was being used to hide Karl and it would taker a deeper understanding of time than his to find Karl, and he didn’t have that kind of time.

“Karl Strasse,” said Pete, at a run in with Danny Biortrnb (pro-nounced Bjior. The trnb is silent, this time. OH, there is much to be learned from studying Mulligan’s ways, even as they were all out to learn from Danny’s ways. But watch your step.) Danny was mildly surprised at the occasion and thought to make a game of it.

“Vitus Werdegast,” he said back, as if making a chess move.

“I should resign already,” said Pete. “I’ll never prove you out.”

“Tell me about Karl,” said Danny. “No games, I promise.”

“I want you to tell me about Karl,” said Pete. “And now Vitus Werdegast, too.”

“One or the other,” said Danny.

“Karl, then.”

“Why do you want to know about Karl? What do you want to know? He’s ancient history in my book. I don’t think he can help you find me.” Yes, that does sound nutty.

“How about helping me find him?”

“He’s missing, too? You do have your hands full, don’t you?” Or totally empty.

After a little more worthless give and take, Danny advised and Pete advertised. Danny suggested Pete advertise for Vitus, too, since Vitus hadn’t been around lately, and it was unlikely one would give any thought to a name like Karl Strasse alone.

I don’t know, that’s iffy-fifty.

In addition, since he was feeling generous, thanks to Pete’s next brainstorm, Danny further advised Pete not identify himself or anything about himself. If someone of worth claimed the ability to prove Karl, he or she would be able to prove Pete.

Prove Karl? Proving Karl was Pete’s brainstorm, being for once uncharacteristically opportunistic,which sounds redundant. Pete thought someone’s supplying proof of Karl might aid him in the proof of Daniel Birtborn, that with which he had been tasked. By Mulligan’s no less. It may all sound metaphysically absurd, but people who read the time trades, trade, loved that kind of thing.


Prove how? Prove how as boiled out to prove Danny, that is, was and will be. For Pete’s assignment, prove Danny by making Danny appear on any given set point of place at any point set in time. GGG’s Louise. That was Mulligan’s for you.

Seriously, Pete supplying that proof was a long shot. Pete supplying proof of Pete was a long shot, and he was certainly not the only person on that project – the Danny project. There were maybe a dozen different arrangements alongside him in the set of would-be proof-ers.

That was Mulligan’s for you.

As for Pete proving Pete, or not, he, too, had better watch his step.


  • Know your zone aid (as sponsored by Strumm Labs)


The Human Hive Mind – not


It would be nice to explain K Strand simply, but that was not do-able, although she was a mass of simple explanations. More-so simple than explicable.

Simple explanation one, she could hear soundlessness. She felt the crunch. In turn, she could also feel the next crunch as riding the previous crunch, whether or not the crunching came to a stop. Which is to say, were one saying one thing, while thinking of what they were going to say next, and then deciding not to say what they were going to say next, K felt the carry of where . . . what one was saying . . . was going to lead to, whether it went there or not. On top of that, it usually lead to her ears even if never directed that way in the first place.

Get what I’m sayin’?

Sorry, I can’t explain.

“Listen up closely, ladies,” said Hermann. “This is heavy-minded stuff we’re about to cover.”

“My head already hurts,” said K. Then she had a thought. “Heavy as in . . .” she said, doing a sideways nod in Kara’s direction.

“Shut up,” said Hermann, at first not getting her drift. “Be nice,” he snapped, once he did. He then gave Kara a brief, hard look. He couldn’t understand why K was critical of Kara’s appearance and overall lines, numbers and orbits. Then again, K was critical of everything while being prone to attack anyone critical of her. She just repelled any manner or attempt at describing her. She had one, way-out, devilish, concept of freedom. An attitude of – I’m not that – whatever.

In order to understand how E4’s did not operate via a hive mind, there had to be a hive mind elsewhere to demonstrate how E4’s were different.

Simple logic.

It had taken time and incredible tact for Hermann to get across the fact that Kara was an E4, and K wasn’t. Double tact, as it had to be explained to Kara, a cook, and somehow not explained to K, a maniac, while getting and keeping them on the same page.

“Before attacking the E4 mind,” Hermann said, although not in so many words as E4’s did not think in terms of E4, “one should have an idea of dementia, as dementia is the choice of weapon when it came to attacking the E4 mind. One might catch a cold, or catch the flu, but one is born with dementia under way, even if dementia is less issue to deal with than cold or flu. Less an issue, but worse, as dementia is permanent. Day to day. An issue, a flaw one has to work with. Dementia is the stuff of aging, death, entropy, the Process of elimination.”

“The curse of having to exhale,” said K.

Hermann paused to note that K didn’t seem to take it personally. Somehow, that just couldn’t be good. Maybe good for her, as she arguably didn’t have to exhale.

“Call it the voiding,” he said, “which always takes a little bit of you away with the voided. Leaving behind a gap to be filled, along with a tendency to pack that gap tighter so as to exhale less of you next time.”

“Packed tighter, yes,” said K, again trying to direct Hermann’s attention to Kara. Hermann’s eyes finally took a quick trip, and he gave K a cold squint.

“A tendency, just a tendency to pack too tightly,”he continued, “easy enough to contain with a little discipline, not that just anyone can handle that inconvenience.”

“Meaning?” asked K.

“Meaning?” asked Hermann, caught in an insult he had thought would be nonchalant enough. Truly, he hadn’t thought it out enough.

“Are you saying I’m not disciplined?” asked K. Of course not, he was saying she was totally indiscipline-able.

“What plane did you come in on again, Kiki?” asked Kara.

“Let’s just not go there,” Hermann said, firmly, hoping it was firm enough.

E4’s did not think in terms of devilry and GOD, but they behaved with the logic that dementia was devilry, and GOD was the process of dealing with devilry, if not in so many words. And if devilry didn’t come first, it came at the same time. Which seemed unlikely.

Having made that translation, going back, when E4’s did talk about the Process, they called it hunger incarnate, and named it Darkness. At least as further translated by Saturnites, and of course this is all Saturnite point of view when you get down to it. And Saturnites felt Darkness called out to the dementia’ly diminished and dimwitted and flattened that it, Darkness, was good . . . that it had answers . . . that it wasn’t going to feast on them . . . day in, day out, with the cows never coming back home.

“We are going to talk about the process of Constant 7,” said Hermann, “and that means no comedy.”

“Who are you calling a comedian?” asked K.

“HA! Not you,” said Kara.

“Starting right now,” said Hermann, “shut up, or else.”

K smirked at Kara, as Hermann was including Kara in the shut up, and Kara generally gave the impression she thought of herself as a little saint. Kara half-opened her mouth, but retreated.

“Another name for a passenger, Kara, is a rider.”

“Hey, what’s that about?” asked K. “Why are you specifying her?”

“You know why,” said Hermann. So much for or else. “The cycle of the rider is to reflect on what is to be ingested, to reflect on how it is to be ingested and digested, and to reflect on what is exhaled, after the fact. It is the consciousness of the awareness of before and after the fact.”

“And there’s a difference?” asked K.

“Of course there’s a difference,” said Kara.

That got K’s attention. “And you know the difference?”

“Awareness is off-site pre-consciousness,” said Kara.

“Who the heck told you . . .” asked K, quickly catching up. “OH, you’ve been cheating,” she said to Hermann.

“Cheating?” asked Hermann, letting it drop. “A wall may not be conscious of you, but if you can be aware of it, it has consciousness to be, just not it’s own consciousness. It can pass on awareness to an item, thing, other or else capable of consciousness. An item, etc, capable of collecting awareness.”

“Are you ever going to explain QSC’s to us?” K asked.

That was out of the blue, and completely shut Hermann up.

And down.

Class dismissed.




-- > STOP < --




Look Out . . . It's a Quant?m Wiiirrrllld

  • ISBN: 9781370529025
  • Author: Richards Hall
  • Published: 2017-09-01 16:35:22
  • Words: 5575
Look Out . . . It's a Quant?m Wiiirrrllld Look Out . . . It's a Quant?m Wiiirrrllld