Page 122 - An Evening with Maxwell's Daemons

No Country for Old Men

deteriorate. Or, if you want sympathy, he needs a medical treatment
not yet existing.”
“That’s right,” chimed in Hydrargyrum Diggers. “Your hero
makes no sense—unless he is mentally ill. If that is the only reason
he selfishly keeps his discovery to himself, then he could do himself
in quite easily. Perhaps, contrary to Cyril’s last suggestion, he ends
up defeated by his stay-at-home chronological age: what if he is
forced out of a job because his birth certificate says he is past
retirement age? Or he meets a young woman close to his biological
age and wants to marry her—but would have to reveal his secret?
Yes, that is an old star-crossed lovers theme, but nothing is new
under the sun in doomed romances. If poor Treadwell is going to
become unhappy with his triumph over Chronos, it would have to
include his poignant reflections on irreversible processes: he would
have to subject a vast quantity of the universe to untold quantities
of energy to get it to slow down so he could catch up to it.”
Izzy Azimuth raised his hand, still unused to the lack of polite
request for and recognition of precedence he had learned, perhaps,
in grammar school, and which was honored only in the breach
among Maxwell’s Daemons.
“The aspect of this extremely far-fetched physics fantasy that
appeals to me is the insatiably addictive quality of getting in the
QAD and emerging with fewer miles added to the odometer than
everyone else. Treadwell’s sessions go from ten minutes to ten
hours as fast as he can arrange it. And he is either asleep or being
passively occupied while in this inevitably coffin-like container.
Why wouldn’t he seek either to spend even more time away from
real life, in order create an illusion of ever greater retardation? Or
spend his waking hours trying—probably without much success—
to increase the power of his device and get a bigger bang for his
buck?—maybe cutting down his aging by ninety-nine percent? In
either case, it could become evident to the reader that Treadwell has
wasted his time by making it look like everyone else is spending
theirs at breakneck speed.”
“Well,” said Fred, rubbing his chin as if to gauge how much time
had passed for him since his five o’clock shadow had sprouted.

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