And then he could explore the numbers further: those pellucid yet stubbornly complex entities, which seemed at times so strange he fancied they must have an existence independent of the human mind which had conceived them …
Pierre de Fermat never wrote out the proof of what would become known as his Last Theorem. But that brief marginalia, discovered after Format’s death by his son, would tantalize and fascinate later generations of mathematicians. A proof was found-but not until the 1990s, and it was of such technical intricacy, involving abstract properties of elliptic curves and other unfamiliar mathematical entities, that scholars believed it was impossible Fermat could have found a proof in his day. Perhaps he had been mistaken-or had even perpetrated a huge hoax on later generations.
Then, in the year 2037, to general amazement, armed with no more than high-school math, fourteen-year-old Bernadette Winstanley was able to prove that Fermat had been right
And when at last Format’s proof was published a revolution in mathematics began.
Patefield Testimony: Of course, the kooky fringe immediately found a way to get online to history. As a scientist and a rationalist I regard it as a great fortune that the WormCam has proven the greatest debunker yet discovered.
And so it is now indisputable, for example, that there was no crashed UFO at Roswell, New Mexico, in 1947. Not a single alien-abduction incident yet inspected has turned out to be anything more than a misinterpretation of some innocent phenomenon-often complicated by disturbed neurological states. Similarly, not a shred of evidence has emerged for any paranormal or supernatural phenomenon, no matter how notorious.
Whole industries of psychics, mediums, astrologers, faith healers, homeopathists and others are being systematically demolished. We must look forward to the day when the WormCam’s delvings reach as far as the building of the Pyramids, Stonehenge, the Nazca geoglyphs and other sources of ‘wisdom’ or ‘mystery.’ And then will come Atlantis …
It may be a new day is dawning-it may be that in the not too distant future the mass of humanity wilt at last conclude that truth is more interesting than delusion.
Florence, Italy. 12 April, 1506 A D:.
Bernice would readily admit she was no more than a junior researcher in the Louvre’s curatorial office. And so it was a surprise-a welcome one!-when she was asked to perform the first provenance check on one of the museum’s most famous paintings.
Even if the result was less welcome.
At first the search had been simple: in fact, confined to the walls of the Louvre itself. Before a blur of visitors, attended by generations of curators, the fine old lady sat in semidarkness behind her panes of protective glass, silently watching time unravel.
The years before the transfer to the Louvre were more complex.
Bernice glimpsed a series of fine houses, generations of elegance and power punctuated by intervals of war and social unrest and poverty. Much of this, back as deep as the seventeenth century, confirmed the painting’s documented record.
Then-in the early years of that century, more than a hundred years after the painting’s supposed composition-came the first surprise. Bernice watched, stunned, as a scrawny, hungry-looking young painter stood before two side-by-side copies of the famous image-and, time-reversed, with brushstroke after brushstroke, eliminated the copy that had passed down the centuries to the care of the Louvre.
Briefly she detoured to track forward in time, following the fate of the older ‘original’ from which the Louvre’s copy-just a copy, a replica!-had been made. That ‘original’ was to last little-more than two centuries, she saw, before being lost in a massive house fire in Revolutionary France.
WormCam studies had exposed many of the world’s best-known works of art as forgeries and copies-more than seventy percent of pre-twentieth-century paintings (and a smaller proportion of sculptures, smaller presumably only because of the effort required to make copies). History was a dangerous, destructive corridor through which very little of value survived unscathed.
But still there had been no indication that this painting, of all of them, had been a fake. Although at least a dozen replicas had been known to circulate at various times and places, the Louvre had a continuous record of ownership since the artist had laid down his brush. And there was besides evidence of changes to the composition under the top layer of paint: an indication more of an original, assayed and reworked, than a copy.
But then, Bernice reflected, composition techniques and records could be faked too.
Bewildered, she returned down the decades to that dingy room, the ingenious, forging painter. And she began to follow the ‘original’ he had copied deeper into the past.
More decades nickered by, more transfers of ownership, all of it an uninteresting blur around the changeless painting itself.
At last she approached the start of the sixteenth century, and was nearing his studio, in Florence. Even now copies were being made, by the master’s own students, But all of the copies were of this, the lost ‘original’ she had identified.
Perhaps there would be no more surprises.
She was to be proved wrong.
Oh, it was true that he was involved in the composition, preliminary sketches, and much of the painting’s design. It was to be the ideal portrait, he declared grandly, the features and symbolic overtones of its subject synthesized into a perfect unity, and with a sweeping, flowing style -to astound his contemporaries and fascinate later generations. The conception, indeed, was his, and the triumph.
But not the execution. The master-distracted by many commissions and his wider interests in science and technology-left that to others.
Bernice, awe and dismay swirling in her heart, watched as a young man from the provinces called Raphael Sanzio painstakingly applied the last touches to that gentle, puzzling smile …
Patefield Testimony: It is a matter of regret that many cherished-and harmless-myths, now exposed to the cold light of this future day, are evaporating.
Betsy Ross is a notorious recent instance. There really was a Betsy Ross. But she was never visited by George Washington; she was not asked to make a flag for the new nation; she did not work on its design with Washington; she did not make up the flag in her back parlor. As far as can be determined, all this stuff was a concoction of her grandson’s, almost a century later.
Davy Crockett’s myth was self-manufactured, his coonskin legend developed fairly cynically to create popularity by the Whig party in Congress. There has been not one WormCam observation of him using the phrase ‘bar-hunting’ on Capitol Hill.
Paul Revere, on the other hand, has had his reputation enhanced by the WormCam.
For many years Revere served as the principal rider for Boston’s Committee of Safety. His most famous ride-to Lexington to warn revolutionary leaders that the British were on the march-was, ironically, more hazardous, Revere’s achievement still more heroic, even than the legend of Longfellow’s poem. But still, many modem Americans have been dismayed by the heavy French accent Revere had inherited from his father.
And so it goes on-not just in America, but around the world. There are even some famous figures-the commentators call them ‘snowmen’- who prove never to have existed at all! What is becoming more interesting than the myths themselves has been the study of how the myths were constructed from sparse or unpromising facts- indeed, sometimes from no facts-in a kind of mute conspiracy of longing, very rarely under anybody’s conscious control.
We must wonder where this will lead us. Just as the human memory is not a passive recorder but a tool in the construction of the self, so history has never been a simple record of the past, but a means of shaping peoples.
But, just as each human will now have to learn to construct a personality in the glare of pitiless WormCam inspection, so communities will have to come to terms with the stripped-bare truth of their own past-and find new ways to express their common values and history, if they are to survive the future. And the sooner we get on with it, the better.
Similaun Glacier, Alps. April, 2321 B.C.:
It was an elemental world: black rock, blue sky, hard white ice. This was one of the highest passes in the Alps. The man, alone, moved through this lethal environment with utter confidence.
But Marcus knew the man he watched was already approaching the place where, slumped over a boulder and with his Neolithic tool kit stacked neatly at his side, he would meet his death.
At first-as he had explored the possibilities of the WormCam, here at the Institute of Alpine Studies at the University of Innsbruck-Marcus Pinch had feared that the WormCam would destroy archaeology and replace it with something more resembling butterfly hunting: the crude observation of ‘the truth,’ perhaps by untrained eyes. There would be no more Schliemanns, no more Troys, no more patient unraveling of the past from shards and traces.
But as it turned out there was still a role for the accumulated wisdom of archaeology, as the best intellectual reconstruction available of the true past. There was just too much to see-and the WormCam horizon expanded all the time. For the time being, the role of the WormCam was be to supplement conventional archaeological techniques: to provide key pieces of evidence to resolve disputes, to reinforce or overthrow hypotheses, as a more correct consensual narrative of the past slowly emerged.