SELLA DORE: Finding Jesus

From the unpublished book "SELLA DORE: Mysteries of Many Kinds" by A.S. Kaswell, as transcribed by Marc Abrahams

[Read the INTRODUCTION to the series “SELLA DORE: Mysteries of Many Kinds”]

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Finding Jesus

"Jesus!" Sella Dore screamed in glee and triumph. "Hand me the tea, Kaswell."

I handed her a refreshed mug.

"Jesus!" Sella shouted, after the first sip.

Sella is the hero, or heroine if you are old-fashioned in the way you use words, of my many memoirs, which perhaps you have never read. If you are new to this, if you do not know Sella Dore, I'll save time by quoting the best description I've ever seen. This was in a sarcastic, but admiring, profile in a small newspaper:

"Sella Dore," the piece began, "cut her professional problem-solver teeth years ago working as the purchasing expediter for a small company. Now, when some CEO, scientist, politician, or other genius of a citizen gets stuck with a nasty puzzle, they run to Sella and beg for help."

Yup. That's Sella.

But this "Jesus!"-ing was out of character. Way out.

"Jesus!" Sella whooped.

I lowered my own mug of tea back onto the empty half of my desktop. The desktop's other, more valued half devotes itself to: (A) our electric kettle; (B) our fleet of tea mugs; (C) the sturdy air-tight Tupperware box jar that holds teabags in readiness for deployment, and (D) the green glass Mason jar that's home to spent teabags from our storied past.

"What about Jesus, Sella? I am shocked to find you ejaculating 'Jesus'."

Sella sipped some more. Then she said, "You must consider, Kaswell, that there is a congregation of interested parties."

" 'A congregation of interested parties'? What's that mean?" I ejaculated.

"If you relax a moment, Kaswell, and think about it… What I just told you is almost the whole story. I will re-phrase it. Listen carefully: There is a congregation of interested parties, monitoring the attempt to find Jesus."

I glared at her. "This is not the Amuse-Yourself-by-Throwing-a-Random-Bunch-of-Words-at-Kaswell Stupid Comedy Festival, Sella.

"Okay," Sella said, sipping. "Kaswell, didn't you see the news reports this morning?"

"No, Sella," I retorted, "Did Jesus show up on another slice of toast?"

Sella leaned a cheek on a palm. "Nix on the nonsense, Kaswell. I have watched the situation develop, over the past two years," she said, "and so have you. Have you not wondered, Kaswell, at what point that woman's time-travel-machine plans would spur those groups into action?"

"Ah…," I said. "The light dawns over Marblehead. This has something to do with Dr. Penfield Wolder."

"Yes, it does," Sella smiled. And had a swig of tea. And smoothed the top of her long, loose hunter-green housecoat. And tweaked the almost-matching scarf.

Then she swiveled her chair, to face me directly.

"Kaswell, you are ignorant of this morning's news. But you have seen, I am sure, oh so many of the adoring profiles, over the many months, about the great and glamorous Dr. Penfield Wolder, and her efforts to develop a machine that would make it possible for her to travel back and forth in time."

"Of course I have, Sella. Hard not to be aware, with all the attention she gets. Permit me to fill my lungs with hot air, and pretend to gush:

"Glamorous Dr. Penfield Wolder, clad always in black! Big eyes, unblinking! Blond long hair, perfectly draped! Speaks always in a weird, deep, slow Voice of Authority! Youngest self-made billionaire ever! Eminent investors tumble over each other to throw money into her company and praise her genius, her insight, her aura!"

Sella smiled at my little performance.

"Yes, yes, Sella," I expounded, "Lots of 'Very Important' people say she's discovered a way to do the impossible: build a machine that will enable a person — enable dashing young Dr. Wolder — to journey back and forth through the centuries! Details are prudently hush-hush! Dr. Wolder will personally witness Great Moments in History! Dr. Wolder will Forever Change Our Understanding of Who We Are and How We Got That Way!

"Yes, Sella. Yes, I am aware of Dr. Wolder and her plans. What a con job! You agree with me, Sella, that it’s a scam."

"Of course it's a scam, Kaswell, a very, very, very fine scam."

Sella put down here mug, folded her fingers together, rested her elbows on the chair arms, and performed a, well, handful of her daily fifty or so flexings of the hands. I always get a weird, tiny enjoyment, I don't quite know why, from watching her do that.

I get enjoyment also, always, from reminding myself to look at the wall behind Sella's desk. Well, not directly at the wall, because you can't see the wall itself. The wall is behind a floor-to-ceiling urban jungle of deep wooden shelves, home to many sorts of once-useful equipment and whatnot, presumably from decades of previous office occupants.

Our office is near the good end of the middle floor of an elderly three-story building that has always housed a congeries of small businesses.

A glance at Sella's office shelves is a look into the vastness of an old encyclopedia. Here, to give you an idea of the span, is what I've noticed particularly, in just the past few days:

Door knockers, floppy disks, Coddington and other small lenses, typewriter parts, old electrical and electronic devices and gizmos of many kinds (including one that is always plugged in, and has occasional blinking lights — Sella likes to say she doesn't dare unplug it because there's no way to predict the consequences of doing so), tin wind-up toys, shoelaces, ice cream scoops, barrettes, paper clips of different designs, reeds for musical instruments, taxidermied birds, neckties, packs of chewing gum, telephone books, berets, pipe wrenches, dental floss, a single cigar in an elegant wrapper, tea towels. And more.

Those objects. Their existence is the unwritten, only history of this room.

Sella saw, as she always does, that I was daydreaming into Shelf Land. She "ahem"-ed me.

"Ahem. There is plenty of research about time machines, Kaswell — about whether such machines are viable. Are you aware of a study called "Do the Laws of Physics Forbid the Operation of Time Machines?"

"Never heard of it, Sella," I replied.

"It was done by John Earman, Christopher Smeenk, and Christian Wüthrich," Sella continued. "They published it in the research journal *Synthese*.

"You are overloading me with info, Sella," I pointed out. "More than I need to know."

"Permit me, Kaswell, to recite to you — from memory — a pertinent passage from the study. It says:

" 'We address the question of whether it is possible to operate a time machine by manipulating matter and energy so as to manufacture closed timelike curves.... We [review the possibilities], based on classical general relativity, semi-classical quantum gravity, quantum field theory on curved spacetime, and Euclidean quantum gravity. Our verdict on the question of our title is that no result of sufficient generality to underwrite a confident "yes" has been proven.' "

"That," said Sella," is what Earman, Smeenk, and Wüthrich's study says. Other studies — many other studies — conclude the same thing. I am sure that Dr. Wolder's time machine does nothing with time, except consume it.

"Dr. Wolder's talent at persuasion, however, is sizeable. Her reputation stands on the shoulders of giant publicists. But that is not the focus of my thoughts here."

"Okay, Sella," I said, "what is your focus?"

"Make me another cup of tea, Kaswell." I did so, and handed it to her. She took a long, good sip.

"Jesus," she said.

"Don't start that again," I fumed.

"If you had seen this morning's news reports, Kaswell," Sella said, "you would know that Dr. Penfield Wolder was murdered."

"Murdered?" I croaked.

"Yes, Kaswell," said Sella. "She was croaked. At nine a.m., on live video, arranged and hastily-yet-heavily publicized, just in time for the world to be able to witness the action."

"What???" I exclaimed. "She was murdered? All dressed in black, of course?" I swigged my tea.

"Of course. Dr. Penfield wouldn't be caught dead wearing anything else," Sella said, her left hand gently pulling at the ends of her scarf. "Broadening the picture: the circumstances of Dr. Wolder's death are suggestive. Conclusive really, when you consider where the whole circus was headed."

"Circus, yes," I said, "with Dr. Wolder its ringmaster."

Sella smiled. "The details of how they killed Dr. Wolder are almost irrelevant. After you see the videos, there will be no need for us to discuss those details. Even the identities of the five individuals who performed the killing are almost irrelevant. Sure, they are responsible for a murder. But they are simply hired hands. Hired dead hands, now. When you watch the videos you will see them killed mere moments after they killed Dr. Wolder. The assassins were clad in stylish black, same fashion style as their victim.

"But the larger situation," Sella said, "the larger situation tells us — screams at us — who was most responsible for the murder."

"Huh?" I murmured, "I'm lost. Don’t have a clue."

Sella leaned forward in her chair, blinking at me rather theatrically. "Kaswell, you know the history of this time-travel-machine scam. You know the worldwide, deep expectation it has drawn. Knowing that history, and that expectation, Kaswell, you can realize that this murder was inevitable. This murder would not and could not not happen.

"And, Kaswell, it was predictable, and almost inevitable, that the murder would be performed in a manner that let a global audience see it happen. The murderers were intent on making sure of that. The murderers were intent also on having the world see, at the same time, the total destruction of Dr. Wolder's machine."

"Sella?" I said, "Mind if I express my total confusion and ignorance? Tell me in plain language, please: Who dunnit?"