Evanston RoundTable, Feb. 20, 2024
People didn’t notice at first. The steady tug of gravity has been with us so long — since the beginning of time, tens of billions of years ago, across hundreds of millions of generations, the most reliably consistent force in the universe, the glue that holds the galaxies and atoms in place, without which everything would fly into chaos and collapse — that it was at first imperceptible.
Except to me.
It began several weeks ago with an ordinary fuzz ball. I was seated at the bedroom chair, pulling on my socks, when I noticed a ball of fuzz, about the size of a golf ball, on the floor under my feet. I picked it up but not having any place handy to dispose of it, dropped it on the chair arm rest, intending to collect it after I had finished getting dressed. But a strange thing happened. It didn’t fall as usual: its descent slowed and then — astonishingly! — stopped, hovering an inch above the arm of the chair. I thought maybe it was caught on a spider’s web I couldn’t see or some air current coming up from the nearby heating vent and buoying it aloft. But I ran my finger underneath the hovering fuzz ball. There was no air current and no spider’s web.
I studied the levitating object a few seconds, decided it was nothing, or more accurately nothing I could put my finger on, grabbed it and tossed in into the garbage can.
It wasn’t the only atmospheric oddity. Outside I could hear the relentless rain as it continued to pound away – for the fourth straight day. Water swirled up from the sewers, which couldn’t handle the Biblical downpour, flooding the street. That was more serious.
Errant toss
I didn’t think of the hanging fuzzball for days — until it happened again, this time in front of witnesses.
Playing doubles at the nearby indoor tennis court, down two games to five and 15-40 on my serve, I tossed the ball into the air. It froze at the top of the toss, then descended slowly — too slowly. Astonished, I let it drop to the ground.
“Jeez, did you see that?” I asked my partner. He shook his head. “See what?”
“The toss, it didn’t come down right.”
“Didn’t come down right?” he said, looking incredulous. “How’d it come down?”
“Uh, it froze at the top and then dropped really slow, like slow motion. You didn’t see it?”
“No. You doing shrooms again? I told you to quit that stuff.”
“No, I’m serious, didn’t you see it drop funny?”
“No. Try it again.”
“What’s going on over there?” shouted one of the guys on the other side. “Kibbitz on your own time.”
I tried the serve again. This time it rose and fell according to Newton’s (formerly) implacable law. After the point (double fault: game, set and match), my partner came up to me. “No more shrooms!” he laughed. “It’s affecting your game.”
Of course I was rattled. I went home and immediately typed in “gravity issues” and a dozen variants in the search engine. Nothing came up.
Nothing wrong?
I thought about it. Maybe there was nothing wrong. After all, other objects defy gravity’s inexorable pull. Dust motes float in the air as if they’re dancing in space. Airborne spiders ascend to the tallest building on the merest breeze. Waves smashing on rocks spin water particles aloft. The moon in the night sky, Harry Potter’s Golden Snitch, Chagall’s floating musicians, Yellowstone’s steam vents. Hundreds, maybe thousands of other instances.
Nothing, I decided.
The next morning I opened my laptop and saw a news feed, “Rains continue for fifth straight day. Severe flood advisories in effect.” Under that was another item, “Global Temps Rise to New Heights.” The story said the record 1.2 degree increase in average global temperatures in 2024 “was producing a runaway greenhouse effect, which scientists warned may have already exceeded humankind’s ability to contain, stabilize or reverse.” Above both of those items were the sports scores. Sox and Cubs lost again, I noticed.
They say third time’s the charm, only my third experience was more like a calamity.
Levitating dog food
About a week later, I was working at my office laptop when I heard a loud yapping from the next room. I stuck my head in to see what was agitating Mutt, my mutt. I’ll never forget the sight: his dog food was rising out of his bowl and flying around the room, like so many hailstones blown skyward by a hard wind or molecules agitating in a microwave. Mutt was going nuts amid the chaos, barking so loud and dashing around snapping at the wayward Kibbles that my downstairs neighbor began banging on her ceiling and shouting imprecations, which only added to the melee.
Thankfully, within minutes the dog bits gradually descended to the floor. I swept them up and deposited them back in Mutt’s bowl, wondering whether this was some strange hallucination. I looked out the window, but aside from the relentless rain, didn’t see anything unusual: no hats or glasses flying off faces, no umbrellas heading skyward like helium balloons, no people ascending from the sidewalk like ghosts in a horror movie.
I went to my laptop. Trending was the latest climate report. “Greenhouse gas concentrations continue to steadily rise, driving further long-term temperature increases, highlighting the rapid changes in our climate system in the space of a single generation.” It went on to say that 2024 was projected to be the hottest year ever and warned of rising sea levels and intense storms. But as disturbing as this was, there wasn’t any mention of gravity’s disturbing behavior.
I typed in another search for “strange gravitational anomalies.” Nothing came up. I would’ve doubted my sanity, but Mutt saw it too: it wasn’t just me!
Reaching out
My search turned up an outfit called Southern California Physics Lab (SCALPL), playfully nicknamed Gravity’s Brainshow, which listed a San Diego address and contact information, including a list group distribution site to which email inquiries could be sent. I pondered a carefully worded submission, then wrote this:
“Has anyone noticed any unusual changes to gravitational action in recent weeks? If so, very important, please contact me.” I didn’t want to sound overly alarmist, lest I be deemed crazy. But I thought the message needed enough gravitas, so to speak, to get a response. I gave my street and email address and cell phone number, then pressed send.
Within 20 seconds my phone jingled, which made me jump. I was understandably on edge.
“This is Wilhoit from SCALPL,” the caller said in a gruff voice. “You are who?”
Startled at the speed of the call and the blunt question, I mumbled a response.
“And why are you calling?”
‘Am I crazy?’
I carefully reported to him as best I could the various anomalies I had witnessed over the last month — the floating fuzz ball, the hesitating tennis toss, the levitating dog food.
“I can’t explain any of this. It’s freaky scary. And it seems to be happening only to me. Am I crazy?”
For a moment there was no response, then Wilhoit shouted: “Hold for a conference. Got that? Don’t hang up! You are not crazy!”
The phone went silent.
I looked down at the dog, lying at my feet, and gave him a wan smile. “Hear that, Mutt? He says I’m not crazy.” He tilted his head at me the way dogs do when they don’t understand — or maybe don’t agree.
“We’re back on the line, seven of us from the rapid response team at SCALPL,” Wilhoit barked. He introduced them in rapid order, then said, “Tell them what you told me.”
I repeated what I had said.
There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Had they decided I was crazy?
42nd parallel
“You’re not the only one,” Wilhoit said. “We’ve received a handful of anomalous reports from physics labs around the country. All reported events at 42 degrees north latitude. That runs directly through Chicago, right around your address.”
More silence. Finally I said, “What’s going on? Do you have any idea?”
Another voice responded, “We’re not sure. It might be a Russian or Chinese anti-gravity hack, like the Havana Syndrome, only more advanced, maybe a laser weapon they’re beaming down from space.”
“Wow, that’s weird. But wouldn’t they be afraid we’d retaliate?”
There was a pause, then someone said, “Well, we don’t have anything like that.”
“But what if it’s not manmade?” I asked, my face scrunched in apprehension. “What if it’s some strange thing with gravity we’ve never encountered before?”
“We’re looking into that too,” a voice said, “gravitational wave stress or a ripple in the space/time continuum. If that’s the case, then it might go away after a while.”
More silence while I absorbed this. Then Wilhoit came back on the line.
“The most important thing you can do right now is absolutely nothing. Not a word, not to your friends, your loved ones, nobody. This is highly classified, understand? Not even Washington knows about this yet.”
I mumbled my assent.
Non-disclosure
“Our biggest concern is publicity,” he said. “Whether it’s a Russian attack or some anomaly in classical physics, if this gets out, there’d be mass pandemonium. So treat this as highly confidential. Strictly top secret. We’ll text you some non-disclosure documents to sign. Any leak could cause global chaos and hysteria.”
I agreed it was serious and that I wouldn’t breathe a word. “Except my dog knows,” I said, a lame attempt at levity. There was no response on the other end, just dead silence.
“OK, I got it. You gonna get back to me with more information?”
Wilhoit assured me he would.
The call ended. I checked my laptop again: trending were global weather catastrophes — but no gravitational catastrophes. The top item was tonight’s annual Film and TV Artist ceremony. Maybe the nominees would float from their tables to collect their awards.
I turned back to my dog, who was still staring at me uncomprehending. We were both uncomprehending. “OK, Mutt, time to get to work.” I hurriedly gathered some twine and tape and elastic straps and bungee cords and started securing everything that could take off if gravity continued to unravel: books, plants, lamps, appliances. Evidently I was on the exact 42nd parallel line that nature (or Russian hackers) had targeted for failure. I had to do something.
That night I lay in bed, pinned down by four 25-pound weights at each corner of the blanket and covered by a sleeping bag filled with books. Not very comfortable but at least I wouldn’t start levitating just because Newton had gotten it wrong.
Third term?
Before turning off the light I made one last foray online. Still no mention of gravitational issues, but there was a curious story from some Beijing physicist surmising that Einstein’s black holes, where he predicted gravity would collapse, might extend beyond that seemingly distant event horizon. Hmm.
Trending was the latest Oval Office statement suggesting that if the president couldn’t amend the constitution (“which will be EASY!”) he could come back for a third term by being slated as VP under another administration headed by his son, who would resign on Day One. Gravity wasn’t the only thing failing.
Continued local storms and global climate catastrophes also made the trending list, along with the latest sports: Sox and Cubs lose again.
I fell asleep listening to the pounding rain, thinking of the flooding and the climate crisis and the president’s threat, with the words of the old English ballad The World Turned Upside Down, last sung in 1781 by British soldiers after surrendering at Yorktown, sounding in my head:
“Yet let’s be content, and the times lament, you see the world turn’d upside down.”
That would explain things.