Strudel's Paradox

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This story may or may not be a work of fiction, depending on your reality.

The University of Berlin, 1930

“What have you done Erwin?”

Schrödinger smiled mysteriously, obviously proud of his accomplishment. The nondescript box sat on his workbench, surrounded by various gadgets and tools of science. It appeared to be an ordinary parcel, wrapped in brown paper, with no discernible markings, writing, or postage on its surface. Yet Einstein knew enough about his peer to understand that the box was not all that it seemed.

The physicist’s eyes were twinkling with the light of discovery. Einstein knew the look. He had seen it in himself at times. Usually, it was a look that inspired excitement. However, something about this current situation filled Einstein with unease.

“I’ve had a thought, my friend,” Schrödinger announced. “And thought has inspired action. An experiment, to be precise.”

Einstein looked at the box on the workbench. “What’s in the box?” he asked.

Schrödinger’s eyes somehow grew even brighter. “Exactly! That is the question that, according to certain so-called intellectuals in our field, has more than one answer. Two answers, to be precise, both simultaneously true. Yet both you and I know that this cannot be the case. How can probability dictate truth? How can fate be directed by random chance?”

Einstein placed a hand on each of Schrödinger’s shoulders and squeezed. “Slow down, my friend,” he said. “I do not understand.”

Schrödinger did as he was told. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He spoke in a slow, measured, tone. “If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?”

Einstein raised an eyebrow. “Your experiment pertains to superpositioned states.” It was a deduction, not a question.

“As expected, you are quick to understand.” Schrödinger’s smile returned. “The current interpretation of quantum mechanics will have us believe that a particle can be in more than one state at any given time and that it is only through the observation of said particle that its wave function collapses and it is forced into a singular state. This suggests an indeterministic nature to physics and as such, to reality as we know it. It suggests that the fabric of our world may not be governed by logic, but rather by probability – a truth that I have found hard to come to terms with.”

“Of this, you and I are in agreement,” urged Einstein, once again unsettled by the manic look in Schrödinger’s eyes. “But my friend, please tell me. What is in the box?”

This time it was Schrödinger’s turn to clap Einstein on the shoulders. “Uncertainty, my friend. And an argument to suggest that perhaps our current understanding of quantum mechanics is incomplete. For if we conclude that the state of particles is uncertain until they are observed, if we accept the role that probability plays on the state of subatomic particles, how far does this extend? Considering that everything in our world, including the macroscopic, is made up of these uncertain particles, can such uncertainty be applied to living beings?” Schrödinger paused meaningfully. “A cat, perhaps?”

Einstein looked his colleague in the eyes as the penny dropped. “Professor Stiglitz has been looking for his cat for days,” he whispered. He looked at the box. “My God.”

“So, it has an owner. I didn’t know. I found it wandering around the campus and assumed it to be a stray. That is unfortunate, yet it changes little.” Schrödinger released Einstein and moved to the box. “The cat resides in this box now. I placed it in there approximately two hours ago, giving it a mild sedative to keep it still. Along with the cat, I also placed in the box a tank of oxygen, a radioactive isotope, a Geiger counter, and a vial of cyanide. Within one hour of being placed in the box, the radioactive isotope had a fifty percent chance of decaying. If it decayed, the vial of cyanide would be broken, killing the cat. If it did not decay, the cyanide would not be released, and the cat would live.

“Now,” Schrödinger continued, “common sense dictates that the cat is currently either alive or dead. However, the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics would suggest that the cat is in a superpositioned state – one where it is simultaneously alive and dead – and it is only once we have opened the box and observed the fate of the cat that it becomes either.” Schrödinger actually laughed out loud at the idea. “The notion is ridiculous and highlights just how incomplete – how flawed – this interpretation is.”

Einstein gaped at his colleague in disbelief. He was, of course, appalled by the cruel nature of the experiment, yet he was ashamed to admit that there was a part of him, a cold and calculating part, that admired Schrödinger for the elegant way in which his experiment refuted the interpretation of quantum mechanics as a complete description of reality.

Shaking these thoughts from his mind, Einstein moved towards the box. “We must get it out of there,” he said urgently. “Professor Stiglitz is very attached to his cat and if he knew what you have done with it, he would alert the authorities.”

Schrödinger waved a hand dismissively. “Stiglitz is a man of science. He will understand the importance of my experiment.”

“Erwin,” Einstein pleaded. “This creature, whether it is alive, dead, or both; it is loved. It will be missed if it is harmed. I fear your experiment, brilliant though it may be, is wrong. What good is understanding the nature of reality, if we do not use our understanding to the benefit of those that reside within it?”

Schrödinger’s smile faltered and the manic look in his eyes faded. He looked to the box on his workbench. It offered no indication of the fate of the cat inside.

Schrödinger looked back at Einstein and smiled. It was not the excited grin he had been wearing previously, but rather a small curling of the lip, filled with regret and shame. In that moment, Einstein felt pity for his colleague. He knew all too well how it felt to get lost in the search for answers. How everything else can be regarded as secondary when one is trying to uncover the truths of the universe.

“You’re right, Albert,” Schrödinger said. “I believe it is time to end my experiment.”

Schrödinger turned on the exhaust fan fitted above his workbench and passed a face mask and a pair of goggles to Einstein. Both scientists slid the masks over their nose and mouth, the goggles over their eyes.

Using a small knife, Schrödinger carefully cut along the edges of the box, breaking the seal along the two flaps at the top holding it closed. He placed the knife on his workbench and paused for a moment with a hand on either flap.

He looked at his colleague one more time. Einstein nodded sagely. Schrödinger pulled the box open.

Inside the box, there was an oxygen tank, a Geiger counter, a contained radioactive isotope, a vial of cyanide, and a cat. The vial containing the cyanide gas was unbroken. The cat was breathing.

Einstein breathed a sigh of relief as Schrödinger gently removed the cat from the box and laid it on the table. The animal’s eyes were closed; it was still under the effects of the anesthesia. Schrödinger took a syringe from a nearby rack and gently injected the liquid into the cat. Einstein noticed that there was one other syringe housed on the same rack, presumably prepared for a different outcome.

As soon as the liquid entered the cat’s body, it twitched and opened its eyes. Schrödinger picked the cat up. It purred sleepily, oblivious to the fact that it had been put into a superpositioned state of theoretically simultaneous life and death by a misguided scientist only minutes earlier.

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. The two scientists spun around to see Professor Stiglitz at the entrance.

“Apologies for the intrusion – ” he began, before stopping in his tracks. He stared at the animal in Schrödinger’s arms. “Strudel?” he exclaimed in disbelief.

Schrödinger lowered the cat, Strudel, to the floor. It looked up at Schrödinger and meowed softly, before trotting over to its owner. Stiglitz picked the animal up and hugged it close.

“It was wandering around campus,” Schrödinger said. Einstein looked at him. Schrödinger continued, ignoring his colleague’s look. “I was just about to make enquiries as to who the owner was.”

Stiglitz barely heard Schrödinger; he was too busy fawning over his cat. “I see,” he said. “Thank you for finding my precious Strudel. I have been simply unable to function without him.”

“You’re very welcome, Professor.” Schrödinger smiled.

With a short, grateful nod, Stiglitz left the two.

***

Neither Einstein nor Schrödinger spoke to anyone about the experiment. The two scientists went their separate ways, Schrödinger moving to Dublin to head the newly opened School of Theoretical Physics and Einstein to Princeton, where he continued to pursue his dream of a unified field theory.

The two rarely communicated, only doing so to exchange professional pleasantries. Truth be told, Einstein could not forgive Schrödinger for his cat experiment. The act had created an unspoken rift between the two scientists.

However, on August 6th, 1945, when the world's first deployed atomic bomb devastated Hiroshima, Einstein was reminded of his old colleague and he was filled with a grim understanding. Though he himself was not directly involved in the Manhattan Project, he could not help but feel that without his contributions to science, brought on by the relentless need to understand the universe, such devastation would not have occurred.

Perhaps mankind is doomed to destroy itself. Perhaps our inherent need to make sense of the world around us will ultimately be our downfall. For how can compassion for life, be it that of a cat or that of a civilization, stand in the way of answers, of progress?

Albert Einstein passed away on April 18th, 1955. A year before he passed, he wrote a letter to Erwin Schrödinger. It is unclear whether Schrödinger received the letter, as no reply was given, and no one spoke of it.

The letter read as follows:

Erwin,

As I approach the end of my road, I often find myself dreaming about the cat, Strudel.

I dream of a world where the cat had died. How life would have been different had Stiglitz found us cradling a dead cat, rather than his beloved Strudel. We would have been discredited for certain, unable to continue our studies. Would this have been a better world?

Most of all, I dream of a world where you had chosen not to conduct your experiment. Where you had been content with conducting the experiment in thought, rather than in practice. A world where you and men like you, myself included, understand the value of life enough to let sleeping dogs lie… or sleeping cats as it were.

A world where we understand the impact that our actions have.

Where we pause to question whether the answers are worth it.

Do you think that a world such as this could exist?

Your friend,

Albert

EPILOGUE

In 1957, two years after Albert Einstein’s death, physicist Hugh Everett proposed his many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics, though he did not call it this at the time. The many-worlds interpretation imagines a deterministic view of reality, rather than a probabilistic view. Everett postulated that whenever there are two possibilities, both possibilities become true and create branching separate universes. Rather than a wave function collapsing to create a singular truth and eliminating all other possibilities, many-worlds suggests that there are infinite universes where every conceivable possibility is explored.

Though these worlds may indeed exist, they would run parallel to our own, so there is no way for us to perceive or interact with them.