Expandable apartments

 

The last few years hadn't been the best. Moving, lacking a clear purpose in life, jumping from job to job. All of this had exhausted me. With weary eyes, I watched the trees leap past the windows of the Kwikbus. Worst of all, I hadn't expected that the job recommended by a friend in Wagga would bring the solution to my problems. The station, as is typical in small towns, was spotless. Benches coated with Teflon, the arms of attached vacuum cleaners persistently searching for nonexistent dust particles. Well, whatever you say, it was a new chapter in my life, a new exploration, and theoretically new possibilities. I decided to seize this slight burst of energy before it inevitably turned into simple fatigue from the monotony of repetitive days. I searched for the gravity line stop.

My new place of work and residence was several dozen kilometers from the town center; the good half-hour commute was of no practical importance anyway. I didn't expect to come here more than once a month. Staring at the shadow of the small, half-open gravitoplane car racing across the red earth, swallowing dwarf shrubs, I seemed to drift back into a half-sleep. At that moment, another car, slightly larger than mine, carrying a cheerful family, entered my field of vision. Slowly, it obscured the shadow I was observing and, accelerating, receded, leaving behind an image of children jumping on their seats. Another memory: I'm ten years old, we're sitting at the table as a family, I'm winning at some long-winded board game, a stack of fake money causes understandable elation, and even my brother's half-friendly, half-envious banter doesn't faze me. Ah, that was life.

Only once I arrived did I learn I'd be living in a marvel of modern technology, an experimental phenomenon of stretchable apartments adapted to desert conditions. I was informed of this by the automated receptionist at the entrance gate, as the lively staff had apparently gone to the pool. The house didn't look particularly unusual from the outside. Just a quadrangle with a flat roof. Clearly curious, I opened the small door that concealed a narrow corridor. There would have been nothing unusual about it, except that the corridor ran along the exterior walls of the house, surrounding another, slightly smaller quadrangle with no windows but four doors, one on each side. A small metal plaque attached to the wall read:

AAF 13.1 Housing Complex .

Multiplication Factor: 4.

1A: 2B1B+S

2A: 2B1B+S

3A: 2B1B+S

4B: Restaurant.

Note: Inter-space sound transmission threshold: 84 dB.

This sign, fascinating in its very potential for unverifiable speculation, didn't answer the fundamental question—where would I sleep tonight? I pressed the handle of the nearest door, marked 1A. The interior was a standard apartment, the likes of which are found in thousands of modern housing developments. A three-room, quite comfortable space with a separate study area, filtered by sunlight streaming from ceiling-mounted windows. In the center of the largest room sat an open red travel bag. I recalled the few instructions the machine had given me, particularly the fact that I would be sharing the complex with two other single men, and, more importantly, both had arrived several hours before me on the same day. So I decided to go directly to room 3A and then to the restaurant. Only now did I feel an unpleasant stomach cramp, undoubtedly caused by hunger. As I left my unknown neighbor's apartment, something made me freeze. Yes, definitely, something wasn't right here. The source of the discrepancy was the length of the external corridor, comparable to the size of the apartment. I crossed the threshold several times, each time testing my hypothesis. The size of the apartment was comparable, aside from the thickness of the walls, to the size of the entire complex. So that's it!

I left my suitcase in apartment 3A. Almost identical to the previous one. The only slight difference in the color of the walls turned out to be insignificant, considering the small knob located by the entrance door that adjusted the color. Well, I definitely needed something to eat. A moment's hesitation at the fourth door, the word "Restaurant" printed in Gothic script on a small piece of paper pinned to the door. Should I knock or come in now? I turned the doorknob and stopped, surprised by the open space of the large room. The sounds of soft music reached my ears. At that moment, I noticed two men whose engaged conversation had been interrupted by my entry. It was then that I realized these were the first people I'd encountered in this place. A place that would likely be my home for at least the next few months. A moment later, I was sitting at the table exchanging basic information about myself with my neighbors, who turned out to be my neighbors. I tried to eat more than talk, naturally reluctant to make myself a topic of discussion. The strangers turned out to be friendly scientists who had just discovered a common interest. The older of them summarized the conversation:

"You see, my colleague, actively involved in the construction of this facility, was just explaining to me the principle behind it all."

"I mean, why do our apartments 'overlap'?" I asked.

"Exactly!" he exclaimed, delighted. "Of course, we've known for a long time how to reuse a section of space by dividing it into quantized regions in the Wajman subspace. As we know, we can only perceive, occupy, and simultaneously use one such region at a time. So, with a slight shift, we can cram in, well, how many such regions?" He turned to the other man.

"In theory, an infinite number." The slight man, no older than 40, smiled in response. "In practice, however, well, you know the theory, the penetrability of sound increases exponentially with the number of subspaces used, i.e., W regions, he improved." "With the fifth region, the neighbor's nighttime snoring breaks the windows in the other apartments. And so, until recently, we didn't think that implementing this theory had any chance of success due to the cost of building a converter—an apartment-size converter, I might add. Only this project utilizes a small trick that could be a significant breakthrough." But you'd better tell us about your project, it seems quite promising." He turned to the older scientist.

"Hmm, this is just the beginning, preliminary research, so to speak. And, strangely enough, the subject matter is quite similar. Well, we've been wondering for a long time how to transfer our "spatial" successes into the domain of time. You know? Squeezing time into time. Multiplying our moments, or, if you prefer, reliving the same moment over and over again, retaining memory and awareness of what's happening, of course. Technically feasible, but incredibly expensive. The fundamental question is whether humanity needs it? And here we enter the essence of my research – the justification for such a project.

" "But everyone would probably welcome the opportunity to relive their moments multiple times," the younger man interrupted.

"Yes and no, you see, the problem is the quality of time spent; few people effectively spend more than one percent of their lives on anything more than so-called leisure." broadly understood administration, planning, analyzing the past or even ordinary worrying, there are few moments worth repeating...

I've been listening for a while now. With over a decade of experience working in various centers and institutes, I've grown accustomed to the enthusiastic speech of scientists. I've also learned to tune out. My consciousness has been dominated by a standard train of thought: bills that will come and those that have – the hopelessness of monotonous work. Worse still, I have no idea what to do to break this boredom – maybe I'll invest in gambling, but even if I didn't have to earn a living, what else is left for me – sport? – That's a thought, maybe I'll learn to dive – but what's the point of spending my life underwater? I don't have a place to live – which may be a good thing, either an apartment or freedom of movement – however, I'm tired of the predictable standard of municipal housing in institutes – maybe I'm spending too much money instead of saving; I'd have both an apartment and freedom – and anyway, I have a pimple under my left shoulder blade, maybe it's skin cancer – what am I supposed to do?!

My stream of thoughts was interrupted by the silence that had fallen at the table for some time. The younger scientist was carelessly poking at his plate with his fork. The older man froze with a strange half-smile, his fascinated gaze fixed on my face. He was embarrassed when our eyes met in midair.

"I'm sorry, sir, a professional lapse," he whispered.