By Claire Bateman

It’s a luminous moment in the history of thought experiments. Enlivened by
gooseberry pie and ale with gin and bitters, a voviferous group of scholars is
testing the boundaries of hypothesis.

“Envision,” says one, “portable mirror-like surfaces for communication across
towns, over mountains, even between continents.”

“An exchange through galvanized ink? Words inscribed on one mirror would
instantaneously appear on the other, replacing the Penny Post?” Inquires his friend.

“No, I speak of a more surpassing marvel—distant faces and voiced summoned
at will, borne on subtle aerial frequencies!”

“Etheric magnetism, as with a seance?” asks a third man, a little too loudly.

The first scholar frowns—it’s dangerous to speculate openly about occult
practices. “Not magic, but natural philosophy!”

A few scoff, but most find themselves intrigued; thumping their tankards
on the oaken table to demand another round, they spin out possibilities. Why,
with this device, a gristmill owner in Yorkshire could discuss the price of grain
and the fluctuations of the Royal Exchange with his banker in London before
tea; the colonel poring over his map at headquarters could give timely orders
to his lieutenant in the field; and far-flung lovers could strip of their garments
to mime for each other their most lascivious imaginings!

Yet as our philosphers ponder parabolic reflectors, the movement of light
through dimensional space, the location of the soul in the human frame, and
the relation of matter to mind, apprehensions arise. To separate a person’s
image from its source—what kinds of ghastliness might ensue? Would these
apparations be passive simulacra or possess free will? Might self-interested
savants trap them en route to nefariously command or alter them? Or might
they spin loose on their own, proliferate, roam in packs to haunt and harass?
What uncanny powers would they wield, and how long would it take for that
unnatural practice to deplete each body’s living essence, leaving only a husk
behind? Though even at this hour the fire still crackles and spits in the open
hearth, a chill creeps over the gathering.

And whispering across the centuries, what reassurance could we give them
now?