122: Chapter 122 Humans Have No Solution, But the Greys Have a Trick

She lifted her hands from the table, interlaced her fingers, and rested them on the DARPA experiment log marked with a red classification level before her. Her tone was precise and steady, as if she were reading a technical bulletin that had already undergone countless internal peer reviews.

"Only after the π = 3 formula appeared did we finally understand the essence of that piece of metal."

"In a galaxy where π = 3, the interior of this metal is in its natural equilibrium state. The geometric configuration of the perfect circle is completely compatible with the underlying rules of the universe, requiring no additional energy to maintain its structure."

"But when it enters our Solar System, entering a space-time where π = 3.14159, the physical rules that construct it fail instantly."

"The underlying rules of the Solar System attempt to forcibly pull it into a structure that conforms to the local space-time, but its interatomic bonding forces are resisting."

"It is like a perfect spring compressed to its limit."

"At this point, if you use a laser to cut it, any slight external disturbance will break the remaining fragile force balance, causing it to release all the energy accumulated while being forcibly compressed. That is how the detonation equivalent to hundreds of kilograms of TNT comes about."

Biden rested his crossed hands on the table and leaned forward slightly. His tone remained steady, but every word conveyed a sense of caution, a desire to ensure complete understanding.

"So, have you found a way to stabilize it? Or does it still explode every time we touch it?"

"We have."

Chamberlain opened the data summary before him—which he had barely looked at—and lifted his thin, wrinkled face. His tone carried a profound exhaustion unique to a scientist worn down by repeated failures, yet there was still a hint of confidence in the end.

"After countless failed attempts, we finally found a method: soaking the metal fragments in a specially formulated strong magnetic field stabilizing solution to perform subatomic-level stress release."

"During this process, the material continuously radiates a type of... gravitational wave ripple that we have never recorded in the laboratory before."

Biden tapped his right index finger very slightly on the table.

He did not ask aloud, but Vaughn, Chamberlain, and Hartford all simultaneously observed a brief yet extremely sharp light flash across his face.

Hartford straightened the experimental photograph that had been pushed to the center of the table earlier. His tone was so plain it was almost cold, but what he said twisted all the physical fear that had accumulated in the Situation Room into a new central axis.

"This material itself is a miniature high-dimensional space-time distortion generator."

"It was created to generate a local space-time within itself, allowing the curvature of that space-time to match the universe of Grey Alien' home planet, thereby enabling internal precision equipment, such as navigation computers, to continue operating according to the law of π = 3."

"Now, this generator is damaged."

"Its fragments are still stubbornly and futilely attempting to distort the space-time of our Solar System."

"This distortion tears against the resilience of our Solar System itself, creating that devastating internal stress."

Biden took both hands off the table and rested them on the armrests, leaning his upper body back slightly, but his pupils were very calm.

He did not beat around the bush.

"Since Grey Alien have already manufactured this 'high-dimensional space-time distortion generator'..."

"Does that mean that even though humanity is in this incorrect space-time, there is still a way to resist this error, so that we do not come to a complete standstill in technology, or even face total destruction?"

As soon as these words fell, the Situation Room fell into a brief silence.

It was not the dead silence of being shocked, but a passive quietness—extremely awkward, like being backed into a corner where no one wanted to be the first to speak.

Margaret Vaughn looked down at her fingers crossed on the table;

Lawrence Chamberlain shifted his gaze toward the clear sky over the South Lawn outside the window, where the line π = 3 was still silently emerging;

Nathan Klein flipped the joint assessment report in his hand to the last page, then flipped it back, as if wanting to squeeze out some difference from the text he had already read dozens of times;

Gillian Frost opened her mouth, then closed it, ultimately swallowing her words.

After an unknown amount of time, Frost lifted her eyes to look directly at Biden. Her tone was drier than when she presided over any interdepartmental coordination meeting at the Office of Science and Technology Policy, yet it was the only complete statement she could report tonight.

"Mr. President, we have reverse-engineered more than just that piece of metal from the wreckage of the alien flying saucer."

"There is also a small piece of transparent ceramic-like porthole material."

Chamberlain followed up immediately. His voice had no inflection, but he spoke slightly faster, as if wanting to get the whole matter out quickly.

"The material is exceptionally hard, yet it seems to have no internal stress."

"Unlike any components we have encountered before that explode at the slightest touch, it is actually extremely docile."

"When our scientists observed its surface with the most advanced super-resolution microscope, they saw a sight they would never forget for the rest of their lives."

Vaughn moved her hands from the table and placed them on her knees. Her tone was calm, but there was almost no pause between her words.

"There is no atomic lattice structure on the surface of the material that we are familiar with."

"Instead, there are countless perfect circles arranged by individual atoms."

"Each circle is composed of a finite number of atoms, but no matter how the scientists measure it, the circumference divided by the diameter of each circle is exactly equal to 3."

"Not 3.14, not 2.99, but a true, definitive 3."

Hartford organized all the documents before him into a neat stack, took off his glasses, and looked directly at Biden with his eyes, which were slightly reddened from being worn out by countless days and nights.

"In our universe, this is physically impossible."

"In our three-dimensional space, for any circle composed of discrete units, the ratio of its circumference to its diameter always has an unbridgeable irrational gap with π = 3.14159."

"A perfect circle only exists in the imagination of mathematicians; it cannot be constructed with physical entities."

"But... this material has achieved it."

He paused for a moment, his tone sinking slightly,

"It is not composed of atoms."

"Or rather, the form in which it is composed of atoms has been stretched and embedded into our three-dimensional space in a higher dimension that we cannot comprehend."

"The atoms themselves appear to be normal atoms to us, but the chemical bonds between them follow the geometric laws of another world."

Biden looked at Hartford and remained silent for a long time, then spoke, his tone slower and heavier than at any time before.

"So this porthole is evidence."

"Proof that Grey Alien indeed come from a universe completely different from ours."

"And they have already mastered the technology to protect the fruits of their correct civilization within our incorrect space-time."

"And we do not."