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The Stan O' War II was docked in Reykjavik, Iceland. Stanford Pines was sitting in a cybercafé, patiently waiting for midnight. At midnight, it would be four PM in Piedmont and Dipper should be home from school. Mabel would be home later since she was prone to extracurricular activities. Dipper, bless his heart, had tried but chemistry club was still struggling with the periodic table and building thermos's. Basic stuff. He'd tried chess club but could beat the faculty advisor handicapped by a pawn and a rook. The advisor enjoyed the games but the boys (there is an amazing dearth of girls in chess club. Sad, really.) weren't particularly interested in getting trounced every game. Dipper tended to play online with an old acquaintance of Ford's in Kiev, a grandmaster. Dipper had even beaten him, once.
Midnight came. Ford opened the computer and went through the arcane steps it took to connect with Dipper in central California. Amazing how much technology had changed in thirty years. While the web certainly existed, after a fashion, in 1982, it was the baliwick of somewhat sheltered academics whom certainly didn't envision the communication and commerce juggernaut it would eventually become. Ford briefly contemplated the word Jagannātha, Lord of the World, meaning an immense, unstoppable cart bearing the image of Krishna. Ah, the connection is made. Dipper's face, crowned with a brown ushanka appeared onscreen. Dipper was certainly dedicated to the hat, which, while quite utilitarian in winter in the Oregon Cascades or, say, here in Reykjavik, would be damnably hot and itchy in the more temperate climes of central California. Of course the girl who gave it to him even wore it in the simmering heat of the Oregon summer except when the mercury rose above 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Of course she almost always wore a flannel shirt as well. Maybe, Ford thought, I should check miss Corduroy's circulation, the poor girl seems to be always cold.
"Hey, great-uncle Ford! What are we discussing today?" Dipper asked, enthusiasm palpable in his expression.
"Well, Dipper, I thought today we would get into quantum foam. You see, particles and anti-particles constantly bubble up on the edges of reality. Which is to say, everywhere. They seldom last more than a few picoseconds before they encounter one another and annihilate each other, leaving nothing behind but energy in the form of photons. Now of course, photons are their own anti-particles and frequently also destroy one another sometimes leaving behind gamma rays. This is happening constantly. Now, the symmetry isn't perfect, which is why, in our universe at least, there is a preponderance of matter. In other dimensions the reverse is true and antimatter is the norm. These are NOT good dimensions to visit! Total annihilation is not fun! Try to avoid these dimensions if at all possible. Accidentally eating a planet is disconcerting, but exploding in a cloud of photons and gamma radiation is an eventuality to be avoided rigorously."
"So, wait. These particles come from nowhere? From nothing? How can that be? How do you get something from nothing?"
"I'm not sure those are valid questions, Dipper. This is part of quantum weirdness, language doesn't really work. Something and nothing are probably null concepts. When I was traveling different dimensions, I had a, friend probably isn't a good descriptor, co-conspirator is probably better. He was a brilliant, but extremely cynical man and used to say to me, 'Fordsy, when you look behind the curtain, nothing's there. Remember that! Everything is made out of nothing and when you look close, the nothing shows through.' These virtual particles, the quantum foam, the constant release of energy may be the engine that keeps the universe expanding. Or, indeed, existing."
"So what you're saying is everything is nothing, matter, existence itself is no more substantial than Mabeland was?! Are we just trapped in another bubble? This....this is horrible!"
"Really? I always found it beautiful, myself. You might want to hear something else my co-conspirator used to say to me."
"What's that, great-uncle Ford?"
"Don't think about it."