How time travel could work: Scientists have uncovered a way to send messages into the past

MSN.com ^ | 5/1/26 | Wiliam Hunter

[GrandJediMasterYoda]

How time travel could work: Scientists have uncovered a way to send messages into the past

Time machines may seem better suited to science fiction than the physics lab, but experts say this futuristic technology could become a reality.

Researchers have revealed how time travel could really work by using the laws of quantum physics.

While their method won't let you hop back to the time of the dinosaurs, scientists say it could be possible to send messages into the past.

The researchers even say this mind–bending technique would work just like in Christopher Nolan's sci–fi epic, Interstellar.

In the movie, an astronaut played by Matthew McConaughey sends a message to his daughter in the past by moving the hands on her watch.

Although the reality wouldn't be so cinematic, the researchers argue that this 'causal loop' resembles the way real time travel would work.

Co–author Dr Kaiyuan Ji, a researcher at Cornell University, told New Scientist: 'The father remembers how the daughter decodes his future message.

'So he can instruct himself on what is the best way to encode the message.'

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TOPICS: Astronomy; Chit/Chat; Science
KEYWORDS: astronomy; ohhelpmerhonda; physics; quantummechanics; science; stringtheory; teleportation; time

[TexasFreeper2009]

I can guarantee you 100% that time travel is not possible and will never be possible.

Because if it EVER was possible, we would have people from the future visiting constantly, there would be no way to police that for infinity.

[GrandJediMasterYoda]

LOL! Sounds like a lot of my stocks

[GrandJediMasterYoda]

That sounds cool...Just think, you could be a champion trader on the stock market like Nancy Pelosi or constantly win the lottery

[fruser1]

I think this is how my sock drawer keeps filling up.

[algore]

no they didn’t

On 28 June 2009, British astrophysicist Stephen Hawking hosted a party for time travelers in the University of Cambridge. The physicist arranged for balloons, champagne, and nibbles for his guests, but did not send out the invitations until the following day, after the party was over.

[1] The party was held at Gonville and Caius College on Trinity Street (52° 12’ 21” N, 0° 7’ 4.7” E) at 12:00 UT on 28 June 2009. In preparing for the event, Hawking said he hoped that copies of the invitation might survive for thousands of years, and that “one day someone living in the future will find the information and use a wormhole time machine to come back to my party, proving that time travel will one day be possible”.

[2]Invitations say that the reader is “cordially invited to a reception for Time Travelers” and that no RSVP is required.

[3] Hawking waited in the room for a few hours before leaving, and no visitors arrived.

[4] He regarded the event as “experimental evidence that time travel is not possible”.

on the other hand there was this John Titor guy who is an American soldier from the year 2036, based in Tampa, Florida.

He said that he was assigned to a governmental time-travel project, and that as part of the project he was sent back to 1975 to retrieve an IBM 5100 computer, which was needed to debug various legacy computer programs that existed in 2036 — a possible reference to the UNIX year 2038 problem.

[4] Titor specifically claimed the IBM 5100 had an undocumented ability to emulate IBM System/370 mainframes and translate between their machine code and more modern languages — a capability needed to debug the legacy systems. This feature of the 5100 was not widely known at the time of Titor’s posts, but had been confirmed by engineers who worked on the machine, leading some observers to conclude that whoever was behind the posts had insider knowledge of the 5100’s architecture.

Titor said that he had been selected for this mission because his paternal grandfather was directly involved in the original assembly and programming of the 5100.

He attempted to provide proof of this by describing the unpublicized features of the machine, which led some people to believe that a computer scientist must have been behind the postings.

[Ezekiel]

I like the reversal imagery:

I shouldn't be trying to multi-task.

Otherwise I would have included the relevant link up:

Nun also means “kingship.” There is a verse in Psalms regarding Moshiach that states:16 “May his name (Yinon) endure forever, as long as the sun.” According to Rashi, Yinon refers to kingship. If we break the word “Yinon” into two—yud and nun—nun means kingship, and putting a yud before a word denotes continuity.17 Therefore, the name Yinon implies that the kingship of Moshiach will endure forever.

Nun -- The fourteenth letter of the Hebrew alphabet

ינון yud prefix "denotes continuity": masc. singular future form

נוני yud suffix: possessive "my"

It was the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance, after all.

In Aramaic, nun means "fish." The mem, the waters of the sea, is the natural medium of the nun, fish. The nun "swims" in the mem, covered by the waters of the "hidden world." Creatures of the "hidden world" lack self-consciousness.

>>>

In Hebrew, nunmeans "kingdom," and in particular, the "heir to the throne."

The "nun" is the fourteenth letter of the alef-beit, which equals "David," the progenitor of the eternal Kingdom of Israel. The heir to David is Mashiach ben David, of whom is said: "As long as the duration of the sun his name shall rule." Our Sages teach us that one of the names of Mashiach is Yinon ("shall rule"), cognate to nun.

The Messiah – Heir to the Throne

Search Google simply for

what is the birthday of Heir to the Throne

>>>

AI Overview

Prince William, the current heir apparent to the British throne, was born on June 21, 1982...

***

That who the result went to. Look for the matching ID tag M/D/Y; c.f. Osnat's "tzitz" -- some kind of small, rectangular plate of gold.

(Scientists have uncovered a way to send messages into the past)

[HYPOCRACY]

Anybody with half a brain knows you can’t go back in time using quantum physics. The only tried and true method is magic.

[Frank Drebin]

[bigdaddy45]

Please, PLEASE!!! Go back to 2010 and tell me NOT to sell my Netflix stock. ugh. Painful just thinking about it.

[bosco24]

“I can guarantee you 100% that time travel is not possible and will never be possible.”

I can 100% that you are time traveling right now at a pace of about one second into the furture every one second or so.

[lastchance]

I was under the impression the USPS was already doing this.

[Theophilus]

SEC Shorts - The past learns what happens to college football in the future

[E. Pluribus Unum]

Schrödinger's Mailbox

The mailbox appeared on Alex Harper’s porch on a rainy Tuesday in October, as if it had always been there. Black metal, slightly tarnished, with no postman’s flag and no visible seams where it met the wooden boards. The only marking was a small brass plate engraved in elegant script: Schrödinger’s Mailbox.

Alex, thirty-eight and perpetually late for everything except regret, stared at it while coffee cooled in his hand. He lived alone in the same gray bungalow he’d bought after the divorce. No one had knocked. No delivery truck had idled at the curb.

He opened the lid.

Inside lay a single sheet of thick cream paper and a fountain pen that hadn’t been there a moment before. On the paper, in the same elegant hand as the plaque:One letter at a time. Past or future. No signatures. No proof. The cat does not report its state.

Alex laughed once, a short bark that echoed off the porch roof. A prank, obviously. He almost tossed the paper, but the rain was picking up and the whole thing felt too solid, too there, to ignore.

That night, half a bottle of bourbon in, he wrote.

To my past self, age 28: Do not marry Rachel. She will leave in four years and take the dog. Invest the wedding money in that boring index fund your brother keeps talking about.

He folded the letter, addressed it simply Alex, 2016, and dropped it into the box.

The lid closed with a soft, final click.

In the morning the letter was gone. No stamp, no postmark, just empty black metal.

Alex forgot about it until the following week, when an unfamiliar brokerage statement arrived in his real mailbox. The balance was higher than it should have been by almost exactly the amount he’d once blown on an engagement ring and honeymoon. He checked the date on the statement: opened ten years ago.

His hands started shaking.

He wrote again.

To my future self: Tell me what happens with the promotion next month. Be specific.

The next morning a reply waited inside the box, written in his own handwriting but somehow steadier, more certain.

Don’t take it. The team implodes in eighteen months. Buy the cabin on Lake Michigan instead. You’ll need it.

Alex did not take the promotion. Six weeks later the entire department was restructured and half his colleagues were laid off. He drove up to Michigan one crisp Saturday and found the small cedar cabin listed for a price he could somehow, impossibly, afford.

He began to live two lives: the one that had already happened and the one he was gently steering.

He warned his past self about the mild heart attack at thirty-four. He advised his future self to call his estranged father before it was too late. Each letter disappeared. Each answer arrived within a day, always in his own hand, sometimes with a tone that felt… off. Older. Weary in ways he didn’t yet understand.

One night in December he sat on the porch with the box open, snow drifting in lazy spirals. He wrote the question he’d been avoiding.

To my future self, one year from now: Are you happy?The reply came the next morning, the paper slightly crumpled, the ink smudged as if written by a trembling hand.

Don’t ask again. Some boxes should stay closed.

Alex stared at the words until the paper blurred. He tried to write another letter and found the box would not accept it. The lid refused to close over the page. The mechanism, whatever it was, had locked.

He left the unanswered letter on the kitchen table and went to bed.

That night he dreamed of infinite porches stretching in both directions. On each one sat a black mailbox. In some, he was writing frantically. In others, the boxes were welded shut. In one, far down the line, the mailbox was simply gone and the porch boards were charred.

He woke at 3:17 a.m. to the sound of the lid creaking open by itself.

A new letter waited inside, addressed in his handwriting but dated tomorrow.

Alex,You will find this in the morning. Burn every letter you’ve kept. Sell the cabin. Delete the brokerage account. Go back to the life you were living before the box appeared. It is the only timeline where you survive the year.

Do not look for reasons. The cat is neither dead nor alive until you open the box for the last time.

The last time is now.

The signature was his own, but the final letters trailed off as if the writer had been interrupted.

Alex carried the letter to the fireplace. He held it over the flames for a long time, watching the corner blacken and curl. At the last second he pulled it back, folded it carefully, and tucked it into his wallet.

The next morning the mailbox was gone. Only a faint rectangular outline remained on the porch boards, like a scar that had never quite healed.

Alex stood there a long while, snow falling softly around him. He touched the place where the box had been, half expecting it to flicker back into existence.

It didn’t.

He went inside, made coffee, and for the first time in months did not check his brokerage balance. He called his brother instead. They talked about nothing important for twenty minutes, and it felt like the most real conversation he’d had in years.

Somewhere, in another timeline, another Alex was still writing letters that would never be enough to fix what had already broken. In this one, he simply drank his coffee, watched the snow, and let the cat remain a mystery.

[E. Pluribus Unum]

Schrödinger's Mailbox

The mailbox appeared on Alex Harper’s porch on a rainy Tuesday in October, as if it had always been there. Black metal, slightly tarnished, with no postman’s flag and no visible seams where it met the wooden boards. The only marking was a small brass plate engraved in elegant script: Schrödinger’s Mailbox.

Alex, thirty-eight and perpetually late for everything except regret, stared at it while coffee cooled in his hand. He lived alone in the same gray bungalow he’d bought after the divorce. No one had knocked. No delivery truck had idled at the curb.

He opened the lid.

Inside lay a single sheet of thick cream paper and a fountain pen that hadn’t been there a moment before. On the paper, in the same elegant hand as the plaque:One letter at a time. Past or future. No signatures. No proof. The cat does not report its state.

Alex laughed once, a short bark that echoed off the porch roof. A prank, obviously. He almost tossed the paper, but the rain was picking up and the whole thing felt too solid, too there, to ignore.

That night, half a bottle of bourbon in, he wrote.

To my past self, age 28: Do not marry Rachel. She will leave in four years and take the dog. Invest the wedding money in that boring index fund your brother keeps talking about.

He folded the letter, addressed it simply Alex, 2016, and dropped it into the box.

The lid closed with a soft, final click.

In the morning the letter was gone. No stamp, no postmark, just empty black metal.

Alex forgot about it until the following week, when an unfamiliar brokerage statement arrived in his real mailbox. The balance was higher than it should have been by almost exactly the amount he’d once blown on an engagement ring and honeymoon. He checked the date on the statement: opened ten years ago.

His hands started shaking.

He wrote again.

To my future self: Tell me what happens with the promotion next month. Be specific.

The next morning a reply waited inside the box, written in his own handwriting but somehow steadier, more certain.

Don’t take it. The team implodes in eighteen months. Buy the cabin on Lake Michigan instead. You’ll need it.

Alex did not take the promotion. Six weeks later the entire department was restructured and half his colleagues were laid off. He drove up to Michigan one crisp Saturday and found the small cedar cabin listed for a price he could somehow, impossibly, afford.

He began to live two lives: the one that had already happened and the one he was gently steering.

He warned his past self about the mild heart attack at thirty-four. He advised his future self to call his estranged father before it was too late. Each letter disappeared. Each answer arrived within a day, always in his own hand, sometimes with a tone that felt… off. Older. Weary in ways he didn’t yet understand.

One night in December he sat on the porch with the box open, snow drifting in lazy spirals. He wrote the question he’d been avoiding.

To my future self, one year from now: Are you happy?The reply came the next morning, the paper slightly crumpled, the ink smudged as if written by a trembling hand.

Don’t ask again. Some boxes should stay closed.

Alex stared at the words until the paper blurred. He tried to write another letter and found the box would not accept it. The lid refused to close over the page. The mechanism, whatever it was, had locked.

He left the unanswered letter on the kitchen table and went to bed.

That night he dreamed of infinite porches stretching in both directions. On each one sat a black mailbox. In some, he was writing frantically. In others, the boxes were welded shut. In one, far down the line, the mailbox was simply gone and the porch boards were charred.

He woke at 3:17 a.m. to the sound of the lid creaking open by itself.

A new letter waited inside, addressed in his handwriting but dated tomorrow.

Alex,You will find this in the morning. Burn every letter you’ve kept. Sell the cabin. Delete the brokerage account. Go back to the life you were living before the box appeared. It is the only timeline where you survive the year.

Do not look for reasons. The cat is neither dead nor alive until you open the box for the last time.

The last time is now.

The signature was his own, but the final letters trailed off as if the writer had been interrupted.

Alex carried the letter to the fireplace. He held it over the flames for a long time, watching the corner blacken and curl. At the last second he pulled it back, folded it carefully, and tucked it into his wallet.

The next morning the mailbox was gone. Only a faint rectangular outline remained on the porch boards, like a scar that had never quite healed.

Alex stood there a long while, snow falling softly around him. He touched the place where the box had been, half expecting it to flicker back into existence.

It didn’t.

He went inside, made coffee, and for the first time in months did not check his brokerage balance. He called his brother instead. They talked about nothing important for twenty minutes, and it felt like the most real conversation he’d had in years.

Somewhere, in another timeline, another Alex was still writing letters that would never be enough to fix what had already broken. In this one, he simply drank his coffee, watched the snow, and let the cat remain a mystery.

[Magnum44]

[The Louiswu]

Impossible. If it could be done we’d already know about it. The past is just memory, the future is but imagination the only reality is now, this moment.

[SuperLuminal]

More drug-induced garbage...
IMHO...

[GMThrust]

So far, you’re winning.

[ifinnegan]

Spoiler alert: no, they haven’t.

[webheart]

The problem with time travel is that if you go too far into the past you will be in deep space. I don’t think the first few attempts will correct for the fact that Earth is moving through space very fast. Imagine their surprise when they end up in the literal middle of nowhere and they didn’t bring oxygen or a time machine to go back. They would have to act fast just for a chance to be somewhere high above the ground or inside the earth’s mantle.