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But it was inevitable, really. The clue was in the name: What do you think happened to Universes 1 to 24? Tiny mouse apocalypses were such old hat to Calhoun that he'd even devised an algorithm for it. This is it:

Mortality, bodily death = the second death

Drastic reduction of mortality

= death of the second death

= death squared

= (death)2

(Death)2 leads to dissolution of social organization

= death of the establishment

Death of the establishment leads to spiritual death

= loss of capacity to engage in behaviors essential to species survival

= the first death

Therefore:

(Death)2 = the first death

Jesus, dude. When you're constructing the algorithm for the perfect society and you start factoring the "drastic reduction of morality" and carrying the "death of the establishment," maybe it's time to check your back for some kind of purple cape: You might have finally crossed that fine line between mathematician and supervillain. But what did that morbid algorithm end up proving, anyway? That mice suck at building societies? You don't need math to prove that shit, Calhoun; just open up the cages at the pet store and see how long it takes them to start running the register. What's that? They're not doing it all? They're just pooping? Everywhere? Right, because they're friggin' mice, man.

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But Calhoun wasn't just playing Vengeful Mouse God for kicks; his intended point was to demonstrate the long-term effects of serious overcrowding, even in a society with absolutely no shortage of resources.

You know, kind of like ours ...

Listen, whether you buy the validity of his results or not, the fact is this: Calhoun built tiny little universes all his life, just to see where ours was headed. And when he'd gazed in that crystal ball long enough, he pulled his eyes away, rubbed at the bridge of his nose and carefully jotted down the words "death squared" in his little notebook.