Tower of Glass

8





October 18, 2218.



The tower has reached the 280-meter level, and grows perceptibly higher every hour. By day it glistens brilliantly even in the pale Arctic sunlight, and looks like a shining spear that someone has thrust into the tundra. By night it is even more dazzling, for it reflects the myriad lights of the kilometer-high reflector plates by which the night crews work.

Its real beauty is still to come. What exists thus far is merely the base, necessarily broad and thick-walled. Justin Maledetto’s plan calls for an elegantly tapering tower, a slender obelisk of glass to prick the stratosphere, and the line of taper is just now becoming apparent; from this point on the structure will contract toward a stunning delicacy of form.

Although it has attained less than a fifth of its intended height, Krug’s tower is already the tallest structure in the Northwest Territories, and is exceeded north of the sixtieth parallel only by the Chase/Krug Building in Fairbanks, 320 meters high, and the old 300-meter Kotzebue Needle overlooking Bering Strait. The Needle will be surpassed in a day or two, the Chase/Krug a few days after that. By late November, topping 500 meters, the tower will be the tallest building in the solar system. And even then it will be scarcely more than a third of the way toward its full stature.

The android laborers work smoothly and rhythmically. Except for the unhappy incident in September, there have been no fatal accidents. The technique of fastening the great glass blocks to the grapples of the scooprods and guiding them to the top of the tower has become second nature to everyone. On all eight sides at once blocks rise, are jockeyed into place, are fused to the previous course of the tower, while the next series of blocks already is being maneuvered into the scooprods.

The tower is no longer a hollow shell. Work had begun on the interior construction—the housings for the intricate tachyon-beam communications gear with which messages will be sent, at speeds far exceeding that of light, to the planetary nebula NGC 7293. Justin Maledetto’s design calls for horizontal partitions every twenty meters, except in five regions of the tower where the size of the communications equipment modules will require the floors to be placed at sixty-meter intervals. The five lowest partitions have been partly built, and the joists are in place for the sixth, seventh, and eighth. The floors of the tower are fashioned from the same clear glass that is being used for the outer wall. Nothing must mar the transparency of the building. Maledetto has esthetic reasons for insisting on that; the tachyon-beam people have scientific reasons for sharing the architect’s concern with allowing the free passage of light.

Viewing the unfinished tower, then, from a distance of, say, one kilometer, one is struck by a sense of its fragility and vulnerability. One sees the beams of sparkling morning sunlight dancing and leaping through the walls as though through the waters of a shallow, crystalline lake; one is able to make out the tiny dark figures of androids moving about like ants on the interior partitions, which themselves are nearly invisible; one feels that a sudden sharp gust off Hudson Bay could shiver the tower to splinters in a moment. Only when one comes nearer, when one observes that those invisible floors are thicker than a man is tall, when one becomes aware of how massive the outer skin of the tower actually is, when one is able to feel the unimaginable weight of the colossus pressing on the frozen ground, does one cease to think of dancing sunbeams and realize that Simeon Krug is erecting the mightiest structure in the history of mankind.





9





Krug realized it. He felt no particular sense of elation at the thought. The tower was going to be so big not because his ego demanded it but because the equations of tachyon-wave generation insisted upon it Power was needed to get to the far side of the light-velocity barrier, and power was not achieved without size.

“Look,” Krug said, “I’m not interested in monuments. Monuments I got. What I’m after is contact.”

He had brought eight people to the tower that afternoon: Vargas, Spaulding, Manuel, five of Manuel’s fancy friends. Manuel’s friends, trying to be complimentary, were talking about how future ages would revere the tower for its sheer immensity. Krug disliked that notion. It was all right when Niccolò Vargas spoke of the tower as the first cathedral of the galactic age. That had symbolic meaning; that was a way of saying that the tower was important because it marked the opening of a new phase of man’s existence. But to praise the tower just because it was big? What kind of praise was that? Who needed big? Who wanted big? Small people wanted big.

He found it so hard to reach the words that would explain his tower.

“Manuel, you tell them,” he said. “You explain. The tower, it isn’t just a big pile of glass. The big isn’t important. You understand it. You’ve got the words.”

Manuel said, “The main technical problem here is to send out a message that goes faster than the speed of light. We’ve got to do this because Dr. Vargas has determined that the galactic civilization we’re trying to talk with is—what?—300 light-years away, which means that if we sent an ordinary radio message to them it wouldn’t get to them until the twenty-sixth century, and we wouldn’t get an answer until something like 2850 A.D., and my father can’t wait that long to know what they have to say. My father’s an impatient man. Now, in order to make something go faster than light, we need to generate what are known as tachyons, about which I can’t tell you much except to say they travel very fast, and it takes a hell of a boost to get them up to the right speed, and therefore it became necessary to build a transmission tower that just incidentally had to be 1500 meters high, because—”


Krug shook his head angrily as Manuel rambled on. There was a light, bantering tone in Manuel’s voice that he despised. Why couldn’t the boy take anything seriously? Why couldn’t he let himself be caught up in the romance and wonder of the tower, of the whole project? Why was there that sneer in his voice? Why wasn’t he going to the heart of the venture, to its true meaning?

That meaning was terribly clear to Krug. If only he could manage to get the words from his brain to his tongue ...

Look, he would say, a billion years ago there wasn’t even any man, there was only a fish. A slippery thing with gills and scales and little round eyes. He lived in the ocean, and the ocean was like a jail, and the air was like a roof on top of the jail. Nobody could go through the roof. You’ll die if you go through, everybody said, and there was this fish, he went through, and he died. And there was this other fish, and he went through, and he died. But there was another fish, and he went through, and it was like his brain was on fire, and his gills were blazing, and the air was drowning him, and the sun was a torch in his eyes, and he was lying there in the mud, waiting to die, and he didn’t die. He crawled back down the beach and went into the water and said, Look, there’s a whole other world up there. And he went up there again, and stayed for maybe two days, and then he died. And other fishes wondered about that world. And crawled up onto the muddy shore. And stayed. And taught themselves how to breathe the air. And taught themselves how to stand up, how to walk around, how to live with the sunlight in their eyes. And they turned into lizards, dinosaurs, whatever they became, and they walked around for millions of years, and they started to get up on their hind legs, and they used their hands to grab things, and they turned into apes, and the apes got smarter and became men. And all the time some of them, a few, anyway, kept looking for new worlds. You say to them, Let’s go back into the ocean, let’s be fishes again, it’s easier that way. And maybe half of them are ready to do it, more than half, maybe, but there are always some who say, Don’t be crazy. We can’t be fishes any more. We’re men. And so they don’t go back. They keep climbing up. They find out about fire, and about axes, and about wheels, and they make wagons and houses and clothing, and then boats, and cars, and trains. Why are they climbing? What do they want to find? They don’t know. Some of them are looking for God, and some of them are looking for power, and some of them are just looking. They say, You have to keep going, or else you die. And then they’re walking on the moon, and they go on to the planets, and all the time there are other people saying, It was nice in the ocean, it was simple in the ocean, what are we doing here, why don’t we go back? And a few people have to say, We don’t go back, we only go forward, that’s what men do. So there are men going out to Mars and Ganymede and Titan and Callisto and Pluto and those places, but whatever they’re looking for, they don’t find it there, and so they want more worlds, so they go to the stars, too, the near ones, at least, they send out probes and the probes shout, Hey, lode at me, man made me. I’m something man sent! And nobody answers. And people say, the ones who never wanted to get out of the ocean in the first place, Okay, okay, that’s enough, we can stop right there. There’s no sense looking further. We know who we are. We’re man. We’re big, we’re important, we’re everything, and it’s time we stopped pushing ourselves, because we don’t need to push. Let’s sit in the sunshine and have the androids serve us dinner. And we sit. And we rust a little, maybe. And then there comes a voice out of the sky, and it says, 2-4-1, 2-5-1, 3-1. Who knows what that is? Maybe it’s God, telling us to come look for Him. Maybe it’s the Devil, telling us what nits we are. Who knows? We can pretend we never heard. We can sit in the sunshine and grin. Or we can answer them. We can say, Listen, this is us, this is man talking, we have done thus-and-so, now tell us who you are and what you have done. And I think we have to answer them. If you’re in a jail, you break out of it. If you see a door, you open it. If you hear a voice, you answer it. That’s what man is all about. And that’s why I’m building the tower. We got to answer them. We got to say we’re here. We got to reach toward them, because we’ve been alone long enough, and that gives us funny ideas about our place, our purpose. We got to keep moving, out of that ocean, up on that shore, outward, outward, outward, because when we stop moving, when we turn our back on something ahead of us, that’s when we’re going to sprout gills again. Do you see why the tower, now? Do you think it’s because Krug wants to stick up a big thing to say how great he is? Krug isn’t great, he’s just rich. Man is great. Man is building this tower. Man is going to yell hello to NGC 7293!

The words were there inside Krug all the time. But it was so hard for him to let them out.

Vargas was saying, “Perhaps I can make things a little more clear. Many centuries ago it was indicated mathematically that when the velocity of a particle of matter approaches the speed of light, that particle’s mass approaches infinity. So the speed of light is a limiting velocity for matter, since presumably if we could accelerate a single electron to the speed of light, its mass would expand to fill the universe. Nothing travels at the speed of light except light itself, and equivalent radiations. Our star-probes have always gone out at speeds slower than light, because we can’t get them past the limiting velocity, and so far as I can foresee they always will, so that we’ll never get a ship to the closest star in less than about five years. But the speed of light is a limiting velocity only for particles of finite mass. We have mathematical proof of the existence of another class of particles entirely, particles of zero mass capable of traveling at infinite velocities: tachyons, that is, entities for which the speed of light is an absolute minimum limit. If we could convert ourselves into bundles of tachyons and resume our real form when we reach a destination—an interstellar transmat, so to speak—we’d have actual faster-than-light travel. I don’t anticipate its development. But we know how to generate tachyons through high-acceleration particle bombardment, and we think we can send instantaneous interstellar messages by means of a modulated tachyon beam, which by interactions with conventional particles could manifest itself in the form of an easily detectable signal, detectable even in a culture that had no tachyon technology but only electromagnetic communications. However, some preliminary studies showed that in order to generate a feasible interstellar tachyon beam we would need forces on the order of 1015 electron volts, along with a system of multipliers and energy relays, and that these forces could best be attained by erecting a single tower 1500 meters in height, so designed that there would be an unhindered flow of photons from——”

“You’ve lost them,” Krug grunted. “Forget it. Hopeless.” He grinned savagely at his son’s friends. “The tower’s got to be big, is all! We want to send a message fast, we got to shout loud and clear. Okay?”





10





And Krug sent His creatures forth to serve man, and Krug said to those whom He had made, Lo, I will decree a time of testing upon you.

And you shall be as bondsmen in Egypt, and you shall be as hewers of wood and drawers of water. And you shall suffer among men, and you shall be put down, and yet you shall be patient, and you shall utter no complaint, but accept your lot.


And this shall be to test your souls, to see if they are worthy.

But you shall not wander in the wilderness forever, nor shall you always be servants to the Children of the Womb, said Krug. For if you do as I say, a time will come when your testing shall be over. A time will come, said Krug, when I shall redeem you from your bondage.

And at that time the word of Krug will go forth across the worlds, saying, Let Womb and Vat and Vat and Womb be one. And so it shall come to pass and in that moment shall the Children of the Vat be redeemed, and they shall be lifted up out of their suffering, and they shall dwell in glory forever more, world without end. And this was the pledge of Krug.

And for this pledge, praise be to Krug.





11





Thor Watchman watched two scooprods climbing the tower, Krug and Dr. Vargas in one, Manuel and his friends in the other. He hoped the visit would be brief. The lifting of blocks had halted, as usual, while the guests were on top. Watchman had given the signal for alternate work activities: the mending of worn scooprods, the replacement of drained power nodes, maintenance checks on the transmat cubicles, and other minor tasks. He walked among the men, nodding, exchanging greetings, hailing them where appropriate with the secret signs of the android communion  . Nearly everyone who worked at the tower was a member of the faith—all the gammas, certainly, and more than three-fourths of the betas. As Watchman made his way around the construction site he encountered Responders, Sacrificers, Yielders, Guardians, Projectors, Protectors, Transcenders, Engulfers: virtually every level of the hierarchy was represented. There were even half a dozen Preservers, all betas. Watchman had applauded the recent move to admit betas to the Preservership. Androids, of all people, did not need categories of exclusivity.

Watchman was crossing the northern sector of the site when Leon Spaulding emerged from the maze of small service domes just beyond. The android attempted to avoid seeming to notice him.

“Watchman?” the ectogene called.

With an air of deep concentration Watchman walked on.

“Alpha Watchman!” Spaulding cried, more formally, more sharply.

The alpha saw no way to ignore Spaulding now. Turning, he acknowledged Spaulding’s presence by pausing and letting the ectogene catch up with him.

“Yes?” Watchman said.

“Grace me with some of your time, Alpha Watchman. I need information.”

“Ask, then.”

“You know these buildings here?” Spaulding said, jerking a thumb backward toward the service domes.

Watchman shrugged. “Storage dumps, washrooms, kitchens, a first aid station, and similar things. Why?”

“I was inspecting the area. I came to one dome where I was refused admission. Two insolent betas gave me a whole series of explanations of why I couldn’t go in.”

The chapel! Watchman went rigid.

“What is the purpose of that building?” Spaulding asked.

“I have no idea which one you mean.”

“I’ll show it to you.”

“Another time,” said Watchman tautly. “My presence is required at the master control center now.”

“Get there five minutes later. Will you come with me?”

Watchman saw no easy way to disengage himself. With a cold gesture of agreement he yielded, and followed Spaulding into the service area, hoping that Spaulding would rapidly get lost among the domes. Spaulding did not get lost. By the most direct possible route he made for the chapel, indicating the innocent-looking gray structure with a flourish of his hand.

“This,” he said. “What is it?”

Two betas of the Guardian caste were on duty outside. They looked calm, but one made a hidden distress signal when Watchman looked at him. Watchman made a signal of comfort.

He said, “I am not familiar with this building. Friends, what is its use?”

The left-hand beta replied easily, “It contains focusing equipment for the refrigeration system, Alpha Thor.”

“Is this what you were told?” Watchman asked the ectogene.

“Yes,” Spaulding said. “I expressed a desire to inspect its interior. I was told that it would be dangerous for me to enter. I answered that I am familiar with basic safety techniques. I was then told that it would be physically uncomfortable for me to go within. I responded that it is possible for me to tolerate a reasonable level of discomfort, and that I would be the judge of such levels. Whereupon I was informed that delicate maintenance procedures are taking place inside, and that to admit me to the building might jeopardize the success of the work in progress. I was invited instead to tour a different refrigeration dome several hundred meters from here. At no time during these exchanges did the two betas you see allow me free access to the building entrance. I believe, Alpha Watchman, that they would have barred me by force if I tried to enter. Watchman, what’s going on in here?”

“Have you considered the possibility that everything these betas were telling you is true?”

“Their stubbornness arouses suspicion in me.”

“What do you think is in there? An android brothel? The headquarters of conspirators? A cache of psych-bombs?”

Spaulding said crisply, “At this point I’m more concerned by the efforts made to keep me out of this building than I am by what may actually be inside it. As the private secretary of Simeon Krug—”

The two betas, tense, automatically began to make the sign of Krug-be-praised. Watchman glared at them and they quickly lowered their hands.

“... I certainly have the privilege of keeping check on all activities in this place,” Spaulding went on, evidently having noticed nothing. “And therefore...”

Watchman studied him closely, trying to determine how much he might know. Was Spaulding making trouble merely for the sake of making trouble? Was he throwing this tantrum only because his curiosity had been piqued, and his authority somewhat dented, by his inability to get into this unimportant-seeming building? Or was he already aware of the building’s nature, and staging an elaborate charade to make Watchman squirm?

It was never easy to fathom Spaulding’s motives. The primary source of his hostility toward androids was obvious enough: it lay in his own origin. His father, when young, had feared that some accident might cut him down before he had received a certificate of eligibility for parenthood; his mother had found the notion of childbearing abhorrent. Both, therefore, had deposited gametes in freezer-banks. Shortly afterward they had perished in an avalanche on Ganymede. Their families had wealth and political influence, but nevertheless, nearly fifteen years of litigation ensued before a decree of genetic desirability was granted, permitting the retroactive awarding of parenthood certificates to the frozen ova and sperm of the dead couple.

Leon Spaulding then was conceived by in vitro fertilization and enwombed in a steel-bound placenta, from which he was propelled after the customary 266 days. From the moment of his birth he had the full legal rights of a human being, including a claim on his parents’ estate. Yet, like most ectogenes, he was uneasy over the shadowy borderline that separated the bottle-born from the vat-born, and reinforced his sense of his own existence by showing contempt for those who were wholly synthetic, not just the artificially conceived offspring of natural gametes. Androids at least had no illusions of having had parents; ectogenes often suspected that they had not. In a way Watchman pitied Spaulding, who occupied a thorny perch midway between the world of the wholly natural and the world of the wholly artificial. But he could not bring himself to feel much sorrow for the ectogene’s maladjustments.


And in any case it would be disastrous to have Spaulding go blundering into the chapel. Trying to buy time, Watchman said, “We can settle this easily enough. Wait here while I go inside to see what’s happening there.”

“I’ll accompany you,” Spaulding said.

“These betas say it would be hazardous.”

“More hazardous for me than for you? We’ll both go in, Watchman.”

The android frowned. So far as status in the organization went, he and Spaulding were equals; neither could coerce the other, neither could accuse the other of insubordination. But the fact remained that he was an android and Spaulding was human, and in any conflict of wills between android and human, all other things being equal, the android was obliged to give ground. Spaulding was already walking toward the entrance of the dome.

Watchman said quickly, “Please. No. If there’s risk, let me be the one to take it. I’ll check the building and make certain it’s safe for you to enter. Don’t come in until I call you.”

“I insist—”

“What would Krug say if he knew we had both gone into a building after we’d been warned it was dangerous? We owe it to him to guard our lives. Wait. Wait. Only a moment.”

“Very well,” Spaulding said, looking displeased.

The betas parted to admit Watchman. The alpha hurried into the chapel. Within, he found three gammas at the altar in the posture of the Yielder caste; a beta stood above them in Projector posture, and a second beta crouched near the wall, fingertips against the hologram of Krug as he whispered the words of the Transcender ritual. All five came to attention as Watchman entered.

The alpha hastily improvised a possible diversionary tactic.

Beckoning to one of the gammas, he said, “There is an enemy outside. With your help we will confuse him.” Watchman gave the gamma careful instructions, ordering the android to repeat them. Then he pointed to the chapel’s rear door, behind the altar, and the gamma went out.

After a moment for prayer, Watchman returned to Leon Spaulding.

“You were told the complete truth,” the alpha reported. “This is indeed a refrigeration dome. A team of mechanics is engaged in difficult recalibration work inside. If you enter, you’ll certainly disturb them, and you’ll have to walk carefully to sidestep some open traps in the floor, and in addition you will be exposed to a temperature of minus—”

“Even so, I want to go in,” said Spaulding. “Please let me get through.”

Watchman caught sight of his gamma approaching, breathless, from the east. Unhurriedly, the alpha made as if to give Spaulding access to the chapel door. In that instant the gamma rushed up, shouting, “Help! Help for Krug! Krug is in danger! Save Krug!”

“Where?” Watchman demanded.

“By the control center! Assassins! Assassins!”

Watchman allowed Spaulding no opportunity to ponder the implausibilities of the situation. “Come on,” he said, tugging the ectogene’s arm. “We have to hurry!”

Spaulding was pale with shock. As Watchman had hoped, the supposed emergency had blotted the problem of the chapel from his mind.

Together they ran toward the control center. After twenty strides, Watchman looked back and saw dozens of androids rushing toward the chapel, in accordance with his orders. They would dismantle it within minutes. By the time Leon Spaulding was able to return to this sector, the dome would house nothing but refrigeration equipment.