Gridlock and Other Stories Part 21

"To give credit where it's due, theydid manage to control the stalemate for an admirably long time.

Still, the situation was unstable. It could not endure forever. Sooner or later, one of the men in the pool of gasoline had to strike a spark with his match. So long as warfare was all offense and no defense, disaster was inevitable."

"But warfare wasn't all offense, Doctor Darol! They hadHigh Citadel and all of the other battle stations to defend them."

"True," Beckwith said, nodding. "But there is always a time lag of about a generation between the time a new technology is introduced and when societies come fully to grips with that technology's consequences. At the time of The Catastrophe, the orbiting battle stations were still too new to have put to rest a century of paranoia. Had the nuclear exchange been delayed another thirty years, things would have been different. By that time the defenses would surely have been good enough to hold the damage to a level civilization could have tolerated. Who knows? Had the consequences of making a mistake not been so grave, the various leaders might have risked trusting one another enough that they could have avoided The Catastrophe altogether."

"What has all of this to do with you killing General Trujillo?" Espe asked.

"It has everything to do with it. As you surmised, I killed the General to stop that s.h.i.+p from being raised. My service keeps its ears open. One of our operatives in Mexico City picked up rumors about a discovery in the royal archives, and of an archeological expedition that was being dispatched to check it out. I was sent here as soon as we received Manuel Vargas's report. My orders were to evaluate whatever it was that they had discovered, and to act as I thought appropriate. That is precisely what I did."

"But why take any action at all? What could it have harmed if the Mexicans had raised that s.h.i.+p?"

"Do you remember what we spoke about at dinner that first night I came to Nuevo Tubac?"

"You said that nuclear weapons were too easy to build."

"And after that?""You explained how we've managed to surpa.s.s the ancients in some fields."

"That we have! Not many, I will admit. Nevertheless, we have had our moments. The truth is that we are recovering much faster than anyone predicted. In many ways, our current state of development is reminiscent of that of the Late Middle Ages in Europe. We too live in a world of postage stamp fiefdoms where rulers spend their time plotting the overthrow of their neighbors, or else scheming to prevent their own overthrow. As in the Middle Ages, this state of anarchy is a necessary precursor to the formation of continent spanning nation-states. Also, like the Middle Ages, we see definite signs of a renaissance emerging from the chaos of our present age. Out of this rebirth will come many things. There will be advances in the arts, in science, in mathematics. As our duchies and despotisms are consolidated, trade will increase and the grinding poverty in which we have lived these past eighty years will begin to lift.

Roads will be rebuilt, oceans spanned; there will be a rebirth of intellectual vigor unmatched since before The Catastrophe.

"Unfortunately, that vigor will bring with it a much less welcome development. If there is one thing we can predict with full confidence, it is that humanity will soon attain the level of development necessary to produce nuclear weapons. Knowing human nature, we have no doubt that such weapons will be produced as soon as we regain the capacity. Once we reach that particular plateau, we will face the dilemma that nearly destroyed our ancestors."

"Whether we survive the Second Age of Nuclear Weapons will depend on two factors: How long can we delay the inevitable conflict, and how quickly can we rebuild our orbital defenses? When the time comes, we are going to need every bit of technology thatHigh Citadel represents, as well as the information stored in the battle station's computers. If we allow that technology and information to be vandalized or squandered, we will delay by decades the time when the human race will be safely past the crisis. If, on the other hand, we conserve those a.s.sets for future generations, we may well shorten the epoch of overwhelming offense to a manageable period. Once through it, the race will reach an era of stability that could well ensure its immortality.

"Helping humanity survive the coming crisis is the true goal of the Public Health Service. We advance that goal any way we can. In this particular case, we advanced it by safeguardingHigh Citadel . In another place and time, we may choose to make certain that a king never produces a legitimate heir.

In another, we may give an aged philosopher a new heart in order that he can live a few more years to complete his work. By so doing, we perform more good for humanity than with all the potions and nostrums ever peddled. That is the organization that I am giving you a chance to join, Espe. I await your decision."

There was a long silence while Espe digested all that Beckwith had told her. Finally, she asked, "Do you truly think that I would make a good doctor of the service?"

He laughed, unmindful of the pain it caused him. "If I didn't, I wouldn't have spent so much time training you. I must warn you, though. The work is hard and dangerous, the food is poor, and you spend entirely too much time sleeping on the hard, cold ground. It will mean years of separation from your friends and family, and you could end up in a ravine somewhere with your throat slit or a bullet through your head. Still interested?"

"I have never wanted anything other than to be just like you, Doctor Darol."

He nodded. "In that case, we'll see about arranging pa.s.sage to San Francisco for you when the plane comes this afternoon. I think you will find it an interesting life. I know I have!"

#Author's notes forMan of the Renaissance :

Along with the pa.s.sing of slide rules and ma.s.sive mainframes, one of the events that has dated more science fiction stories than anything else I can think of is the fall of the Soviet Union. Having made a comfortable living most of my life building things to shoot Russians out of the sky, I rather miss their compet.i.tion. Nor is the world much like the one I was born into. As I was coming of age, the nation needed an unending supply of engineers with whom to man the defense industry. I was one of them. I have happily toiled my whole life in the vineyards of aeros.p.a.ce, both because it is what interests me and because my nation once told me that it was my duty. Today, the engineers have been relegated to the back seat of the bus and the MBA's are in the driver's seat. It is suddenly a strange new world, one that no SF writer managed to predict. Would I like to go back to the old comfortable world in which the Earth was divided into two armed camps where everyone knew which side they were on?

Not in a million years!

However, the pa.s.sing of the "Evil Empire" has wreaked havoc in all manner of literary genres. What will Tom Clancy write about now? (As I pen this, his latest 800-page behemoth sits unread on my headboard, waiting for me to get my INTERNET site online).

What about Jerry Pournelle's CoDominion series or the hundreds of science fiction novels where the Cold War continued for centuries?

Man of the Renaissanceis a post-holocaust story, a world in which the Russians did not go broke and where the Cold War went hot one day. UnlikeScoop orThe Shroud ,Man of the Renaissance did not just pop into my head. It languished in my idea file under the name Pluton Cavalry for more than a decade. I first attempted to write it before I made my first professional sale, and over the years, I polished that first scene dozens of times. The only problem was that I could not come up with the end of the story.

Some writers work on a dozen different stories simultaneously. I envy them that ability. I tend to concentrate on a single project until I get it done. Thus, when I graduated to novels, I stopped writing short stories. It was not that I don't like shorter fiction; I just did not want to be distracted from the books. Therefore, I was absent from the magazines for five long years.

In 1987, the end of the Soviet Union was still not in sight, but the argument over the Strategic Defense Initiative was in full bloom. As you have already learned, SDI was my idea before it was Ronald Reagan's. Man of the Renaissance seemed the perfect vehicle to add my opinion to the controversy. The central point of the story is that nuclear weapons have now been around for over 50 years, and that the technology that initially produced them was primitive by today's standards. Sure, the Manhattan Project built the atom bomb, but how successful would they have been if they had been ordered to build something difficult - like a Video Ca.s.sette Recorder (VCR)?

Man of the Renaissancewas published in the April 1988, issue of a.n.a.log Science Fiction/Science Fact magazine.

GRIDLOCK.

Where would you go if you had invented a time machine, but could not steer it?

John Thurman Smith stood on the balcony and gazed into the night. Manhattan was ablaze with lights as people went about their business in the city's mult.i.tude of kilometer-tall residence towers. He faced outward, letting the cold wind ruffle his hair while it cleared his head. The drink he had brought with him sat untouched on the stainless steel guardrail that encircled the balcony.

The party inside had been going on for the better part of two days, long enough that most of the original guests had long since departed. If anything, it had grown larger as the first group had been replaced by a second (and in some cases, a third) wave of arrivals. Smith would have liked to go home, as well. He couldn't. Not only was the party taking place in his apartment, he was the guest of honor.

He listened as the sound of laughter and applause burst forth from his darkened living room. They must be showing the holograms he had taken aboardKon Tiki III again. The autocamera had caught him just as a giant wave had washed him overboard during a storm. The hologram showed him frozen in time up to his neck in froth. His sour expression epitomized all the injustice heaped on mere mortals by an uncaring universe. It wasvery funny!

The sounds from the party got louder, then quieted again. Someone had exited through the door leading from the living room to the balcony. He turned to see a woman silhouetted in the flickering light.

She was blonde, beautiful, and of indeterminate age. She seemed to glide to where he supported himself with his elbows resting on the railing.

"h.e.l.lo," she said in a husky contralto. "I wondered where the great adventurer had gone."

He smiled his professional greeting smile. "I don't believe we've met."

She held out her hand, betraying the fact that she was older than she looked. Ever since an outbreak of pseudo-leprosy fifteen years earlier, bowing had been much in vogue. "Irina Scorvini, Mr.

Smith. I arrived an hour ago. If you came out here for solitude, I'll go away and leave you alone."

"Nonsense. It was getting stuffy inside. I stepped out for a breath of fresh air."

She gazed out across the city in the same direction he had been looking. "The lights are very beautiful tonight, aren't they?"

"That they are."

After another moment, she seemed to come to some internal decision. She said, "Do you mind if I ask you a personal question, Mr. Smith?"

"I'm John to my friends. What's the question?"

"I was watching the pictures inside. Why do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Risk your life the way you do? ThisKon Tiki expedition was hardly your first escapade. You climbed Mount Everest two years ago. If I remember correctly, you celebrated the Armstrong Tercentennial by hiking across the Sea of Tranquility in an antique s.p.a.cesuit. Are you trying to commit suicide?"

He smiled. "Hardly. The fax services exaggerate the danger. True, I followed Sir Edmund Hilary'soriginal route up Everest, but I had the latest in climbing gear, a modern oxygen breather, and full communications with the Everest Summit Hotel. As for my vaunted stroll acrossMare Tranquillitatis, the suit may have been a replica of an Apollo moonsuit, but my environmental control system was the best money could buy."

"And your recent voyage aboard a log raft?"

He shrugged. "I could have summoned up rescue within twenty minutes if I'd gotten into trouble."

"But you were nearly lost at sea!"

"I had a safety line. I was also wearing a locator beacon."

"But isn't it dangerous to do all of these things alone?"

He laughed. "Believe me, if I could have found someone to go with me, I would have. I'm afraid people aren't very adventuresome." He peered at her in the light from the living room. She had the most beautiful green eyes. Also, the wind whipped her gauzy gown in a most fetching manner. "Are you really interested in why I do these things?"

"I wouldn't have asked otherwise."

"Very well. How old are you?"

She smiled in a way that told him that she had been born when no gentlemen would ever ask that question of a lady. "I will be 78 next August."

"Funny, you don't look it."

"Of course not. Physically, I haven't changed since I was thirty."

He nodded. "And barring accidents, you can expect to be young and healthy for another century at least. I, on the other hand, am only 26."

"All the more reason for you to be careful. You have so much to live for."

"The truth, Irina, is that I find modern society boring. People never seem todo anything. They are vicarious spectators. They wrap themselves in so many layers of swaddling that they can never hope to experience life in the raw. When was the last time someone punched you in the nose?"

She frowned and got a far off look in her face. "When I was twelve. I called Tommy Rankine a name and he hit me."

"What risks have you taken since?"

"As few as I could manage," she replied with more honesty than he expected.

"That makes my point. Life without risk is tasteless. There is more to living than merely acc.u.mulating birthdays." He stopped and gauged his listener's reaction. Something was wrong.

"Don't stop," she urged.

"Nothing more to say," he demurred. "Now then, do you mind if I askyou a personal question?"

"Please do.""My lifestyle is very attractive to certain women. When you came out here, I had you cla.s.sified as someone interested in an evening's recreation. I think I have made a mistake. Who are you?"

"I told you. My name is Irina Scorvini."

"That isn't what I meant. Why did you come here? You don't strike me as someone looking for a romp."

She sighed. "You are very perceptive for one so young. Yes, I have an ulterior motive. I am Director of the Time Laboratory and we have need of a man of your talents."

"Oh? To do what?"

"I'm not free to discuss the matter here. However, if you will accompany me, I guarantee that you won't be bored."

He thought about it for a moment, then said, "Sure, why not? The party was beginning to drag anyway."

Two hours later, the aircar containing Smith and Professor Emeritus Irina Scorvini, Ph.D., began letting down toward a great pyramid of a building on the outskirts of Mexico City. The car made a sweeping turn before flaring to a landing. Smith peered at the multicolored lights in the park below.

"What, no dinosaurs?"

"Very funny."

After landing, Irina led him to the pyramid's rooftop entrance, down a flight of stairs, and through a long hall to an auditorium-size conference room. The sole occupant of the room was a mustachioed man seated at one end of an enormous mahogany table.

"John Smith, may I present Doctor Pedro Arturo Vasquez, Deputy Director of the Time Laboratory?"

The two men exchanged greetings, after which Irina directed Smith to a seat next to Vasquez. She took the chair opposite them.

"How much do you know about the time laboratory, John?"

"Precious little. You're funded by the planetary government and do research into the nature of time travel."

"That is more than 98% of the public knows about us," Vasquez replied with a hearty laugh which caused ripples in his oversize paunch. "Time travel has been a great disappointment to most people ever since its discovery in the mid-twenty-first century."

"You mentioned dinosaurs," Irina said. "I would give fifty years off my life to see a dinosaur. The sad truth is that our machines can never bring us back photographs of dinosaurs, saber-toothed tigers, or Paleolithic man."

"Why not?"

"It's a matter of control. While we can modulate our machine's displacement in time fairly well, we have no control at all over where they emerge. Once it has been time s.h.i.+fted, a machine may materializeanywhere in the universe where the local ma.s.s density is less than 10 atoms per cubic centimeter. In a way, that is lucky. It means our machines will never materialize inside a planet or a star."

"What you are saying," Smith said, "is that you can't steer!"

"Correct," Irina replied. "The theory of time travel offers us no hope that we will ever be able to control the spatial coordinates of our points of emergence. Where a time machine materializes is governed solely by random quantum effects."

"Surely you can see our problem," Vasquez said, giving Smith a mild whiff of garlic breath. "In one hundred years of operations, we've collected literally millions of holograms taken from deep interstellar s.p.a.ce. Every d.a.m.ned one of them portrays a starfield more or less identical to the one you can see from the roof of this building!"

"How do you know you are going into the past then? Maybe your machines are merely flying off into s.p.a.ce somewhere."

"Not possible. We always measure the temperature of the CBR on emergence," Vasquez responded. "That tells us the date to within 100 million years or so."

"CBR?".

"Cosmic background radiation. The universe started out as a point of nearly infinite density that exploded outward in what we refer to as 'The Big Bang.' That original explosion has been expanding for 14.2 billion years now. As the universe expands, the radiation released by The Big Bang has been cooling off - 'red s.h.i.+fting' in scientific parlance. In our epoch, the temperature of this cosmic background radiation has reached 2.7 degrees Kelvin. The CBR is the quiet hissing noise you hear when you focus a radio telescope on a dark region of sky.

"Obviously, the farther you go back in time, the hotter the CBR. It rises a few degrees every billion years or so. By measuring its temperature wherever our machines emerge, we can calibrate how far they've traveled backward in time."