Robert Silverberg - Tower of Glass

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Look, Simeon Krug wanted to 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 other 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 scorched

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.

September 20, 2218

Simeon Krug's tower now rises 100 meters above the gray-brown tundra of the Canadian Arctic, west

of Hudson Bay. At present the tower is merely a glassy stump, hollow, open-topped, sealed from the

elements only by a repellor field hovering shieldlike just a few meters above the current work level.

Around the unfinished structure cluster the android work crews, thousands of synthetic humans,

crimson-skinned, who toil to affix glass blocks to scooprods and send the rods climbing to the summit,

where other androids put the blocks in place. Krug has his androids working three shifts around the

clock; when it gets dark, the construction site is lit by millions of reflector plates strung across the sky at a

height of one kilometer and powered by the little million-kilowatt fusion generator at the north end of the

site.

From the tower's huge octagonal base radiate wide silvery strips of refrigeration tape, embedded fifty

centimeters deep in the frozen carpet of soil, roots, moss, and lichens that is the tundra. The tapes stretch

several kilometers in each direction. Their helium-II diffusion cells soak up the heat generated by the

androids and vehicles used in building the tower. If the tapes were not there, the tundra would soon be

transformed by the energy-output of construction into a lake of mud; the colossal tower's

foundation-caissons would lose their grip, and the great building would tilt and tumble like a felled titan.

The tapes keep the tundra icy, firm, capable of bearing the immense burden that Simeon Krug is now

imposing on it.

Around the tower, subsidiary buildings are centered on a thousand-meter radius. To the west of the site

is the master control center. To the east is the laboratory where the tachyon-beam ultrawave

communications equipment is being fabricated: a small pink dome which usually contains ten or a dozen

technicians patiently assembling the devices with which Krug hopes to send messages to the stars. North

of the site is a clutter of miscellaneous service buildings. On the south side is the bank of transmat

cubicles that link this remote region to the civilized world. People and androids flow constantly in and out

of the transmats, arriving from New York or Nairobi or Novosibirsk, departing for Sydney or San

Francisco or Shanghai.

Krug himself invariably visits the site at least once a day—alone, or with his son Manuel, or with one of

his women, or with some fellow industrialist. Customarily he confers with Thor Watchman, his android

foreman; he rides a scooprod to the top of the tower and peers into it; he checks the progress in the

tachyon-beam lab; he talks to a few of the workmen, by way of inspiring loftier effort. Generally Krug

spends no more than fifteen minutes at the tower. Then he steps back into the transmat, and

instantaneously is hurled to the business that awaits him elsewhere.

Today he has brought a fairly large party to celebrate the attainment of the 100-meter level. Krug stands

near what will be the tower's western entrance. He is a stocky man of sixty, deeply tanned,

heavy-chested and short-legged, with narrow-set, glossy eyes and a seamed nose. There is a peasant

strength about him. His contempt for all cosmetic editing of the body is shown by his coarse features, his

shaggy brows, his thinning hair: he is practically bald, and will do nothing about it. Freckles show through

the black strands that cross his scalp. He is worth several billion dollars fissionable, though he dresses

plainly and wears no jewelry; only the infinite authority of his stance and expression indicates the extent of

his wealth.

Nearby is his son and heir, Manuel, his only child, tall, slender, almost foppishly handsome, elegantly

dressed in a loose green robe, high buckskins, an auburn sash. He affects earlobe plugs and a

mirror-plate in his forehead. He will shortly be thirty. His movements are graceful, but he seems fidgety

when in repose.

The android Thor Watchman stands between father and son. He is as tall as Manuel, as powerfully built

as the elder Krug. His face is that of a standard alpha-class android, with a lean Caucasoid nose, thin

lips, strong chin, sharp cheekbones: an idealized face, a plastic face. Yet he has impressed a surprising

individuality on that face from within. No one who sees Thor Watchman will mistake him the next time for

some other android. A certain gathering of the brows, a certain tension of the lips, a certain hunching of

the shoulders, mark him as an android of strength and purpose. He wears an openwork lace doublet; he

is indifferent to the biting cold at the site, and his skin, the deep red, faintly waxy skin of an android, is

visible in many places.

There are seven others in the group that has emerged from the transmat. They are:

Clissa, the wife of Manuel Krug.

Quenelle, a woman younger than Manuel, who is his father's current companion.

Leon Spaulding, Krug's private secretary, an ectogene.

Niccolò Vargas, at whose observatory in Antarctica the first faint signals from an extrasolar civilization

were detected.

Justin Maledetto, the architect of Krug's tower.

Senator Henry Fearon of Wyoming, a leading Witherer.

Thomas Buckleman of the Chase/King banking group.

“Into the scooprods, everybody!” Krug bellows. “Here—here—you—you—up to the top!”

“How high will it be when it's finished?” Quenelle asks.

“1500 meters,” Krug replies. “A tremendous tower of glass full of machinery that nobody can

understand. And then we'll turn it on. And then we'll talk to the stars.”

In the beginning there was Krug, and He said, Let there be Vats, and there were Vats.

And Krug looked upon the Vats and found them good.

And Krug said, Let there be high-energy nucleotides in the Vats. And the nucleotides were

poured, and Krug mixed them until they were bonded one to another.

And the nucleotides formed the great molecules, and Krug said, Let there be the father and the

mother both in the Vats, and let the cells divide, and let there be life brought forth within the Vats.

And there was life, for there was Replication.

And Krug presided over the Replication, and touched the fluids with His own hands, and gave

them shape and essence.

Let men come forth from the Vats, said Krug, and let women come forth, and let them live and

go among us and be sturdy and useful, and we shall call them Androids.

And it came to pass.

And there were Androids, for Krug had created them in His own image, and they walked upon

the face of the Earth and did service for mankind.

And for these things, praise be to Krug.

Watchman had wakened that morning in Stockholm. Groggy: four hours of sleep. Much too much. Two

hours would suffice. He cleared his mind with a quick neural ritual and got under the shower for a

skin-sluicing. Better, now. The android stretched, wriggled muscles, studied his smooth rosy hairless

body in the bathroom mirror. A moment for religion, next.Krug deliver us from servitude. Krug

deliver us from servitude. Krug deliver us from servitude. Praise be to Krug!

Watchman popped his breakfast down and dressed. The pale light of late afternoon touched his

window. Soon it would be evening here, but no matter. The clock in his mind was set to Canadian time,

tower time. He could sleep whenever he wished, so long as he took at least one hour out of twelve. Even

an android body needed some rest, but not in the rigidly programmed way of humans.

Off to the construction site, now, to greet the day's visitors.

The android began setting up the transmat coordinates. He hated these daily tour sessions. The tours

slowed the work, since extraordinary precautions had to be observed while important human beings

were on the site; they introduced special and unnecessary tensions; and they carried the hidden

implication that his work was not really trustworthy, that he had to be checked every day. Of course,

Watchman was aware that Krug's faith in him was limitless. The android's faith in that faith has sustained

him superbly through the task of erecting the tower thus far. He knew that it was not suspicion but the

natural human emotion of pride that brought Krug to the site so often.

Krug preserve me, Watchman thought, and stepped through the transmat.

He stepped out into the shadow of the tower. His aides greeted him. Someone handed him a list of the

day's visitors. “Is Krug here yet?” Watchman asked.

“Five minutes,” he was told, and in five minutes Krug came through the transmat, accompanied by his

guests. Watchman was not cheered to see Krug's secretary, Spaulding, in the group. They were natural

enemies; they felt toward one another the instant antipathy of the vat-born and the bottle-born, the

android and the ectogene. Aside from that they were rivals for eminence among Krug's associates. To

the android, Spaulding was a spreader of suspicions, a potential underminer of his status, a fount of

poisons. Watchman greeted him coolly, distantly, yet properly. One did not snub humans, no matter how

important an android one might be, and at least by technical definition Spaulding had to be considered

human.

Krug was hustling everybody into scooprods. Watchman went up with Manuel and Clissa Krug. As the

rods rode toward the truncated summit of the tower, Watchman glanced across at Spaulding in the rod

to his left—at the ectogene, the prenatal orphan, the man of cramped soul and baleful spirit in whom

Krug perversely placed so much trust.May Arctic winds sweep you to destruction, bottle-born. May I

see you float sweetly toward the frozen ground and break beyond repair.

Clissa Krug said, “Thor, why do you suddenly look so fierce?”

“Do I?”

“I see angry clouds crossing your face.”

Watchman shrugged. “I'm doing my emotion drills, Mrs. Krug. Ten minutes of love, ten minutes of hate,

ten minutes of shyness, ten minutes of selfishness, ten minutes of awe, ten minutes of arrogance. An hour

a day makes androids more like people.”

“Don't tease me,” Clissa said. She was very young, slim, dark-eyed, gentle, and, Watchman supposed,

beautiful. “Are you telling me the truth?”

“I am. Really. I was practicing a little hatred when you caught me.”

“What's the drill like? I mean, do you just stand there thinking, Hatehatehatehatehate, or what?”

He smiled at the girl's question. Looking over her shoulder, he saw Manuel wink at him. “Another time,”

Watchman said. “We're at the top.”

The three scooprods clung to the highest course of the tower. Just above Watchman's head hung the

gray haze of the repellor field. The sky too was gray. The short northern day was nearly half over. A

snowstorm was heading southward toward them along the shore of the bay. Krug, in the next scooprod,

was leaning far into the tower, pointing out something to Buckleman and Vargas; in the other rod,

Spaulding, Senator Fearon, and Maledetto were closely examining the satiny texture of the great glass

bricks that made up the tower's outer skin.

“When will it be finished?” Clissa asked.

“Less than a year,” the android told her. “We're moving nicely along. The big technical problem was

keeping the permafrost under the building from thawing. But now that that's behind us, we ought to be

rising several hundred meters a month.”

“Why build here in the first place,” she wanted to know, “if the ground wasn't stable?”

“Isolation. When the ultrawave is turned on, it'll scramble all communications lines, transmats, and power

generators for thousands of square kilometers. Krug was pretty well limited to putting the tower in the

Sahara, the Gobi, the Australian desert, or the tundra. For technical reasons having to do with

transmission, the tundra seemed most desirable—provided the thawing problem could be beaten. Krug

told us to build here. So we found a way to beat the thawing problem.”

Manuel asked, “What's the status of the transmission equipment?”

“We begin installing it when the tower's at the 500-meter level. Say, the middle of November.”

Krug's voice boomed across to them. “We've already got the five satellite amplifying stations up. A ring

of power sources surrounding the tower—enough boost to kick our signal clear to Andromeda between

Tuesday and Friday.”

“A wonderful project,” said Senator Fearon. He was a dapper, showy-looking man with startling green

eyes and a mane of red hair. “Another mighty step toward the maturity of mankind!” With a courtly nod

toward Watchman, the Senator added, “Of course, we must recognize our immense debt to the skilled

androids who are bringing this miraculous project to fruition. Without the aid of you and your people,

Alpha Watchman, it would not have been possible to—”

Watchman listened blankly, remembering to smile. Compliments of this sort meant little to him. The

World Congress and its Senators meant even less. Was there an android in the Congress? Would it

make any difference if there were? Someday, no doubt, the Android Equality Party would get a few of its

people into the Congress; three or four alphas would sit in that august body, and nevertheless androids

would continue to be property, not people. The political process did not inspire optimism in Thor

Watchman.

His own politics, such that they were, were definitely Witherer: in a transmat society, where national

boundaries are obsolete, why have a formal government at all? Let the legislators abolish themselves; let

natural law prevail. But he knew that the withering-away of the state that the Witherers preached would

never come to pass. The proof of it was Senator Henry Fearon. The ultimate paradox: a member of the

antigovernmental party serving in the government himself, and fighting to hold his seat at every election.

What price Withering, Senator?

Fearon praised android industriousness at length. Watchman fretted. No work was getting done while

they were up here; he didn't dare let blocks be hoisted with visitors in the construction zone. And he had

schedules to keep. To his relief, Krug soon signaled for a descent; the rising wind, it seemed, was

bothering Quenelle. When they came down, Watchman led the way over to the master control center,

inviting them to watch him take command of operations. He slipped into the linkup seat. As he pushed

the computer's snub-tipped terminal node into the input jack on his left forearm, the android saw Leon

Spaulding's lips tighten in a scowl of—what? Contempt, envy, patronizing scorn? For all his skill with

humans, Watchman could not read such dark looks with true precision. But then, at the click of contact,

the computer impulses came flooding across the interface into his brain and he forgot about Spaulding.

It was like having a thousand eyes. He saw everything going on at the site, and for many kilometers

around the site. He was in total communion with the computer, making use of all of its sensors, scanners,

and terminals. Why go through the tedious routine of talking to a computer, when it was possible to

design an android capable of becoming part of one?

The data torrent brought a surge of ecstasy.

Maintenance charts. Work-flow syntheses. Labor coordination systems. Refrigeration levels.

Power-shunt decisions. The tower was a tapestry of infinite details, and he was the master weaver.

Everything rushed through him; he approved, rejected, altered, canceled. Was the effect of sex something

like this? That tingle of aliveness in every nerve, that sense of being extended to one's limits, of absorbing

an avalanche of stimuli? Watchman wished he knew. He raised and lowered scooprods, requisitioned

next week's blocks, ordered filaments for the tachyon-beam men, looked after tomorrow's meals, ran a

constant stability check on the structure as completed, fed cost data to Krug's financial people,

monitored soil temperature in fifty-centimeter gradations to a depth of two kilometers, relayed scores of

telephone messages per second, and congratulated himself on the dexterity with which he accomplished

everything. No human could handle this, he knew, even if there were some way for humans to jack

themselves directly into a computer. He had a machine's skills and a human's versatility, and therefore,

except for the fairly serious matter of being unable to reproduce himself, he was in many ways superior to

both other classes, and therefore—

The red arrow of an alarm cut across his consciousness.

Construction accident. Android blood spilling on the frozen ground.

A twitch of his mind gave him close focus. A scooprod had failed on the northern face. A glass block

had fallen from the 90-meter level. It lay slightly skewed, one end buried about a meter deep in the earth,

the other slightly above the ground level. A fissure ran like a line of frost through its clear depths. Legs

stuck out from the side closest to the tower. A few meters away lay an injured android, writhing

desperately. Three lift-beetles were scurrying toward the scene of the accident; a fourth had already

arrived and had its steel prongs under the massive block.

Watchman unjacked himself, shivering in the first moment of the pain of separation from the data-flow. A

wallscreen over his head showed the accident vividly. Clissa Krug had turned away, head against her

husband's breast; Manuel looked sickened, his father irritated. The other visitors seemed more puzzled

than disturbed. Watchman found himself peering into Leon Spaulding's icy face. Spaulding was a small,

pared-down man, all but fleshless. In the curious clarity of his shock Watchman was aware of the widely

separated hairs of the ectogene's stiff black mustache.

“Coordination failure,” Watchman said crisply. “The computer seems to have misread a stress function

and let a block drop.”

“You were overriding the computer at that moment, weren't you?” Spaulding asked. “Let's put blame

where blame belongs.”

The android would not play that game. “Excuse me,” he said. “There have been injuries and probably

fatalities. I must go.”

He hurried toward the door.

“—inexcusable carelessness—” Spaulding muttered.

Watchman went out. As he sprinted toward the accident site, he began to pray.

“New York,” Krug said. “The upper office.”

He and Spaulding entered the transmat cubicle. The lambent green transmat field pulsed up from the

floor aperture, forming a curtain dividing the cubicle in two. The ectogene set the coordinates. The hidden

power generators of the transmat were linked directly to the main generator, spinning endlessly on its

poles somewhere beneath the Atlantic, condensing the theta force that made transmat travel possible.

Krug did not bother to check the coordinates Spaulding had set. He trusted his staff. A minor abscissa

distortion and the atoms of Simeon Krug would be scattered irrecoverably to the cold winds, but he

unhesitatingly stepped into the glow of green.

There was no sensation. Krug was destroyed; a stream of tagged wavicles was hurled several thousand

kilometers to a tuned receiver; and Krug was reconstituted. The transmat field ripped a man's body into

subatomic units so swiftly that no neural system could possibly register the pain; and the restoration to life

came with equal speed. Whole and undamaged, Krug emerged, with Spaulding beside him, in the

transmat cubicle of his office.

“Look after Quenelle,” Krug said. “She'll be arriving downstairs. Amuse her. I don't want to be

disturbed for at least an hour.”

Spaulding exited. Krug closed his eyes.

The falling of the block had upset him greatly. It was not the first accident during the building of the

tower; it probably would not be the last. Lives had been lost today: only android lives, true, but lives all

the same. The waste of life, the waste of energy, the waste of time, infuriated him. How would the tower

rise if blocks fell? How would he send word across the heavens that man existed, that he mattered, if

there were no tower? How would he ask the questions that had to be asked?

Krug ached. Krug felt close to despair at the immensity of his self-imposed task.

In times of fatigue or tension he became morbidly conscious of the presence of his body as a prison

engulfing his soul. The folds of belly-flesh, the island of perpetual rigidity at the base of the neck, the tiny

tremor of the upper left eyelid, the slight constant pressure on the bladder, the rawness in the throat, the

bubbling in the kneecap, every intimation of mortality rang in him like a chime. His body often seemed

absurd to him, a mere bag of meat and bone and blood and feces and miscellaneous ropes and cords

and rags, sagging under time's assault, deteriorating from year to year and from hour to hour. What was

noble about such a mound of protoplasm? The preposterousness of fingernails! The idiocy of nostrils!

The foolishness of elbows! Yet under the armored skull ticked the watchful gray brain, like a bomb

buried in mud. Krug scorned his flesh, but he felt only awe for his brain, and for the human brain in the

abstract. The true Krugness of him was in that soft folded mass of tissue, nowhere else, not in the guts,

not in the groin, not in the chest, but in the mind. The body rotted while its owner still wore it; the mind

within soared to the farthest galaxies.

“Massage,” Krug said.

The timber and tone of his command caused a smoothly vibrating table to extrude itself from the wall.

Three female androids, kept constantly on call, entered the room. Their supple bodies were bare; they

were standard gamma models, who could have been triplets but for the usual programmed minor

somatotype divergences. They had small high-set breasts, flat bellies, narrow waists, flaring hips, full

buttocks. They had hair on their heads and they had eyebrows, but otherwise they were without body

hair, which gave them a certain sexless look; yet the groove of sex was inscribed between their legs, and

Krug, if his tastes inclined that way, could part those legs and find within them a reasonable imitation of

passion. His tastes had never inclined that way. But Krug had deliberately designed an element of

sensuality into his androids. He had given them functional—if sterile—genitals, just as he had given them

proper—though needless—navels. He wanted his creations to look human (aside from the necessary

modifications) and to do most human things. His androids were not robots. He had chosen to create

synthetic humans, not mere machines.

The three gammas efficiently stripped him and worked him over with their cunning fingers. Krug lay

belly-down; tirelessly they plucked at his flesh and toned his muscles. He stared across the emptiness of

his office at the images on the distant wall.

The room was furnished simply, even starkly: a lengthy rectangle that contained a desk, a data terminal,

a small somber sculpture, and a dark drape that would, at the touch of a repolarizing stud, reveal the

panorama of New York City far below. The lighting, indirect and subdued, kept the office in eternal

twilight. On one wall, though, there blazed a pattern in brilliant yellow luminescence:

* *

* * * *

* *

* * * * *

* * *

It was the message from the stars.

Vargas’ observatory had picked it up first as a series of faint radio pulses at 900 megacycles; two quick

beats, a pause, four beats, a pause, one beat, and so on. The pattern was repeated a thousand times

over a span of two days, then halted. A month later it showed up at 1421 megacycles, the 21-centimeter

hydrogen frequency, for another thousand turns. A month after that it came in both at half and at double

that frequency, a thousand of each. Still later, Vargas was able to detect it optically, riding in on an

intense laser beam at a 5000-angstrom wavelength. The pattern was always the same, clusters of brief

bursts of information: 2 ... 4 ... 1 ... 2 ... 5 ... 1 ... 3 ... 1. Each subcomponent of the series was separated

from the next by an appreciable gap, and there was a much larger gap between each repetition of the

entire group of pulse-clusters.

Surely it was some message. To Krug, the sequence 2-4-1-2-5-1-3-1 had become a sacred number,

the opening symbols of a new kabbalah. Not only was the pattern emblazoned on his wall, but the touch

of his finger would send the sound of the alien signal whispering through the room in any of several

audible frequencies, and the sculpture beside his desk was primed to emit the sequence in brilliant flashes

of coherent light.

The signal obsessed him. His universe now revolved about the quest to make reply. At night he stood

beneath the stars, dizzied by the cascade of light, and looked to the galaxies, thinking, I am Krug, I am

Krug, here I wait, speak to me again! He admitted no possibility that the signal from the stars might be

other than a consciously directed communication. He had turned all of his considerable assets to the task

of answering.

—But isn't there any chance that the “message” might be some natural phenomenon?

None. The persistence with which it arrived in such a variety of media indicates a guiding

consciousness behind it. Someone is trying to tell us something.

—What significance do those numbers have? Are they some kind of galactic pi?

We see no obvious mathematical relevance. They do not form any apparent intelligible

arithmetical progression. Cryptographers have supplied us with at least fifty equally ingenious

suggestions, which makes all fifty equally suspect. We think that the numbers were chosen entirely

at random.

—What good is a message that doesn't have any comprehensible content?

The message is its own content: a yodel across the galaxies. It tells us, Look, we are here, we

know how to transmit, we are capable of rational thinking, we seek contact with you!

—Assuming you're right, what kind of reply do you plan to make?

I plan to say, Hello, hello, we hear you, we detect your message, we send greetings, we are

intelligent, we are human beings, we wish no longer to be alone in the cosmos.

—In what language will you tell them this?

In the language of random numbers. And then, in not-so-random numbers. Hello, hello, 3.14159,

did you hear that, 4.14159, the ratio of diameter to circumference?

—And how will you say this to them? With lasers? With radio waves?

Too slow, too slow. I cannot wait for electromagnetic radiations to go forth and come back. We

will talk to the stars with tachyon-beams, and I will tell the star-folk about Simeon Krug.

Krug trembled on the table. The android masseuses clawed his flesh, pounded him, drove knuckles into

his massive muscles. Were they trying to tap the mystic numbers into his bones? 2-4-1, 2-5-1, 3-1?

Where was the missing 2? Even if it had been sent, what would the sequence mean, 2-4-1, 2-5-1,

2-3-1? Nothing significant. Random. Random. Meaningless clusters of raw information. Nothing more

than numbers arrayed in an abstract pattern, and yet they carried the most important message the

universe ever had known:

We are here.

We call out to you.

And Krug would answer. He shivered with pleasure at the thought of his tower completed and the

tachyon-beams pouring out into the galaxy. Krug would reply, Krug the rapacious, Krug the insensitive

moneyman, Krug the dollar-hungry boor, Krug the mere industrialist, Krug the fat peasant, Krug the

ignorant, Krug the coarse. I! Me! Krug! Krug! Krug!

“Out,” he snapped to the androids. “Finished!”

The girls scurried away. Krug rose, slowly resumed his garments, walked across the room to run his

hands over the pattern of yellow lights.

“Messages?” he said. “Visitors?”

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Robert Silverberg - Tower of Glass

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