Niven, Larry - Spirals

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SPIRALS

Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle

There are always people who want to revise history. No hero is so great that

someone won’t take a shot at him. Not even Jack Halfey.

Yes, I knew Jack Halfey. You may not remember my name. But in the main

airlock of industrial Station One there’s an inscribed block of industrial diamond, and my

name is sixth down: Cornelius L. Riggs, Metallurgist. And you might have seen my face

at the funeral.

You must remember the funeral. All across the solar system work stopped while

Jack Halfey took his final trek into the sun. He wanted it that way, and no spacer was

going to refuse Jack Halfey’s last request, no matter how expensive it might be. Even the

downers got in the act. They didn’t help pay the cost, but they spent hundreds of millions

on sending reporters and cameras to the Moon..

That funeral damned near killed me. The kids who took me to the Moon weren’t

supposed to let the ship take more than half a gravity. My bones are over a hundred years

old, and they’re fragile. For that young squirt of a pilot the landing may have been

smooth, but she hit a full gee for a second there, and I thought my time had come.

I had to go, of course. The records say I was Jack’s best friend, the man who’d

saved his life, and being one of the last survivors of the Great Trek makes me somebody

special. Nothing would do but that I push the button to send Jack on his “final spiral into

the sun.” to quote a downer reporter.

I still see TriVee programs about ships “spiraling” into the sun. You’d think

seventy years and more after the Great Trek the schools would teach kids something

about space.

When I staggered outside in lunar gravity-lighter than the 20% gravity we keep in

the Skylark, just enough to feel the difference-the reporters were all over me. Why, they

demanded, did Jack want to go into the sun? Cremation and scattering of ashes is good

enough for most spacers. It was good enough for Jack’s wife. Some send their ashes back

to Earth; some are scattered into the solar wind, to be flung throughout the universe;

some prefer to go back into the soil of a colony sphere. But why the sun?

I’ve wondered myself. I never was good at reading Jack’s mind. The question that

nearly drove me crazy, and did drive me to murder, was: why did Jack Halfey make the

Great Trek in the first place?

I finally did learn the answer to that one. Be patient.

Probably there will never be another funeral like Jack’s. The Big Push is only a

third finished, and it’s still two hundred miles of the biggest linear accelerator ever built,

an electronic-powered railway crawling across the Earthside face of the Moon. One day

we’ll use it to launch starships. We’ll fire when the Moon is full, to add the Earth’s and

Moon’s orbital velocities to the speed of the starship, and to give the downers a thrill. But

we launched Jack when the Moon was new, with precisely enough velocity to cancel the

Earth’s orbital speed of eighteen miles per second, It would have cost less to send him

into interstellar space.

Jack didn’t drop in any spiral. The Earth went on and the coffin stayed behind,

then it started to fall into the Sun. It fell ninety-three million miles just like a falling safe,

except for that peculiar wiggle when he really got into the sun’s magnetic field.

Moonbase is going to do it again with a probe. They want to know more about that

wiggle.

The pilot was a lot more careful getting me home, and now I’m back aboard the

Skylark in a room near the axis where the heart patients stay; and on my desk is this pile

of garbage from a history professor at Harvard who has absolutely proved that we would

have had space industries and space colonies without Jack Halfey. There are no

indispensible men.

In the words of a famous American president: Bullshit! We’ve made all the

downers so rich that they can’t remember what it was like back then.

And it was grim. If we hadn’t got space industries established before 2020 we’d

never have been able to afford them at all. Things were that thin. By 2020 AD. there

wouldn’t have been any resources to invest. They’d have all gone into keeping eleven

billion downers alive (barely!) and anybody who proposed “throwing money into outer

space” would have been lynched.

God knows it was that way when Jack Halfey started.

I first met Jack Halfey at UCLA. He was a grad student in architecture, having got

his engineering physics degree from Cal Tech. He’d also been involved in a number of

construction jobs-among them Hale Observatory’s big orbital telescope while he was still

an undergrad at Cal Tech-and he was already famous. Everyone knows he was brilliant,

and they’re right, but he had another secret weapon: he worked his arse off. He had to.

Insomnia. Jack couldn’t sleep more than a couple of hours a night, and to get even that

much sleep he had to get laid first.

I know about this because when I met, Jack he was living with my sister. Ruthie

told me that they’d go to bed, and Jack would sleep a couple of hours, and up he’d be,

back at work, because once he woke up there was no point in lying in bed.

On nights when they couldn’t make out he never went to bed at all, and he was

pure hell to live with the next day.

She also told me he was one mercenary son of a bitch. That doesn’t square with

the public image of Jack Halfey, savior of mankind, but it happens to be true, and he

never made much of a secret of it. He wanted to get rich fast. His ambition was to lie

around Rio de Janeiro’s beaches and sample the local wines and women; and he had his

life all mapped out so that he’d be able to retire before he was forty.

I knew him for a couple of months, then he left UCLA to be a department head in

the construction of the big Tucson arcology. There was a tearful scene with Ruthie: she

didn’t fit into Jack’s image for the future, and he wasn’t very gentle about how he told

her he was leaving. He stormed out of her apartment carrying his suitcase while Ruthie

and I shouted curses at him, and that was that.

I never expected to see him again.

When I graduated there was this problem: I was a metallurgist, and there were a

lot of us. Metallurgists had been in big demand when I started UCLA, so naturally

everybody studied metallurgy and materials science; by the time I graduated it was

damned tough getting a job.

The depression didn’t help much either. I graduated right in the middle of it.

Runaway inflation, research chopped to the bone, environmentalists and Only One

Earthers and Friends of Man and the Earth and other such yo-yo’s on the rise; in those

days there was a new energy crisis every couple of years, and when I got my sheepskin

we were in the middle of, I think, number 6. Industry was laying off, not hiring.

There was one job I knew of. A notice on the UCLA careers board. “Metallurgist

wanted. High pay, long hours, high risk. Guaranteed wealthy in ten years if you live

through it.”

That doesn’t sound very attractive just now, but in those days it looked better.

Better than welfare, anyway, especially since the welfare offices were having trouble

meeting their staff payrolls, so there wasn’t a lot left over to hand out to their clients.

So, I sent in an application and found myself one of about a hundred who’d got

past the paperwork screening. The interview was on campus with a standard personnel

officer type who seemed more interested in my sports record than my abilities as a

metallurgist. He also liked my employment history: I’d done summer jobs in heavy steel

construction. He wouldn’t tell me what the job was for.

“Not secret work,” he said. “But we’d as soon not let it out to anyone we’re not

seriously interested in.” He smiled and stood up, indicating the interview was over.

“We’ll let you know”

A couple of days later I got a call at the fraternity house.

They wanted me at the Wilshire headquarters of United Space Industries.

I checked around the house. but didn’t get any new information. USI had

contracts for a good bit of space work, including the lunar mines. Maybe that’s it. I

thought. I could hope, anyway.

When I got to USI the receptionist led me into a comfortable room and asked me

to sit down in a big Eames chair. The chair faced an enormous TV screen (flat: TriVee

wasn’t common in those days. Maybe it was before TriVee at all; it’s been a long time,

and I don’t remember). She typed something on an input console, and we waited a few

minutes, and the screen came to life.

It showed an old man floating in mid-air..

The background looked like a spacecraft, which wasn’t surprising. I recognized

Admiral Robert McLeve. He had to be eighty or more, but he didn’t look it.

“Good morning,” he said.

The receptionist left. “Good morning,” I told the screen. There was a faint red

light on a lens by the screen, and I assumed he could see me as well as! could see him.

“I’d kind of hoped for the Moon. I didn’t expect the O’Neill colony,” I added.

It took a while before he reacted, confirming my guess: a second and a half each

way for the message, and the way he was floating meant zero gravity. I couldn’t think of

anything but the Construction Shack (that’s what they called it then) that fit the

description.

“This is where we are,” McLeve said. “The duty tour is five years. High pay, and

you save it all. Not much to spend money on out here. Unless you drink. Good liquor

costs like transplant rights on your kidneys. So does bad liquor, because you still have to

lift it.”

“Savings don’t mean much,” I said.

“True.” McLeve grimaced at the thought. Inflation was running better than 20%.

The politicians said they would have it whipped Real Soon Now, but nobody believed

them. “We’ve got arrangements to have three quarters of your money banked in Swiss

francs. If you go back early, you lose that part of your pay. We need somebody in your

field, part time on the Moon, part time up here in the Shack. From your record I think

you’d do. Still want the job?”

Industries.

I wanted it all right. I was never a nut on the space industries bit-I was never a nut

on anything-but it sounded like good work. Exciting, a chance to see something of the

solar system (well, of near-Earth space and the Moon; nobody had gone further than that)

as well as to save a lot of money. And with that job on my record I’d be in demand when

I came home.

As to why me. it was obvious when I thought about it. There were lots of good

metallurgists, but not many had been finalists in the Olympic gymnastics team trials. I

hadn’t won a place on the team, but I’d sure proved I knew how to handle myself. Add to

that the heavy construction work experience and I was a natural. I sweated out the job

appointment, but it came through, and pretty soon I was at Canaveral, strapping myself

into a Shuttle seat, and having second and third thoughts about the whole thing.

There were five of us. We lifted out from the Cape in the Shuttle, then transfened

in Earth orbit to a tug that wasn’t a lot bigger than the old Apollo capsules had been. The

trip was three days, and crowded. The others were going to Moon base. They refueled my

tug in lunar orbit and sent me off alone to the Construction Shack. The ship was guided

from the Shack, and It was scary as hell because there wasn’t anything to do but wonder

if they knew what they were doing. It took as long to get from the Moon to the Shack as

it had to get to the Moon from Earth, which isn’t surprising because it’s the same

distance: the Shack was in one of the stable libration points that make an equilateral

triangle with the Earth and the Moon. Anything put there will stay there forever.

The only viewport was a small thing in the forward end of the tug. Naturally we

came in ass-backwards so I didn’t see much.

Today we call it the Skylark, and what you see as you approach is a sphere half a

kilometer across. It rotates every two minutes, and there’s all kinds of junk moored to the

axis of rotation. Mirrors, the laser and power targets, the long thin spine of the mass

driver, the ring of agricultural pods, the big telescope; a confusion of equipment.

It wasn’t that way when I first saw it. The sphere was nearly all there was, except

for a spiderweb framework to hold the solar power panels. The frame was bigger than the

sphere, but it didn’t look very substantial. At first sight the Shack was a pebbled sphere, a

golf ball stuck in a spider’s web.

McLeve met me at the airlock. He was long of limb, and startlingly thin, and his

face and neck were a maze of wrinkles. But his back was straight, and when he smiled

the wrinkles all aligned themselves. Laugh-lines.

Before I left Earth I read up on his history: Annapolis, engineer with the space

program (didn’t make astronaut because of his eyes); retired with a bad heart; wrote a lot

of science fiction. I’d read most of his novels in high school, and I suppose half the

people in the space program were pulled in by his stories.

When his wife died he had another heart attack. The Old Boys network came to

the rescue. His classmates wangled an assignment in space for him. He hadn’t been to

Earth for seven years, and low gravity was all that kept him alive. He didn’t even dare go

to the Moon. A reporter with a flair for mythological phraseology called him “The Old

Man of Space.” It was certain that he’d never go home again, but if he missed Earth he

didn’t show it.

“Welcome aboard.” He sounded glad to see me. “What do they call you?” he

asked.

A good question. Cornelius might sound a dignified name to a Roman, but it

makes for ribald comments in the USA. “Corky,” I told him. I shrugged, which was a

mistake: we were at the center of the sphere, and there wasn’t any gravity at all. I drifted

free from the grabbandle I’d been clinging to and drifted around the airlock.

After a moment of panic it turned out to be fun. There hadn’t been

<fix>mom</fix> for any violent maneuvers in the tug, but the airlock was built to get

tugs and rocket motors inside for repairs; it was big, nine meters across, and I could twirl

around in the zero gravity. I flapped my arms and found I could swim.

McLeve was watching with a critical air. He must have liked what he saw because

he grinned slightly. “Come on,” he said. He turned in the air and drifted without apparent

motion- it looked like levitation. “I’ll show you around.” He led the way out of the

airlock into the sphere itself.

We were at the center of rotation. All around, above and below, were fields of

dirt, some plowed, some planted with grass and grains.

There were wings attached to hooks at the entrance. McLeve took down a set and

began strapping them on. Black bat wings. They made him look like a fallen angel,

Milton’s style. He handed me another pair. “Like to fly?” he asked. I returned the grin.

“Why not?” I hadn’t the remotest idea of what I was doing, but if I could swim in the’ air

with my hands. I ought to be able to handle wings in no gravity. He helped me strap in,

and when I had them he gave some quick instructionS.

“Main thing is to stay high,” he said. “The further down the higher the gravity,

and the tougher it is to control these things.” He launched himself into space, gliding

across the center of the sphere. After a moment I followed him.

I was a tiny chick in a vast eggshell. The landscape was wrapped around me:

fields and houses, and layout yards of construction gear, and machinery, and vats of

algae, and three huge windows opening on blackness. Every direction was down, millions

of light years down when a window caught my attention. For a moment that was

terrifying. But McLeve held himself in place with tiny motions of his wings, and his eyes

were on me. I swallowed my fear and looked.

There were few roads. Mostly the colonists flew with their wings, flew like birds,

and if they didn’t need roads, they didn’t need squared-off patterns for the buildings

either. The “houses” looked like they’d been dropped at random among the green fields.

They were fragile partitions of sheet metal (wood was far more costly than sheet steel

here), and they could not have borne their own weight on Earth, let alone stand up to a

stiff breeze. They didn’t have to. They existed for privacy alone.

I wondered about the weather. Along the axis of the sphere I could see scores. of

white pufiballs. Clouds? I gathered my courage and flapped my way over to the white

patch. It was a flock of hens. Their feet were drawn up. their heads were tucked under

their wings, and they roosted on nothing.

“They like it in zero gravity." McLeve said. “Only thing is, when you’re below

them you have to watch out.”

He pointed. A blob of chicken splat had left the flock and moved away from us. It

fell in a spiral pattern. Of course the splat was actually going in a straight line-we were

the ones who were rotating, and that made the falling stuff look as if it were spiraling to

the ground below.

“Automatic fertilizer machine,” I said. McLeve nodded.

“I wonder you don’t keep them caged,” I said.

“Some people like their sky dotted with fleecy white hens.”

“Oh. Where is everybody?” I asked.

“Most are outside working.” McLeve said. “You’ll meet them at dinner.”

We stayed at the axis, drifting with the air currents, literally floating on air. I

knew already why people who came here wanted to stay. I’d never experienced anything

like it, soaring like a bird. It wasn’t even like a sail plane: you wore the wings and you

flew with-them, you didn’t sit in a cockpit and move controls around.

There were lights along part of the axis. The mirrors would take over their job

when they were installed; for the moment the lights ran off solar power cells plastered

over the outside of the sphere. At the far end of the sphere was an enormous cloud of dust

We didn’t get close to it. I pointed and looked a question.

“Rock grinder,” McLeve said. “Making soil. We spread it over the northern end.”

He laughed at my frown. “North is the end toward the sun. We get our rocks from the

Moon. It’s our radiation shielding. Works just as well if we break it up and spread it

around, and that way we can grow crops in it. Later on we’ll get the agricultural

compartments built, but there’s always five times as much work as we have people to do

it with.”

They’d done pretty well already. There was grass, and millet and wheat for the

chickens, and salad greens and other vegetable crops. Streams ran through the fields

down to a ringshaped pond at the equator. There was also a lot of bare soil that had just

been put in place and hadn’t been planted. The Shack wasn’t anywhere near finished.

“How thick is that soil?” I asked.

“Not thick enough. I was coming to that. If you hear the flare warnings, get to my

house. North pole.”

I thought that one over. The only way to ward yourself from a solar flare is to put

a lot of mass between you and, the sun. On Earth that mass is a hundred miles of air. On

the Moon they burrow ten meters into the regolith, The Shack had only the rock we could

get from the Moon, and Moonbase had problems of its own. When they had the

manpower and spare energy they’d throw more rock our way, and we’d plaster it across

the outer shell of the Shack, or grind it up and put it inside; but for now there wasn’t

enough, and come flare time McLeve was host to an involuntary lawn party.

But what the hell, I thought. It’s beautiful. Streams rushing in spirals from pole to

equator. Green fields and houses, skies dotted with fleecy white hens; and I was flying as

man flies in dreams.

I decided it was going to be fun, but there was one possible hitch.

“There are only ten women aboard,” I said.

McLeve nodded gravely

“And nine of them are married.”

He nodded again. “Up to now we’ve mostly needed muscle. Heavy construction

experience and muscle. The next big crew shipment’s in six months, and the company’s

trying like hell to recruit women to balance things off. Think you can hold out that long?”

“Guess I have to.”

“Sure. I’m old navy. We didn’t have women aboard ships and we lived through

it.”

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摘要：

SPIRALSLarryNivenandJerryPournelleTherearealwayspeoplewhowanttorevisehistory.Noheroissogreatthatsomeonewon’ttakeashotathim.NotevenJackHalfey.Yes,IknewJackHalfey.Youmaynotremembermyname.ButinthemainairlockofindustrialStationOnethere’saninscribedblockofindustrialdiamond,andmynameissixthdown:CorneliusL...

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Niven, Larry - Spirals

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