Hogan, James P - The Two Faces of Tomorrow

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The Two Faces of Tomorrow -- James P. Hogan -- (1979)

(Version 2002.08.21 -- Done)

Acknowledgment

I would like to express my thanks for the invaluable help and advice

given by Professor Marvin Minsky, Director of the Artificial Intelligence Unit

of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. A popular notion holds that

science-fiction writers see today where science-fact will be going tomorrow;

in reality, more often, the process tends to work the other way round.

Jim Hogan

Acton, Mass.

February 1979

PROLOGUE

The planetismal began as a region of above-average density that occurred by

chance in a swirling cloud of dust and gas condensing out of the expanding

vastness of space. Gently at first but at a rate that grew steadily faster as

time went by, it continued to sweep up the smaller accretions in its vicinity

until it had grown to a rough spheroid of compressed dust and rock measuring

fifty feet across.

Eventually the planetismal itself came under the pull of a larger body

that had been growing in similar fashion, and began falling toward it. It

impacted at a speed of over ten miles per second, releasing the energy

equivalent of a one-hundred-kiloton bomb and blasting a crater more than half

a mile in diameter.

Shortly afterward, as measured on a cosmic timescale, a second

planetismal fell close by and created another crater of similar dimensions;

the distance between the crater centers was such that the raised rims of

debris thrown up by the explosions merged together for a distance, resulting

in the formation of a ridge of exaggerated height between the two basins.

In the time that followed, the rain of meteorites continued, pulverizing

the landscape into a wilderness of sharp-grained dust to a depth of several

feet, the desolation being relieved only by the occasional outcrop or

shattered boulder. The outlines of the craters were slowly eroded away and

stirred back into the sea of dust.

When the bombardment at last petered away, all that remained of the

ridge was a rounded hummock to mark where the rims had intersected -- a mound

of dust and rock debris forty feet high and several hundred long. There it

remained as one of the weary but triumphant survivors that were left to stare

out over the gently rolling wastes that stretched to the horizon.

From then on the ridge remained essentially unchanged. A steady drizzle

of micrometeorites continued to erode the top millimeter or so of its surface,

exposing fresh material to trap hydrogen and helium nuclei from the solar

wind; particles from sporadic solar flares caused isolated nuclear

transformations down to several centimeters, and cosmic rays penetrated

slightly farther. But in terms of its size, shape and general appearance, the

ridge had become a permanent feature on a changeless world.

Four billion years later, give or take a few, Commander Jerry Fields,

assigned to the International Space Administration's lunar base at Reinhold,

was standing staring up at that same ridge. Beside him, similarly clad in a

blue-gray spacesuit bearing the golden-flashed ISA shoulder insignia, Kal

Paskoe frowned through his visor, studying the line of the ridge with an

engineer's practiced eye.

"Well, what do you think?" Fields inquired into his radio. "See any

problems?"

"Uh uh." Paskoe's reply was slow and noncommittal as he squinted against

the glare of the setting sun. He turned to stare back at the metallic glint

that marked the position of the base at the foot of the low hills on the

skyline behind them, then returned his gaze to the ridge to register mentally

a couple of salient boulders near its crest. "No...no problems," he said at

last. "I think I've seen all I need. Let's get back to the truck and get the

job scheduled. We can't do any more here until the computers have figured out

how they're going to handle it."

The mass-driver at Maskelyne, over a thousand miles away on the western

edge of Tranquillatis, had been in operation for almost a decade. It had been

built as part of the EXPLORER (Exploitation of Lunar ORE Reserves) Project to

hurl lunar rock up into orbit for metal extraction and construction of the

huge space colonies being assembled within several hundred thousand miles of

Earth. In fact the title was something of a deliberate misnomer. There were of

course no true ores on the Moon -- ores in the sense of metal-rich substances

concentrated by weathering and geological processes. Deep below the surface,

however, were rich accumulations of titanium, aluminum, iron and suchlike that

had been precipitated by thermofluidic processes operative during the Moon's

early history. The compounds bearing these elements had been dubbed "ores" by

the media and the name had stuck.

The mass-driver was a five-mile-long, ruler-straight track flanked by

two "hedges" of continuous electromagnetic windings -- an immense linear

accelerator stretching westward across Tranquillatis. It accelerated

supercooled magnetic "buckets" riding on cushions of flux at 100g to reach

escape velocity in the first two miles. Beyond that the buckets were laser-

tracked and computer-adjusted to eject their loads of moonrock in a shallow

climb that just cleared the mountains two hundred miles away by virtue of the

Moon's surface curvature. En route the loads were electrically charged by

being sprayed with electrons and fine-trimmed by massive electrostatic

deflectors located at the two-hundred-mile downrange point to leave the final

phase of launch with an accuracy better than one part in a million --

comparable to a football being kicked between the uprights from 3,000 miles.

From there on each load, comprising 60 pounds of "ore," climbed steadily

for two days until, 40,000 miles above the lunar surface, it fell into a

"Hippo" catcher-ship stationed at the gravitationally stable L2 point. The

energy needed to power the mass-driver was beamed down as microwaves from a

three-mile-wide orbiting solar collector.

Day in, day out, round the clock, the mass-driver sent up a charge every

two seconds, halting only for maintenance or for occasional repairs. Every

year, one million tons of moonrock fell into the waiting relays of Hippos. And

farther out in space, the colonies steadily took shape.

The project had been so successful that the powers-that-be had decided

to go ahead with the construction of a second mass-driver. This one would also

be located on the equator, but near Reinhold, aiming out across Procellarum.

The track, the experts had decreed, would pass right over the point at which

Fields and Paskoe were standing. Not a little to the right nor a little to the

left, they had pronounced after extensive surveys, but right there.

First-phase preparation would require accurate sighting with lasers,

covering a stretch of terrain that extended from a mile or more behind them to

several times that distance ahead, which would require an unobstructed path.

The ridge was not really large -- about the size of a dozen average houses set

end to end -- but...it was in the way.

And so it came about that the form that had stood valiantly to preserve

its record of events from the earliest epoch of the Solar System at last found

itself opposing the restless, thrusting outward urge of Man.

The ridge would have to go.

"How goes it?" The voice of Sergeant Tim Cummings came through over the

open channel from the nearest of the two surface-crawlers parked a few hundred

feet back at the bottom of the shallow slope that led up to the ridge.

"I think we're about done here," Paskoe replied. "Get some coffee on,

Tim. We're coming back down."

"See all you wanted from the top?" Cummings inquired.

"Yeah. Its pretty much as we thought," Paskoe told him. "More or less

symmetric on both sides. Probably not more than fifty, maybe sixty feet thick

at the base." He glanced automatically at the twin lines of footprints that

let up to the point on the ridge crest that he and Fields had climbed to, and

then led back to where they were now standing.

"Let's go," Fields said, and with that turned and began heading back to

the crawler. Paskoe gave the ridge one final glance, then turned to follow at

a slow easy-going lope that brought him alongside Fields in a few seconds.

"What do you reckon?" Fields asked as they bounced side by side down the

slope. "Soil blower maybe?"

"Dunno," Paskoe replied. "There are some big boulders in there, and it's

probably pretty well compacted lower down. Might take a digger or two,

probably a heavy shover too. We'll see what the computers reckon."

"There's some heavy equipment the other side of Reinhold," Fields

remarked. "If they shifted some of that over here they might get started

inside a day or two."

"Nah -- I'm pretty sure most of that stuff's tied up," Paskoe said.

"They may have to fly something in from Tycho. Anyhow, that's their problem.

They know their schedules. We'll just have to wait and see what they come up

with."

"As long as we don't end up having to shovel it," Fields said as they

slowed down to approach the crawler. Paskoe steadied himself on the handrail

and stooped slightly to clear his helmet past the entrance to the crawler's

lower cabin.

"No way," he declared with feeling. "I've seen enough Massachusetts

winters not to ever wanna see a shovel again. I'll leave it to the computers.

If they say the best they can manage is a week, that's okay by me."

"The boss'd get pretty mad about that if it happened," Fields murmured

as he ducked to follow the now invisible Paskoe.

"Then the boss could come out here and damn well shovel it himself,"

Paskoe's voice said in his helmet.

Five minutes later they had removed their helmets and were seated back

at the crew stations beneath the viewdome of the crawler's upper cabin.

While Fields and Cummings used the viscreen to discuss the next item on

the day's agenda with Michel Chauverier, who was in command of the other

crawler parked next to them, Paskoe activated the main console at the far end

of the cabin to dose a channel via comsat to the Tycho node of the ubiquitous

TITAN computer complex. After a brief dialogue via touchpad and display

screen, he had communicated the nature of his request to the system's

Executive Command Interpreter. A few seconds later the screen returned the

message:

ASSIGNED JOB NUMBER 2736/B. 72/Z72

SCHEDULED TO SUBSYSTEM: SURFACE ENGINEERING P.927

REQUIRE DATA REGARDING NATURE AND LOCATION OF OBSTRUCTION

Paskoe remote-steered one of the crawler's external TV cameras until he

had an image of the ridge outside nicely centered on one of the console's

auxiliary screens. Then he operated the touchpad again to bring up two

flashing cursors superimposed on the image, and moved them across the screen

until they lined up with the boulder formations he had memorized. In this

position the cursors defined the portion of the ridge that mattered.

He then tapped out a brief code with his fingertips. In the fraction of

a second that followed, the coordinates of the crawler's identification beacon

were read and plotted by one of the invisible satellites high above. At the

same time the picture being picked up by the TV camera was analyzed by the

onboard computers and the data extracted were used to align the laser mounted

on the roof with the centerpoint between the cursors. The range, bearing and

elevation data read from the laser were instantly flashed to the Tycho

computers. From the readings obtained from the satellite, the computers knew

the exact location of the crawler upon the lunar surface. The laser data

enabled them to compute the position of the ridge relative to the crawler, and

hence to deduce its precise coordinates as well.

A few more seconds elapsed while programs at Tycho pondered over the

patterns contained in the TV picture being sent to them. Then the words on the

screen vanished to be replaced by:

PROFILE?

Paskoe responded:

BASE THICKNESS 60FT MAX.

OBSTRUCTION APPROX LONGITUDINALLY SYMMETRIC

COMPACTED REGOLITH INC OBSERVED DEBRIS TO 10FT DIA EST.

REQUIRED REMOVAL TO DEPTH EST 40FT. LEVEL.

He drummed his fingers on the console with growing impatience while the

machines meditated. No doubt they were bringing in the crawler's armory of X-

ray analyzers, infrared analyzers and heavens alone knew what else to scan the

ridge and estimate its mass, composition, structural features and whatever

else they thought they needed to know to figure out how to go about doing a

perfectly simple job.

It was quite straightforward, he told himself. All they had to do was

decide which types of earth-moving machine would be best suited -- surely any

dirt-farmer could have told them that -- check where they were located and

when they would become available, and advise how long it would take to get

them moved here. Then he'd be able to plan the next part of the job.

Computers! The simpler the task, the more it seemed they had to fuss

around with irrelevant detail. Just like people.

PRIORITY REQUESTED?

Paskoe sighed:

ABSOLUTE BEST POSSIBLE

GRADE PB PROJECT BEING DELAYED REF. 2053/A.

THIS ITEM CRITICAL.

The computers, however, were not through yet.

ANY CONSTRAINTS?

NO. JUST GET RID OF IT.

Another wait ensued. Then the words changed again. Paskoe read them

casually, blinked, sat forward and read them again.

JOB SCHEDULED PRIORITY CATEGORY 'A.1'.

NO FURTHER QUERIES

ESTIMATED COMPLETION TIME IS 21 MINUTES.

Paskoe frowned and asked for a repeat...and got it. Looking bemused, he

turned and interrupted the conversation still going on behind him between his

two companions and Chauverier.

"Hey. Look at this. Either I'm crazy or the system's screwed up. Tell me

I'm not crazy." Fields and Cummings turned in their seats.

"What's up?" Fields inquired. Paskoe gestured toward his console.

"Tycho's sized up the job and it's giving an ECT of twenty-one minutes."

"You're crazy," Fields declared without hesitation.

"Look at the screen."

"It's crazy," Fields decided.

Cummings rose from his seat and clambered across the cabin to peer more

closely at the display.

"What's going on?" Chauverier demanded from the viscreen.

"Kal's got some screwy numbers back from Tycho," Fields told him. "Tim's

gone to have a look."

"Could be a fluke," Cummings was saying, rubbing his chin dubiously.

"Maybe it's our lucky day. There's probably a transporter due over this way

that's carrying just the stuff we need on a low-priority job someplace. Maybe

Tycho's rescheduled it to land here." Paskoe pursed his lips and nodded

slowly.

"Could be..." he agreed, then went on suddenly more decisively. "Yep.

You could be right, Tim. I never thought of that. What do you think, Jerry?"

"Makes sense," Fields agreed. "We'd better stay put to see what shows

up." He turned back toward Chauverier, who was still peering out of the

viscreen. "We think there'll be a ship coming down here pretty soon, Michel.

There'll probably only be robodiggers or something on it, but maybe we ought

to hang around to check it out. It should only be for a half-hour or so."

"Suits us," Chauverier answered readily. "In fact me and Joe were just

starting to get hungry. If we're going to stick around here for a while I

guess we'll eat. Do you guys want to come on over for a bite?" Fields turned

back to the others.

"Michel's inviting us over for lunch in his truck. Okay by you two?"

"Great idea."

"Sure."

"Okay, Michel," Fields advised. "We're on our way. Set it up for three

more," With that he cut off the screen. At the same time Paskoe killed the

channel to Tycho.

For the next few minutes they donned helmets and took turns going

through the routine drill of plugging the test leads from their suits into the

socket provided in the panel by the floor hatch. Fields drew a "NO GO" in the

test. The codes being displayed on the panel's miniature screen revealed an

intermittent sticking valve in his life-support -- Muttering beneath his

breath, Paskoe began replacing the faulty valve in Fields's backpack while

Cummings called Chauverier again to advise of the delay. Fifteen minutes later

they were ready to go.

"It won't last," Fields said over the radio as he turned to begin

following Cummings down the short ladder below the floor hatch. "I'll bet

fifty bucks on it. Paggett is only there until he retires Earthside and until

then he'll just go on rubber-stamping. When he goes, Cawther's bound to take

over. Then it'll all be different. I give it twelve months at the most."

Cummings had passed through the exit to the surface.

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TheTwoFacesofTomorrow--JamesP.Hogan--(1979)(Version2002.08.21--Done)AcknowledgmentIwouldliketoexpressmythanksfortheinvaluablehelpandadvicegivenbyProfessorMarvinMinsky,DirectoroftheArtificialIntelligenceUnitoftheMassachusettsInstituteofTechnology.Apopularnotionholdsthatscience-fictionwritersseetodayw...

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Hogan, James P - The Two Faces of Tomorrow

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