Charles Sheffield - The Web Between the Worlds

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The Web Between the Worlds

Charles Sheffield

Fout! Onbekende schakeloptie-instructie.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or

incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Book

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-671-31973-6

Cover art by Bob Eggleton

First revised printing, February 2001

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

To Ann and Brock

Baen Books by Charles Sheffield

The Spheres of Heaven

The Mind Pool

My Brother’s Keeper

The Compleat McAndrew

Convergent Series

Transvergence

Proteus in the Underworld

Borderlands of Science

The Web Between the Worlds

An open letter

to the Bulletin of the

Science Fiction Writers

of America

Early in 1979 I published a novel, The Fountains of Paradise, in which an engineer named Morgan, builder of the

longest bridge in the world, tackles a far more ambitious project—an “orbital tower” extending from a point on the

equator to geostationary orbit. Its purpose: to replace the noisy, polluting and energy-wasteful rocket by a far more

efficient electric elevator system. The construction material is a crystalline carbon filter, and a key device in the plot

is a machine named “Spider.”

A few months later another novel appeared in which an engineer named Merlin, builder of the longest bridge in

the world, tackles a far more ambitious project—an “orbital tower,” etc. etc. The construction material is a crystalline

silicon fiber, and a key device in the plot is a machine named “Spider” . . .

A clear case of plagiarism? No—merely an idea whose time has come. And I’m astonished that it hasn’t come

sooner.

The concept of the “space elevator” was first published in the West in 1966 by John Isaacs and his team at La

Jolla. They were greatly surprised to discover that a Leningrad engineer, Yuri Artsutanov, had anticipated them in

1960; his name for the device was a “cosmic funicular.” There have since been at least three other independent

“inventions” of the idea.

I first mentioned it in a speech to the American Institute of Architects in May 1967 (see “Technology and the

Future” in Report on Planet Three) and more recently (July 1975) in an address to the House of Representatives

Space Committee (see The View From Serendip). However, although I had been thinking about The Fountains of

Paradise for almost two decades, it was not until a very few years ago that I decided to use the orbital tower as its

theme. One reason for my reluctance was, I suspect, an unconscious fear that, surely, some science-fiction writer

would soon latch on to such a gorgeous idea. Then I decided that I simply had to use it—even if Larry Niven came

out first . . .

Well, Charles Sheffield (currently President of the American Astronautical Association and V/P of the Earth

Satellite Corporation) only missed by a few months with his Ace novel The Web Between the Worlds. (Incidentally,

that would have been a good title for Brian Aldiss’ marvellous fantasy Hothouse, [a.k.a. The Long Afternoon of

Earth] which had spiderwebs linking Earth and Moon!) I am much indebted to Dr. Sheffield for sending me the ms.

of his novel; and if you want another coincidence, I had just started reading his first novel, Sight of Proteus (Ace),

when the second one arrived . . .

Anyone reading our two books will quickly see that the parallels were dictated by the fundamental mechanics of

the subject—though in one major respect we evolved totally different solutions. Dr. Sheffield’s method of anchoring

his “Beanstalk“ is hair-raising, and I don’t believe it would work. I’m damn sure it wouldn’t be permitted!

I’m writing this letter to put the record straight, and to divert any possible charges from Dr. Sheffield. But I’d also

like to satisfy my own curiosity.

It still seems inconceivable to me that, in the eighteen years since it’s been circulating, no one has used this idea

in fiction—especially now that it is being taken more and more seriously in non-fiction, with a rapidly expanding

literature. (I expect to give a survey paper on the subject at the annual International Astronautical Federation

Congress, Munich, 20 September 1979). I no longer—alas—have the time to read the S.F. magazines, or more than

even a tenth of the good books published. So I’d appreciate any information on this point, before I get charged with

plagiarism.

As for the rest of you—go right ahead. Charles Sheffield and I have just scratched the surface. The Space Elevator

(and its various offspring, some even more fantastic) may be the great engineering achievement of the Twenty-first

century, making travel round the solar system no more expensive than any other form of transportation.

Arthur C. Clarke

17 January 1979

Introduction

to This Edition

The idea of a space elevator, a load-bearing cable that extends from the surface of the earth to high orbit and

beyond, is an old one. It was first suggested by Tsiolkovsky in 1895, as a passing comment and with no analysis of

the idea. Sixty-five years later, in 1960, the concept was rediscovered and explored in more detail by another

Russian, Artsutanov. His work in turn remained unknown in the West until 1966, when the idea was rediscovered by

Isaacs, Vine, Bradner, and Bachus. Since then it has been “discovered” at least three more times.

However, the notion of the space elevator, also known as a skyhook, a heavenly funicular, an anchored satellite,

an orbital tower, and my own favorite name, a beanstalk, was still new to science fiction in 1978. When I sent a short

story about beanstalks, “Skystalk,” to the science fiction magazines, the response was not encouraging. The editor of

Asimov’s magazine, George Scithers, in an unusually frank rejection slip, said, “Neither I nor anyone on my staff

understands this story.” The editor of Analog magazine, Stan Schmidt, was more encouraging, asking, “Is the idea in

this story really feasible?” But he still rejected it. And when it was finally bought by Jim Baen, in December, 1978,

for publication in Destinies magazine, he suggested that I write an accompanying article, explaining the dynamics

and physics behind what might otherwise seem an outrageous idea.

All this made me feel somewhat insecure. At the time I was busy writing a whole novel centered on beanstalks.

Suppose that the readers and reviewers rejected the whole thing as scientifically impossible?

And then, in the fall of 1978, I heard from Fred Durant. He was and is a friend of mine, and Arthur Clarke’s

oldest friend in the United States. Fred lived just a couple of miles away from me, and he spoke with Clarke

frequently by telephone. Arthur, he told me, was finishing a new novel—a novel in which a space elevator was a

main element.

I won’t say I was pleased. Nervous is a better word. I had never met Arthur Clarke, but at Fred Durant’s

suggestion, not to say insistence, I took my completed manuscript and sent a copy to Clarke in Sri Lanka. I had no

idea what to expect; what I certainly didn’t expect was what came: first, a very friendly letter from Arthur Clarke,

and, soon after, an open letter from him to the Science Fiction Writers of America, stating that coincidence, not

plagiarism, lay behind the fact that two books were to be published in 1979 with strikingly similar themes. Not just

the space elevator, but each book had as main character the world’s leading bridge-builder; each one employed a

device known as a Spider.

The fear that the idea would be mocked disappeared. All that was left were questions that remain to this day. If

Clarke had not published his The Fountains of Paradise, how would my The Web Between the Worlds have been

received? Would my book have been hailed, as the source of a big idea new to science fiction? Or would it have

suffered instant obscurity, as a piece of science fantasy?

I’ll never know.

PROLOGUE

Goblin Night

The voice began again in her ear as she hurried into the airport. It was the merest thread of sound, carrying

through the implanted receiver.

“I hope you’re on the plane by now, Julia. It looks as though it was the right decision. I’m still here in the lab, but

all the exits are covered. I still can’t get any messages out over the standard com-links. I’m going to see if I can

signal Morrison, over in Building Two. Keep going, and take care.”

Gregor’s voice ceased in her ears as she entered the main Christchurch terminal and looked about her. It was

almost two A.M. There were few flights out at this hour, and few people around. That might be both good and bad.

She ought to be able to spot anyone seeking her, but perhaps no one would be there to save her and her burden from

harm. She walked cautiously over to the ticket desk and looked at the departure display board. One flight was listed

in the next hour. It was the one she wanted—and it was running on time. She went slowly up to the counter, where

one tired young clerk was on duty.

He yawned at her. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Do you have a reservation for Merlin, Julia Merlin?”

Had she and Gregor made a mistake, booking the flight under her real name? She glanced around. The terminal

was empty, except for two young men stretched out asleep on the long couch by the far wall.

“Right here.” The clerk keyed in her confirmation for the flight. “Flight 157, transpolar to Capetown. Pre-paid

ticket for one.” He looked at her swelling belly and smiled. “I guess that’s really for two, right?”

She nodded and forced an answering smile. “One more month. Don’t ever believe anybody who tells you a

pregnancy is nine months. It feels like five times that.”

He was nodding, not listening closely. “You’ll be boarding in about twenty minutes. Flight time will be three and

a half hours.” He looked apologetic. “It’s not the fastest equipment on this run, less than Mach Three all the way.

People who fly in the middle of the night don’t seem to be in much of a hurry, I guess. There’ll only be about fifty of

you on this one—at least you’ll be able to stretch out, maybe take a nap. Now, what about luggage? Checking both

of them?”

“No.” Her reply had been too fast, too urgent. “I’ll check the case, but I need to keep this box with me.” She was

clutching it hard against her chest, unable to prevent her reaction.

“All right.” He looked it over with an experienced eye. “I don’t think you’ll quite get it under the seat. That’s all

right, though, you’ll have lots of spare room fore and aft.” He glanced at the display of her reservation, checking it

for dates. “I see your ticket was paid by the Antigeria Labs. You’re with them, are you?”

A mistake. If their fears were real, she and Gregor should never have used the lab’s name in booking the ticket.

“Yes.” She swallowed. “My husband is the Director.”

She hesitated, wondering whether to add more, but he was nodding absently. It must just be a bored midnight

conversation to him. Surely he had no real interest in an unkempt, eight-months-pregnant woman? She picked up her

ticket and turned to leave.

“Just a second, Mrs. Merlin.”

She froze, as the clerk’s voice rang out behind her. She turned slowly. He was smiling and holding out a yellow

square of paper. “You’re forgetting your boarding pass.”

She took it from him without speaking and walked on slowly to the gate. As she passed the security checks,

Gregor’s voice began again in her ear.

“Julia. Julia, I don’t know if you can still hear me, but it’s worse than we thought. I got through to Morrison in

Building Two, and he completed the first test on the other Goblin. He agrees with your analysis, there’s conclusive

evidence of induced progeria. We were only two minutes on the video, then the link failed at his end.”

His voice was thin and reedy through the tiny implant, but she could hear the tension. “I’m standing at the

window now,” he went on. “There’s a fire across in Building Two and the exits are being watched here. I don’t see

any way of getting out. You have to get the other Goblin over to the Carlsberg Lab, and let McGill take a look at it.”

She clutched the oblong box closer. Inside her, the unborn child stirred restlessly, responding to the adrenaline

that was running in her bloodstream.

“I’m going to try and get out of here,” continued Gregor’s voice. “I’ll take the transmitter with me, but it doesn’t

have enough range to reach you once you get a few miles out of the airport. According to our schedule, you should

be about ready for takeoff. I wish there was some way you could send to me. Look, tell McGill a couple of other

things. The Goblin that Morrison was working on died the same way as the one you have with you. Vacuum

exposure. That suggests they both died in the same place—in a non-pressurized plane compartment. Morrison came

up with an age estimate, twelve months or so. Body mass was five and a half kilos. Length a little under half a meter,

about the same as the one you have with you. I hope you’re somewhere where you can hear all this. We still have no

idea how they got to the lab, but I’m sure now that they only died a couple of days ago.”

Julia Merlin was through the boarding lounge now and walking along the connecting tunnel to the aircraft. She

was vaguely aware of the steward smiling at her and gesturing towards the box she carried. She shook her head,

walked heavily back to her seat and sat down in it. Gregor’s voice had ceased in her ears. She leaned forward and

tried to push the oblong box under the seat, but it would not fit. Leaning far forward was a great effort. She

straightened up, gasping at the sudden jab of pain.

“It won’t go there, ma’am,” said the steward. He was standing beside her, holding out his hand. “Here, let me

stow it in the rear, where there’s room. No need for you to come with me,” he added, as she began to rise from her

seat. “Look, see that space in the back? I’ll just tuck it in there.”

He lifted the box lightly from her hands and carried it aft. She strained round in her seat, watching until it was

safely placed in position. Gregor was speaking through the implant again, but his voice was almost unintelligible

through the interference.

“ . . . get to the lower floor . . . standing next to the street light . . . again . . .”

His final words were lost in the increasing noise of the engines. The aircraft, wide-bodied and squat, began to

move along the runway. There was a sudden acceleration that pressed her back hard into the seat. They left the

ground rapidly and began to climb at an angle of about thirty degrees, powering up to the cruising altitude of ninety

thousand feet and a cruising speed above Mach Two.

Julia lay back in her seat, exhausted. She could not relax, but sheer physical and mental strain were taking their

toll. She sat there, silent, as the liner reached its assigned altitude and set a great circle route for Capetown. The pain

that she had felt when she stretched forward in her seat had not gone away. It was a dull, sullen ache in her belly,

rising from time to time to a fierce cramp. But she had escaped. Whatever it was that Gregor feared so much could

not reach her now.

An hour into the flight they were approaching Commonwealth Bay, on the shore of Antarctica. The pilot’s voice

had just come over the passenger address system, pointing out that they were about to fly over the South Magnetic

Pole. The violent explosion in the cargo hold at the extreme rear of the craft obliterated his words.

The on-board computer did its best. Milliseconds after the internal pressure dropped below a quarter of an

atmosphere, radio signals were sent to the Search and Rescue satellites that monitored the Earth constantly from low

polar orbit. At the same time, the computer assessed the damage to the structure of the aircraft and decided that it

was not possible to make a powered descent. The planted bomb in the cargo hold had destroyed the rear assembly

completely. Three passengers sitting in the rear had been sucked out of the ship by the aerodynamic pressure. With

them had gone Julia Merlin’s oblong box with the body of the Goblin packed inside it. Passengers and box dropped

together towards the dark wastes of the Antarctic Ocean.

The computer took the seating plan of the remaining passengers, computed total maximum survival probability

for the group, and slid the rear set of emergency doors out of the fuselage walls and across the width of the cabin.

Three crew members were trapped aft of the seal.

Oxygen was released into the forward part of the cabin from the emergency supply. The tough plastic of the

emergency doors bellied under the pressure, but it held easily. Four seconds after the explosion, the atmosphere was

again able to support life. While the surviving passengers gulped in oxygen and held their ears against the agony of

the sudden pressure changes, the computer began Stage Two.

The rear control surfaces were gone. The computer switched off all flight power, jettisoned the self-contained

nuclear reactor unit a fraction of a second before the captain could do it, and flashed an estimated landing location to

the Search and Rescue System.

The rear braking chute had gone, too. Computed impact speed, even with the deployment of the forward chute,

would still be too high. The computer trimmed all surfaces to minimize descent speed. It prepared to deploy the

forward chute, and positioned the air-bags to release the instant before ground impact. The craft would hit inland,

seven thousand feet above sea level on the polar ice cap. The Search and Rescue Satellite also computed a trajectory

and sent back a confirmation of the estimated arrival point. Messages had already gone out to the nearest

ground-based Search and Rescue teams, telling them the number of passengers and crew, their ages and physical

condition.

There had been no time to think. Julia Merlin and the other passengers lay helplessly back in their seats while the

aircraft dropped like a stone through the long day of an Antarctic November. The fall from ninety thousand feet with

chute deployed took six minutes; long enough to breathe again, to despair, and finally to hope.

They almost made it. If the impact had been into soft new snow, instead of old and hard-packed ice, the hull

would have remained intact. Instead, it split along its length, spilling some of the passengers and fixtures outside

onto the hard ice. The air bags absorbed most of the momentum, so the more fortunate passengers found themselves

lying dazed but unharmed inside the ruined hull as it slipped and scraped to a halt down the steep ice-slope.

Julia Merlin was one of the unlucky ones. The portion of the craft where she sat was squeezed vertically as the

right wing collapsed and the vessel rolled hard over to the right. A metal brace from the cabin roof above her moved

down hard, caught her square on the forehead, and thrust her out of her seat through the gaping side of the hull. The

plane skidded on. Julia’s body slithered to a halt almost a quarter of a mile short of the place where the ruin of the

aircraft stopped its downward career.

Partially shielded by the remains of the air-bag, her body lay supine and bleeding on the ice. The frontal and

parietal lobes of her brain had been crushed to a grey and oozing pulp by the impact of the hardened aluminum

brace. Her clothing had been ripped from her as she was ejected from the cabin. But she was not dead. The most

ancient part of her brain still functioned. Somehow, the process that had begun when she first entered the aircraft

continued its work. In the bleak light of the Midnight Sun, the ageless rhythm of parturition quickened in Julia

Merlin’s unconscious body.

Soon the head was born, thrusting naked into the light of the long day. For a highland area of the ice cap, the

weather might be regarded as mild. The new-born was emerging into an atmosphere that held thirty degrees of frost,

with a stiff breeze to carry the effective temperature twenty degrees lower. Julia Merlin’s thighs provided a partial

shield, no more.

The Search and Rescue Team had left Porpoise Bay just minutes after the emergency call was received there.

They made excellent time flying over to the wreck and they spotted it at once. The first few minutes were spent

caring for the passengers who were still inside the hull, then the team fanned out rapidly across the ice, looking for

other survivors.

They came to Julia Merlin’s body last of all. Even so, they were almost in time.

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TheWebBetweentheWorldsCharlesSheffieldFout!Onbekendeschakeloptie-instructie.Thisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright©1979byCharlesSheffield.Revisededitioncopyright©2001byCharlesSheffield.Allri...

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