Suddenly, the supporting cables snapped, flailing upwards like murderous steel whips. Twisting and turning, the roadway pitched into the river, fragments of the structure flying in all directions. Even when projected at normal speed, the final cataclysm looked as if shot in slow motion; the scale of the disaster was so large that the human mind had no basis of comparison. In reality, it lasted perhaps five seconds; at the end of that time, the Tacoma Narrows Bridge had earned an inexpungable place in the history of engineering. Two hundred years later there was a photograph of its last moments on the wall of Morgan’s office, bearing the caption “One of our less successful products”.
To Morgan that was no joke, but a permanent reminder that the unexpected could always strike from ambush. When the Gibraltar Bridge was being designed, he had gone carefully through von K�rm�n’s classic analysis of the Tacoma Narrows disaster, learning all he could from one of the most expensive mistakes of the past. There had been no serious vibrational problems even in the worst gales that had come roaring in from the Atlantic, though the roadway had moved a hundred metres from the centre line precisely as calculated.
But the space elevator was such a leap forward into the unknown that some unpleasant surprises were a virtual certainty. Wind forces on the atmospheric section were easy to estimate, but it was also necessary to take into account the vibrations induced by the stopping and starting of the payloads – and even, on so enormous a structure, by the tidal effects of the sun and moon. And not only individually, but acting all together; with, perhaps, an occasional earthquake to complicate the picture, in the so-called “worst case” analysis.
“All the simulations, in this tons-of-payload-per-hour regime, give the same result. The vibrations build up until there’s a fracture at around five hundred kilometres. We’ll have to increase the damping – drastically.”
“I was afraid of that. How much do we need?”
“Another ten megatons.”
Morgan could take some gloomy satisfaction from the figure. That was very close to the guess he had made, using his engineer’s intuition and the mysterious resources of his subconscious. Now the computer had confirmed it; they would have to increase the “anchor” mass in orbit by ten million tons.
Even by terrestrial earth-moving standards, such a mass was hardly trivial; it was equivalent to a sphere of rock about two hundred metres across. Morgan had a sudden image of Yakkagala, as he had last seen it, looming against the Taprobanean sky. Imagine lifting that forty thousand kilometres into space! Fortunately, it might not be necessary; there were at least two alternatives.
Morgan always let his subordinates do their thinking for themselves; it was the only way to establish responsibility, it took much of the load off him – and, on many occasions, his staff had arrived at solutions he might have overlooked.
“What do you suggest, Warren?” he asked quietly.
“We could use one of the lunar freight launchers, and shoot up ten megatons of moon-rock. It would be a long and expensive job, and we’d still need a large space-based operation to catch the material and steer it into final orbit. There would also be a psychological problem -”
“Yes, I can appreciate that; we don’t want another San Luiz Domingo -”
San Luiz had been the – fortunately small – South American village that had received a stray cargo of processed lunar metal intended for a low-orbit space station. The terminal guidance had failed, resulting in the first man-made meteor crater – and two hundred and fifty deaths. Ever since that, the population of planet Earth had been very sensitive on the subject of celestial target practice.
“A much better answer is to catch an asteroid; we’re running a search for those with suitable orbits, and have found three promising candidates. What we really want is a carbonaceous one – then we can use it for raw material when we set up the processing plant. Killing two birds with one stone.”
“A rather large stone, but that’s probably the best idea. Forget the lunar launcher – a million 10-ton shots would tie it up for years, and some of them would be bound to go astray. If you can’t find a large enough asteroid, we can still send the extra mass up by the elevator itself – though I hate wasting all that energy if it can be avoided.”
“It may be the cheapest way. With the efficiency of the latest fusion plants, it will take only twenty dollars’ worth of electricity to lift a ton up to orbit.”
“Are you sure of that figure?”
“It’s a firm quotation from Central Power.”
Morgan was silent for a few minutes. Then he said: “The aerospace engineers really are going to hate me.” Almost as much, he added to himself, as the Venerable Parakarma.
No – that was not fair. Hate was an emotion no longer possible to a true follower of the Doctrine. What he had seen in the eyes of ex-Doctor Choam Goldberg was merely implacable opposition; but that could be equally dangerous.
21. Judgement
One of Paul Sarath’s more annoying specialities was the sudden call, gleeful or gloomy as the case might be, which invariably opened with the words: “Have you heard the news?” Though Rajasinghe had often been tempted to give the general-purpose answer: “Yes – I’m not at all surprised,” he had never had the heart to rob Paul of his simple pleasure.
“What is it this time?” he answered, without much enthusiasm.
“Maxine’s on Global Two, talking to Senator Collins. I think our friend Morgan is in trouble. Call you back.”
Paul’s excited image faded from the Screen, to be replaced a few seconds later by Maxine Duval’s, as Rajasinghe switched to the main news channel. She was sitting in her familiar studio, talking to the Chairman of the Terran Construction Corporation, who seemed to be in a mood of barely suppressed indignation – probably synthetic.
“- Senator Collins, now that the World Court ruling has been given -”
Rajasinghe shunted the entire programme to RECORD, with a muttered: “I thought that wasn’t until Friday.” As he turned off the sound and activated his private link with ARISTOTLE, he exclaimed, “My God, it is Friday!”
As always, Ari was on line at once.
“Good morning, Raja. What can I do for you?”
That beautiful, dispassionate voice, untouched by human glottis, had never changed in the forty years that he had known it. Decades – perhaps centuries – after he was dead, it would be talking to other men just as it had spoken to him. (For that matter, how many conversations was it having at this very moment?) Once, this knowledge had depressed Rajasinghe; now it no longer mattered. He did not envy ARISTOTLE’S immortality.
“Good morning, Ari, I’d like today’s World Court ruling on the case Astroengineering Corporation versus the Sri Kanda Vihara. The summary will do – let me have the full printout later.”
“Decision 1. Lease of temple site confirmed in perpetuity under Taprobanean and World Law, as codified 2085. Unanimous filing.”
“Decision 2. The construction of the proposed Orbital Tower with its attendant noise, vibration and impact upon a site of great historic and cultural importance would constitute a private nuisance, meriting an injunction under the Law of Torts. At this stage, public interest not of sufficient merit to affect the issue. Ruling 4 to 2, one abstention.”
“Thank you, Ari – cancel printout – I won’t need it. Goodbye.” Well, that was that, just as he had expected. Yet he did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
Rooted as he was in the past, he was glad that the old traditions were cherished and protected. If one thing had been learned from the bloody history of mankind, it was that only individual human beings mattered: however eccentric their beliefs might be, they must be safeguarded, so long as they did not conflict with wider but equally legitimate interests. What was it that the old poet had said? “There is no such thing as the State.” Perhaps that was going a little too far; but it was better than the other extreme.
At the same time, Rajasinghe felt a mild sense of regret. He had half convinced himself (was this merely co-operating with the inevitable?) that Morgan’s fantastic enterprise might be just what was needed to prevent Taprobane (and perhaps the whole world, though that was no longer his responsibility) from sinking into a comfortable, self-satisfied decline. Now the Court had closed that particular avenue, at least for many years.
He wondered what Maxine would have to say on the subject, and switched over to delayed playback. On Global Two, the News Analysis channel (sometimes referred to as the Land of Talking Heads), Senator Collins was still gathering momentum.
“- undoubtedly exceeding his authority and using the resources of his division on projects which did not concern it.”