Tomorrow Happens (27 page)

The result—Asimov's universe of Robot Stories—became another instant classic of science fiction.

The Foundation Universe and the Robots—for many years, these two cycles of fiction stayed separate. Then Asimov did something controversial. He combined them. It seemed a strange decision at the time. But in the long run, that combination brought about a great conversation. A conversation between Asimov and his readers. And one that Isaac kept thrashing back and forth with himself.

Like a truly honest scientist, he re-evaluated. Each and every decade, Isaac found hidden implications in his universe. Things that were already tacit, between the lines. With meticulous honesty, he bared these implications and explored them . . . till the next decade started another round.

First he wrought the
Foundation
, treating a quadrillion humans as "gas molecules" whose destiny could be calculated through Hari Seldon's wondrous new science of psychohistory.

Later, Isaac realized that
perturbations
would interfere with statistical predictability, even in such a marvelous new science. So he introduced a secret cabal of psychic-mathematicians (the Second Foundation) who would be dedicated to guiding the Seldon Plan back in line, should the galaxy drift too far down a wrong path.

But a decade or so afterwards, Isaac realized the moral flaw of the Second Foundation . . . that it left humanity led forever by a secret, inherited aristocracy! This was offensive to Isaac's democratic sensibilities. He solved this by bringing both halves of his life-work together . . . by inserting robots into the Foundation Universe. Daneel Olivaw and his scrupulously honest followers would act behind the scenes, manipulating even the Second Foundation, all for our own best interests, of course. Picture dedicated
court eunuchs
, who cannot conspire to become lords, because they will have no offspring. They can be trusted . . . or can they?

A little while later
, Isaac realized something . . . free will had been reversed! The mechanical servants had memory and volition, they were rare, precious and powerful, while humans—as numerous and powerless as insects—had amnesia about their past and no control over their future. Now that didn't sound like such a great future either!

He sought a way out of this . . . and came up with Gaia! This is the ultimate robotic plan for humanity, for us to transcend together into a single, all-powerful mental being (a concept we've seen positively portrayed by Arthur C. Clarke in
Childhoods End and 2001
. . . and negatively in
Star Trek
's infamous Borg). The Gaia/Galaxia resolution that Isaac put forward in
Foundation's Edge
would eventually deify humanity, restoring our memory and authority over robots again, in a fashion that Daneel Olivaw would find acceptable, allowing him at last to put down his ancient burden and step aside for a long deserved rest.

Only then Isaac took things to the
next
level, and realized . . .

Well, he dropped plenty of hints, before he died. Isaac made it pretty clear . . . at least to Benford and Bear and me . . . where the next dilemma lay.

In continuing Isaac Asimov's epochal saga, Gregory Benford, Greg Bear and I faced a daunting challenge—to keep adding ideas and possibilities to the Foundation/Robots setting. Concepts that captivate the reader. Visions that are new, awesome and wonderful, illuminated in stories filled with interesting characters and vivid adventure. And yet, we had to remain true to Isaac's overall vision of a startling and intellectually stimulating future.

As I said earlier, Asimov added an entire course to our endless and ongoing dinner-table conversation about destiny. His shoes were hard to fill. Fortunately, Isaac did lay down a terrific supply of hints, especially in books that he completed before he died. Clues to mysteries and logical quandaries that he clearly meant to deal with someday.

But we also had to capture the delightful
flavor
of an Asimovian tale. Isaac was, above all, a lover of mystery stories, and this carried over into his science fiction. Furthermore, readers of his works have come to expect certain traditions.

The protagonist faces adversaries whose masked motives are peeled away through logic and insight, with successive reversals offering delicious surprise.

Tantalizing mysteries. Isaac left "hanging questions" in many books . . . using these as hooks for the next tale. New books should continue this tradition of asking more unanswered questions.

Ethical quandaries. Isaac wasn't afraid of presenting readers with morally ambivalent situations. The hero must choose among several paths, each with advantages and drawbacks. Villains have reasons for their actions.

Issues of cosmic relevance. Isaac dealt with
Destiny
.

Frequent referral to events in other books. While each can be satisfying on its own, Isaac's readers loved catching brief references to events that took place elsewhere in his universe. (In
Foundations Triumph
I refer
Pebble in the Sky, The Stars, Like Dust, I, Robot
and
The Naked Sun
!)

These traditions combined into a classic futuristic universe, a stage where we could watch a play as vivid and timeless as anything by Hugo or Dumas.

And there is Hari Seldon, a monumental figure, able to see so much about human destiny, yet also feeling trapped by strange forces that he barely understands . . . until achieving a strange triumph at the very end. His struggles to bring humanity to a sanctuary of happiness are epochal.

Alas, Isaac did not have time to continue exploring the implications. Mortality catches up with us all. But the logic is right there— a path implied by several dozen delicious clues he laid down, over the years.

What matters is to stay enthralled, to remain ready to be provoked by new thoughts, to keep pushing back the curtain a little bit, learning and discussing more about our future. Whether the topic is robots . . . how to keep them loyal and interesting . . . or almost any other dramatic device of science fiction . . .

The adventure continues. Enjoy. And keep thinking.

We were tooling along at four nines to
c
, relative to the Hercules cluster, when our Captain came on the intercom to tell us we were being tailed.

The announcement interrupted my afternoon lecture on Basic Implosive Geometrodynamics, as I explained principles behind the
Fulton
's star drive to youths who had been children when we hoarded, eight subjective years ago.

"In ancient science fiction," I had just said, "you can read of many fanciful ways to cheat the limit of the speed of light. Some of these seemed theoretically possible, especially when we learned how to make microscopic singularities by borrowing and twisting spacetime. Unfortunately, wormholes have a nasty habit of crushing anything that enters them, down to the size of a Planck unit, and it would take a galaxy-sized mass to 'warp' space over interstellar distances. So we must propel ourselves along through normal space the old-fashioned way, by Newton's law of action and reaction . . . albeit in a manner our ancestors would never have dreamed."

I was about to go on, and describe the physics of metric-surfing, when the Captain's voice echoed through the ship.

"
It appears we are being followed
," he announced. "
Moreover, the vessel behind us is sending a signal, urging us to cut engines and let them come alongside
."

It was a microscopic ship that had been sent flashing to intercept us, massing less than a microgram, pushed by a beam of intense light from a nearby star. The same light (thoroughly red-shifted) was what we had seen reflected in our rear-viewing mirrors, causing us to stop our BHG motors and coast, awaiting rendezvous.

Picture that strange meeting, amid the vast, yawning emptiness between two spiral arms, with all visible stars crammed by the Doppler effect into a narrow, brilliant hoop, blue along its forward rim and deep red in back. The
Fulton
was like a whale next to a floating wisp of plankton as we matched velocities. Our colony ship, filled with humans and other Earthlings, drifted alongside a gauzy, furled umbrella of ultra-sheer fabric. An umbrella that spoke.

"
Thank you for acceding to our request
," it said, after our computers established a linguistic link. "
I represent the intergalactic Corps of Obligate Pragmatism
."

We had never heard of the institution, but the Captain replied with aplomb.

"You don't say? And what can we do for you?"

"
You can accommodate us by engaging in a discussion concerning your star drive
."

"Yes? And what about our star drive?"

"
It operates by the series-implosion of micro-singularities, which you create by borrowing space-time-metric, using principals of quantum uncertainty. Before this borrowed debit comes due, you allow the singularities to re-collapse behind you. This creates a spacetime ripple, a wake that propels you ahead without any need on your part to expend matter or energy
."

I could not have summarized it better to my students.

"Yes?" The Captain asked succinctly. "So?"

"
This drive enables you to travel swiftly, in relativistic terms, from star system to star system
."

"It has proved rather useful. We use it quite extensively."

"
Indeed, that is the problem
," answered the wispy star probe. "
I have chased you across vast distances in order to ask you to stop
."

No wonder it had used such a strange method to catch up with us! The COP agent claimed that our BHG drive was immoral, unethical, and dangerous!

"
There are alternatives
," it stressed. "
You can travel as I do, pushed by intense beams cast from your point of origin. Naturally, in that case you would have to discard your corporeal bodies and go about as software entities. I contain about a million such passengers, and will happily make room for your ship's company, if you wish to take up the offer of a free ride
."

"No thank you," the Captain demurred. "We like corporeality, and do not find your means of conveyance desirable or convenient."

"
But it is ecologically and cosmologically sound! Your method, to the contrary, is polluting and harmful
."

This caught our attention. Only folk who have sensitivity to environmental concerns are allowed to colonize, lest we ruin the new planets we take under our care. This is not simply a matter of morality, but of self-interest, since our grandchildren will inherit the worlds we leave behind.

Still, the star-probe's statement confused us. This time, I replied for the crew.

"Polluting? All we do is implode temporary micro black holes behind us and surf ahead on the resulting recoil of borrowed space-time. What can be
polluting
about adding a little more space to empty space?"

"
Consider
," the COP probe urged. "
Each time you do this, you add to the net distance separating your origin from your destination
!"

"By a very small fraction," I conceded. "But meanwhile, we experience a powerful pseudo-acceleration, driving us forward nearly to the speed of light."

"
That is very convenient for you, but what about the rest of us
?"

"The . . . rest . . . The rest of
whom
?"

"
The rest of the universe
!" the probe insisted, starting to sound petulant. "
While you speed ahead, you cause the distance from point A to point B to increase, making it marginally harder for the next voyager to make the same crossing
."

I laughed. "Marginally is right! It would take millions of ships . . .
millions
of millions . . . to begin to appreciably affect interstellar distances, which are already increasing anyway, due to the cosmological expansion—"

The star-probe cut in.

"
And where do you think that expansion comes from
?"

I admit that I stared at that moment, speechless, until at last I found my voice with a hoarse croak.

"What . . ." I swallowed. "What do you mean by that?"

The COPs have a mission. They speed around the galaxies—not just this one, but most of those we see in the sky—urging others to practice restraint. Beseeching the short-sighted to think about the future. To refrain from spoiling things for future generations.

They have been at it for a very, very long time.

"You're not having much success, are you?" I asked, after partly recovering from the shock.

"
No, we are not
," the probe answered, morosely. "
Every passing eon, the Universe keeps getting larger. Stars get farther apart, making all the old means of travel less and less satisfying, and increasing the attraction of wasteful metric-surfing. It is so easy to do. Those who refrain are mostly older, wiser species. The young seldom listen
."

I looked around the communications dome of our fine vessel, thronging with the curious, with our children, spouses and loved ones—the many species of humanity and its friends who make up the vibrant culture of organic beings surging forth across this corner of the galaxy. The COP was saying that we aren't alone in this vibrant enthusiasm to move, to explore, to travel swiftly and see what there was to see. To trade and share and colonize. To
go
!

In fact, it seemed we were quite typical.

"No," I replied, a little sympathetically this time. "I don't suppose they do."

The morality-probes keep trying to flag us down, using entreaties, arguments and threats to persuade us to stop. But the entreaties don't move us. The arguments don't persuade. And the threats are as empty as the gaps between galaxies.

After many more voyages, I have learned that these frail, gnat-like COPs are ubiquitous, persistent, and futile. Most ships simply ignore the flickering light in the mirror, dismissing it as just another phenomenon of relativistic space, like the Star-Bow, or the ripples of expanding metric that throb each time we surge ahead on the exuberant wake of collapsing singularities.