Timemaster

by Robert L. Forward

  Timemaster

  1992**

  Robert L. Forward

  Contents

  Chapter 1 Silver Threads up in the Sky

  Chapter 2 Silverhair

  Chapter 3 Return to Rose

  Chapter 4 Terravator

  Chapter 5 Ad Astra!

  Chapter 6 Welcome Back

  Chapter 7 Epsilon Eridani

  Chapter 8 Timemaster

  Chapter 9 Visit

  Chapter 10 Avenger

  Chapter 11 Timetrap

  Chapter 12 Homeward Bound

  Chapter 13 ... A Little Help from my Friends

  Chapter 14 Off to the Future!

  Final Report

  Bibliography

  About The Author

  Book information

  Chapter 1

  Silver Threads up in the Sky

  The music from Holst's The Planets filled the interior of the cavernous Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow parked at the very end of the road at Cape May on the southern tip of New Jersey. The young couple in the front seat were sitting slightly apart from each other, holding hands and looking up at the bright full moon rising in the east.

  The young man, Randy Hunter, was very small in stature, but had the muscular build of a weight lifter. His wavy chestnut-brown hair was tied back in a "Paul Revere" by a pearlidescent ribbon, while his expensive, custom-robotailored evening suit sported a matching pearlidescent throat choker. A graded set of large pearls climbed up his right ear, and from his left earlobe dangled the world-famous Venus's Tear. The young woman, Rose Cortez, was small and dark-complexioned, with short ringlets of dark-brown hair, deep brown eyes, and a full-bodied figure with a wasp waist. Like all women in 2036, her face was devoid of makeup and jewelry.

  Just above the moon was a slender silver thread. Together they watched as the thread, seemingly keeping time with the majestic music, rotated slowly in its lunar orbit like a brilliantly illuminated spoke on an otherwise invisible, gigantic Ferris wheel rolling along the lunar surface.

  "Watching the moon rise is sure a lot more interesting than it used to be a few years ago," said Rose.

  "Wait until my Rotovator Division gets the next two Lunavators installed in their oblique orbits," replied Randy. "Then one of them should always be visible in the sunlight, even during a new moon."

  One end of the silver thread touched down at the north pole of the moon, then lifted off again.

  Another thirty thousand for the income side of the Reinhold Astroengineering Company ledgers, Randy thought in satisfaction. Not much, but in twenty-eight minutes the other end will touch down and I'll get another thirty thousand. A little here ... a little there ... it all adds up.

  Passing slowly by one side of the moon was another silver thread in a low Earth orbit. This thread was one terminal of the cable catapult system for transportation to and from the asteroid belt. The thread had two beads strung on it—a small bead at one end and a much larger one just short of the other end. The smaller bead started to move along the thread at high acceleration. It went faster and faster, passed through the large bead, and shot off the end of the thread out into space. When the crew in the high-speed bead reached the other cable catapult out in the asteroid belt, the process would be repeated in the reverse direction.

  "Another of my prospecting crews off to the asteroid belt," Randy murmured to himself. "I wonder what they'll find out there next?"

  Randy's cuff computer chirped a warning. He silenced the alarm with a brusque "I hear you." Releasing Rose's hand, he reached over to the car stereo controls. The digital bits of music that trickled from the petarom cartridge of classical music ceased their flow, and the quadraphonic speakers in the car switched to the sounds of a crowd at a racetrack. Rose looked slightly annoyed.

  "I've got Silver Sailor entered in the feature race at Santa Anita in California," Randy explained quickly, then listened attentively as the announcer went through the lineup for the race.

  FAR OUT in the asteroid belt, two Reinhold Astroengineering Company prospectors left their spacecraft and used their jetpacks to investigate a strange find. The identification patches on the backs of their fluorescent-red outeralls identified them as Jim Meriweather and Bob Pilcher.

  "There it is, Bob," Jim said, pointing. "On the other side of that nickel-iron knob."

  "Holy spaghetti!" Bob exclaimed. As the two moved closer, they could see a giant ball of silver threads floating motionless in the windless emptiness of space. It was a good ten meters in diameter and made of thousands of long, thin, shining threads coming from a compact center. "I've heard of metallic whisker clumps forming in space before, but none with whiskers this long. Must be some sort of rare ultrapure nickel-iron ore. I'll get a video of it." Bob activated the camera in his chestpack and scanned the scene. "Reminds me of a toy I used to have as a kid—I think it was called a Koosh-Ball."

  "I'll jet over and get a sample," said Jim, taking out his prospector's tool and a collection bag. His jets fired and he moved closer to the strange mineral formation. Suddenly the sphere of threads grew larger and fanned out toward the approaching figure.

  "Watch out, Jim!" called Bob. "It's coming after you!"

  "Migod!" exclaimed Jim. "The damn thing is alive!" His fingers danced desperately across his chestpack, and his jets fired in an attempt to reverse his motion toward the silvery creature. The exhaust from the jets excited the creature into more violent action. The threads reached for him with a twirling motion, as if they were feeding on the exhaust plumes. One of the threads struck Jim on the arm.

  "Ow!" Jim called out in pain. "It got me!"

  The contact must have been painful to the creature, too, for it immediately drew back and shrank in size, leaving behind a two-meter segment of severed thread rotating slowly in space.

  "What happened, Jim?" said Bob as he jetted to the rescue.

  "One of those damn silver threads sliced open my arm!!' Jim growled between clenched teeth, his right tightsuited hand holding his left forearm. Between his fingers oozed bubbles of frothy blood.

  "Is your suit tourniquet working?" Bob asked.

  "I think so, but I'm beginning to feel woozy," Jim replied.

  Bob looked over at the strange creature that had attacked Jim. It was now only two meters across, and still shrinking in size, but its form was still just that of a ball made of thousands of silvery threads. The only difference now was that the threads were much shorter. There was no evidence of any "body" underneath all the silvery "hair".

  "The threads from the creature are pulling back," said Bob, grabbing Jim by his backpack. He activated his chestpack jets to take them both back to their ship parked nearby. "Let's get you to a medic."

  "While we're on the way in, you should transmit your video to Philippe," said Jim.

  "You're right," replied Bob. "Boss-man Randy is going to flip when Philippe tells him what we've found."

  "SILVER Sailor won!" yelled Randy excitedly as he switched the car stereo back to music. "I knew he would be a contender. Now I'm definitely going to ride him in the Belmont Stakes this June."

  "I wish you wouldn't do that," said Rose, a concerned note in her voice. "You could get hurt like you did last year. You're too important to your company to take chances like that."

  "It's my company. I have no stockholders to be concerned about. If I get hurt and my company suffers, the only one who loses money is me, so I can do what I like," Randy snapped.

  "What about your employees?" reminded Rose. "What about me? Don't you care about us?"

  Randy slid across the seat, took Rose in his arms, and gave her a kiss. She responded coolly.

  "I've got to do it," pleaded Randy. "What's the use of having the best horses in the world if you don't ride them?" He shook his
head in disgust. "I don't understand those corpulent hippos who collect horses like they do corporations ... and have the nerve to call themselves horsemen." He paused and smiled to himself. "When I'm sitting up on my winner, they sure look small standing down there beside their also-rans!"

  "You certainly are competitive, aren't you?" said Rose, cocking her head to one side to look at him.

  "You bet, baby," said Randy. "I intend to be the biggest and the bestest in everything." His face took on a wry look. "Zap that. Biggest I'll never be. But bestest I will be. I'll be the best and have the best." He drew her close for another kiss. "I'm off to a good start," he murmured in her ear. "I've got the best woman in the universe for a girlfriend. How about becoming the best wife in the universe?" He kissed her long and hard.

  "You know the answer to that one," she said, as their lips finally parted. "I'm not ready to commit myself yet. When I get married, I intend to stay married, have some children, and see that they're raised properly." She paused as she considered her next sentence. "You'd be a hard man to live with, Randy. Your wishes come first—and always will. I'm not sure I want to subject myself and my children to your life-style, grandiose though it may be."

  "Grandiose," Randy mused. "That's a good word for it. I have the ability and wherewithal to do anything I want to do ... except be an artist," he added.

  "You're getting much better now that you've switched from charcoal to oils," said Rose.

  "I never did understand why artists do charcoal sketches," said Randy. "To me, it's just another way to get your hands dirty. I had to scrub my hands for twenty minutes after every class before I got all the black out of my pores. I prefer oils—much cleaner."

  "Most artists get grubbier using oils than charcoal," said Rose. "But not you. After each session, out goes the whole palette, and you start with a fresh one the next session. Same with the brushes. Change colors, change brushes. Haven't you heard of brush cleaner?"

  "Messy," said Randy with a grimace. "Besides, all it costs is money—and I've got lots of that. Enough to do anything I want to do."

  There was a long pause. Rose's face turned serious.

  "What do you want to do?" she asked.

  "Marry you!" said Randy quickly, reaching for her again.

  "Not that," said Rose, pushing him away with an annoyed frown. "What do you really want to do with your life?"

  Randy leaned back and thoughtfully considered her question. He had asked himself that many times and had come up with an answer—four answers. Now he was considering them once again before he bared this very private part of his soul to this woman. A woman he loved almost as much as he loved himself.

  "I want four things," he said finally. "I want to be the best horseman in the world. I want to be the richest and most important man in the solar system. I want to explore the stars. And ... I want to live forever." He paused, then added, "But marrying you comes first."

  Rose wasn't listening. Her heart had sunk lower and lower as she heard Randy reel off his list of dreams. There wasn't much room for her in them. If she wanted this man, she would have to take whatever she could get, whenever his drives and ambitions gave him a few moments' respite.

  "You don't dream small, Harold Randolph Hunter," she said. "But I don't doubt you are going to achieve those goals ... at least most of them."

  "Then you're going to marry me?" said Randy brightly, sitting up.

  "Not so fast!" said Rose, her face raised haughtily. "I'm just as hard to get as those other goals of yours. You have a lot of work ahead of you, young man."

  "Always bringing in that two-year age difference," said Randy. He stopped abruptly as a thought came to him. "I've got a way to fix that. I'll simply build a relativistic interstellar spacecraft and send you on a round-trip journey to Alpha Centauri. When you come back you'll be younger than me."

  "You aren't getting me in any cramped, dreary, interstellar tin can, Mr. Buck Rogers Hunter," replied Rose.

  "We shall see ... we shall see," said Randy thoughtfully.

  "Here comes your Terravator," said Rose, pointing toward the north. Another silver thread, thicker than the others in the sky, loomed larger and larger over the horizon. As the Terravator rose, the tip of it rotated downward toward the Earth. It was still in the process of construction, since it had to be much longer and more massive than the silver thread now rotating around the Moon. They continued to watch as the Terravator pole-vaulted its way majestically toward the south to the strains of the "Saturn" movement.

  "The resort hotel on the Terravator is almost finished," said Randy. "I ought to go up and check out the penthouse apartment. Want to come along?"

  "Remember what I promised my mother when I left home," reminded Rose.

  "You can have a separate bedroom on some other floor of the hotel."

  "Separate roofs is what she said," said Rose. "I'm sorry ... no."

  "Maybe for our honeymoon," said Randy eagerly, reaching for her again.

  "I haven't said yes yet," Rose reminded him in a muffled voice. But within the next half hour she did say "Yes" and had picked a date for the wedding.

  As the hour grew later the winds faded, and the fog bank that had been waiting offshore rolled in on them. They soon were shielded from peering eyes in neighboring cars by their own private grey hemisphere, subtly lit from above by the bright full moon.

  A number of minutes passed in silence. Since Randy didn't seem to be engaged in conversation, his cuff-comp chirped quietly from inside his sleeve.

  "Mmmm," said Randy, to shut it up. The cuff-comp obediently went quiet.

  "You really liked that kiss?" asked Rose as they finally broke apart.

  "I like them all!" said Randy, leaning toward her again.

  "Then why did you go 'mmmm' at that one?" asked Rose. "What did I do that was different?"

  "I was just telling my cuff-comp to be quiet," said Randy.

  "Oh ..." said Rose, slightly disappointed. Randy leaned over to kiss her again. She turned away, asking pointedly, "Aren't you going to answer it?"

  "Naw," said Randy. "Probably some business. But you're the most important item on my agenda tonight."

  Rose, like most modern people, had an instinctive reaction that a chirping telephone took precedence over anything else. She sat up.

  "Answer it!" she said. "It might be something important." The magic of the moment broken, Randy pushed up his sleeve and pulled down the cuff-comp. "You're probably right," he said. "It's not supposed to page me outside working hours." He punched the icons and an electrofax flashed into view. It was from Reinhold security.

  Urgent encrypted message from Hygiea mining base in outer asteroid belt.

  "Get me security," said Randy to the cuff-comp, and instantly the face of the uniformed guard at the security post at the mansion was on the screen. She obviously had been waiting for him to return the page.

  "You called about the message, Mr. Hunter?" said the guard.

  "Yes," said Randy. "Any clues as to why it was urgent? All I have at Hygiea is a small base to support the prospector ships."

  "I don't have any idea, Mr. Hunter," said the guard. "Except it was marked 'Eyes Only'."

  Randy looked perturbed. Whatever the message was, it wasn't anything ordinary. Major new ore findings, serious personnel problems, even major accidents, should all go to the manager of the Space Operations Division, with only a copy for him. Besides, the boss of Hygiea Base, Philippe Laurin, was a calm space veteran who didn't get excited over trivia.

  "I'm putting my cuff-comp into scramble mode," said Randy. "Send it over."

  "Right away, sir!" said the guard, her face lighting up. She switched off the screen. Randy punched the icons on the screen to set the cuff-comp so it could receive the scrambled message. Within a second, the screen said Ready. Randy lifted his head as he tried to recall a semi-nonsense phrase that he and Philippe had memorized together long ago before Philippe had left to take his new post. Translating the phrase into numbers, he p
unched in the long string. The cuff-comp flickered for a second as it decrypted the message. The message flashed on the screen.

  Found alien life-form. Only one example so far. No accompanying artifacts. Will send video shortly. More as I learn more.

  Randy's mind whirled as he tried to imagine what Philippe had found. Unfortunately, he would have to wait to find out, for it would take a fairly long time to transmit a video in scramble mode all the way from the asteroid belt. He cleared the screen and had the cuff-comp erase and wipe both versions of the message as well as his password from its memory. You couldn't be too careful, what with all the sophisticated industrial-espionage techniques that existed today. Reinhold Astroengineering Company, being the leader, was always being monitored by those companies less capable and less scrupulous.

  "What did it say?" asked Rose.

  "The fewer people who know, the better," said Randy, not really paying attention to her as his mind raced furiously over the various possibilities.

  "Don't you trust me?" said Rose, pouting.

  "No," said Randy, unthinkingly, his mind still whirling. Then, suddenly realizing what he had said, he pushed the cuff-comp back up his sleeve and slid across the seat to try to thaw out his stiffly frozen Rose. It didn't work. With a resigned sigh, he slid back to the driver's seat, activated the custom button that raised the seat upward and forward, and recklessly drove the Silver Shadow at high speed out to the major interstate heading north, gravel flying from his Michelin diamond-belted radials.

  He finally got Rose back in his arms about halfway down the turnpike as the Rolls's computer wafted them rapidly along the autopilot lane back to her apartment in Princeton. She didn't find out what was in the message, however.

  THE NEXT day Randy went to the secure room in the security office on his large estate, and looked at the video that had been decoded during the night. He would have preferred to talk to Philippe directly, but the round-trip delay time to Hygiea was almost an hour.

  "It is truly amazing, Mr. Hunter," said Philippe's video image. Philippe Laurin was an older man with a pudgy face, a classic Gallic nose, a bald dome, and a mustache so massive it merged with his bushy sideburns. He had school 'rings in both earlobes, one from the French Space Academy.