by Cixin Liu
What the Professor enjoyed most about daily life on the China Sun was his strolls across the mirror surface. To the great confusion of most, he would simply float along the underside of the reflector for several hours every day. Ah Quan, who by now had become an extremely experienced space walker, was assigned to accompany the Professor on his excursions. Hawking had at this point already become as renowned as Einstein and so Ah Quan had of course heard of him. That said, his first meeting with Professor Hawking in the control center had been quite the shock; Ah Quan had never imagined that a person paralyzed to such an extent could have gone on to such great achievements; even though he did not exactly understand what this great scientist had accomplished. On their walks, however, he never even noticed Professor Hawking's paralysis. It was probably his experience operating an electric wheelchair that allowed him to control the miniature engine of his spacesuit as well as anyone.
The communication between Professor Hawking and Ah Quan proved a bit more difficult. On the one hand, the Professor did have an implant that allowed him to control a speech box via his brain waves, making communication significantly easier for him than it had been. On the other hand, his words still had to be translated into Chinese in real time so that Ah Quan could understand them. To avoid disturbing the Professor's thought processes, and as per the instructions of his superiors, Ah Quan never initiated a conversation.
Professor Hawking, however, very much liked talking to him. He first asked Ah Quan about his background and life; then he reminisced on his own younger years. He told Ah Quan about the cold and gloomy great halls of his childhood years in St. Albans High School for Girls; about Wagner's music ringing through the icy and lofty rooms of his family home in the winter; about the caravan left on the Osmington Mills pasture, and the trips to the beach with his sister Mary. He also recalled walking with his father along the Ivinghoe Beacon in the Chiltern Hills.
Ah Quan marveled at the centenarian's memory, but even more amazing was that they had found a common language. The Professor greatly enjoyed listening to Ah Quan’s accounts of life in his home village and one time, when they reached the edge of the reflector, he asked Ah Quan to point out his homeland to him.
After a long while, their conversations inevitably turned to science. At first Ah Quan was convinced that this would end these unique exchanges, but nothing could have been further from the truth. The Professor was able to convey the most profound aspects of physics and cosmology in a language that anyone could easily follow. For the Professor these new conversations seemed very relaxing. He told Ah Quan about the Big Bang, black holes, and quantum gravity. As soon as he returned to the station, Ah Quan began chewing through those thin books the Professor had written, asking the station's engineers and scientists whenever something was not clear to him. To his surprise he came to understand a good deal of it.
“Do you know why I like it here?” Professor Hawking asked during one of their excursions to the very edge of the reflector. They were floating close enough to the end of the mirror surface to see the Earth below. “This large mirror separates us from the Earth below. It allows me to forget the banalities of life. Here I can focus my entire being on the universe,” he explained.
In reply, Ah Quan noted, “The world below is very complicated, but seen at this distance, the universe is so simple; just a few stars scattered across space.”
“You are right, my boy, it truly does seem that way,” the Professor agreed.
The reflector's underside was much like its top. It, too, was a mirror surface. The only real difference was the many small black towers of the engines that adjusted the reflector's angle and shape. On their daily walks, the Professor and Ah Quan slowly floated across this surface. Staying close to the ground, they often flew all the way from the control center to the reflector's edge. Without moonlight, the mirror's underside was pitch black, its silver surface only reflecting the faint starlight. Compared to the topside, the horizon was always close here and they could make out the curvature of the reflector. As the grid of black support beams passed below their feet, illuminated only by the stars, it seemed to Ah Quan as if they were floating over the surface of some tiny, tranquil planet.
Whenever a re-angulation or change of shape was initiated, the engines on the rear of the reflector fired and this small planet's surface was aglow with the flames of countless pillars of fire; it only made this wondrous place more beautiful. Always, the Milky Way shone splendidly above this small world.
It was in this realm that Ah Quan first made contact with the universe's deepest mysteries. Here he understood that all of the starry sky that he could see was but a speck of the dust in the unimaginable vastness of the universe, and that this entire universe was no more than the embers of a magnificent, more than 10-billion-year-old, explosion.
Many years ago, when he had climbed to the top of a high-rise as a spider-man for the first time, Ah Quan had seen all of Beijing, and when he arrived on the China Sun, he had seen all of Earth. Now, for the third time in his life, Ah Quan was facing a moment of such majesty: He was standing on the roof of the universe and from there he could see things he had never even dreamed about; even though he as yet knew little of them, these far away worlds exerted an irresistible attraction upon him.
One day back at the station, Ah Quan asked an engineer about something that was troubling him. “In the sixties of the last century, humanity arrived on the moon. Why ever did we withdraw then? We still have not made it to Mars; we have not even returned to the Moon.”
The engineer was happy to explain. “Humans are practical animals; what was driven by idealism and faith in the middle of the last century could never last long.”
Ah Quan remained perplexed. “But are idealism and faith not good things?”
The engineer continued his elaboration. “I am not saying they are bad things, just that economic interests are better. If, starting in the sixties, humanity had spared no expense and fully engaged in the uneconomical venture of space travel, Earth would probably be much poorer now. You, I, and other ordinary people like us would never have made it into space, even if we have made it no further than low-Earth orbit. Friend, don't take Hawking's poison; he deals in things that we ordinary people should not toy with!”
The conversation changed Ah Quan. He continued to work as hard as he always worked and on the surface his life remained as tranquil as ever, but it was also clear that he had begun to think about deeper things.
Time flew by and soon 20 years had passed. Looking on with the clarity of their 22,000 mile perch, Ah Quan and his colleagues had seen the world change in these two decades. They had seen the Great Green Wall take shape and become a verdant belt traversing the entirety of Northwestern China; they had watched the yellow desert slowly be covered in green as rain and snow fell on their once-arid homelands and the dry riverbeds again flowed with clear waters.
The China Sun deserved credit for all of this, taking a critical role in the massive project of changing the climate in Northwestern China. In those years the China Sun was also occasionally called upon to perform unusual duties. Once it was used to melt the snows of the Kilimanjaro to ease a drought in Africa; another time it turned the site of the Olympics into a city that truly never sleeps.
But new technology had come along, and by comparison it had made the China Sun's methods of weather manipulation seem very clumsy and fraught with side-effects. The China Sun had completed its mission.
The National Ministry of Space Industry held a grand ceremony to honor the first group of laborers in space. Not only were they to be honored for their 20 years of arduous and outstanding work, but even more so for the extraordinary accomplishment of 60 young men going to work in space with nothing beyond primary education. Their work in space had signaled to the world that the doors of space development had been thrown wide open to everyone. In fact, economists unanimously agreed that the start of their work had been the true beginning of the industrial development of space.
The ceremony received widespread attention from the news media, not only for the reasons described, but also because the Mirror Farmers' story had taken on a legendary quality in the hearts of the masses; also, it was a great opportunity to engage the masses' nostalgia.
When the ceremony was convened, those simple, hardworking, and honest young men had all already aged past the better half of their thirties. Nonetheless, they were all still clearly recognizable when they appeared on the holographic television sets of the world. Over the years most of them had achieved some form of higher education, a few even becoming full-fledged space engineers. In the eyes of the public, however, they remained that same bunch of migrant workers from the countryside.
Ah Quan was selected to speak as their representative before the camera. “With the completion of the electromagnetic delivery system, we have made the cost of entering orbit the equivalent of a flight across the Pacific,” he said. “Space travel has become commonplace, even ordinary. Few in the younger generations will understand what going to space meant for an ordinary person twenty years ago; the excitement and passion it evoked in those who were given the opportunity. We were those lucky ones.
“We were the most ordinary of people and it goes without saying that the only reason we were blessed with this remarkable experience is the China Sun. In the last twenty years, it has become our second home. In our hearts, it is very much like a small Earth. At first, we saw the joints of the reflector's surface as the graticule lines of the northern hemisphere. We would mark our position by expressing it in cartographic coordinates. As we became familiar with the mirror surface, we gradually came to map the oceans and continents to it. We would say, 'I am in Beijing' or 'Now I am over Moscow'; and each of us knew the analogous position of our home village. We always scrubbed that area the hardest.”
Ah Quan paused, letting his gaze drift into reminiscence. It was a brief moment and soon he again focused on the camera. “We worked hard on that small, silver Earth, doing our duty as best as we ever could. In those years, five mirror cleaners gave their life to the China Sun. Some could not make it to shelter when a solar magnetic storm erupted; others were hit by meteorites and space-junk.
Now, this silver land on which we lived and worked is about to disappear and we lack the words to describe what that feels like.” He let silence fall.
The voice of the Minister for Space Industry, Lu Hai, picked up the thread. “We all understand what you must feel, but I am gratified to be able to tell everyone: The China Sun will not disappear! I think you all understand that there is no way that the last century's solutions will do for such a large object. We cannot let it burn-up in the atmosphere, but there is another way to find it a final resting place and it will be a very elegant solution: We will cease the orbital-haircuts and stop re-adjusting its angle. The solar wind and light pressure will allow China Sun to achieve escape velocity and in the end it will, fittingly, become a satellite of the Sun. Many years from now, interstellar ships will be able to visit the China Sun's distant resting place. Then we will likely make it into a museum and we will be able to return to that plane of silver and there we will recall those unforgettable years.”
A sudden excitement took hold of Ah Quan and he loudly addressed Lu Hai. “Minister, do you really believe that day will come? Will there really be interstellar ships?”
Lu Hai was dumbstruck. For a long while he simply stared at Ah Quan, at a loss for words.
Ah Quan was very differently afflicted. “In the middle of the last century, when Armstrong left the first footprint on the Moon, almost all of humanity believed that we would land on Mars in the next decade or two. Now, eighty-six years later, we have not returned to the Moon, let alone Mars, and the reason for this is very simple: It would lose our money.
“Last century, since the end of the Cold War, economic criteria have come to rule our day-to-day life, and humanity, ruled by these criteria, has reached great heights. Now we have ended wars and poverty and we have restored our planet's ecology. The Earth has truly become a paradise,” he said earnestly. “This has led us to put ever more trust in the efficiency of the economic principle. It has become paramount, permeating our very DNA. In every aspect and element, human society has become an economic society. Nothing that yields less than what is invested in it will ever even be considered. Developing the Moon makes no economic sense and large-scale manned exploration of space would be considered an economic crime. And as for interstellar flight, that would be seen as outright psychotic. Now humanity knows only investment, production, and reaping their fruits!”
Lu Hai nodded in agreement. “In this century, the development of space is still limited to near-Earth space; that is true. It is that way for many profound reasons that range far beyond the scope of today's event.”
Ah Quan spoke up again. “No, they are firmly within its scope. Right here we have an opportunity. All we need to do is invest a little money and we will be able to travel from near-Earth space into remote reaches of the cosmos. Just as the Sun's light pressure can push the China Sun out of Earth's orbit, so can it also push it to far more distant places.”
Lu Hai shook his head with a smile. “Oh, you mean to turn the China Sun into a solar sail-ship. That would certainly work in theory; the main body of the reflector is very thin and light and its surface area is considerable. If light pressure would accelerate it for long enough, it could, in theory, become the fastest spaceship humanity has ever launched. However, that is pure theory. The reality is that a ship with only a sail can only make it only so far; it would need sailors. An unmanned sailing vessel will do nothing but spin around on the ocean without ever reaching a harbor. Remember how well Stevenson described this very thing in Treasure Island? You must consider that returning from a journey powered by light pressure requires the precise and highly complex control of the reflector's angle. That is the reason why the China Sun was designed and operated from Earth's orbit. Without human control, it will follow an aimless course, blindly flying along, and that flight will not take it far.”
“Yes, but sailors can fly it. I will be its pilot,” Ah Quan calmly responded.
At this time, the ratings showed that viewership of the program had risen sharply. The eyes of the entire world were fixed on these proceedings.
Lu Hai again shook his head. “But you alone cannot control the China Sun. Its angular controls require at least –”
“At least eleven others,” Ah Quan interrupted him. “Taking into account the other factors of interstellar travel, at least fifteen to twenty in total. I believe I will be able to find that many volunteers.”
Lu Hai smiled, clearly at a loss. “I really could not have imagined that our conversation today would take this turn.”
“Minister Lu, twenty years ago, you helped turn my life in new directions more than once,” Ah Quan replied.
“But I would never, ever have imagined that your directions would take you so far, much further than I have even considered,” Lu Hai sighed, emotions running deep in him. “Well, your idea is very interesting. Let us continue the discussion! Ah,” he said as realization dawned across his face, “what a pity! Your idea is not feasible: The most sensible destination for the China Sun is Mars, but you have not considered something very important; the China Sun cannot land on Mars. If you want to land, it will be a huge expenditure, making this plan lose its economic viability. If you do not want to land, nothing would distinguish your mission from that of an unmanned probe, and what would be the sense in it?”
Ah Quan's calm was unbroken. “The China Sun will not go to Mars.”
Lu Hai gave him a baffled look. “Then where will it go? Jupiter?”
“It will not go to Jupiter. It will go to places much farther,” Ah Quan declared.
“Much farther? To Neptune? To Pluto …?” Lu Hai's trail of thought abruptly stopped. Dumbstruck, he stared at Ah Quan a long while. “Heavens, you do not mean to say ...”
“You are right.
The China Sun will leave the solar system and become an interstellar vessel!” Ah Quan stated, nodding firmly.
Now the entire world joined Lu Hai in his stunned stupor.
He nodded mechanically as he stared straight ahead. “Well, if you are not joking, then give me a moment to make a quick estimate...” he said, closing his eyes as he began to calculate in his head. “Right, as far as I reckon, using the Sun's light pressure, the China Sun will be able to accelerate to about one-tenth of light-speed. Taking into account the time this acceleration will require, it could arrive at Proxima Centauri in about forty-five years.
“You could then use the light pressure of Proxima Centauri to decelerate,” he continued, thinking it through in more detail, “and after completing a survey of the Alpha Centauri system, you could accelerate in the opposite direction, arriving back in the solar system after a hundred years or so. It all sounds like a magnificent plan, but in practical terms it will be an unrealizable dream,” he concluded.
Ah Quan shook his head ever so slightly. “You are again mistaken; the China Sun will not decelerate after reaching Proxima Centauri. We will fly past at a speed of almost twenty-thousand miles per second, using its light pressure for further acceleration. From the Alpha Centauri system we will fly on to Sirius; and if the opportunity presents itself, we will continue to leap-frog on from there, on to a third star and then a fourth and so on.”
“And what is the purpose for all this?” Lu Hai shouted, breaking all protocol as his annoyance started to show.
“All we ask of Earth is to install a highly reliable but small-scale self-sustaining eco-system and –”
“You will use this system to keep twenty people alive for more than a century?” Lu Hai again interrupted, an edge of irritation growing in his voice.
“Let me finish,” Ah Quan noted calmly before continuing from where he had been cut-off. “And a cryogenics life-support system. We will remain in stasis for most of our journey, only activating the ecosystem as we approach Proxima Centauri. Using present day technology, we will be able to travel through the cosmos for a thousand years. Obviously, the cost for these two systems will not be negligible, but it will cost less than one-thousandth of a manned interstellar mission started from the drawing board.”
