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The Light of Other Days
The Light of Other Days
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The Light of Other Days

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The Light of Other Days
Stephen Baxter

Arthur C. Clarke

In the most exciting SF collaboration ever, Arthur C. Clarke and his acknowledged heir Stephen Baxter pool talent and unprecedented cosmic insights as well as page-turning plotting skills and breathlessly good writing to produce the most awesome novel of the future since 2001: A Space Odyssey.’Space is what keeps everything from being in the same place. Right?’ With these words Hiram Patterson, head of the giant media corporation OurWorld, launches the greatest communications revolution in history. With OurWorld’s development of wormhole technology, any point in space can be connected to any other, faster than the speed of light. Realtime television coverage is here: earthquakes and wars, murders and disasters can be watched, exactly as they occur, anywhere on the planet.Then WormCams are made to work across time as well as space. Humanity encounters itself in the light of other days. We witness the life of Jesus, go to the premiere of Hamlet, solve the enigmas that have baffled generations. Blood spilled centuries ago flows vividly once more – and no personal treachery or shame can be concealed.But when the world and everything in it becomes as transparent as glass and there are no more secrets, people find new ways to gain vengeance and commit crime. And Hiram Patterson meanwhile will try to keep his deadly schemes secret – but even he, its creator, cannot anticipate the power of the all-seeing WormCam.

The Light of Other Days

Arthur C. Clarke & Stephen Baxter

Copyright (#ulink_d1dbbf8b-68f4-50e6-9561-1038b3029d08)

HarperVoyager

An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.voyager-books.com (http://www.voyager-books.com)

First published in Great Britain by Voyager 2000

Copyright © Arthur C. Clarke and Stephen Baxter 2000

Cover design by Mike Topping © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Cover image © Shutterstock.com (http://www.Shutterstock.com)

The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780002247535

eBook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2010 ISBN: 9780007379514

Version:2016-05-20

Dedication (#ua5dff630-803c-5f3f-9420-ed5de1085f67)

To Bob Shaw

Epigraph (#ua5dff630-803c-5f3f-9420-ed5de1085f67)

Is it not possible – I often wonder – that these things we have felt with great intensity have an experience independent of our minds; are in fact still in existence? And if so, will it not be possible, in time, that some device will be invented by which we can tap them?…instead of remembering here a scene and there a sound, I shall fit a plug into the wall; and listen in to the past…

– Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)

Table of Contents

Cover Page (#ufb668102-86ea-5bba-a05f-a1530e9c3b7e)

Title Page (#u841d25da-a8ac-58b8-9a5c-dbaf477db44d)

Copyright (#u38932401-c90b-51aa-a129-37e8049f5d52)

Dedication (#u011dc4f0-c87b-5288-bcc0-0dcfdd8aafe4)

Epigraph (#u34ecae45-9a39-5ef9-987c-455ec7b076c5)

ONE: THE GOLDFISH BOWL (#u45303455-ead3-5aed-93c2-0d5207535901)

Prologue (#ud935ec4c-5fdc-55d3-9a7f-cd0b0ea84196)

CHAPTER 1 The Casimir Engine (#u26eea020-b7b0-5cab-b9c2-55686959911b)

CHAPTER 2 The Mind'sEye (#u7d34ecb1-180a-583c-ace6-6bd6918cacd8)

CHAPTER 3 The Wormworks (#uf8b41a35-2971-5dbd-9f62-9896d3370bc5)

CHAPTER 4 Wormwood (#ua5666008-cc65-5c25-8465-72e08aa53267)

CHAPTER 5 Virtual Heaven (#u90d80afe-6808-5e00-9f7a-9bf6fe5eefa9)

CHAPTER 6 The Billion Dollar Pearl (#ud31bd816-69cf-5b7e-9229-775b7a61864c)

CHAPTER 7 The WormCam (#u09a7b9ac-f41d-5d2c-9501-7a1acb303953)

CHAPTER 8 Scoops (#u5f97ed5c-b3b1-5a60-b264-15a82b048677)

CHAPTER 9 The Agent (#u801bf861-ac9a-534a-b663-1166a3cf0f65)

CHAPTER 10 The Guardians (#uaf88141c-dc69-5638-9324-7cd9bdb6e2c1)

CHAPTER 11 The Brain Stud (#u530f3169-6e82-5947-bdbc-6e038b3462d2)

CHAPTER 12 Spacetime (#u162b43a7-5c80-59ef-85d1-e6d8f7314cab)

TWO: THE EYES OF GOD (#u5cf4234c-4739-5896-b0e1-ccaf844742d3)

CHAPTER 13 Walls of Glass (#u5b7abae8-58ac-5621-9433-2632036be206)

CHAPTER 14 Light Years (#u27e0a09c-5a67-540b-8f2a-bd4367c3f8be)

CHAPTER 15 Confabulation (#u43bf78fb-adc9-5477-abdd-55391292e678)

CHAPTER 16 The Water War (#u0fba2e2c-199c-5ce6-83da-dee42f815196)

CHAPTER 17 The Debunk Machine (#u24e7d2ae-a302-5ca6-9eb5-f425c35b4ecc)

CHAPTER 18 Hindsight (#u6e124ee7-219c-5c78-a08a-4764adf0de9a)

CHAPTER 19 Time (#ub7b73f09-5553-57cd-b050-198d99525fa6)

CHAPTER 20 Crisis of Faith (#u12afeb85-6442-57ea-8890-a69c3ced18cb)

CHAPTER 21 Behold The Man (#u7aa58ba6-3763-567b-828d-bf0f0688386d)

CHAPTER 22 The Verdict (#u21c7f50f-42a5-5ae6-ad0b-c83ddd0a7dc3)

THREE: THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS (#u5a7f24ea-c1fa-5b10-ae6c-f16670c56f57)

CHAPTER 23 The Floodlit Stage (#ubd727e1e-7d4b-5c81-9428-039a12eeac3d)

CHAPTER 24 Watching Bobby (#u0c18aa65-6130-582c-a5d4-8c71cb527591)

CHAPTER 25 Refugees (#u89d7d4e6-53a4-5975-8a4b-97f923ffa458)

CHAPTER 26 The Grandmothers (#uca15cbbb-15ba-5397-860a-eafce310cfeb)

CHAPTER 27 Family History (#u7f8d36f7-6dc1-51a8-a124-c0a454760b4b)

CHAPTER 28 The Ages of Sisyphus (#u20e242a0-af37-56b2-9b98-5f7de12cbf8e)

Epilogue (#ufe81979c-e0a8-5c3f-988f-8251f4401d2d)

Keep Reading (#u434c02a5-472f-5845-8383-980e8c6f7221)

Afterword (#ub7f00ae7-ea18-579b-931e-f47f0d1bca24)

Also by Arthur C. Clarke (#uc1206fce-6c5a-59be-9eca-05454d63d0c6)

About the Publisher (#u2c08f32b-6899-5f05-8ea7-faa5c1151166)

ONE THE GOLDFISH BOWL (#ulink_6ae760ab-06f9-56c6-88ed-6d3ad976327d)

We…know how cruel the truth often is, and we wonder whether delusion is not more consoling.

– Henri Poincaré (1854–1912)

Prologue (#ulink_721bbbac-4475-5d7a-a6f0-5ebd7300af2e)

Bobby could see the Earth, complete and serene, within its cage of silver light.

Fingers of green and blue pushed into the new deserts of Asia and the North American Midwest. Artificial reefs glimmered in the Caribbean, pale blue against the deeper ocean. Great wispy machines laboured over the poles to repair the atmosphere. The air was clear as glass, for now mankind drew its energy from the core of Earth itself.

And Bobby knew that if he chose, with a mere effort of will, he could look back into time.

He could watch cities bloom on Earth's patient surface, to dwindle and vanish like rusty dew. He could see species shrivel and devolve like leaves curling into their buds. He could watch the slow dance of the continents as Earth gathered its primordial heat back into its iron heart. The present was a glimmering, expanding bubble of life and awareness, with the past locked within, trapped unmoving like an insect in amber.

For a long time, on this rich, growing Earth, embedded in knowledge, an enhanced humankind had been at peace: a peace unimaginable when he was born.

And all of this had derived from the ambition of one man – a venal, flawed man, a man who had never even understood where his dreams would lead.

How remarkable, he thought.

Bobby looked into his past, and into his heart.

CHAPTER 1 The Casimir Engine (#ulink_a0f2d4fa-1b59-5c5d-9c4e-77361035fed1)

A little after dawn, Vitaly Keldysh climbed stiffly into his car, engaged the SmartDrive, and let the car sweep him away from the run-down hotel.

The streets of Leninsk were empty, the road surface cracked, many windows boarded up. He remembered how this place had been at its peak, in the 1970s perhaps: a bustling science city with a population of tens of thousands, with schools, cinemas, a swimming pool, a sports stadium, cafes, restaurants and hotels, even its own TV station.

Still, as he passed the main gateway to the north of the city, there was the old blue sign with its white pointing arrow: TO BAIKONUR, still proclaiming that ancient deceptive name. And still, here at the empty heart of Asia, Russian engineers built spaceships and fired them into the sky.

But, he reflected sadly, not for much longer.

The sun rose at last, and banished the stars: all but one, he saw, the brightest of all. It moved with a leisurely but unnatural speed across the southern sky. It was the ruin of the International Space Station: never completed, abandoned in 2010 after the crash of an ageing Space Shuttle. But still the Station drifted around the Earth, an unwelcome guest at a party long over.

The landscape beyond the city was barren. He passed a camel standing patiently at the side of the road, a wizened woman beside it dressed in rags. It was a scene he might have encountered any time in the last thousand years, he thought, as if all the great changes, political and technical and social, that had swept across this land had been for nothing. Which was, perhaps, the reality.

But in the gathering sunlight of this spring dawn, the steppe was green and littered with bright yellow flowers. He wound down his window and tried to detect the meadow fragrance he remembered so well; but his nose, ruined by a lifetime of tobacco, let him down. He felt a stab of sadness, as he always did at this time of year. The grass and flowers would soon be gone: the steppe spring was brief, as tragically brief as life itself.

He reached the range.

It was a place of steel towers pointing to the sky, of enormous concrete mounds. The cosmodrome – far vaster than its western competitors – covered thousands of square kilometres of this empty land. Much of it was abandoned now, of course, and the great gantries were rusting slowly in the dry air, or else had been pulled down for scrap – with or without the consent of the authorities.

But this morning there was much activity around one pad. He could see technicians in their protective suits and orange hats scurrying around the great gantry, like faithful at the feet of some immense god.

A voice floated across the steppe from a speaker tower. Gotovnosty dyesyat minut. Ten minutes and counting.

The walk from the car to the viewing stand, short as it was, tired him greatly. He tried to ignore the hammering of his recalcitrant heart, the prickling of sweat over his neck and brow, his gasping breathlessness, the stiff pain that plagued his arm and neck.

As he took his place those already here greeted him. There were the corpulent, complacent men and women who, in this new Russia, moved seamlessly between legitimate authority and murky underworld; and there were young technicians, like all of the new generations rat-faced with the hunger that had plagued his country since the fall of the Soviet Union.

He accepted their greetings, but was happy to sink into isolated anonymity. The men and women of this hard future cared nothing for him and his memories of a better past.

And nor did they care much for what was about to happen here. All their gossip was of events far away: of Hiram Patterson and his wormholes, his promise to make the Earth itself as transparent as glass.

It was very obvious to Vitaly that he was the oldest person here. The last survivor of the old days, perhaps. That thought gave him a certain sour pleasure.

It was, in fact, almost exactly seventy years since the launch of the first Molniya – ‘lightning’ – in 1965. It might have been seventy days, so vivid were the events in Vitaly's mind, when the young army of scientists, rocket engineers, technicians, labourers, cooks, carpenters and masons had come to this unpromising steppe and – living in huts and tents, alternately baking and freezing, armed with little but their dedication and Korolev's genius – had built and launched mankind's first spaceships.