The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [74]
When its task was complete, the entire construction complex would be launched into a transfer orbit to Mars. This was a part of the contract that had caused some heartburning among terrestrial politicians and financial experts now that, belatedly, the Space Elevator’s potential was being realized.
The Martians had driven a hard bargain. Though they would wait another five years before they had any return on their investment, they would then have a virtual construction monopoly for perhaps another decade. Morgan had a shrewd suspicion that the Pavonis tower would merely be the first of several. Mars might have been designed as a location for Space Elevator systems, and its energetic occupants were not likely to miss such an opportunity. If they make their world the center of interplanetary commerce in the years ahead, good luck to them; Morgan had other problems to worry about, and some of them were still unsolved.
The Tower, for all its overwhelming size, was merely the support for something much more complex. Along each of its four sides must run thirty-six-thousand kilometers of track capable of operation at speeds never before attempted. This had to be powered for its entire length by superconducting cables, linked to massive fusion generators, the whole system being controlled by an incredibly elaborate, fail-safe computer network.
The Upper Terminal, where passengers and freight would transfer between the Tower and the spacecraft docked to it, was a major project in itself. So was Midway Station. So was Earth Terminal, now being lasered into the heart of the sacred mountain. And in addition to all this, there was Operation Cleanup.
For two hundred years, satellites of all shapes and sizes, from loose nuts and bolts to entire space villages, had been accumulating in Earth orbit. All that came below the extreme elevation of the Tower, at any time, now had to be accounted for, since they created a possible hazard. Three quarters of this material was abandoned junk, much of it long forgotten. Now it had to be located, and somehow disposed of.
Fortunately, the old orbital forts were superbly equipped for this task. Their radars—designed to locate oncoming missiles at extreme ranges with no advance warning—could easily pinpoint the debris of the early Space Age. Then their lasers vaporized the smaller satellites, while the larger ones were nudged into higher and harmless orbits.
Some, of historic interest, were recovered and brought back to Earth. During this operation, there were quite a few surprises—for example, three Chinese astronauts who had perished on some secret mission, and several reconnaissance satellites constructed from such an ingenious mix of components that it was quite impossible to discover what country had launched them. Not that it now mattered a great deal, since they were at least a hundred years old.
The multitude of active satellites and space stations, forced for operational reasons to remain close to Earth, all had to have their orbits carefully checked, and in some cases modified. But nothing could be done about the random and unpredictable visitors that might arrive at any time from the outer reaches of the solar system. Like all the creations of mankind, the Tower would be exposed to meteorites. Several times a day its network of seismometers would detect milligram impacts; and once or twice a year, minor structural damage could be expected.
Sooner or later, during the centuries to come, it might encounter a giant that could put one or more tracks out of action for a while. In the worst possible case, the Tower might even be severed somewhere along its length.
That was about as likely to happen as the impact of a large meteorite upon London or Tokyo, which presented roughly the same target area. The inhabitants of those cities did not lose much sleep worrying over this possibility.
Nor did Vannevar Morgan. Whatever problems might lie ahead, no one doubted now that the Orbital Tower was an idea whose