“They” decided that greedy expenditure of energy was less harmful than rampant overpopulation – and their decision formed the base of the W13 project. “They,” however, are unimportant. The residents of W13 are the real VIP’s.
Look out over suburbia – it’s like the midwest, but with houses in place of wild grass. It’s as flat as can be, and all that over-head space is gone to waste when nobody decides to build up. But when you build up, people complain that they can’t see the sky; so nobody bothers trying to any more.
“They” – whoever they are – had the technology necessary for the W13. Some PhD fresh out of grad school (probably) created that thing – that thing which throws things out of our world and into another. “They” modified it just a little bit – parameters were laid down so that the other world was exactly the same as ours – but suspended, at all times, thirteen meters off the ground.
The darnediest thing was that we of this world can’t even interact with it. You could climb a thirteen-meter tree and crane your neck until it’s sore. You wouldn’t feel a thing, much less see.
That PhD didn’t work hard enough in grad school – once you went to W13, you didn’t come back. You couldn’t. “They” sent over mice and chickens and dogs and monkeys – none of them came back, but all the papers and the charts and the calculations stone-facedly implied that they remained hale and hearty.
A haven for the world-weary? A human landfill? There was no way to communicate; how could we know the difference?
Up the hill with the streetlamp at the top, thirteen meters above, is the gate to the perfect world. At the least, a gate leading away from our little dystopia.