There could be no way forward—yet there was. Marvin clenched his fists as the car edged over the slope and started the long descent. Then he saw the barely visible track leading down the mountainside, and relaxed a little. Other men, it seemed, had gone this way before.
Night fell with a shocking abruptness as they crossed the shadow line and the sun dropped below the crest of the plateau. The twin searchlights sprang into life, casting blue-white bands on the rocks ahead, so that there was scarcely need to check their speed. For hours they drove through valleys and past the feet of mountains whose peaks seemed to comb the stars, and sometimes they emerged for a moment into the sunlight as they climbed over higher ground.
And now on the right was a wrinkled, dusty plain, and on the left, its ramparts and terraces rising mile after mile into the sky, was a wall of mountains that marched into the distance until its peaks sank from sight below the rim of the world. There was no sign that men had ever explored this land, but once they passed the skeleton of a crashed rocket, and beside it a stone cairn surmounted by a metal cross.
It seemed to Marvin that the mountains stretched on forever: but at last, many hours later, the range ended in a towering, precipitous headland that rose steeply from a cluster of little hills. They drove down into a shallow valley that curved in a great arc towards the far side of the mountains: and as they did so, Marvin slowly realised that something very strange was happening in the land ahead.
The sun was now low behind the hills on the right: the valley before them should be in total darkness. Yet it was awash with a cold white radiance that came spilling over the crags beneath which they were driving. Then, suddenly, they were out in the open plain, and the source of the light lay before them in all its glory.
It was very quiet in the little cabin now that the motors had stopped. The only sound was the faint whisper of the oxygen feed and an occasional metallic crepitation as the outer walls of the vehicle radiated away their heat. For no warmth at all came from the great silver crescent that floated low above the far horizon and flooded all this land with pearly light. It was so brilliant that minutes passed before Marvin could accept its challenge and look steadfastly into its glare, but at last he could discern the outlines of continents, the hazy border of the atmosphere, and the white islands of cloud. And even at this distance, he could see the glitter of sunlight on the polar ice.
It was beautiful, and it called to his heart across the abyss of space. There in that shining crescent were all the wonders that he had never known—the hues of sunset skies, the moaning of the sea on pebbled shores, the patter of falling rain, the unhurried benison of snow. These and a thousand others should have been his rightful heritage, but he knew them only from the books and ancient records, and the thought filled him with the anguish of exile.
Why could they not return? It seemed so peaceful beneath those lines of marching cloud. Then Marvin, his eyes no longer blinded by the glare, saw that the portion of the disc that should have been in darkness was gleaming faintly with an evil phosphorescence: and he remembered. He was looking upon the funeral pyre of a world—upon the radioactive aftermath of Armageddon. Across a quarter of a million miles of space, the glow of dying atoms was still visible, a perennial reminder of the ruined past. It would be centuries yet before that deadly glow died from the rocks and life could return again to fill that silent, empty world.
And now Father began to speak, telling Marvin the story which until this moment had meant no more to him than the fairy-tales he had heard in childhood. There were many things he could not understand: it was impossible for him to picture the glowing, multi-coloured pattern of life on the planet he had never seen. Nor could he comprehend the forces that had destroyed it in the end, leaving the Colony, preserved by its isolation, as the sole survivor. Yet he could share the agony of those final days, when the Colony had learned at last that never again would the supply ships come flaming down through the stars with gifts from home. One by one the radio stations had ceased to call: on the shadowed globe the lights of the cities had dimmed and died, and they were alone at last, as no men had ever been alone before, carrying in their hands the future of the race.
Then had followed the years of despair, and the long-drawn battle for survival in their fierce and hostile world. That battle had been won, though barely: this little oasis of life was safe against the worst that Nature could do. But unless there was a goal, a future towards which it could work, the Colony would lose the will to live and neither machines nor skill nor science could save it then.
So, at last, Marvin understood the purpose of this pilgrimage. He would never walk beside the rivers of that lost and legendary world, or listen to the thunder raging above its softly rounded hills. Yet one day—how far ahead?—his children’s children would return to claim their heritage. The winds and the rains would scour the poisons from the burning lands and carry them to the sea, and in the depths of the sea they would waste their venom until they could harm no living things. Then the great ships that were still waiting here on the silent, dusty plains could lift once more into space, along the road that led to home.
That was the dream: and one day, Marvin knew with a sudden flash of insight, he would pass it on to his own son, here at this same spot with the mountains behind him and the silver light from the sky streaming into his face.
He did not look back as they began the homeward journey. He could not bear to see the cold glory of the crescent Earth fade from the rocks around him, as he went to rejoin his people in their long exile.
All the Time in the World
First published in Startling Stores, July 1951
Collected in The Other Side of the Sky
This was my first story ever to be adapted for TV—ABC, 13 June 1952. Although I worked on the script, I have absolutely no recollection of the programme, and can’t imagine how it was produced in pre-video-tape days!
When the quiet knock came on the door, Robert Ashton surveyed the room in one swift, automatic movement. Its dull respectability satisfied him and should reassure any visitor. Not that he had any reason to expect the police, but there was no point in taking chances.
‘Come in,’ he said, pausing only to grab Plato’s Dialogues from the shelf beside him. Perhaps this gesture was a little too ostentatious, but it always impressed his clients.
The door opened slowly. At first, Ashton continued his intent reading, not bothering to glance up. There was the slightest acceleration of his heart, a mild and even exhilarating constriction of the chest. Of course, it couldn’t possibly be a flatfoot: someone would have tipped him off. Still, any unheralded visitor was unusual and thus potentially dangerous.
Ashton laid down the book, glanced toward the door and remarked in a noncommittal voice: ‘What can I do for you?’ He did not get up; such courtesies belonged to a past he had buried long ago. Besides, it was a woman. In the circles he now frequented, women were accustomed to receive jewels and clothes and money—but never respect.
Yet there was something about this visitor that drew him slowly to his feet. It was not merely that she was beautiful, but she had a poised and effortless authority that moved her into a different world from the flamboyant doxies he met in the normal course of business. There was a brain and a purpose behind those calm, appraising eyes—a brain, Ashton suspected, the equal of his own.
He did not know how grossly he had underestimated her.
‘Mr Ashton,’ she began, ‘let us not waste time. I know who you are and I have work for you. Here are my credentials.’
She opened a large, stylish handbag and extracted a thick bundle of notes.
‘You may regard this,’ she said, ‘as a sample.’
Ashton caught the bundle as she tossed it carelessly toward him. It was the largest sum of money he had ever held in his life—at least a hundred fivers, all new and serially numbered. He felt them between his fingers. If they were not genuine, they were so good that the difference was of no practical importa
nce.
He ran his thumb to and fro along the edge of the wad as if feeling a pack for a marked card, and said thoughtfully, ‘I’d like to know where you got these. If they aren’t forgeries, they must be hot and will take some passing.’
‘They are genuine. A very short time ago they were in the Bank of England. But if they are of no use to you throw them in the fire. I merely let you have them to show that I mean business.’
‘Go on.’ He gestured to the only seat and balanced himself on the edge of the table.
She drew a sheaf of papers from the capacious handbag and handed it across to him.
‘I am prepared to pay you any sum you wish if you will secure these items and bring them to me, at a time and place to be arranged. What is more, I will guarantee that you can make the thefts with no personal danger.’
Ashton looked at the list, and sighed. The woman was mad. Still, she had better be humoured. There might be more money where this came from.
‘I notice,’ he said mildly, ‘that all these items are in the British Museum, and that most of them are, quite literally, priceless. By that I mean that you could neither buy nor sell them.’
‘I do not wish to sell them. I am a collector.’
‘So it seems. What are you prepared to pay for these acquisitions?’
‘Name a figure.’
There was a short silence. Ashton weighed the possibilities. He took a certain professional pride in his work, but there were some things that no amount of money could accomplish. Still, it would be amusing to see how high the bidding would go.
‘I think a round million would be a very reasonable figure for this lot,’ he said ironically.
‘I fear you are not taking me very seriously. With your contacts, you should be able to dispose of these.’
There was a flash of light and something sparkled through the air. Ashton caught the necklace before it hit the ground, and despite himself was unable to suppress a gasp of amazement. A fortune glittered through his fingers. The central diamond was the largest he had ever seen—it must be one of the world’s most famous jewels.
His visitor seemed completely indifferent as he slipped the necklace into his pocket. Ashton was badly shaken; he knew she was not acting. To her, that fabulous gem was of no more value than a lump of sugar. This was madness on an unimaginable scale.
‘Assuming that you can deliver the money,’ he said, ‘how do you imagine that it’s physically possible to do what you ask? One might steal a single item from this list, but within a few hours the Museum would be solid with police.’
With a fortune already in his pocket, he could afford to be frank. Besides, he was curious to learn more about his fantastic visitor.
She smiled, rather sadly, as if humouring a backward child.
‘If I show you the way,’ she said softly, ‘will you do it?’
‘Yes—for a million.’
‘Have you noticed anything strange since I came in? Is it not—very quiet?’
Ashton listened. My God, she was right! This room was never completely silent, even at night. There had been a wind blowing over the roof tops; where had it gone now? The distant rumble of traffic had ceased; five minutes ago he had been cursing the engines shunting in the marshalling yard at the end of the road. What had happened to them?
‘Go to the window.’
He obeyed the order and drew aside the grimy lace curtains with fingers that shook slightly despite all attempt at control. The he relaxed. The street was quite empty, as it often was at this time in the midmorning. There was no traffic, and hence no reason for sound. Then he glanced down the row of dingy houses towards the shunting yard.
His visitor smiled as he stiffened with the shock.
‘Tell me what you see, Mr Ashton.’
He turned slowly, face pale and throat muscles working.
‘What are you?’ he gasped. ‘A witch?’
‘Don’t be foolish. There is a simple explanation. It is not the world that has changed—but you.’
Ashton stared again at that unbelievable shunting engine, the plume of steam frozen motionless above it as if made from cotton wool. He realised now that the clouds were equally immobile; they should have been scudding across the sky. All around him was the unnatural stillness of the highspeed photograph, the vivid unreality of a scene glimpsed in a flash of lightning.
‘You are intelligent enough to realise what is happening, even if you cannot understand how it is done. Your time scale has been altered: a minute in the outer world would be a year in this room.’
Again she opened the handbag, and this time brought forth what appeared to be a bracelet of some silvery metal, with a series of dials and switches moulded into it.
‘You can call this a personal generator,’ she said. ‘With it strapped about your arm, you are invincible. You can come and go without hindrance—you can steal everything on that list and bring it to me before one of the guards in the Museum has blinked an eyelid. When you have finished, you can be miles away before you switch off the field and step back into the normal world.
‘Now listen carefully, and do exactly what I say. The field has a radius of about seven feet, so you must keep at least that distance from any other person. Secondly, you must not switch it off again until you have completed your task and I have given you your payment. This is most important. Now, the plan I have worked out is this….’
No criminal in the history of the world had ever possessed such power. It was intoxicating—yet Ashton wondered if he would ever get used to it. He had ceased to worry about explanations, at least until the job was done and he had collected his reward. Then, perhaps, he would get away from England and enjoy a well-earned retirement.
His visitor had left a few minutes ahead of him, but when he stepped out onto the street the scene was completely unchanged. Though he had prepared for it, the sensation was still unnerving. Ashton felt an impulse to hurry, as if this condition couldn’t possibly last and he had to get the job done before the gadget ran out of juice. But that, he had been assured, was impossible.
In the High Street he slowed down to look at the frozen traffic, the paralysed pedestrians. He was careful, as he had been warned, not to approach so close to anyone that they came within his field. How ridiculous people looked when one saw them like this, robbed of such grace as movement could give, their mouths half open in foolish grimaces!
Having to seek assistance went against the grain, but some parts of the job were too big for him to handle by himself. Besides, he could pay liberally and never notice it. The main difficulty, Ashton realised, would be to find someone who was intelligent enough not to be scared—or so stupid that he would take everything for granted. He decided to try the first possibility.
Tony Marchetti’s place was down a side street so close to the police station that one felt it was really carrying camouflage too far. As he walked past the entrance, Ashton caught a glimpse of the duty sergeant at his desk and resisted a temptation to go inside to combine a little pleasure with business. But that sort of thing could wait until later.
The door of Tony’s flat opened in his face as he approached. It was such a natural occurrence in a world where nothing was normal that it was a moment before Ashton realised its implications. Had his generator failed? He glanced hastily down the street and was reassured by the frozen tableau behind him.
‘Well, if it isn’t Bob Ashton!’ said a familiar voice. ‘Fancy meeting you as early in the morning as this. That’s an odd bracelet you’re wearing. I thought I had the only one.’
‘Hello, Aram,’ replied Ashton. ‘It looks as if there’s a lot going on that neither of us knows about. Have you signed up Tony, or is he still free?’
‘Sorry. We’ve a little job which will keep him busy for a while.’
‘Don’t tell me. It’s at the National Gallery or the Tate.’
Aram Albenkian fingered his neat goatee. ‘Who told you that?’ he asked.
‘No one. But, after a
ll, you are the crookedest art dealer in the trade, and I’m beginning to guess what’s going on. Did a tall, very good-looking brunette give you that bracelet and a shopping list?’
‘I don’t see why I should tell you, but the answer’s no. It was a man.’
Ashton felt a momentary surprise. Then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘I might have guessed that there would be more than one of them. I’d like to know who’s behind it.’
‘Have you any theories?’ said Albenkian guardedly.
Ashton decided that it would be worth risking some loss of information to test the other’s reactions. ‘It’s obvious they’re not interested in money—they have all they want and can get more with this gadget. The woman who saw me said she was a collector. I took it as a joke, but I see now that she meant it seriously.’
‘Why do we come into the picture? What’s to stop them doing the whole job themselves?’ Albenkian asked.
‘Maybe they’re frightened. Or perhaps they want our—er—specialised knowledge. Some of the items on my list are rather well cased in. My theory is that they’re agents for a mad millionaire.’
It didn’t hold water, and Ashton knew it. But he wanted to see which leaks Albenkian would try to plug.
‘My dear Ashton,’ said the other impatiently, holding up his wrist. ‘How do you explain this little thing? I know nothing about science, but even I can tell that it’s beyond the wildest dreams of our technologies. There’s only one conclusion to be drawn from that.’
‘Go on.’
‘These people are from—somewhere else. Our world is being systematically looted of its treasures. You know all this stuff you read about rockets and spaceships? Well, someone else has done it first.’
Ashton didn’t laugh. The theory was no more fantastic than the facts.
‘Whoever they are,’ he said, ‘they seem to know their way around pretty well. I wonder how many teams they’ve got? Perhaps the Louvre and the Prado are being reconnoitred at this very minute. The world is going to have a shock before the day’s out.’
The Collected Stories of Arthur C. Clarke Page 17