Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume One

by Short Story Anthology

  "He told you everything all right, the jerk," Larry said coldly. "But so what?"

  "So Dan Crowley had us make up a new amount of serum tonight and tested it on a chimpanzee in the lab. If you'll go and check, you'll undoubtedly find the chimp is again visible."

  The gunman looked at Paul Teeter blankly.

  The other's reactions were quicker. "The serum lasts for twelve hours," Teeter barked.

  "This batch lasts for three hours," Patricia said definitely. "Your friend Crowley is suddenly going to become visible right before the eyes of those four guards—and long before he had expected to eliminate them."

  Teeter barked, "Larry, check that monkey."

  Doc Braun spoke up for the first time since the appearance of the two. He said dryly, "You'll also notice that the animal is sound asleep. It seems that I added a slow-acting but rather potent sleeping compound to the serum."

  The gunman started from the room in a rush.

  Ross called after him, "If you'll look closely, you'll also note the chimp's skin has turned a brilliant red. There have been some basic changes in the pigment."

  "Holy smokes," Paul Teeter protested, moping his face with a handkerchief. "Didn't he take any precautions against you people at all?"

  Ross said, "He was too busy telling us how smart a country boy he happened to be."

  Larry returned in moments, biting his lip in the first nervous manifestation any of them had ever seen in him. He took Teeter to one side.

  Patricia called to them impatiently. "You have no time and no one to contact Crowley now. Don't be fools. Mend your bridges while you can. Let us out of here, and we'll prefer no charges."

  Larry was a man of quick decisions. He snapped to the blank-faced guard who had assimilated only a fraction of all this, "Go on back to the boys and tell them to start packing to get out of here. Tell them the fix has chilled. It's all off. I'll be there in a few minutes."

  "O.K., chief." The other had the philosophical outlook of those who were meant to take orders and knew it. He left.

  Larry and Teeter opened the cell doors.

  Teeter said, "How do we know we can trust you?"

  Ross looked at him.

  Larry said, "It's a deal. Give us an hour to get out of here. Then use the phone if you want to call a taxi, or whatever. I ain't stupid, this thing was too complicated to begin with."

  When Teeter and Morazzoni were gone, the three stood alone in the corridor, looking at each other.

  The doctor pushed his glasses back onto his nose with a thumb and forefinger. "By Caesar," he said.

  Ross ran a hefty paw back through his red crew cut and twisted his face into a mock grimace. "Well," he said, "I have to revise my former statement. I used brute strength against Crowley, the doctor used sweet reason, and Pat her womanly wiles. And all failed. But as biochemists, each working without the knowledge of the others, we used science—and it paid off. I suppose the thing to do now is buy three jet tickets for California."

  Braun and Patricia looked at him blankly.

  Ross explained. "Didn't you hear what Crowley said? His brother, Donald, has moved out to San Francisco. He's our real Common Man, we'll have to start the experiment all over again."

  Dr. Braun snorted.

  Patricia O'Gara, hands on hips, snapped, "Ross Wooley, our engagement is off!"

  ARTHUR C. CLARKE

  1917 - 2008

  While Clarke was most famous in popular culture for collaborating with Stanley Kubrick to make the film 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), science fiction fans remember him for his astonishing literary contributions, including The Sands of Mars (1951), Childhood's End (1953),Rendezvous with Rama (1972) and The Promise of Space(1968), as well as hundreds of short stories, articles and essays.

  Clarke was highly decorated: he was knighted by the Queen of England, won the highest honors in the science fiction field, had an asteroid (4923 Clarke) and a dinosaur (Serendipaceratops arthurcclarkei), named for him and in 2005 he was awarded the Sri Lankabhimanya (Pride of Sri Lanka) by the government of his adopted home country. As an enthusiastic proponent of space exploration and colonization, Clarke supported scientific and technological advances, using his celebrity to bring much-needed attention to neglected research. We wish today to remember this great innovator and author by reminding ourselves of one of Clarke's Laws: "The only way of discovering the limits of the possible is to venture a little way past them into the impossible."

  For many readers Arthur C. Clarke is the very personification of science fiction. He is deservedly seen as a central figure in the post-World War II development of the genre, especially in his liberal, optimistic view of the possible benefits of technology (though one that is by no means unaware of its dangers), and his exploration of mankind reaching out like a child to an alien universe.

  Born in England, Clarke was active in fan circles before World War II. His early works were neatly constructed, usually turning on a single scientific point and often ending with an unexpected sting. They were, in effect, works of optimistic propaganda for science, with human problems rather mechanically worked out against a background of scientific discovery.

  A new note appeared in his 1953 short story "The Sentinel," a simple but haunting short story of the discovery of an alien artifact on the Moon. In a compelling paradox that would continue to surface in Clarke's future work, the story was technological "hard" science fiction, yet contained strong metaphysical overtones examining religion and the longing for God. Moreover, though Clarke stood strongly for the idea that there is nothing humanity cannot accomplish, he portrayed mankind as children when compared to the ancient, inscrutable wisdom of alien races.

  In 1968 "The Sentinel" became the basis of the film 2001: A Space Odyssey; Clark co-wrote the script with director Stanley Kubrick. The film and accompanying novelization were remarkably successful, and made Clarke arguably the best-known science fiction writer in the world. Interestingly, by that time most of Clarke's creative energies had gone into writing nonfiction books and articles.

  In the early 1970s, Clarke returned to fiction, writing at an astonishing rate into the early 1990s. Due to struggles with long-term health issues, much of his work during this time was collaborative, yet continued to feature Clarke's compelling meditations on technology and humanity. Never a "literary" author, he nonetheless has always written with lucidity, candor, and grace, coupled with a cold, sharp evocativeness that has produced some of the most memorable images in science fiction.

  ***

  "The Nine Billion Names of God" is a 1953 science fiction short story by Arthur C. Clarke. The story was among the stories selected in 1970 by the Science Fiction Writers of America as one of the best science fiction short stories published before the creation of the Nebula Awards. It was published in The Science Fiction Hall of Fame, Volume One, 1929–1964. In 2004 it won the retrospective Hugo Award for Best Short Story for the year 1954.

  The Nine Billion Names of God, by Arthur C. Clarke

  "The Nine Billion Names of God" is a 1953 science fiction short story by Arthur C. Clarke. The story was among the stories selected in 1970 by the Science Fiction Writers of America as one of the best science fiction short stories published before the creation of the Nebula Awards. It was published in The Science Fiction Hall of Fame, Volume One, 1929–1964. In 2004 it won the retrospective Hugo Award for Best Short Story for the year 1954.

  This short story tells of a Tibetan lamasery whose monks seek to list all of the names of God, since they believe the Universe was created for this purpose, and that once this naming is completed, God will bring the Universe to an end. Three centuries ago, the monks created an alphabet in which they calculated they could encode all the possible names of God, numbering about 9,000,000,000 ("nine billion") and each having no more than nine characters. Writing the names out by hand, as they had been doing, even after eliminating various nonsense combinations, would take another 15,000 years; the monks wish to use modern technology to fini
sh this task more quickly.

  They rent a computer capable of printing all the possible permutations, and they hire two Westerners to install and program the machine. The computer operators are sceptical but play along. After three months, as the job nears completion, they fear that the monks will blame the computer, and by extension its operators, when nothing happens. The Westerners delay the operation of the computer so that it will complete its final print run just after their scheduled departure. After their successful departure on ponies, they pause on the mountain path on their way back to the airfield, where a plane is waiting to take them back to civilization. Under a clear night sky they estimate that it must be just about the time that the monks are pasting the final printed names into their holy books. Then they notice that "overhead, without any fuss, the stars were going out."

  “This is a slightly unusual request,” said Dr. Wagner, with what he hoped was commendable restraint. “As far as I know, it’s the first time anyone’s been asked to supply a Tibetan monastery with an Automatic Sequence Computer. I don’t wish to be inquisitive, but I should hardly have thought that your — ah — establishment had much use for such a machine. Could you explain just what you intend to do with it?”

  “Gladly,” replied the lama, readjusting his silk robes and carefully putting away the slide rule he had been using for currency conversions. “Your Mark V Computer can carry out any routine mathematical operation involving up to ten digits. However, for our work we are interested in letters, not numbers. As we wish you to modify the output circuits, the machine will be printing words, not columns of figures.”

  “I don’t quite understand....”

  “This is a project on which we have been working for the last three centuries — since the lamasery was founded, in fact. It is somewhat alien to your way of thought, so I hope you will listen with an open mind while I explain it.”

  “Naturally.”

  “It is really quite simple. We have been compiling a list which shall contain all the possible names of God.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We have reason to believe,” continued the lama imperturbably, “that all such names can be written with not more than nine letters in an alphabet we have devised.”

  “And you have been doing this for three centuries?”

  “Yes: we expected it would take us about fifteen thousand years to complete the task.”

  “Oh,” Dr. Wagner looked a little dazed. “Now I see why you wanted to hire one of our machines. But exactly what is the purpose of this project?”

  The lama hesitated for a fraction of a second, and Wagner wondered if he had offended him. If so, there was no trace of annoyance in the reply.

  “Call it ritual, if you like, but it’s a fundamental part of our belief. All the many names of the Supreme Being — God, Jehovah, Allah, and so on — they are only man-made labels. There is a philosophical problem of some difficulty here, which I do not propose to discuss, but somewhere among all the possible combinations of letters that can occur are what one may call the real names of God. By systematic permutation of letters, we have been trying to list them all.”

  “I see. You’ve been starting at AAAAAAA... and working up to ZZZZZZZZ....”

  “Exactly — though we use a special alphabet of our own. Modifying the electromatic typewriters to deal with this is, of course, trivial. A rather more interesting problem is that of devising suitable circuits to eliminate ridiculous combinations. For example, no letter must occur more than three times in succession.”

  “Three? Surely you mean two.”

  “Three is correct: I am afraid it would take too long to explain why, even if you understood our language.”

  “I’m sure it would,” said Wagner hastily. “Go on.”

  “Luckily, it will be a simple matter to adapt your Automatic Sequence Computer for this work, since once it has been programmed properly it will permute each letter in turn and print the result. What would have taken us fifteen thousand years it will be able to do in a hundred days.”

  Dr. Wagner was scarcely conscious of the faint sounds from the Manhattan streets far below. He was in a different world, a world of natural, not man-made, mountains. High up in their remote aeries these monks had been patiently at work, generation after generation, compiling their lists of meaningless words. Was there any limit to the follies of mankind? Still, he must give no hint of his inner thoughts. The customer was always right....

  “There’s no doubt,” replied the doctor, “that we can modify the Mark V to print lists of this nature. I’m much more worried about the problem of installation and maintenance. Getting out to Tibet, in these days, is not going to be easy.”

  “We can arrange that. The components are small enough to travel by air — that is one reason why we chose your machine. If you can get them to India, we will provide transport from there.”

  “And you want to hire two of our engineers?”

  “Yes, for the three months that the project should occupy.”

  “I’ve no doubt that Personnel can manage that.” Dr. Wagner scribbled a note on his desk pad. “There are just two other points —”

  Before he could finish the sentence the lama had produced a small slip of paper.

  “This is my certified credit balance at the Asiatic Bank.”

  “Thank you. It appears to be — ah — adequate. The second matter is so trivial that I hesitate to mention it — but it’s surprising how often the obvious gets overlooked. What source of electrical energy have you?”

  “A diesel generator providing fifty kilowatts at a hundred and ten volts. It was installed about five years ago and is quite reliable. It’s made life at the lamasery much more comfortable, but of course it was really installed to provide power for the motors driving the prayer wheels.”

  “Of course,” echoed Dr. Wagner. “I should have thought of that.”

  ***

  The view from the parapet was vertiginous, but in time one gets used to anything. After three months, George Hanley was not impressed by the two-thousand-foot swoop into the abyss or the remote checkerboard of fields in the valley below. He was leaning against the wind-smoothed stones and staring morosely at the distant mountains whose names he had never bothered to discover.

  This, thought George, was the craziest thing that had ever happened to him. “Project Shangri-La,” some wit back at the labs had christened it. For weeks now the Mark V had been churning out acres of sheets covered with gibberish. Patiently, inexorably, the computer had been rearranging letters in all their possible combinations, exhausting each class before going on to the next. As the sheets had emerged from the electromatic typewriters, the monks had carefully cut them up and pasted them into enormous books.

  In another week, heaven be praised, they would have finished. Just what obscure calculations had convinced the monks that they needn’t bother to go on to words of ten, twenty, or a hundred letters, George didn’t know. One of his recurring nightmares was that there would be some change of plan, and that the high lama (whom they’d naturally called Sam Jaffe, though he didn’t look a bit like him) would suddenly announce that the project would be extended to approximately A.D. 2060. They were quite capable of it.

  George heard the heavy wooden door slam in the wind as Chuck came out onto the parapet beside him. As usual, Chuck was smoking one of the cigars that made him so popular with the monks — who, it seemed, were quite willing to embrace all the minor and most of the major pleasures of life. That was one thing in their favor: they might be crazy, but they weren’t bluenoses. Those frequent trips they took down to the village, for instance...

  “Listen, George,” said Chuck urgently. “I’ve learned something that means trouble.”

  “What’s wrong? Isn’t the machine behaving?” That was the worst contingency George could imagine. It might delay his return, and nothing could be more horrible. The way he felt now, even the sight of a TV commercial would seem like manna from heaven. At
least it would be some link with home.

  “No — it’s nothing like that.” Chuck settled himself on the parapet, which was unusual because normally he was scared of the drop. “I’ve just found what all this is about.”

  What d’ya mean? I thought we knew.”

  “Sure — we know what the monks are trying to do. But we didn’t know why. It’s the craziest thing—”

  “Tell me something new,” growled George.

  “— but old Sam’s just come clean with me. You know the way he drops in every afternoon to watch the sheets roll out. Well, this time he seemed rather excited, or at least as near as he’ll ever get to it. When I told him that we were on the last cycle he asked me, in that cute English accent of his, if I’d ever wondered what they were trying to do. I said, ‘Sure’ — and he told me.”

  “Go on: I’ll buy it.”

  “Well, they believe that when they have listed all His names — and they reckon that there are about nine billion of them — God’s purpose will be achieved. The human race will have finished what it was created to do, and there won’t be any point in carrying on. Indeed, the very idea is something like blasphemy.”

  “Then what do they expect us to do? Commit suicide?”

  “There’s no need for that. When the list’s completed, God steps in and simply winds things up... bingo!”

  “Oh, I get it. When we finish our job, it will be the end of the world.”

  Chuck gave a nervous little laugh.

  “That’s just what I said to Sam. And do you know what happened? He looked at me in a very queer way, like I’d been stupid in class, and said, ’It’s nothing as trivial as that.’ ”

  George thought this over a moment.

  “That’s what I call taking the Wide View,” he said presently. “But what d’you suppose we should do about it? I don’t see that it makes the slightest difference to us. After all, we already knew that they were crazy.”