The Ninth Science Fiction Megapack

by Arthur C. Clarke

  Asa Gaunt was beyond doubt the first man in the world to realize the full implications of the Central American disaster, but he was not very much ahead of the brilliant Sir Phineas Grey of the Royal Society. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on which shore of the Atlantic you call home), Sir Phineas was known to the world of journalism as somewhat of a sensationalist, and his warning was treated by the English and Continental newspapers as on a par with those recurrent predictions of the end of the world. Parliament noticed the warning just once, when Lord Rathmere rose in the Upper House to complain of the unseasonably warm weather and to suggest dryly that the Gulf Stream be turned off a month early this year. But now and again some oceanographer made the inside pages by agreeing with Sir Phineas.

  So Christmas approached very quietly, and Ted, happy enough to be stationed in Washington, spent his days in routine topographical work in the office and his evenings, as many as she permitted, with Kay Lovell. And she did permit an increasing number, so that the round of gaiety during the holidays found them on the verge of engagement. They were engaged so far as the two of them were concerned, and only awaited a propitious moment to inform Sir Joshua, whose approval Kay felt, with true English conservatism, was a necessity.

  Ted worried often enough about the dark picture Asa Gaunt had drawn, but an oath of secrecy kept him from ever mentioning it to Kay. Once, when she had casually brought up the subject of Sir Phineas Grey and his warning, Ted had stammered some inanity and hastily switched the subject. But with the turn of the year and January, things began to change.

  It was on the fourteenth that the first taste of cold struck Europe. London shivered for twenty-four hours in the unheard-of temperature of twenty below zero, and Paris argued and gesticulated about its grands froids. Then the high pressure area moved eastward and normal temperatures returned.

  But not for long. On the twenty-first another zone of frigid temperature came drifting in on the Westerlies, and the English and Continental papers, carefully filed at the Congressional Library, began to betray a note of panic. Ted read the editorial comments avidly: of course Sir Phineas Grey was crazy; of course he was—but just suppose he were right. Just suppose he were. Wasn’t it unthinkable that the safety and majesty of Germany (or France or England or Belgium, depending on the particular capital whence the paper came) was subject to the disturbances of a little strip of land seven thousand miles away? Germany (or France, et al) must control its own destiny.

  With the third wave of Arctic cold, the tone became openly fearful. Perhaps Sir Phineas was right. What then? What was to be done? There were rumblings and mutterings in Paris and Berlin, and even staid Oslo witnessed a riot, and conservative London as well. Ted began to realize that Asa Gaunt’s predictions were founded on keen judgment; the German government made an openly friendly gesture toward France in a delicate border matter, and France reciprocated with an equally indulgent note. Russia protested and was politely ignored; Europe was definitely realigning itself, and in desperate haste.

  But America, save for a harassed group in Washington, had only casual interest in the matter. When reports of suffering among the poor began to come during the first week in February, a drive was launched to provide relief funds, but it met with only nominal success. People just weren’t interested; a cold winter lacked the dramatic power of a flood, a fire, or an earthquake. But the papers reported in increasing anxiety that the immigration quotas, unapproached for a half a dozen years, were full again; there was the beginning of an exodus from the Gulf Stream countries.

  By the second week in February stark panic had gripped Europe, and echoes of it began to penetrate even self-sufficient America. The realignment of the Powers was definite and open now, and Spain, Italy, the Balkans, and Russia found themselves herded together, facing an ominous thunderhead on the north and west. Russia instantly forgot her longstanding quarrel with Japan, and Japan, oddly, was willing enough to forget her own grievances. There was a strange shifting of sympathies; the nations which possessed large and thinly populated areas—Russia, the United States, Mexico, and all of South America—were glaring back at a frantic Europe that awaited only the release of summer to launch a greater invasion than any history had recorded. Attila and his horde of Huns—the Mongol waves that beat down on China—even the vast movements of the white race into North and South America—all these were but minor migrations to that which threatened now. Two hundred million people, backed by colossal fighting power, glaring panic-stricken at the empty places of the world. No one knew where the thunderbolt would strike first, but that it would strike was beyond doubt.

  While Europe shivered in the grip of an incredible winter, Ted shivered at the thought of certain personal problems of his own. The frantic world found an echo in his own situation, for here was he, America in miniature, and there was Kay Lovell, a small edition of Britannia. Their sympathies clashed like those of their respective nations.

  The time for secrecy was over. Ted faced Kay before the fireplace in her home and stared from her face to the cheery fire, whose brightness merely accentuated his gloom.

  “Yeah,” he admitted. “I knew about it. I’ve known it since a couple of days after the Isthmus earthquake.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me? You should have.”

  “Couldn’t. I swore not to tell.”

  “It isn’t fair!” blazed Kay. “Why should it fall on England? I tell you it sickens me even to think of Merecroft standing there in snow, like some old Norse tower. It was born in Warwickshire, Ted, and so was my father, and his father, and his, and all of us back to the time of William the Conqueror. Do you think it’s a pleasant thing to think of my mother’s rose garden as barren as—as a tundra?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Ted gently, “but what can I—or anyone—do about it? I’m just glad you’re here on this side of the Atlantic, where you’re safe.”

  “Safe!” she flashed. “Yes, I’m safe, but what about my people? I’m safe because I’m in America, the lucky country, the chosen land! Why did this have to happen to England? The Gulf Stream washes your shores too. Why aren’t Americans shivering and freezing and frightened and hopeless, instead of being warm and comfortable and indifferent? Is that fair?”

  “The Gulf Stream,” he explained miserably, “doesn’t affect our climate so definitely because in the first place we’re much farther south than Europe and in the second place our prevailing winds are from the west, just as England’s. But our winds blow from the land to the Gulf Stream, and England’s from the Gulf Stream to the land.”

  “But it’s not fair! It’s not fair!”

  “Can I help it, Kay?”

  “Oh, I suppose not,” she agreed in suddenly weary tones, and then, with a resurgence of anger, “But you people can do something about it! Look here! Listen to this!”

  She spied a week-old copy of the London Times, fingered rapidly through it, and turned on Ted. “Listen—just listen! ‘And in the name of humanity it is not asking too much to insist that our sister nation open her gates to us. Let us settle the vast areas where now only Indian tribes hunt and buffalo range. We would not be the only ones to gain by such a settlement, for we would bring to the new country a sane, industrious, law-abiding citizenry, no harborers of highwaymen and gangsters—a point well worth considering. We would bring a great new purchasing public for American manufacturers, carrying with us all our portable wealth. And finally, we would provide a host of eager defenders in the war for territory, a war that now seems inevitable. Our language is one with theirs; surely this is the logical solution, especially when one remembers that the state of Texas alone contains land enough to supply two acres to every man, woman, and child on earth!” She paused and stared defiantly at Ted. “Well?”

  He snorted. “Indians and buffalo!” he snapped. “Have you seen either one in the United States?”

  “No, but—”

  “And as for Texas, sure there’s enough land there for two acres to everybody in the
world, but why didn’t your editor mention that two acres won’t even support a cow over much of it? The Llano Estacado’s nothing but an alkali desert, and there’s a scarcity of water in lots of the rest of it. On that argument, you ought to move to Greenland; I’ll bet there’s land enough there for six acres per person!”

  “That may be true, but—”

  “And as for a great new purchasing public, your portable wealth is gold and paper money, isn’t it? The gold’s all right, but what good is a pound if there’s no British credit to back it? Your great new public would simply swell the ranks of the unemployed until American industry could absorb them, which might take years! And meanwhile wages would go down to nothing because of an enormous surplus of labor, and food and rent would go skyhigh because of millions of extra stomachs to feed and bodies to shelter.”

  “All right!” said Kay bleakly. “Argue all you wish. I’ll even concede that your arguments are right, but there’s one thing I know is wrong, and that’s leaving fifty million English people to starve and freeze and suffer in a country that’s been moved, as far as climate goes, to the North Pole. Why, you even get excited over a newspaper story about one poor family in an unheated hovel! Then what about a whole nation whose furnace has gone out?”

  “What,” countered Ted grimly, “about the seven or eight other nations whose furnaces have also gone out?”

  “But England deserves priority!” she blazed. “You took your language from us, your literature, your laws, your whole civilization. Why, even now you ought to be nothing but an English colony! That’s all you are, if you want the truth!”

  “We think differently. Anyway, you know as well as I that the United States can’t open the door to one nation and exclude the others. It must be all or none, and that means—none!”

  “And that means war,” she said bitterly. “Oh, Ted! I can’t help the way I feel. I have people over there—aunts, cousins, friends. Do you think I can stand indifferently aside while they’re ruined? Although they’re ruined already, as far as that goes. Land’s already dropped to nothing there. You can’t sell it at any price now.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, Kay, but it’s no one’s fault. No one’s to blame.”

  “And so no one needs to do anything about it, I suppose. Is that your nice American theory?”

  “You know that isn’t fair! What can we do?”

  “You could let us in! As it is we’ll have to fight our way in, and you can’t blame us!”

  “Kay, no nation and no group of nations can invade this country. Even if our navy were utterly destroyed, how far from the sea do you think a hostile army could march? It would be Napoleon in Russia all over again; your army marches in and is swallowed up. And where is Europe going to find the food to support an invading army? Do you think it could live on the land as it moved? I tell you no sane nation would try that!”

  “No sane nation, perhaps!” she retorted fiercely. “Do you think you’re dealing with sane nations?”

  He shrugged gloomily.

  “They’re desperate!” she went on. “I don’t blame them. Whatever they do, you’ve brought it on yourselves. Now you’ll be fighting all of Europe, when you could have the British navy on your side. It’s stupid. It’s worse than stupid; it’s selfish!”

  “Kay,” he said miserably, “I can’t argue with you. I know how you feel, and I know it’s a hell of a situation. But even if I agreed with everything you’ve said—which I don’t—what could I do about it? I’m not the President and I’m not Congress. Let’s drop the argument for this evening, honey; it’s just making you unhappy.”

  “Unhappy! As if I could ever be anything else when everything I value, everything I love, is doomed to be buried under Arctic snow.”

  “Everything, Kay?” he asked gently. “Haven’t you forgotten that there’s something for you on this side of the Atlantic as well?”

  “I haven’t forgotten anything,” she said coldly. “I said everything, and I mean it. America! I hate America. Yes, and I hate Americans too!”

  “Kay!”

  “And what’s more,” she blazed, “I wouldn’t marry an American if he—if he could rebuild the Isthmus! If England’s to freeze, I’ll freeze with her, and if England’s to fight, her enemies are mine!”

  She rose suddenly to her feet, deliberately averted her eyes from his troubled face, and stalked out of the room.

  Sometimes, during those hectic weeks in February, Ted wormed his way into the Visitor’s Gallery in one or the other Congressional house. The outgoing Congress, due to stand for re-election in the fall, was the focal point of the dawning hysteria in the nation, and was battling sensationally through its closing session. Routine matters were ignored, and day after day found both houses considering the unprecedented emergency with a sort of appalled inability to act in any effective unison. Freak bills of all description were read, considered, tabled, reconsidered, put to a second reading, and tabled again. The hard-money boom of a year earlier had swept in a Conservative majority in the off-year elections, but they had no real policy to offer, and the proposals of the minority group of Laborites and Leftists were voted down without substitutes being suggested.

  Some of the weirdest bills in all the weird annals of Congress appeared at this time. Ted listened in fascination to the Leftist proposal that each American family adopt two Europeans, splitting its income into thirds; to a suggestion that Continentals be advised to undergo voluntary sterilization, thus restraining the emergency to the time of one generation; to a fantastic paper money scheme of the Senator from the new state of Alaska, that was to provide a magic formula to permit Europe to purchase its livelihood without impoverishing the rest of the world. There were suggestions of outright relief, but the problem of charity to two hundred million people was so obviously staggering that this proposal at least received little attention. But there were certain bills that passed both houses without debate, gaining the votes of Leftists, Laborites, and Conservatives alike; these were the grim appropriations for submarines, super-bombers and interceptors, and aircraft-carriers.

  Those were strange, hectic days in Washington. Outwardly there was still the same gay society that gathers like froth around all great capitals, and Ted, of course, being young and decidedly not unattractive, received his full share of invitations. But not even the least sensitive could have overlooked the dark undercurrents of hysteria that flowed just beneath the surface. There was dancing, there was gay dinner conversation, there was laughter, but beneath all of it was fear. Ted was not the only one to notice that the diplomatic representatives of the Gulf Stream countries were conspicuous by their absence from all affairs save those of such importance that their presence was a matter of policy. And even then, incidents occurred; he was present when the Minister from France stalked angrily from the room because some hostess had betrayed the poor taste of permitting her dance orchestra to play a certain popular number called “The Gulf Stream Blues.” Newspapers carefully refrained from mentioning the occurrence, but Washington buzzed with it for days.

  Ted looked in vain for Kay. Her father appeared when appearance was necessary, but Ted had not seen the girl since her abrupt dismissal of him, and in reply to his inquiries, Sir Joshua granted only the gruff and double-edged explanation that she was “indisposed.” So Ted worried and fumed about her in vain, until he scarcely knew whether his own situation or that of the world was more important. In the last analysis, of course, the two were one and the same.

  The world was like a crystal of nitrogen iodide, waiting only the drying-out of summer to explode. Under its frozen surface Europe was seething like Mounts Erebus and Terror that blaze in the ice of Antarctica. Little Hungary had massed its army on the west, beyond doubt to oppose a similar massing on the part of the Anschluss. Of this particular report, Ted heard Maxwell say with an air of relief that it indicated that Germany had turned her face inland; it meant one less potential enemy for America.

  But the maritime nations were a
nother story, and especially mighty Britain, whose world-girdling fleet was gathering day by day in the Atlantic. That was a crowded ocean indeed, for on its westward shore was massed the American battle fleet, built at last to treaty strength, and building far beyond it, while north and south piled every vessel that could raise a pound of steam, bearing those fortunates who could leave their European homes to whatever lands hope called them. Africa and Australia, wherever Europe had colonies, were receiving an unheard of stream of immigrants. But this stream was actually only the merest trickle, composed of those who possessed sufficient liquid wealth to encompass the journey. Untold millions remained chained to their homes, bound by the possession of unsalable lands, or by investments in business, or by sentiment, or by the simple lack of sufficient funds to buy passage for families. And throughout all of the afflicted countries were those who clung stubbornly to hope, who believed even in the grip of that unbelievable winter that the danger would pass, and that things would come right in the end.

  Blunt, straightforward little Holland was the first nation to propose openly a wholesale transfer of population. Ted read the note, or at least the version of it given the press on February 21st. In substance it simply repeated the arguments Kay had read from the London paper—the plea to humanity, the affirmation of an honest and industrious citizenry, and the appeal to the friendship that had always existed between the two nations; and the communication closed with a request for an immediate reply because of “the urgency of the situation.” And an immediate reply was forthcoming.

  This was also given to the press. In suave and very polished diplomatic language it pointed out that the United States could hardly admit nationals of one country while excluding those of others. Under the terms of the National Origins Act, Dutch immigrants would be welcomed to the full extent of their quota. It was even possible that the quota might be increased, but it was not conceivable that it could be removed entirely. The note was in effect a suave, dignified, diplomatic No.